[This is already aggressively fucking awkward, and Blitzo-- shit, Blitzø, got to remember the o is silent now-- isn't even there yet.
It's one thing to reconnect in a high pressure situation like a kidnapping, where imminent danger and adrenaline kept things from being stilted and awkward, or to be in a work environment like with Mammon, but just hanging out? What the fuck would they even say to one another?
Blitzø used to be his best friend in the world, they spent every day together and shared everything. Now? Were they even friends? Tentative not-enemies? Fuck, why is he so nervous about this stupid hang-out he's agreed to? It's not like he's a blushing virgin on a first date, he's just a guy having drinks with an old pal. An old pal who blew all his fucking limbs off. Noooooo problem.
Fizz is sat at the bar nursing a brightly coloured cocktail as he waits. He's already had to fend off a couple of fans, and he's pretty sure there's only so much longer he can hold onto the spare stool next to him before someone just takes it by force. Checking his phone again, impatient-- come on, Blitzø. Maybe this is a bad idea, maybe he should just go?]
[ it would be just blitzø's fucking luck that tonight, of all fucking nights, everything goes wrong.
it starts with the van. after spending half the afternoon trying to convince himself that fizz doesn't actually (rightfully) hate the shit out of him anymore (they're fine, right? they made up. maybe not under the best of circumstances, and maybe with very little time for a proper apology, but - they hugged, which seems like a lot) - after spending an hour talking himself into and out of canceling (honestly, it's loona who talks him out of it, and tells him he'd just be even more of a shithead than he already is if he doesn't show up, but that no one would be surprised), he resigns himself to his fate, and when it comes time for him to leave, he heads down to the parking lot outside of his apartment, only to be met with... a flat tire.
a flat fucking tire. like, practically-resting-on-the-rim flat, otherwise he'd have just thrown caution to the wind and driven it anyway. but a flat's not a big deal, he can fucking change a tire. he's still got enough time. the flat's not really even the problem, it's the fact that somewhere in the process he locks his fucking keys in the van, and his phone, and truthfully, all if it sounds like a fucking sign.
he should stay home. he should stay out of fizz's life, because he'll just find a way to ruin it again, because that's just what he does now.
in the end, loona tells him to just fucking go already, that she'll stay home and take care of the van - so he does, because whatever loona wants loona gets, and he suspects what she wants most is for him to get out of her hair.
it's not a far walk to the elevators, but it's not exactly a short one, either. blitzø hustles anyway, and finds one sliver of luck in the fact that the bar isn't too much of a trek away once he makes it to the lust ring.
just short of an hour later than the time they agreed upon, blitzø hesitates outside of the bar for a few seconds, just staring up at the neon sign. fuck it, he thinks. if this turns out to be a disaster, well. that's just one more trainwreck to add to the list of many that make up his shitty life, so what the hell.
with far more confidence than he actually possesses at the moment, blitzø waltzes into the bar, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets. his eyes dart around as he pushes through the loose crowd of patrons, but fizz is relatively easy to spot. he always has been, for blitzø, even before fizz got big, even before his face was plastered on every billboard, on the sides of buses, made into a godawful robot at a shitty amusement park.
blitzø approaches like he hasn't left fizz waiting for nearly an hour, flicking one of the little pompoms on the end of his hat as he plops into the stool beside him. ]
Fifteen minutes after the agreed time and Fizz sends a text, which gets no reply (because of the phone locked inside the van). Thirty minutes after and he calls... and still gets no reply (because of the aforementioned phone in van incident), and after his third call just rings to voicemail, he's a confusing mix of humiliated, sad, and furious.
Why hasn't he come?
Doesn't he want to reconnect? Is he angry that Fizz held a grudge all this time? Fuck, he doesn't even know if he doesn't still hold a grudge-- accident or not, he still lost more than he could put into words that day. Shit, this was the stupidest idea ever. He should just go home, cry into Ozzie's chest about it, and go back to a life that doesn't include Blitzo fucking Buckzo, silent o or not.
And then all of a sudden there he is.]
You're nowhere near hot enough to get away with being this late.
[It's more of a grumble than a real insult, more relieved than he wants to admit that he hasn't actually been stood up.]
Okay, [ he says, a doubtful little laugh tacked onto the end of it. he swivels in his stool a little so he's facing fizz more than he is the bar, and leans his elbow on the bar top, a shitty little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he reaches to pick up what he assumes is fizz's drink. he takes a sip, makes a face that's honestly kind of hard to read - is it good, is it bad? who can say - and then sets the drink back down in front of fizz. ] Let's not start by telling lies.
[ honestly, the confidence, the nonchalance, it's all false. in truth, blitzø's insides feel like loose static, a low buzz of anxiety tucked uncomfortably under his ribcage. there's no reason for him to feel nervous about hanging out with fizzarolli, about catching up, because - they made up. hugged it out, and let go of old hate, so why does blitzø feel like he could crawl out of his skin? they used to be best friends, attached at the fucking hip. this should be easy.
blitzø turns away from fizz and reaches across the bar top with both hands, hoisting himself up a little so he's more noticeable. he flags down the bartender with a subtle lift of one of his hands, and then sits back in his seat again while he waits for his turn. ]
Besides - [ again, super casual, but there's a different kind of doubt in his town this time, like he already doesn't buy his own bullshit. ] - I'm not that late.
Yeah, whatever. You're lucky I'm still here, but the bartender is hot and this is my third free drink.
[He shrugs his shoulders as if he ever would have actually left. It's sort of true, the bartender has been giving him free drinks, but Fizz would still have been here even if he'd been paying double. He might not want to admit it to himself because it's pathetic, but he would have waited until fucking closing time before he had to admit Blitzø stood him up.
Taking another long sip of his drink, he offers a smile sideways that's at least half genuine.]
Better late than never, I guess.
[Is he talking about Blitzø showing up tonight, or the repairing of their friendship at all? Who knows?]
I see you still have zero fashion sense for going out, you know there are colours other than red and black, right?
[ is the bartender hot? blitzø hadn't really noticed before, but he takes a beat to have a second look, turning away from fizz to glance down toward the end of the bar. unfortunately, they have their back turned, so he's just going to have to wait until it's his turn to order a drink to oogle them.
he turns back to fizz and rolls his eyes. ]
Please, like you don't get people throwing free shit at you everywhere you go.
[ he doesn't say it like it's meant to be a dig, just - a fact. fizzarolli probably has one of the most recognizable faces in all of hell, beloved by fucking everyone in the way he always dreamed of being. well, maybe not exactly how he'd imagined it, but - blitzø's proud of him either way. even if it does mean he gets to brag about getting free drinks.
speaking of - blitzø shifts his attention away from his friend again to order a drink (and hey, the bartender is kind of hot), seemingly unfazed by the comment about his fashion sense. he swivels back around on his stool and reaches out to flick one of his fingers against fizz's shoulder. ]
Listen. I make red and black look good, bitch. Talk to me when you don't look like you got raw dogged by like - six fuckin' rainbows, alright?
He's just a stranger, some weird little red dickhead who adopted her, like she wasn't nearly an adult herself. She doesn't know why he chose her when there were plenty of other hounds who didn't have her attitude problems, or younger ones that still wanted a parent, or-- fuck anyone except her.
But she doesn't care why, because she's not going to give him the opportunity to get close and disappoint her. She's been there, she's done that, and she doesn't want to dance those steps again. It's better for both of them if she shows him what he's adopted as soon as possible, so they can just get the inevitable abandonment out of the way.
He won't be there for her.
Nobody ever is, she knows now to rely on herself. And that's fine, she doesn't need anyone, she certainly doesn't need a dad. So she snarled her way through the adoption process, glared when he showed her into his apartment and gave her the only bedroom (why did she get the room? where was he going to sleep?), and ignored him when he offered her dinner.
Instead she just stormed out and went to a bar. Who the fuck cares if she's underage? She just wants a few drinks, a few smokes, and to forget the odd way her stomach clenched when Blitzø looked at her with such hope. She's too caught in her own head and doesn't realise she's surrounded until it's too late, a gang of other hounds who start hassling her for her money, making pervy comments.
Fuck.
She growls, ears pinned back, but apparently they're not that easily dissuaded. Well fucking fuckity fuck, just wonderful, now she's about to get into a bar fight that's seven against one.
[ when loona runs, he lets her go. it's a tough call to make, but after several attempts to try and connect with her - asking her questions on the ride home to try and get to know her (and when that went nowhere, talking to her about random shit whether she was listening or not), welcoming her to her new home by way of a very short apartment tour, showing her her bedroom (clean and spacious and all hers!) - all to no avail, he decides to give her some space.
it's a big change for both them; blitzø's lived alone for longer than he really cares to think about, and this is probably just another home loona won't ever get a chance to settle into before she's dragged back to the shelter, except - blitzø has no intention of doing that to her. he's an asshole and a prick, but there's not a chance in the seven rings. if time and space is what she needs in order to come back around, well. that shit's free, and the last thing he wants to do is drive her away by being overbearing (a sentiment he'll later let go of in favor of showering her in love and adoration and support, as much as she'll allow). he sends her a handful of texts (r u good and orderd u food if u wnat and lmk if u nede a ride) but otherwise, he leaves her alone.
it's only after a few hours have gone by without hearing from loona at all that blitzø decides he needs to do something. as much as he's willing to allow her her freedom, she's still his responsibility, and whether she believes it or not - he cares about her well-being. which says a lot, considering he barely cares about his own.
the only picture he has of her is the one from her official adoption documents - just a little, poorly lit polaroid in which she looks less than... pleasant, but he takes it with him anyway. he starts the search by checking off the most obvious places one might find a pissed off teenager, flashing her picture at random passersby to ask if they've seen her, all of whom are, unsurprisingly, no help. when that fails, he takes to driving around with his head out the window, shouting her name and giving the occasional finger to anyone who looks at him funny, just because it's fun.
bars seem unlikely, but not entirely out of the question. it's not like he didn't spend a handful of his teenage years being rebellious and stealing booze from under his father's nose, so. he doesn't rule it out.
the first one he hits up is a bust, half empty to the point that loona would be easy to pick out. the bartender at the second one says he hasn't seen anyone that looks like her, says he'd remember a girl like that, and the only reason blitzø doesn't haul him over the bar and rip is throat out is because he simply doesn't have time. if loona's not here, then he has to keep moving.
the third bar is probably the busiest of the night, though it's not too tightly packed. too many people for blitzø to get an easy look at everyone, so again, he pushes his way to the bar, climbs up on a stool, and slaps loona's photo down on the bar top. no dice, apparently, but blitzø's halfway through tucking the polaroid back into his jacket pocket when he hears what sounds like a fight starting to break out. when he turns to look over his shoulder, mostly out of mild curiosity, it's a flash of silvery-grey in the center of small group of people that makes him pause.
immediately, even without having seen her face, blitzø knows it's her, and judging by the body language and the comments being made by the people surrounding her, well - he can recognize a shitshow about to happen. ]
Oh, you guys picked the wrong fucking girl.
[ with zero hesitation, blitzø grabs an empty beer from the bartop that's yet to have been cleared away, and he moves away from the bar with purpose toward loona. somewhere along the way, he smashes the bottle against the edge of a high top, holding it by the neck, and uses his size to his advantage to push his way through the ring of people surrounding his daughter. ]
Loona. [ he says her name with authority, not because he's angry or upset with her, because he isn't, but just to get her attention so she knows she's not alone. he turns his back to her as he speaks, putting himself between her and as many people as he can, broken bottle held tight in one hand, but kept low by his side for now. he can tell that this little group of hellhounds aren't particularly happy about someone getting in their away, especially not a shitty little imp, but blitzø seems unbothered. guarded, definitely, his eyes shifting and watching for anyone who might try to start shit, but otherwise, unfazed. ] You okay?
She can take down a few, she's pretty fucking sure of that, but numbers will overwhelm in the end. It's not like this'll be the first time she's taken a proper beating, but that doesn't mean she's looking forward to it. And it's not like she has any illusion it'll end any other way. Even if this shithole is crammed full of people, none of them are about to get involved in a fight that has nothing to do with them.
It's not like she blames them, she'd be the same way. Hell is a fucking nightmare, why put yourself on the line for some shitty stranger who probably wants to fuck you over too? So she squares her shoulders, snarls loudly, and prepares to fight. Alone. Like she always has, like she always will, when...
...what...
It takes a couple of frozen moments for her to work out that the newcomer to the fight not only isn't joining in on ganging up on her, but that it's the little imp who adopted her earlier. Here. He's here and he's got a broken bottle, standing in front of her like he's actually going to try and defend her?!
Why does she suddenly feel like someone is stood on her chest?]
What the fuck are you doing here?
[It's easier to focus on that, on if he followed her, than the unfamiliar feeling of gratitude for someone coming to her aid.
The group of hounds look just as surprised, but hardly intimidated. It's still seven against two, and this is just a little fucking imp, not exactly a threat. One of them, a huge rottweiler looking hound, takes a step forward.]
Back the fuck up before you get hurt, imp. We're just talking with her, it's none of your business.
Oh, you know, just— [ he starts before he's interrupted. his nonchalant smile vanishes quicker than a blink, and he whirls his attention toward the rottweiler, yellow eyes as sharp as the broken bottle gripped tight in his hand. ] It's all my fuckin' business, asshole!
[ he drags the vowel, aaall, brandishing the bottle and kind of waving it in the hellhound's face, almost like a taunt. blitzø loves a good fight; the chance to stretch and flex his muscles, test his reflexes, definitely wouldn't go unappreciated. whatever he has to do to keep loona safe.
speaking of loona - blitzø casts her a quick glance over his shoulder, his back still facing toward her, and it's like a switch being flipped when he talks to her compared to how he'd addressed their potential opponents. ]
There's pizza at home, if you're hungry. Extra pepperoni. I wasn't sure what you like so I kinda guessed.
[ is he insane? this probably isn't the time for casual conversation, but he just seems so... relaxed in the face of their current circumstance. or as relaxed as one can appear with a broken bottle in their hands, but still.
blitzø turns, and again, it's like he's a totally different person, snapping at the group surrounding them. either he has a death wish, or he's very confident in his ability to fight. possibly a little bit of both. ]
Here's the deal. If anyone's gonna back the fuck up, it ain't gonna be me. You wanna "talk" to my daughter? You gotta talk to me first, and I fuckin' hate small talk, so back up - [ his stance shifts, one of his feet sliding back, center of gravity lowering like he's getting ready to take a tackle or spring forward. his eyes narrow, and he smiles, but it's halfway feral. ] - or bring it, bitch.
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reconnecting over drinks | blitzø and fizz
It's one thing to reconnect in a high pressure situation like a kidnapping, where imminent danger and adrenaline kept things from being stilted and awkward, or to be in a work environment like with Mammon, but just hanging out? What the fuck would they even say to one another?
Blitzø used to be his best friend in the world, they spent every day together and shared everything. Now? Were they even friends? Tentative not-enemies? Fuck, why is he so nervous about this stupid hang-out he's agreed to? It's not like he's a blushing virgin on a first date, he's just a guy having drinks with an old pal. An old pal who blew all his fucking limbs off. Noooooo problem.
Fizz is sat at the bar nursing a brightly coloured cocktail as he waits. He's already had to fend off a couple of fans, and he's pretty sure there's only so much longer he can hold onto the spare stool next to him before someone just takes it by force. Checking his phone again, impatient-- come on, Blitzø. Maybe this is a bad idea, maybe he should just go?]
no subject
it starts with the van. after spending half the afternoon trying to convince himself that fizz doesn't actually (rightfully) hate the shit out of him anymore (they're fine, right? they made up. maybe not under the best of circumstances, and maybe with very little time for a proper apology, but - they hugged, which seems like a lot) - after spending an hour talking himself into and out of canceling (honestly, it's loona who talks him out of it, and tells him he'd just be even more of a shithead than he already is if he doesn't show up, but that no one would be surprised), he resigns himself to his fate, and when it comes time for him to leave, he heads down to the parking lot outside of his apartment, only to be met with... a flat tire.
a flat fucking tire. like, practically-resting-on-the-rim flat, otherwise he'd have just thrown caution to the wind and driven it anyway. but a flat's not a big deal, he can fucking change a tire. he's still got enough time. the flat's not really even the problem, it's the fact that somewhere in the process he locks his fucking keys in the van, and his phone, and truthfully, all if it sounds like a fucking sign.
he should stay home. he should stay out of fizz's life, because he'll just find a way to ruin it again, because that's just what he does now.
in the end, loona tells him to just fucking go already, that she'll stay home and take care of the van - so he does, because whatever loona wants loona gets, and he suspects what she wants most is for him to get out of her hair.
it's not a far walk to the elevators, but it's not exactly a short one, either. blitzø hustles anyway, and finds one sliver of luck in the fact that the bar isn't too much of a trek away once he makes it to the lust ring.
just short of an hour later than the time they agreed upon, blitzø hesitates outside of the bar for a few seconds, just staring up at the neon sign. fuck it, he thinks. if this turns out to be a disaster, well. that's just one more trainwreck to add to the list of many that make up his shitty life, so what the hell.
with far more confidence than he actually possesses at the moment, blitzø waltzes into the bar, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets. his eyes dart around as he pushes through the loose crowd of patrons, but fizz is relatively easy to spot. he always has been, for blitzø, even before fizz got big, even before his face was plastered on every billboard, on the sides of buses, made into a godawful robot at a shitty amusement park.
blitzø approaches like he hasn't left fizz waiting for nearly an hour, flicking one of the little pompoms on the end of his hat as he plops into the stool beside him. ]
Heyyy, bitch.
no subject
Fifteen minutes after the agreed time and Fizz sends a text, which gets no reply (because of the phone locked inside the van). Thirty minutes after and he calls... and still gets no reply (because of the aforementioned phone in van incident), and after his third call just rings to voicemail, he's a confusing mix of humiliated, sad, and furious.
Why hasn't he come?
Doesn't he want to reconnect? Is he angry that Fizz held a grudge all this time? Fuck, he doesn't even know if he doesn't still hold a grudge-- accident or not, he still lost more than he could put into words that day. Shit, this was the stupidest idea ever. He should just go home, cry into Ozzie's chest about it, and go back to a life that doesn't include Blitzo fucking Buckzo, silent o or not.
And then all of a sudden there he is.]
You're nowhere near hot enough to get away with being this late.
[It's more of a grumble than a real insult, more relieved than he wants to admit that he hasn't actually been stood up.]
no subject
[ honestly, the confidence, the nonchalance, it's all false. in truth, blitzø's insides feel like loose static, a low buzz of anxiety tucked uncomfortably under his ribcage. there's no reason for him to feel nervous about hanging out with fizzarolli, about catching up, because - they made up. hugged it out, and let go of old hate, so why does blitzø feel like he could crawl out of his skin? they used to be best friends, attached at the fucking hip. this should be easy.
blitzø turns away from fizz and reaches across the bar top with both hands, hoisting himself up a little so he's more noticeable. he flags down the bartender with a subtle lift of one of his hands, and then sits back in his seat again while he waits for his turn. ]
Besides - [ again, super casual, but there's a different kind of doubt in his town this time, like he already doesn't buy his own bullshit. ] - I'm not that late.
no subject
[He shrugs his shoulders as if he ever would have actually left. It's sort of true, the bartender has been giving him free drinks, but Fizz would still have been here even if he'd been paying double. He might not want to admit it to himself because it's pathetic, but he would have waited until fucking closing time before he had to admit Blitzø stood him up.
Taking another long sip of his drink, he offers a smile sideways that's at least half genuine.]
Better late than never, I guess.
[Is he talking about Blitzø showing up tonight, or the repairing of their friendship at all? Who knows?]
I see you still have zero fashion sense for going out, you know there are colours other than red and black, right?
no subject
he turns back to fizz and rolls his eyes. ]
Please, like you don't get people throwing free shit at you everywhere you go.
[ he doesn't say it like it's meant to be a dig, just - a fact. fizzarolli probably has one of the most recognizable faces in all of hell, beloved by fucking everyone in the way he always dreamed of being. well, maybe not exactly how he'd imagined it, but - blitzø's proud of him either way. even if it does mean he gets to brag about getting free drinks.
speaking of - blitzø shifts his attention away from his friend again to order a drink (and hey, the bartender is kind of hot), seemingly unfazed by the comment about his fashion sense. he swivels back around on his stool and reaches out to flick one of his fingers against fizz's shoulder. ]
Listen. I make red and black look good, bitch. Talk to me when you don't look like you got raw dogged by like - six fuckin' rainbows, alright?
family bonding | blitzø and loona
He's just a stranger, some weird little red dickhead who adopted her, like she wasn't nearly an adult herself. She doesn't know why he chose her when there were plenty of other hounds who didn't have her attitude problems, or younger ones that still wanted a parent, or-- fuck anyone except her.
But she doesn't care why, because she's not going to give him the opportunity to get close and disappoint her. She's been there, she's done that, and she doesn't want to dance those steps again. It's better for both of them if she shows him what he's adopted as soon as possible, so they can just get the inevitable abandonment out of the way.
He won't be there for her.
Nobody ever is, she knows now to rely on herself. And that's fine, she doesn't need anyone, she certainly doesn't need a dad. So she snarled her way through the adoption process, glared when he showed her into his apartment and gave her the only bedroom (why did she get the room? where was he going to sleep?), and ignored him when he offered her dinner.
Instead she just stormed out and went to a bar. Who the fuck cares if she's underage? She just wants a few drinks, a few smokes, and to forget the odd way her stomach clenched when Blitzø looked at her with such hope. She's too caught in her own head and doesn't realise she's surrounded until it's too late, a gang of other hounds who start hassling her for her money, making pervy comments.
Fuck.
She growls, ears pinned back, but apparently they're not that easily dissuaded. Well fucking fuckity fuck, just wonderful, now she's about to get into a bar fight that's seven against one.
Nobody here to have her back... or is there?]
no subject
it's a big change for both them; blitzø's lived alone for longer than he really cares to think about, and this is probably just another home loona won't ever get a chance to settle into before she's dragged back to the shelter, except - blitzø has no intention of doing that to her. he's an asshole and a prick, but there's not a chance in the seven rings. if time and space is what she needs in order to come back around, well. that shit's free, and the last thing he wants to do is drive her away by being overbearing (a sentiment he'll later let go of in favor of showering her in love and adoration and support, as much as she'll allow). he sends her a handful of texts (r u good and orderd u food if u wnat and lmk if u nede a ride) but otherwise, he leaves her alone.
it's only after a few hours have gone by without hearing from loona at all that blitzø decides he needs to do something. as much as he's willing to allow her her freedom, she's still his responsibility, and whether she believes it or not - he cares about her well-being. which says a lot, considering he barely cares about his own.
the only picture he has of her is the one from her official adoption documents - just a little, poorly lit polaroid in which she looks less than... pleasant, but he takes it with him anyway. he starts the search by checking off the most obvious places one might find a pissed off teenager, flashing her picture at random passersby to ask if they've seen her, all of whom are, unsurprisingly, no help. when that fails, he takes to driving around with his head out the window, shouting her name and giving the occasional finger to anyone who looks at him funny, just because it's fun.
bars seem unlikely, but not entirely out of the question. it's not like he didn't spend a handful of his teenage years being rebellious and stealing booze from under his father's nose, so. he doesn't rule it out.
the first one he hits up is a bust, half empty to the point that loona would be easy to pick out. the bartender at the second one says he hasn't seen anyone that looks like her, says he'd remember a girl like that, and the only reason blitzø doesn't haul him over the bar and rip is throat out is because he simply doesn't have time. if loona's not here, then he has to keep moving.
the third bar is probably the busiest of the night, though it's not too tightly packed. too many people for blitzø to get an easy look at everyone, so again, he pushes his way to the bar, climbs up on a stool, and slaps loona's photo down on the bar top. no dice, apparently, but blitzø's halfway through tucking the polaroid back into his jacket pocket when he hears what sounds like a fight starting to break out. when he turns to look over his shoulder, mostly out of mild curiosity, it's a flash of silvery-grey in the center of small group of people that makes him pause.
immediately, even without having seen her face, blitzø knows it's her, and judging by the body language and the comments being made by the people surrounding her, well - he can recognize a shitshow about to happen. ]
Oh, you guys picked the wrong fucking girl.
[ with zero hesitation, blitzø grabs an empty beer from the bartop that's yet to have been cleared away, and he moves away from the bar with purpose toward loona. somewhere along the way, he smashes the bottle against the edge of a high top, holding it by the neck, and uses his size to his advantage to push his way through the ring of people surrounding his daughter. ]
Loona. [ he says her name with authority, not because he's angry or upset with her, because he isn't, but just to get her attention so she knows she's not alone. he turns his back to her as he speaks, putting himself between her and as many people as he can, broken bottle held tight in one hand, but kept low by his side for now. he can tell that this little group of hellhounds aren't particularly happy about someone getting in their away, especially not a shitty little imp, but blitzø seems unbothered. guarded, definitely, his eyes shifting and watching for anyone who might try to start shit, but otherwise, unfazed. ] You okay?
no subject
She can take down a few, she's pretty fucking sure of that, but numbers will overwhelm in the end. It's not like this'll be the first time she's taken a proper beating, but that doesn't mean she's looking forward to it. And it's not like she has any illusion it'll end any other way. Even if this shithole is crammed full of people, none of them are about to get involved in a fight that has nothing to do with them.
It's not like she blames them, she'd be the same way. Hell is a fucking nightmare, why put yourself on the line for some shitty stranger who probably wants to fuck you over too? So she squares her shoulders, snarls loudly, and prepares to fight. Alone. Like she always has, like she always will, when...
...what...
It takes a couple of frozen moments for her to work out that the newcomer to the fight not only isn't joining in on ganging up on her, but that it's the little imp who adopted her earlier. Here. He's here and he's got a broken bottle, standing in front of her like he's actually going to try and defend her?!
Why does she suddenly feel like someone is stood on her chest?]
What the fuck are you doing here?
[It's easier to focus on that, on if he followed her, than the unfamiliar feeling of gratitude for someone coming to her aid.
The group of hounds look just as surprised, but hardly intimidated. It's still seven against two, and this is just a little fucking imp, not exactly a threat. One of them, a huge rottweiler looking hound, takes a step forward.]
Back the fuck up before you get hurt, imp. We're just talking with her, it's none of your business.
no subject
[ he drags the vowel, aaall, brandishing the bottle and kind of waving it in the hellhound's face, almost like a taunt. blitzø loves a good fight; the chance to stretch and flex his muscles, test his reflexes, definitely wouldn't go unappreciated. whatever he has to do to keep loona safe.
speaking of loona - blitzø casts her a quick glance over his shoulder, his back still facing toward her, and it's like a switch being flipped when he talks to her compared to how he'd addressed their potential opponents. ]
There's pizza at home, if you're hungry. Extra pepperoni. I wasn't sure what you like so I kinda guessed.
[ is he insane? this probably isn't the time for casual conversation, but he just seems so... relaxed in the face of their current circumstance. or as relaxed as one can appear with a broken bottle in their hands, but still.
blitzø turns, and again, it's like he's a totally different person, snapping at the group surrounding them. either he has a death wish, or he's very confident in his ability to fight. possibly a little bit of both. ]
Here's the deal. If anyone's gonna back the fuck up, it ain't gonna be me. You wanna "talk" to my daughter? You gotta talk to me first, and I fuckin' hate small talk, so back up - [ his stance shifts, one of his feet sliding back, center of gravity lowering like he's getting ready to take a tackle or spring forward. his eyes narrow, and he smiles, but it's halfway feral. ] - or bring it, bitch.