#assassimp

[astronomowl]

@assassimp asked : you don't secretly hate me, right?

it is one of those statements that stolas suspects blitzø would rather he play off. a nice, easy of course not so that blitzø can move on to something more fun and less real. but blitzø's gotten better at sitting in these moments, uncomfortable as they are ; stolas, he likes to wallow, and most of all, he likes to wallow in company, so there's always room for blitzø's fears. blitzø's all but in his lap, and he has to crane his neck to look at him ( easier for him than for blitzø, both physically and emotionally, if he were making assumptions ). "love, do you think me capable of secretly hating anyone? maybe years ago," when misery was his default, and he kept every cruel thought buried deep down, "but since meeting you -- you know everything i think of you, both good and bad. and you've seen how much it took for us to get here. don't you think i would've just stayed where i was if i thought there was any chance i might someday hate you?"

[astronomowl]

@assassimp asked : do you trust me enough to close your eyes?

he taps his fingers across blitzø like he's playing the piano, tracing across his shoulder blades and the back of his neck. "oh, blitzy, i trust you with my entire life, with my very existence. you know this, my darling. there's no one in this entire realm that i would have greater faith in." and if they were in his boudoir, not a single feather would be ruffled by the idea of a small bit of sensory deprivation. here, at his workplace, though ... well, stolas cares deeply for him, and he isn't not fond of his staff, but there's always a lot going on here, isn't there, and a not-insignificant amount of it includes decidedly non-sexy uses of weaponry. "ah, what's in there?"

[d33tz]

‘ i do this bullshit like, eight times a week. ’ / from blitzø on @assassimp !

lydia didn’t scream, or jump, or even flinch when blitzø appeared in the alleyway like some extremely caffeinated hallucination. she just stared at him—dead-on, unimpressed, hands tucked into the sleeves of her black sweater as she watched him shove a suspiciously person-shaped bag into a dumpster.

she blinked once. slowly. definitely a demon. definitely not one of hers.

“…right.”

the goth teenager adjusted her camera strap, brushing a strand of black hair out of her face. no fear—just that tired, seen-it-all, vague annoyance that came from a lifetime of ghosts popping up during algebra class.

before blitzø could open his mouth again, she cut him off with a practiced rhythm:

“and before you say anything—yes, i know demons exist, yes, i can see you, and no, i’m not calling anyone about it.”

‘beetlejuice’ the musical starters — accepting.