Taglist: @kewwrites @mcueveryday @luna-kait @blueish-flower @berriblissful @chewifoxess @spectravondergeist8 @death-in-a-tar0t-card @lemonpuppet @radientd3ath @cantbecreative @knightinwonderland92 @machopeach @kittenlover614
Warnings ⚠️: it's hell ? ... lecherous dudes, Canon typical violence, swearing, clowns, eventual smut, some canon typical religious overtones, alcohol consumption, lusty aesthetics, angst, blood, medical care, feelings of despair.
Part 4 | Part 6
Hell-ish Heartbeats 💝💙💛 P.5
The bed you'd been given was easily three times the size of your apartment's bed back on Earth, with sheets that felt like they were woven from clouds and probably cost more than your entire year's rent.
For a moment—just a brief, blissful moment—you thought maybe you'd dreamed the whole thing. That you'd wake up in your own bed, in your own apartment, and Hell would just be some weird fever dream brought on by bad takeout.
Then you sat up and saw the view outside the window: a sprawling cityscape of neon and rain, buildings that defied physics, and a sky that was definitely not any color sky should be.
Right. Hell. You were in Hell.
You sat there for a few minutes, just processing, before your stomach made its opinion on the matter very clear with a growl that echoed embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
The palace was quiet as you made your way downstairs, padding along in bare feet because you couldn't find your garbage laced shoes and you were too anxious to spend more time looking for them. Everything was so big here—the doorways, the hallways, even the stairs were slightly too tall for comfortable human proportions. You felt like Alice after she'd shrunk, navigating a world that wasn't built for someone your size.
You could hear something from what you thought might be the main living area—the sound of a TV, maybe?—and you followed it like a lifeline. At least if there was TV, there was probably either Fizz or Ozzie watching said TV.
The living room was exactly as overwhelming as you remembered massive, decorated in that same blend of elegant and vaguely obscene that seemed to be Ozzie's signature style, with furniture that looked both incredibly expensive and incredibly comfortable.
And there, sprawled across a couch that could have fit your entire apartment's living room, was Fizzarolli.
He was watching what looked like some kind of Hell's version of a morning talk show, his mechanical limbs stretched out in ways that made your brain hurt to look at. He was still in what you assumed were pajamas—loose pants covered in little hearts and a top that read "I'm a Nightmare Before AND After Coffee."
You must have made some kind of sound, because his head whipped around, and those pink eyes locked onto you immediately.
"Oh shit, you're awake!" He sat up in one fluid motion that involved joints bending in ways they shouldn't. "Uh, morning?" He paused, seeming to really look at you for the first time. "You sleep okay? I mean, considering the whole 'trapped in Hell' thing."
"I... yeah, actually," you said, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "The bed is really comfortable. Almost too comfortable. I think I slept for like twelve hours."
"Nice! See, we're good at the whole hospitality thing. Comes with the territory." Fizz gestured at the couch. "You hungry? Thirsty? Need anything? I can... actually, I don't know what we have."
Despite everything, you felt a small laugh bubble up. "Just... normal food? Cereal, toast, that kind of thing?"
"Oh thank fuck, we have that." Fizz bounced up from the couch, his limbs retracting to a more normal length as he headed toward the kitchen. "Come on, let's get you fed before you like, faint or something. That would be bad. Ozzie would kill me if I let our resident human die of starvation."
You followed him, trying not to stare too obviously at the way he moved. It was mesmerizing and slightly unsettling in equal measure.
You were halfway through a bowl of cereal which tasted normal, thank god, even if you tried not to think too hard about where it came from, when you heard the front door open and Ozzie's distinctive voice echoing through the palace.
"Babe! Is our guest awake yet?"
"In the kitchen!" Fizz called back, shooting you a grin. "Eating her weight in cereal!"
"I am not—" you started, but Ozzie was already entering the kitchen, and your protest died in your throat.
He wasn't alone.
The woman with him was striking in a way that made your brain short-circuit slightly. Tall, with pink and white hair, dressed in clothes that could generously be described as "minimal," and carrying herself with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how attractive you were.
"Huh" she said, her eyes sweeping over you with an assessing look that made you want to sink into the floor. "So this is the little human you told me about."
"Verosika," Ozzie said, and there was a warning in his tone. "Be nice."
"I'm always nice," Verosika said, which was clearly a lie based on her tone. But she did soften slightly, moving to lean against the counter with a grace that seemed effortless. "Ozzie here tells me you need a ride back topside."
You blinked, looking between Verosika and Ozzie. "I... yea...yeah"
Ozzie's expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes that might have been disappointment. "You shouldn't be here. In Hell, I mean. You're human, and this isn't..." He made a vague gesture. "I told you we would find you a way home, I've arranged for Verosika to take you back to Earth and get you home safely."
"Thank you," you said, and the words came out smaller than you'd intended. You were going home, back to your normal life, away from this insane dimension where everything was trying to kill you or seduce you or both.
So why did your chest feel tight?
"I have a full day of work topside anyway," Verosika said, examining her nails. "Might as well make myself useful. We leave in twenty, so finish your breakfast or whatever."
She swept out of the kitchen with the same dramatic flair she'd entered with, leaving you alone with Ozzie and Fizz. There was a moment of awkward silence.
"You okay?" Fizz asked quietly, and when you looked at him, his expression was surprisingly gentle. More than that—there was something almost sad in his eyes, like the thought of you leaving was bothering him.
"Yeah," you lied. "Yeah, I'm fine. This is good. Going home is good."
Ozzie made a sound that might have been agreement, but his expression flickered in a way that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "If you need anything once you're back on Earth, you can... well, you probably won't be able to contact us, actually. But you'll be safe. That's what matters."
Right. Safe. Back to your normal, safe life.
You finished your cereal in silence, trying to ignore the way Fizz kept glancing at you when he thought you weren't looking.
The journey back to Earth was significantly less traumatic than your journey to Hell had been, mainly because Verosika knew what she was doing.
One moment you were in Hell, the next you were standing in an alley somewhere... you squinted at the street signs.
"Alright, human," Verosika said, pulling out her phone and already scrolling through something. "I'm gonna need your address. And before you ask, no, I'm not going to murder you and steal your identity. Too much paperwork."
You rattled off your address, still feeling slightly dazed. Everything looked so normal. So Earth-like. Cars driving by, people walking past the alley entrance, the sun shining in a sky that was actually blue instead of glowing.
Verosika somehow procured a car, you decided not to ask how and drove you to your apartment with the casual disregard for traffic laws that suggested she didn't care about getting a ticket. Or maybe tickets didn't apply to succubi. You had no idea how any of this worked.
"Right," she said, pulling up outside your building. "I've got work to do. Very important work. The kind that keeps the Lust Ring running smoothly." Her smile was sharp. "I'll check on you later, make sure you haven't like, spontaneously combusted or whatever. Here."
She shoved a phone at you—when had she gotten a phone for you?—with a number already programmed in.
"That's my line. It works cross-dimensionally, don't ask me how. If anything weird happens, you text. Got it?"
"Got it," you said, clutching the phone like a lifeline. "Thank you. For, you know, not leaving me in Hell."
Verosika's expression softened slightly, just for a moment. "Yeah, well. Ozzie asked nice. And he doesn't ask for favors often." She paused. "You're lucky, you know. Most of lust think he's intimidating, but Asmodeus is actually very sweet, dont tell him i said that."
And then she was pulling away, the car disappearing around the corner, and you were alone.
Your apartment building looked exactly the same as it had... however long ago you'd left it. The same cracked tile in the lobby, the same flickering light on the third floor, the same slightly musty smell in the hallway.
You locked the door behind you and just stood there for a moment, taking in the familiar space. Your couch. Your kitchen. Your life.
Normal. Safe. Boring.
You made yourself hot chocolate because that's what you always did when you needed comfort, and you checked your mail bills, junk, a coupon for a pizza place, and you tried very hard to pretend that everything was fine.
It started about an hour after Verosika left.
At first, you thought maybe you'd just made the hot chocolate too hot, because you felt flushed and warm in a way that didn't quite make sense. You turned on the air conditioning, changed into lighter clothes, even took a cold shower.
Nothing helped.
If anything, you felt worse. The heat was building under your skin, making you dizzy and nauseous. Your hands were shaking. Your vision was starting to blur at the edges.
And then your nose started bleeding.
Just a drop at first. Then another. You grabbed a tissue, pressing it to your nose, but the bleeding didn't stop. It got worse, faster, until you were going through tissues at an alarming rate and the trash can was filling up with crumpled, blood-soaked paper.
Panic clawed at you. This wasn't normal. This was very, very not normal.
You fumbled for the phone Verosika had given you, your fingers slippery with blood, and managed to pull up her contact. The text you sent was barely coherent.
You hit send and immediately felt the world tilt sideways. The phone clattered to the floor as you grabbed onto the counter, trying to stay upright, but your legs felt like jelly and the heat under your skin was becoming unbearable and—
Verosika was having a very good day.
She'd lined up three potential clients, all of them wealthy, all of them desperate, all of them exactly the kind of sex energy she needed to meet her quota for the month. The first one was already putty in her hands, hanging on her every word as they sat in some overpriced café, and she was just about to go in for the close when her phone buzzed.
She ignored it. She was working.
It buzzed again.
"Excuse me for just a second, sugar," she purred, flashing her most dazzling smile as she pulled out her phone. "Work emergency."
The text made her blood run cold.
"Fuck," she said, her carefully maintained seductive persona dropping instantly. "Fuck fuck fuck."
"Is everything—" her mark started, but Verosika was already standing, already moving.
"Rain check, shithead," she called over her shoulder, not even bothering to look back as she headed for the exit. "Something came up."
The drive to your apartment involved breaking several traffic laws and possibly one minor traffic accident, not her fault, the other guy should have been watching where he was going. She took the stairs two at a time, her heels clicking against the concrete, and when she reached your floor she could smell the blood.
Your door was locked. She kicked it open without hesitation.
You were on the floor of your kitchen, conscious but barely, your face covered in blood and your eyes unfocused. The sight made something twist in Verosika's chest—she'd seen a lot of shit in her time, but there was something particularly awful about seeing someone so fragile.
"Okay," she said, more to herself than to you. "Okay, we're not doing this. You're not dying on my watch because Asmodeus will literally never let me hear the end of it."
She scooped you up—and was back out the door before you could even process what was happening.
Fizzarolli was enjoying a rare quiet afternoon.
Ozzie was still at the club handling some business thing that Fizz hadn't really paid attention to the details of, and he had the palace to himself. He was sprawled on the couch, watching some cooking show where the secret ingredient was screams literally, and debating whether or not to order food.
"FIZZAROLLI!" Verosika's voice was sharp with panic, and Fizz was on his feet instantly because Verosika didn't panic. Verosika was cool and collected and never lost her composure.
He made it to the door in time to see her carrying you, and the amount of blood covering your face made his brain screech to a halt.
"What the fuck happened?!"
"I don't know!" Verosika snapped, and yeah, she was definitely panicking. "She texted me, said something was wrong, and when I got there she was like this!"
Fizz's mind was racing. My Human. Bleeding. Bad. Very bad. The human who was so sweet and lost and who'd laughed at his jokes with genuine amusement—she couldn't just die. Not like this. Not when Ozzie had barely gotten to talk to her, when they'd barely started to know her.
"Kitchen, now," he said, his performer's training kicking in and steadying his voice even though his insides were churning. "Put her on the counter."
Verosika complied, setting you down with surprising gentleness. You were conscious, which was good, but your eyes were glazed and you looked about two seconds from passing out.
"Stay with me, cutie," Fizz said, and his hands were already moving, grabbing a clean kitchen towel and pressing it firmly against your nose. "You're okay, you're gonna be fine, just keep breathing."
"Call Ozzie," he said to Verosika without looking away from you. "NOW."
He could hear her already dialing, her voice sharp as she spoke into the phone. "Asmodeus, we have a problem. No, a big problem. The girls bleeding and I don't—yes the human, yes she's here—I don't fucking know, she just started—"
Fizz tuned her out, focusing entirely on you. The towel was already soaked through with blood, and he grabbed another one, keeping pressure steady. Your skin was burning up under his touch, way too hot.
"Hey, eyes on me," he said gently when your gaze started to drift. "Come on, stay awake. What's your favorite color? Tell me your favorite color."
"Blue," you mumbled, the word slurred. "Like... like his fluff..."
Fizz's heart did something complicated in his chest—half terror that you might not make it to see that mane again, half something else.
"Good! Blue's a great color. What else? Favorite food? Favorite movie? Come on, talk to me."
"You're... you're really good at this," you slurred, your eyes struggling to focus on him. "The... the caring thing. S'nice. You're nice. Pretty too. Really pretty. Has anyone told you... told you that you're pretty?"
Oh. Oh no. His heart was doing that complicated thing again, but more intensely now.
"She's definitely woozy," Verosika muttered from behind him.
"I can work with woozy," Fizz said, his voice cracking slightly. "Woozy means conscious. Keep talking, cutie. Tell me more. What else do you think?"
But your eyes were already starting to droop, your words trailing off into incoherent mumbles. The bleeding was slowing though, thank fuck, and by the time he heard the front door, you were mostly just looking sleepy.
"Ozzie's on his way," Verosika had said what felt like hours ago but was probably only minutes. "He said ten minutes."
It felt like the longest ten minutes of Fizz's life.
By the time Ozzie arrived, the bleeding had stopped completely, and you were drowsing against Fizz's chest, your eyes fluttering closed every few seconds.
Ozzie took one look at the scene—you covered in blood, Fizz holding you carefully, Verosika pacing anxiously—and his flames flared bright enough to make both Fizz and Verosika wince.
He crossed the kitchen in two strides, and Fizz very carefully transferred you into his massive hands. You stirred at the movement, your eyes fluttering open just a fraction, glassy and confused.
"Mmm...Fizz ?" you mumbled, your head lolling slightly.
"Right here, cutie," Fizz said immediately, his voice gentle despite the way his hands were still trembling. He moved into your line of sight, and something in his chest clenched when your unfocused gaze drifted to him and the ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.
"Fizzy," you murmured fondly, like you'd been looking for something important and finally found it.
Ozzie and Fizz shared a look—quick, loaded—and then Ozzie was carefully, carefully moving to the living room, Fizz right on his heels.
Ozzie lowered you onto the couch with a gentleness that seemed impossible for someone his size, and the second you were settled, Fizz was there, kneeling beside you with a damp cloth he must have grabbed on the way past the kitchen.
"Alright, let's get you cleaned up," Fizz said softly, tilting your chin up with two fingers. The cloth was warm, and he dabbed at the blood on your face with a patience that surprised even him. "You're doing great. Just stay still for me, okay?"
"'M'tired," you slurred, your eyes drifting closed again.
"I know, I know. Just a sec." Fizz kept his voice light, easy, like he was chatting with you at a show backstage. "Hey, you wanna see something? Watch this—"
He held up his mechanical arm, the segments shifting and rearranging with a series of soft clicks and whirrs—extending, folding, curling in on itself before snapping back out into a shape that looked vaguely like a little waving hand.
Then it twisted again, reforming into something that might have been a bird, or a flower, or something entirely made up. It was fast and fluid and mesmerizing, each piece slotting into place like it was alive.
Your eyes fluttered open again, tracking the movement with drowsy fascination, your lips parting in a little "oh."
"Whoa," you breathed.
"Right? I can do way better shit when you're not half-asleep," Fizz promised, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the knot in his stomach. "I'll put on a whole show for you later. Private performance. VIP only."
Behind you both, Ozzie had turned his full attention to Verosika, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
"What. Happened." His voice was low. Controlled. The kind of calm that was far more dangerous than shouting.
Verosika, to her credit, didn't flinch. Much.
"That's what I'd like to know," Verosika said, crossing her arms. "Look, Ozzie, I've been doing topside runs for decades. I've seduced thousands of humans. Not once has this happened. Not once."
"Because you're not transporting them," Fizz said, and there was something thoughtful in his expression now. "You're just... visiting Earth, doing your thing, and coming back. The humans stay where they are."
"Exactly!" Verosika gestured emphatically. "We're not dimensional transport! That's not what we do! I don't even know how bringing a living soul across dimensions is supposed to work because it's not part of the job description!"
Ozzie was quiet for a long moment, looking down at you sleeping in his hands. "She can't go back," he said finally, and there was something heavy in his voice. "Not until we understand what happened. What might happen again."
"She's gonna be stuck here," Fizz said softly his bells giving a soft tinkle.
"Better stuck in Hell than dead on Earth," Verosika pointed out, though her tone had lost its sharp edge. She looked at you, something like concern crossing her features. "She's tougher than she looks though. Most humans would've passed out way before I got there."
"Yeah," Fizz agreed, and there was something warm in his voice. "She is pretty tough."
Ozzie's gaze flicked to him, and something passed between them—an understanding, an acknowledgment of something neither was quite ready to say out loud.
"So what now?" Verosika asked quietly.
"Now," Ozzie said, his voice heavy with something that might have been guilt or resignation or both, "she stays here. Where we can monitor her. Where she's safe."
"You can't keep a human in Hell indefinitely," Verosika protested weakly, but even she didn't sound convinced.
"You have a better idea?" Ozzie's flames flickered. "Because I'm open to suggestions that don't involve her bleeding out on her floor."
Verosika didn't have an answer to that.
•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•
"She's stable," Ozzie said, closing the door to the master bedroom. "Temperature's back to normal, no more bleeding. She should sleep through the night."
Fizz was already sprawled across their bed, his limbs stretched out in that boneless way he had when he was stressed and trying not to show it. "Should. That word again."
"Fizz—" Ozzie started, but Fizz cut him off.
"She called me pretty, Oz." His voice was muffled by the pillow he'd shoved his face into. "While she was bleeding and probably dying, she told me I was pretty."
Ozzie felt something warm unfurl in his chest. He moved to the bed, settling beside Fizz and running one large hand down his back. "Did she now?"
"Don't sound so smug about it," Fizz grumbled, but he was already turning over to look at Ozzie, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "I know it was just the blood loss talking or whatever, but—"
"But it scared you," Ozzie finished gently. "Because your attached."
Fizz didn't even try to deny it. He just looked up at Ozzie with those pink eyes—the ones that could sell out an arena or break your heart depending on the angle—and gave him the look.
The look.
The one with the lower lip, slightly trembling. The wide eyes, dewy and devastating. The way his whole frame seemed to shrink just a fraction, curling in on itself like a kicked puppy who'd done something wrong and knew it.
Ozzie had seen that look before and, It was, of course, working on him right now.
"Fizzy," he tried to said firmly.
The look intensified. Fizz's bottom lip did an honest-to-goodness wobble.
"You are a famous performer. I've seen you perform thousands of times Babe. That face is not going to—"
Fizz made a small, pitiful whimpering noise.
"—oh, fuck it... you know I can't say no to that face." Ozzie scooped Fizz up—well, as much as you could scoop up someone made of mostly limbs and attitude—and pulled him against his chest. "Talk to me Froggie."
"Can we keep her?" Fizz asked immediately, the puppy-dog act melting seamlessly into earnest, hopeful excitement. "Like, not as a pet, but she's here and she can't go back and she laughed at my jokes and she asked where I was when you picked her up, Oz. She asked where I was. Like she wanted me there."
"I noticed," Ozzie said, and he had. That small, sleepy question—had hit both of them harder than either would probably admit out loud.
"So we should make sure she's okay," Fizz continued, the words tumbling out now, fast and earnest. "And we reallllllyyyy should look after her. Yeah?"
"Yeah," Ozzie agreed. "We should."
"Good." Fizz nodded firmly, then immediately deflated back into Ozzie's chest. "But that's the other thing. The keeping safe thing. It's not just the bleeding shit, Oz. It's everything."
"What do you mean?"
Fizz shifted, pulling back just enough to look at Ozzie properly. The vulnerability was back, but it was different now—sharper, edged with something that looked like genuine worry.
"She's human," he said. "A real, live human. In the Lust Ring." He let that sit for a moment. "Do you know how many hellborn down there have never even seen a human before? Like, ever? What if they think she's some curiosity, a novelty. You know what demons in this ring do with things they find novel and exciting."
Ozzie's flames flickered darkly. He did know. The Lust Ring's population didn't always have a reputation for restraint, the thought sickened him.
"They'd fetishize her," Ozzie said flatly.
"In a fucking heartbeat," Fizz confirmed. "The moment word gets out that there's an actual human living in the palace—every horny piece of shit in this ring is going to want a piece of her. And she won't even understand why. She doesn't know how any of this works, Oz. She doesn't know what she looks like to people down here. She doesn't know what she's—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "What happens when someone smiles at her who doesn't have good intentions?"
The temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Ozzie's flames burned cold and blue, the way they only did when he was truly, properly angry—not at anyone in particular, just at the situation.
"We don't let that happen," Ozzie said, and it wasn't a suggestion. It was a decree. "She stays in the palace. She doesn't go anywhere without one of us. And anyone who so much as looks at her wrong—"
"—gets to see what the Sin of Lust looks like when he's genuinely pissed," Fizz finished with a grin that had zero humor in it. "Yeah. I like that plan."
•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•
They were quiet for a moment, the weight of it settling between them. Fizz's fingers were idly tracing patterns on Ozzie's chest, and his expression had gone somewhere distant and thoughtful.
"She said I was pretty," he repeated, quieter this time. Not with the earlier wonderous emphasis—just a simple, small observation. Like he was still turning it over in his mind, trying to understand it.
"You are pretty," Ozzie said, tilting Fizz's chin up with one finger so their eyes met.
Fizz's smile was crooked—self-deprecating in that way it got when the insecurity crept in, the one Ozzie had spent years trying to erase. He reached up and touched his own face, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw where the clown makeup had been washed off.
"She doesn't know what I actually look like," he said, and his voice had gone very quiet. Very careful. Like he was picking his way through glass.
"Not the whole..." He gestured at himself. "Package."
Ozzie didn't say anything. He knew better than to interrupt when Fizz was actually letting something out.
"It's all scar tissue, Oz." Fizz's hand dropped from his face, settling flat against his own chest like he was trying to hold something in. "The whole thing. One big, ugly, white mess. The paint covers it—all of it—but if she ever saw it without..." He trailed off, swallowing thickly.
"Most people flinch. Or they stare. Or they do that fucking thing where they pretend they don't notice, which is sooooo much worse."
His hand drifted up to where his horns—what was left of them—sat on his head. Broken. Uneven. The jagged stumps a permanent reminder of the fire that had taken so much from him.
"The horns too," he said, almost as an afterthought, like it was just another item on a list he'd been keeping for years. "They're never growing back. I know that. I've known that for a long time and im fine with it really. But she hasn't—she doesn't know what imp horns are supposed to look like. She doesn't know mine are all wrong."
"They're not wrong," Ozzie said.
"They are Oz," Fizz corrected, and his tone wasn't bitter. It was worse than bitter. It was just... tired. Resigned. Like he'd had this argument with himself a thousand times and lost every single one.
"Everything about me is fucked, Oz. The horns. The face. Half my body is literally metal and wiring now because the parts that were burned off got replaced with machines, and im grateful for that, that I have the limbs, truly I am."
He laughed then, short and sharp and a little wet. "But she has no fucking idea what she was actually looking at."
Ozzie moved. Not fast, not suddenly—just deliberately, carefully, the way he always moved when Fizz was like this.
He gathered Fizz up properly, one massive hand cradling the back of his head, and held him close enough that Fizz could feel the thump of his heartbeat.
"Listen to me," Ozzie said, and his voice was low and steady and absolute in the way it only got when he meant something with every single part of himself.
"The scars are part of you," Ozzie continued, his thumb stroking slow circles against the back of Fizz's neck. "The horns are part of you. All of it—it's you. And it has been for a long time. And I have been looking at every single piece of you and thinking you are the most stunning thing I have ever seen."
"Oz—"
"I'm not finished." Ozzie pressed his lips to the top of Fizz's head, right between the broken stumps of his horns. "She called you pretty because you are. Broken horns and scars and metal limbs and all of it. And if she ever does see what's under the paint—and she might, eventually—I genuinely believe she's going to think the exact same thing."
Fizz was quiet for a long time after that, pressed against Ozzie's chest, his breathing slowly evening out.
"Shut up," he mumbled.
"Never." Ozzie pressed another kiss to his head. "Not about this. Not ever."
They stayed like that for a while, wrapped around each other, the quiet settling into something comfortable and warm. Fizz's breathing was starting to even out.
"She's gonna be okay, right?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "She's gonna stay okay?"
"We're going to make sure of it," Ozzie promised.
A beat of silence, and then Fizz's head tilted up again, that familiar mischievous spark returning to his eyes. "So... can we keep her though? Officially? Like, is that a yes?"
"Fizz, she is not a—"
"A yes then," Fizz declared happily, nuzzling back into Ozzie's chest. "Great. Awesome. Love you, big daddy."
Ozzie sighed the sigh of someone who had absolutely zero regrets. "Love you too, Froggie."