#poly helluva boss

Your phone rang, interrupting your inventory, and you smiled when you saw Fizz's name on the screen.

"Hey," you answered, climbing down from the step stool. "You guys done already?"

"Almost!" Fizz's voice came through with that manic energy that meant he was still riding the high from performing. "Ozzie's wrapping up some paperwork, but I'm freeee! Which means I get to make important executive decisions!"

"Executive decisions about what?" you asked, already smiling at his enthusiasm.

"Dinner! Well, late dinner. Very late dinner. Post-show snacks? Whatever, semantics!" You could hear him moving, probably bouncing around backstage. "I have been authorized by Big Daddy himself to acquire sustenance using his magical plastic rectangle of infinite money!"

"You stole his credit card again, didn't you?"

"Borrowed! I borrowed it! With implied permission! He said, and I quote, 'Get whatever you want, just make sure she eats something,' so really, I'm following orders!" There was a pause. "Okay he actually said 'grab food on the way home' but I'm choosing to interpret that as carte blanche to order everything!"

"Fizzy—"

"So! What does my beautiful, wonderful, amazing cutie want for dinner? And before you say 'I don't mind,' I will remind you that's not an acceptable answer! Pick something! Anything! The Seven Rings are your oyster! Well, not literally, unless you want oysters? Do you want oysters?"

You laughed, settling onto one of the kitchen stools. "I don't know what I want. What are the options?"

"Everything! Anything! I'm looking at Hellber-Eats right now and there are approximately one million restaurants! We could get that barbecue place from Wrath! Or the noodle place from Gluttony! Oh, or there's this new place that does those little dumpling things you liked!"

"Those were good," you admitted.

"See? Progress! We're narrowing it down! Dumplings are on the maybe list!" You could hear tapping, probably Fizz scrolling through options. "Ooh, or sushi! There's a place that is supposed to be amazing! The reviews say it's 'to die for' which, given that we're in hell, is a significant endorsement!"

"Sushi does sound good," you said, and you could practically hear Fizz's grin through the phone.

"Sushi it is! I'm ordering everything! All of it! Every single roll!"

"Fizz, that's too much—"

"Nonsense! There's no such thing as too much! We'll have leftovers! Leftovers are a gift to future us! Future us will be so grateful to past us for this abundance!" More tapping sounds. "Okay, I'm getting the rainbow roll, the dragon roll, the volcano roll—is that a weird name for sushi? That seems weird—the California roll even though we're not in California, some sashimi because I'm fancy, those little fried things—"

"Tempura?"

"Yes! Those! Tempura everything! Shrimp, vegetables, probably some things I can't identify! Oh, and edamame because that's healthy and Ozzie will appreciate that I'm making responsible choices!"

"Ordering thirty sushi rolls is not a responsible choice."

"It's a delicious choice! There's a difference!" Fizz paused. "Okay, I'm also getting that miso soup you like and some of those little rice ball things. Onigiri! That's the word! I'm culturally educated!"

"You're something," you said fondly.

"I'm delightful!" Fizz corrected. "Okay, order placed! It'll be delivered to the palace in like thirty minutes! I'm gonna finish up here and head home. Ozzie's probably gonna take another twenty minutes because he's fussy about his paperwork—"

"I can hear you!" Ozzie's voice came faintly through the phone.

"I said you were thorough and detail-oriented!" Fizz called back. Then, to you "See you soon, cutie! Don't start trouble without me!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," you said, smiling.

"See you soon! Bye!" He hung up before you could respond.

You were just finishing up your grocery list when you heard the front door open. Your heart did that little flutter it always did when either of them came home, and you hopped off the stool to go greet whoever it was.

Ozzie was in the entryway, already in the process of removing his accessories—the extra decorative elements he wore for public appearances. He looked tired but content.

"Hey Big Guy." you said softly, and his entire face lit up when he saw.

"Little one," he rumbled warmly. "There you are."

He crossed the space between you in just a few strides, and you found yourself looking way, way up at him. Sometimes you forgot just how massive he was until moments like this, when his presence filled the entire room.

His hand came up, and one enormous finger very gently brushed your hair back from your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so careful, and then his finger moved to stroke your cheek. His touch was warm, gentle, mindful of the size difference.

"How was your day?" he asked, his voice soft in that way it only got in private, when the persona fell away.

"Good," you said, leaning into his touch. "Quiet. I've been making a grocery list. And cleaning a bit."

Ozzie's expression shifted immediately, his face flickering with what looked like concern mixed with exasperation. "Cleaning? Little one, we have staff for that. Multiple staff members whose literal job is cleaning."

"I know," you said. "But I don't mind. It's not like I deep cleaned or anything. Just... tidied up a bit. Organized some things."

"You don't need to do that," Ozzie said, and there was something almost distressed in his tone. "You're not here to work. You're here because—" He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "Because we want you here. Because you're important to us. Not because we need a housekeeper."

"I know that," you assured him quickly. "I wasn't cleaning because I thought I had to. I was cleaning because I wanted to. Because it helps me feel useful. And because..." You hesitated. "It saves you money? On cleaning staff?"

Ozzie stared at you for a long moment, and then he started laughing. Not a mean laugh, but genuine, warm amusement that made his eyes dance.

"Little one," he said once he'd recovered. "Money is not a problem. At all. Even remotely. I am the Sin of Lust. I run the most successful club in the Lust Ring. I manufacture products that are sold across all Seven Rings. Money is quite possibly the least of my concerns."

"Oh," you said, feeling your face heat. "Right. I knew that. Intellectually. But I still don't want to be... wasteful? Or take advantage?"

Ozzie's expression softened, and he very carefully cupped your face in his hand—or rather, you fit in his palm like he was holding something precious. "You could never take advantage. If anything, Fizz and I are trying very hard not to overwhelm you with how much we want to spoil you."

"Spoil me? You know I dont need that." you repeated.

"Mmhmm," Ozzie confirmed. "Fizz already has a list of things he wants to buy you. I've had to talk him down from some of the more extravagant options at least three times this week."

"What kind of extravagant options?"

"He wanted to commission a custom wardrobe from one of the Lust Ring's top designers," Ozzie said dryly. "The entire consultation alone was going to cost more than most demons make in a year."

"Ozzie, thats far far too much!" you said, scandalized.

"I know. I told him we should start smaller. Maybe just a few nice pieces instead of an entire wardrobe." Ozzie's grin was slightly sheepish. "He's currently compromising by secretly ordering things online and having them delivered when he thinks I'm not paying attention."

"You know he does that?"

"I get notifications every time my credit card is used," Ozzie said. "I'm choosing to allow it because watching him try to be sneaky is adorable, and because he has excellent taste. Everything he's ordered for you has been beautiful, besides its a joint account."

You didn't know what to say to that. The idea that they wanted to spoil you, that they were actively trying to buy you things and make you happy, was overwhelming in the best way.

"You don't have to buy me things," you said quietly. "I'm happy just being here. With both of you."

"We know," Ozzie said gently. "But we want to. Because taking care of the people we—" He paused. "—the people we care about makes us happy. So let us spoil you a little bit. Please?"

The way he said it, like it was important to him, like he needed you to accept it—you couldn't say no.

"Okay," you said. "A little bit. But nothing too extravagant."

"Fizz is going to be so disappointed," Ozzie said, but he was smiling. "He already has a jewelry consultation scheduled for next week."

"Ozzie!"

"I'm kidding!" Ozzie said, though his expression suggested he might not be entirely kidding. "Mostly kidding. Sixty percent kidding."

Before you could respond, you heard the front door open again, followed by Fizz's voice calling out "Food has arrived! I come bearing gifts of fish and rice! Prepare to be amazed by my ability to spend obscene amounts of money on raw fish!"

The dining room table was quickly covered in an truly absurd amount of sushi. Fizz hadn't been exaggerating when he said he'd ordered everything—there were at least fifteen different rolls, several orders of sashimi, tempura that was still steaming, miso soup, edamame, onigiri, and several items you couldn't immediately identify.

"Froggie," Ozzie said, looking at the spread with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "This is enough food for twenty people."

"Or three very hungry people!" Fizz countered, already settling at the table with his usual chaotic energy. "Plus leftovers! I told cutie, future us will thank present us!"

"Future us is going to be eating sushi for a week," Ozzie said, but he was already sitting down, carefully arranging himself at the table.

You settled between them, looking at the variety of options. "I don't even know where to start."

"Start here!" Fizz said, immediately putting several pieces on your plate. "This is the rainbow roll—it's got like seven different fish on it, very aesthetic, very delicious. And this one is the dragon roll, which has eel and is topped with avocado and looks cool. And this one—"

"Fizz, let her choose," Ozzie said gently.

"I'm helping her choose!" Fizz protested. "There are too many options! This is a guidance service I'm providing! Very valuable!"

Despite his protests, he did stop adding to your plate, instead turning his attention to his own food. You watched with amusement as he tried to use chopsticks with his mechanical hands—the precision was there, but he kept adjusting his grip like he wasn't quite sure how much pressure to use.

"These are harder than they look," Fizz muttered, successfully picking up a piece of sushi only to have it fall apart halfway to his mouth. "Who invented these? Chopsticks are a conspiracy to make eating difficult!"

"You juggle flaming pins for a living," Ozzie pointed out.

"That's different! Flaming pins are designed to be thrown! Chopsticks are designed by sadists!"

You giggled, successfully managing your own chopsticks to eat a piece of the rainbow roll. It was delicious—fresh and flavorful and nothing like any sushi you'd had on Earth.

"Good?" Fizz asked, watching you with bright, attentive eyes.

"Really good," you confirmed. "You did good with the order."

"See?" Fizz said to Ozzie. "I made excellent choices! I'm a decision-making genius!"

"You ordered enough food to feed a small army," Ozzie said dryly.

"A well-fed small army!" Fizz corrected.

The meal continued with easy conversation, the three of you sharing food and stories from your day. Fizz recounted a moment during his performance where he'd nearly dropped a juggling pin and had to improvise an entire bit around it. Ozzie talked about some new product designs his factory was developing. You told them about your grocery list project, which led to a fifteen-minute discussion about snack preferences.

You were reaching for another piece of sushi when you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. One of the Quevies—the troublemaker one, you'd learned to recognize them all by now—had crept up to the table and was staring at Fizz with big, pleading eyes.

Fizz, without even pausing his conversation with Ozzie, picked up a piece of sashimi and dropped it down to the Quevy, who caught it with a happy little chirp.

"Babe" Ozzie said warningly.

"What?" Fizz asked innocently, even as another Quevy approached and he handed over another piece.

"You're feeding them table scraps again."

"It's fish! Fish is healthy! I'm promoting good nutrition for the babies!"

"They have their own food," Ozzie pointed out.

"But this fish is fancy!" Fizz argued. "I paid good money for this fish! The babies deserve fancy fish too!"

More Quevies were appearing now, drawn by the promise of treats. Soon there were five of them clustered around Fizz's chair, all looking up with varying degrees of desperation.

"You're creating a pack of monsters," Ozzie said, but there was no real heat in it. "They're going to expect fancy sushi every night now."

"Good! They should have high standards! I'm teaching them self-worth!" Fizz dropped several more pieces to the increasingly excited Quevies.

Even Precious had wheeled over in her little wheelchair, positioning herself hopefully near the table. Fizz immediately gave her two pieces, which she accepted with regal dignity.

"You're spoiling them," you said, amused.

"I spoil everyone I care about!" Fizz declared. "It's my love language! Excessive gift-giving and feeding behavior!"

"Your love language is chaos," Ozzie corrected.

"Chaotic gift-giving!" Fizz amended. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to distribute fish to my adoring fans."

By the time the meal was finished, the Quevies had eaten almost as much as you had, and Fizz looked enormously pleased with himself despite Ozzie's long-suffering sighs.

Later, after the sushi had been packed away, there were indeed enough leftovers for several days, after the Quevies had been corralled back to their sleeping area, after you'd all gotten ready for bed—you found yourself in the massive round bed.

It had become routine now, this nighttime ritual. You'd change into sleep clothes, brush your teeth, go through all the normal bedtime motions. And then you'd all settle into bed together—usually with you somewhere in the middle, Ozzie taking up a significant portion of the space, and Fizz sprawling wherever he could find room.

You were already under the covers, settled in the pillows, when Fizz's head emerged from under the mass of blankets with his usual energetic chaos.

"Okay, so I've been thinking—dangerous, I know, what if we got a Quevy-sized obstacle course? Like, tiny hoops and tunnels and—" He stopped mid-sentence when his eyes landed on you. "—and I just forgot what I was talking about because you look really cute right now."

Your face immediately heated. "I'm just... in bed. Like normal."

"Yeah, but you're in our bed," Fizz said, and there was something in his tone that made your stomach flip. "In that shirt that's definitely mine, by the way. I noticed. I notice everything. Very observant, that's me."

He settled next to you, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. One of his mechanical hands reached out to touch your arm, the movement casual but deliberate.

Ozzie was already in bed on your other side, propped up against the headboard, his expression a soft, intimate glow. He wasn't saying anything, just watching with those knowing eyes, and somehow that made you feel bashful.

"So!" Fizz continued, his voice taking on that rapid-fire quality that could have been excitement or nerves or both. "This is cozy! Very cozy! You comfortable, cutie?"

"I'm comfortable," you managed, though your voice came out quieter than intended.

"Good! Great! Fantastic!" Fizz's hand moved from your arm to your waist, and you felt your breath hitch at the touch. "I'm comfortable too. Very comfortable. So comfortable I might just—" He shifted closer, his face now inches from yours. "—stay right here."

You could see the way his eyes kept darting down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. The nervous energy was still there, but there was something else now too. Something heated and wanting that made you swallow thickly.

"You're staring," you whispered.

"You're really pretty," Fizz said immediately. "I'm allowed to stare. It's in the handbook. Staring at your gorgeous girl is not only allowed but encouraged.'"

"I don't think that's a real handbook," you said, but you were smiling despite yourself.

You turned your head slightly and Fizz met you halfway. The kiss started soft—tentative on your part—but he responded with that familiar chaotic enthusiasm tempered by care. Fizz's raspy voice humming approval against your lips as his tongue brushed yours playfully, tasting faintly of sour candy and smoke.

The kiss lingered, growing slower and more intent, mouths moving together in a warm, unhurried rhythm that made everything else fade.

While the kiss stretched on, your fingers brushed against his. Slowly, almost shyly at first, you traced the lines of his mechanical fingers—feeling the smooth metal joints. Fizz made a soft, surprised sound into the kiss, then mirrored you.

His fingertips danced lightly over yours, tracing each knuckle and the delicate skin between them with surprising gentleness, as if committing every detail to memory. The slow exploration sent little sparks through you both.

Gradually, your fingers slid together and intertwined, squeezing gently.

Fizz’s grip tightened just enough to feel secure, his thumb brushing back and forth over the back of your hand in a soothing rhythm that matched the slow slide of his tongue against yours.

When you finally pulled back for air, cheeks burning, Fizz grinned wide, pink eyes sparkling even as a tiny nervous twitch flicked through his tail.

“I've been thinking about this for so long Cutie.” he said, One of his hands came up to cup your face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the mechanical nature of his prosthetics, while the other hand on your waist, pressed in slightly like he needed to confirm you were real.

He kissed you again, this time deeper, exploratory, and you found yourself pressing closer to him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Fizz made a small sound against your mouth, something between a moan and a whimper, and his hand on your waist slid slightly lower, fingers spreading across your hip. Even through the fabric of your shirt and sleep shorts, his touch felt electric.

When you broke apart this time, you were both flushed and breathing hard. Fizz's eyes were dark, his usual manic energy channeled into something more focused, more intense.

"You're so—" He stopped, seeming to struggle for words. "I want—can I—" His hand on your hip tightened slightly. "There's so much I want to do right now. So many things I've been thinking about. You have no idea how many things."

Your hand came up to touch his face, and he immediately leaned into the contact, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

"I'm a little nervous," you admitted quietly.

Fizz's eyes opened, something vulnerable flickering across his face before his expression shifted to concern. "Hey, we don't have to—look just because i said—if you're not ready cutie, we can just—"

"I didn't say I didn't want to," you interrupted, your face heating. "I just... You're both so... experienced, and I don't want to mess up or—"

"Cutie," Fizz said, and his voice had gone soft in a way it rarely did. "You couldn't mess this up if you tried. Trust me. Just being here with you is—" He seemed to struggle with the words again. "Everything."

Ozzie's hand came to rest on your back, warm and grounding. "He's right, little one. There's no wrong way to do any of this."

Encouraged by their words, you let yourself relax slightly. Fizz took that as permission to continue, his hand sliding under your shirt to trace patterns on your side.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his fingers dancing along your ribs.

"Yes," you breathed, and Fizz's grin returned, sharper now.

"Good. Because I've got a lot of ground to cover." His hand slid higher, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast. "And I'm very thorough. Very detail-oriented when I want to be. Which I definitely want to be right now."

He leaned in to kiss you again, this time trailing his lips from your mouth to your jaw, then down to your neck. The sensation made you gasp, your hands tightening in his shirt, and you felt him smile against your skin.

"You make the best sounds," Fizz murmured against your neck. "Been wondering what you'd sound like. Thought about it a lot. Like, a concerning amount. Ozzie can confirm."

"I can," Ozzie said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement mixed with heat. "He's been quite distracted lately."

"Can you blame me?" Fizz asked, pulling back to look at you, his expression intense. "Look at her, Oz. She's—" His hand slid back down to your waist, then tentatively to your thigh, his touch feather-light, his eyes searching your face.

"Too much?" he asked softly.

Your face was burning, but you shook your head, and Fizz's hand settled more firmly on your thigh, his mechanical fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"You're so soft," he said, something like awe in his voice. "Everything about you is so soft and—" His hand squeezed gently, and you felt his breath hitch. "Fuck, you're really ...you're really letting me touch you."

"Where else do you want to touch?" you asked, your face flushing at the boldness of the words.

Fizz's eyes went wide, then darkened. "Everywhere," he said honestly. "I want to touch everywhere. Want to learn every part of you. Want to know what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you—"

His hand started sliding higher on your thigh, and you felt yourself tense—not from fear, but from anticipation mixed with nervousness.

"Fizz—" You struggled for words. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do... Well ok no I kinda do... I just ... My hands are just... here." You gestured awkwardly with your hands that were still gripping his shirt

"You can touch me," Fizz said, his voice going rough as he unbuttoned the little heart buttons on his pajama top. "Please ... I'm like dying here, cutie. Touch me anywhere. Everywhere. I'm not picky."

Tentatively, you let your hands settle on his chest. His skin was warm under your palms, you could feel his heartbeat, rapid and strong, matching your own frantic rhythm.

"Is this okay?" you asked, your fingers tracing the lines where red and white intersected, where scars met skin.

"Better than okay," Fizz said, his voice strained. "That's—yeah. Keep doing that."

Encouraged, you let your hands explore more freely, mapping the planes of his chest, the dip of his waist, feeling the way he shivered under your touch. When your fingers brushed over one of his shoulders, where flesh met metal, Fizz made a sound that was definitely a moan.

"Too sensitive?" you asked, jerking you hand back between you.

When you glanced sideways you caught Ozzie watching the two of you with that heated, indulgent gaze, your nerves spiked. You buried your head against Fizz’s shoulder, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck, a small embarrassed whimper escaping you.

Fizz let out a soft, surprised laugh that vibrated against your cheek, though you could feel the faint tremble in his frame too. “Hey … where’d you go, cutie?” he teased gently, voice cracking even as he tried to sound confident. “Don’t hide that pretty face. Oz is just enjoying the show — aren’t you, big daddy?”

Ozzie chuckled low and warm, the sound rich and reassuring as his large hand stroked slowly down Fizz’s back. “I am,” he rumbled, voice like velvet. “You two look beautiful together. So shy and sweet… Look at her hiding, Fizzy — she’s so adorable when she gets flustered.”

When you pulled back Fizz’s eyes searched yours for a long moment, that intense, wanting look still flickering with a hint of his usual chaotic energy. “Can I…?” he asked again, voice dropping lower, almost reverent.

His thumb brushed slow circles over your hip, waiting, always waiting for your answer even when his tail was lashing with barely-contained excitement behind him.

You nodded, breath shallow. “Yes.”

The grin that broke across his face was bright and a little shaky. “Fuck yeah— I mean, good! Great choice, cutie. Best choice.”

He shifted so he was leaning over you more fully, careful not to crowd you too fast. One mechanical hand stayed at your waist while his fingers hooked gently under the waistband of your sleep shorts. He paused there, eyes flicking up to meet yours again.

“Gonna take this off now, okay?” he murmured, voice raspy and soft. “Nice and slow. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You whispered your agreement, and Fizz let out a small, delighted sound. he peeled them down your legs slowly, kissing every bit of skin he uncovered—your hip, the top of your thigh, the inside of your knee. Once they were gone, he settled between your parted legs, his mechanical hands sliding up your thighs with feather-light pressure, his gaze locked on you like you were the most mesmerizing thing he’d ever seen.

“Shit… look at you,” he breathed, voice cracking just a little. “So pretty. So fucking pretty it hurts.”

His hands returned, both of them now, tracing the newly bared skin with surprising patience. He watched every reaction, cataloguing it—your little gasps, the way your back arched, the way your thighs pressed together.

Ozzie remained quiet on your other side, but you could feel the weight of his warm gaze. One of his large fingers rested lightly on your arm, a steady, grounding presence, offering silent approval as he watched Fizz explore you with such care.

Fizz’s tail curled around your ankle, the spade tip stroking gently up and down your calf as he moved. eyes flicking up to yours once more.

One of his hands moved with aching slowness, fingertips brushing along your inner thigh before finally reaching their destination. He traced gently, reverently—first with just the pads of two fingers, gliding through warmth, learning the shape of you, watching your face the whole time, attuned to every hitch in your breath and every small twitch of your hips.

"Amazing... your amazing Cutie” he murmured, voice low and raspy. His touch stayed careful, exploratory, never rushing. His thumb joined in, pressing soft, lazy circles. Every movement was deliberate, almost tender, as if he was memorizing you by touch alone.

You could feel Ozzie shift slightly beside you, his hand sliding to your thigh, thumb brushing just beside where Fizz was touching you, adding another layer of warmth and sensation without taking over.

Fizz leaned in again, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. This one was slower than before—gentle and unhurried, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His mechanical fingers never stopped, circling in slow, lazy loops that sent warm sparks through your body.

Ozzie’s finger gently carded through your hair, brushing the strands back from your face with surprising delicacy. The gesture was soothing, grounding—his touch full of quiet affection as he watched the two of you with those warm glowing eyes.

Fizz didn’t look away from your face, his pink gaze stayed fixed on you. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice thick with concern.

You laced your fingers through his and lifted your joined hands into his field of vision. “So are you Fizzy—see?” Your fingers gliding down to his wrist and rubbing soothing circles.

Fizz gave a small, nervous laugh that came out more like a whimper. “I just… I want this to feel perfect for you. Every single touch. If I do anything that doesn’t feel right, you gotta tell me right away, okay? I’ll stop. I swear.”

He leaned in and pressed another soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheek, all while his fingers continued their tender exploration—never rushing, never pressing too hard, just learning you with that same loving focus. Ozzie’s finger moved back to gentle stroke your hair, offering silent reassurance as Fizz watched your every reaction like it was the most important thing in the world.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he shifted his hips forward, lining himself up against you. The blunt head of him pressed ever so slightly against you, a gentle nudge that made you gasp at the intimate contact.

He froze instantly.

Every muscle in his body locked up, tail going rigid behind him. “Shit—sorry, sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking with worry. His pink eyes were wide, searching your face frantically. “Was that too much? I can stop, we can—”

“Froggie,” Ozzie’s deep, velvety voice rumbled from your side, calm and reassuring. His hand slid from your hair down to rest gently on Fizz’s lower back, offering steady guidance. “She gasped for the same reasons I do. Breathe Fizzy Frog. You’re doing beautifully.”

Fizz swallowed hard, nodding quickly, the nervous twitch in his tail easing just a fraction under Ozzie’s touch and words. “Okay… okay, yeah. Got it.” He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, then another to the tip of your nose, murmuring praise into your skin.

With Ozzie’s quiet encouragement guiding him, Fizz pressed forward again—agonizingly slow, inch by careful inch. His mechanical hand moved to your hip, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other braced beside your head. Every tiny movement was accompanied by more soft kisses, to your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Your—nghh—fucking incredible,” he whispered between kisses, voice hoarse with emotion. “So warm… so… fuck.”

Ozzie continued murmuring low praise from beside you, his deep tone wrapping around both of you like a warm blanket. “That's it babe. Nice and easy. Listen to her breathing… Keep going just like that.”

When Fizz was finally fully seated inside you, buried to the hilt in that tight, fluttering heat, he let out a shaky, broken moan against your mouth. Both of you were trembling, bodies pressed close, hearts racing in sync.

You shyly nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hiding your flushed face again, breathing in his familiar scent of smoke and sour candy mixed with the clean warmth of his skin. Your arms came up to wrap around his neck, holding him close as you pressed soft, almost timid kisses along the side of his throat.

Fizz made a soft, overwhelmed sound and buried his face in your hair, one mechanical arm sliding under your back to pull you even closer while the other hand gently cupped the back of your head. “Oh, cutie… you’re so ... so much better then i imagined.” he whispered, voice thick and adoring. “I love this… just ... OH SATAN ... just this.”

Ozzie leaned in to press a slow, tender kiss to your temple. “That’s it, Little one,” he murmured warmly. “There’s nothing sweeter than this, you look like a masterpiece.”

Fizz stayed perfectly still for a long moment, savoring the closeness, peppering your neck and shoulder with the gentlest kisses while his tail stroked lovingly along your thigh. The trembling slowly eased into a shared, contented warmth as you remained nuzzled against him, safe and cherished between your two men.

Your thumbs stroked Fizz’s cheeks in wide, gentle arches, tracing the smooth lines of his face as your breath came out in soft little pants and quiet groans. “You’re beautiful,” you managed between shaky breaths, voice breathy and full of feeling. “So beautiful Fizzy.”

Fizz’s pink eyes fluttered at your words, a soft, overwhelmed sound escaping him as he leaned into your touch. “Me? Beautiful?” he rasped, voice cracking with a mix of disbelief and delight. “Cutie, stoppppp, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Ozzie’s deep, velvety voice rolled beside you like warm honey. “Look at you two… so sweet together. Such artistry” With infinite care he used one of his fingers to gently hook your leg, the one closest to him outward, easing it a little closer toward his body. Your leg spreading just that bit further beneath Fizz, opening you up further while keeping everything slow and intimate.

“There we go… nice and easy. You ok babe ?”

"Yea.. M'ok" You nodded, eyes half-lidded.

Fizz carefully cupped your cheek with one mechanical hand and gently guided your head back and down to the pillows below. His glowing pink eyes searched yours with adoring intensity before he nuzzled his face softly against your nose—an affectionate little rub, warm and playful.

“Our gorgeous little cutie,” he whispered, voice raspy and thick with emotion. “Wanna see your face, gotta make sure I’m doing this jussstttt right.”

He started moving then—very shallow, careful rolls of his hips. Barely pulling out before pressing back in, keeping himself nestled deep inside you with gentle, thrusts that rocked you both together.

Ozzie leaned in closer from your other side, his massive frame radiating warmth. His deep, velvety voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper meant only for Fizz—something soft and encouraging that you can't make out.

Whatever it was, Fizz’s expression lit up instantly, the nervous tension melting from his shoulders as a grateful little smile tugged at his lips. He nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.

“Got it, Oz,” Fizz murmured back, voice thick with affection.

One of his mechanical hands slid between your bodies. His fingertips found your sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing slow, gentle circles. The added stimulation sent a fresh wave of heat building low in your belly—warm, coiling pleasure that made you flutter around him.

Fizz groaned softly, forehead resting against yours as he kept up those tender thrusts and the steady rub of his fingers. “That feel good, cutie?" His voice was raspy and adoring, full of that rapid-fire warmth even when he was trying to stay gentle.

"So good—ahh—So fucking good" you groaned, arching into Fizz as the heat in your belly tightening deliciously with every rock of his hips and every careful circle of his fingers.

Ozzie’s finger stayed on your thigh, holding you gently while he pressing slow kisses to your shoulder, cheek, forehead and Fizz's mouth, murmuring low words of praise that wrapped around both of you.

“Beautiful indeed,” Ozzie rumbled softly, his tone full of sensual approval. “Froggie is taking such good care of you…You’re a marvel little one.”

Fizz nuzzled his nose against yours, breath mingling in warm little puffs as his fingers kept up their gentle rhythm and his hips continued rolling into you in waves. “Hear that? Oz thinks we’re beautiful too,” he whispered, voice trembling with pleasure. “But you — you’re the most beautiful thing in any ring. Our cutie…We’ve got you babe.”

The pleasure continued to build low in your belly, sweet and steady, fueled by Fizz’s careful touches, his soft praises, and the reassuring presence of Ozzie beside you.

Ozzie’s massive finger gently brushed along your cheek, warm and grounding. “That’s it, little one,” he murmured, voice deep and velvety with affection. “You’re doing so well.”

You leaned into his touch with a soft sigh, eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. Little sounds spilled from your mouth without control—as your hips rocked up to meet Fizz’s thrusts.

“Ah— nghhh… Fizzy…”

Fizz’s pink eyes were locked on your face, drinking in every flutter of your lashes and every little sound you made. “Fuck, cutie— those sounds… you’re making the prettiest noises for me,” he panted, voice raspy and full of wonder. “Keep going, please. I’ve got you. I’ve got you right here.”

Your hands slid to his mechanical ones. You laced your fingers with his, holding on tight as the pleasure crested higher. The slow drag of Fizz inside you, the steady rub of his fingers, Ozzie’s warm praise and gentle touch on your cheek—everything was building together to a perfect crescendo.

Until your vision suddenly went white a powerful wave of pleasure crashed through you, your body clenching tight around Fizz as those sounds peaked into a broken, breathless moan. Your back arched, fingers squeezing his hands hard while the orgasm rolled through you in long, shuddering waves.

Fizz followed right after you with a choked, ecstatic whimper. His hips stuttered in a few final thrusts as he spilled deep inside you, warm and pulsing. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, trembling hard against you, mechanical arms wrapping tight around your body as he rode out his own release.

For a long moment the three of you stayed locked together, breathing hard in the warm, quiet afterglow.

Ozzie’s deep voice rumbled with pride and affection. “There we go… you did so good froggie,” he cooed softly to Fizz, his large hand stroking gently down Fizz’s back. “So attentive, so careful with our little one. You made her feel so loved and safe. You did everything just right.”

Fizz let out a shaky, happy laugh against your neck, still buried inside you. “Yeah? Cutie you sounded so pretty when you—wait…” He pulled back slightly, blinking down at your face when he realized you weren’t responding. Your eyes were closed, body limp and relaxed in his arms.

“Cutie?” Fizz’s voice turned worried. He gently squeezed your hand, then brushed his mechanical fingers over your cheek. “Hey… you okay? Come on, open those eyes for us?”

When you didn’t stir, Fizz’s tail flicked anxiously.

“Oz? She’s not waking up. OZZIE, SHIT— shit, did I go too far? She was making all those cute sounds and then she just…”

Ozzie’s expression flickered with worry, his glowing eyes narrowing for half a second as he leaned in closer. One large hand came up to rest lightly on your forehead, checking your temperature and breathing.

“Easy, froggie,” he said, voice still mostly calm but with a protective edge. “She’s breathing fine. Just—give her a second. You were so gentle with her… she’s...she'll be ok."

Fizz nodded quickly, still looking anxious as he pressed soft kisses to your temple and cheeks. “Okay… okay, yeah. Come on, cutie. Wake up for me? I need to see those eyes. Please I I—don’t scare me like this…”

"Little one," Ozzie said, his voice closer now, his large finger brushing hair back from your forehead. "Can you hear us?"

You tried to respond, tried to open your eyes, but your body felt like it was made of lead, refusing to let you respond.

"She's not responding," Fizz said, the worry ramping up in his voice. "Oz, what if I—what if we did too much? What if I hurt her somehow? What if—"

"Fizz, breathe," Ozzie interrupted firmly. "Look at her face. Does she look distressed?"

There was a pause. "No," Fizz admitted. "She looks... peaceful. Happy, even."

"Exactly," Ozzie said. "Humans need more rest than demons do, especially after intense experiences. She's fine. Just give her a moment."

You felt Fizz's hand on your face again, gentle and worried. "Cutie? Can you wake up for us? Just for a second? Just so I know you're okay?"

With monumental effort, you managed to crack your eyes open slightly. The world was blurry, and you felt boneless, completely wrung out. "Mmph," you managed eloquently.

"Oh thank fuck," Fizz breathed, and you felt him press a kiss to your forehead. "You scared me, cutie. You were so out of it."

"Tired," you mumbled, your words slurring together. "So tired. Happy though. Very happy."

"That's good," Ozzie said warmly, his finger still stroking your hair. "That's very good, little one. But we should get you cleaned up before you fall asleep properly. Think you can stay awake for a bath?"

"Bath?" you repeated, trying to process the word through the fog in your brain.

"Yeah, bath," Fizz said, and you could hear the smile in his voice now that his panic was fading. "Get you all clean and comfortable. Then you can sleep as much as you want."

"'Kay," you agreed, though you made no move to actually get up.

Fizz laughed softly. "I don't think she's capable of walking right now, Oz."

"I can carry her," Ozzie said, and you felt yourself being carefully lifted, cradled against his warm chest. "Come on, little one. Bath time."

The bathroom was as excessive as everything else in the palace—enormous, with a tub that could easily fit Ozzie's massive frame. The tub was large and heart-shaped you found it both ridiculous and charming.

Fizz was already moving ahead, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature. "Not too hot," he muttered to himself. "Our cutie can't handle the same temperatures we can. Warm but not scalding. OoOOoooh maybe some of these bath oils? And these little bath thingy's they smell like butterscotch!"

You watched him through half-closed eyes, touched by how attentive he was being, Ozzie set you down carefully on the edge of the tub, keeping one hand on you to make sure you didn't topple over. "Think you can manage from here, Froggie, or do you need help?"

"Help," you slurred, too tired to be embarrassed. "Please."

"I've got her," Fizz said, moving to your side. "You go get snacks or something, Oz. We're gonna be a minute."

Ozzie hesitated, clearly torn between wanting to help and wanting to feed you both "Alright," Ozzie said finally. "I'll be right back. Fizz, if you need anything—"

"I'll yell," Fizz promised. "Now go. We're fine."

Once Ozzie left, Fizz turned his full attention to you. "Into the tub, cutie," he said softly, helping you step into the warm water. "There we go. Careful."

The water was perfect—warm enough to soothe your tired muscles but not so hot it was uncomfortable. You sank into it with a grateful sigh, feeling the tension drain from your body.

Fizz climbed in after you, settling so you were facing each other. The scars that covered his body were still visible in the soft light, along with the seems where his mechanical limbs connected.

"Gonna get you cleaned up," Fizz said, reaching for a soft washcloth and soap. "Just relax, okay? Let me take care of you."

He started with your shoulders, the cloth moving in gentle circles, washing away the sweat and evidence of your affections.

"You were so beautiful tonight," Fizz said quietly as he worked. "So responsive and trusting and perfect. I can't believe I get to have this. Get to have you."

You felt more alert now, the warm water and Fizz's gentle ministrations bringing you back to fuller consciousness. And with that awareness came a desire—to care for him the way he was caring for you.

"Fizzy?" you said softly.

"Yeah, cutie?"

"Can I... can I help? With you?" Your face felt hot despite the bath water. "I want to take care of you too."

Fizz's hands stilled for a moment, and when you looked at his face, his expression was soft and a little surprised. "You want to?"

"Yes," you said. "Please?"

"Okay," Fizz said, his voice rough with emotion. "Yeah, okay."

You reached for the washcloth, adding more soap with slightly shaking hands. Fizz watched you, his eyes following your every movement.

Starting with his shoulders—careful around the parts where metal met flesh—you began to wash him with the same gentle care he'd shown you. His skin was warm under your touch, scarred but alive, and you felt him shiver slightly as you worked.

"Is this okay?" you asked.

"More than okay," Fizz breathed. "Nobody's ever... I mean, Ozzie helps sometimes, but you're..." He trailed off, seeming unable to find the words.

You moved the cloth lower, washing his chest, being extra careful around the more damaged areas. Fizz watched you the whole time, his expression open and vulnerable in a way you'd rarely seen.

"You don't have to be that careful around the scars," Fizz said quietly. "They don't hurt. I can't feel that much there, actually."

"I know," you said. "But I want to be gentle anyway. Because you deserve gentleness."

Fizz made a small, choked sound, and when you looked up, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"You're determined to make me cry tonight," he said, his voice wavering. "That's not fair, cutie."

"Sorry," you said, continuing your gentle ministrations.

"Don't be," Fizz said. "I just—I'm not used to being taken care of like this, by anyone other then Ozzie. Being treated like I'm worth being careful with."

"You are," you said firmly. "You're worth all the care in the world, Fizzy."

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead and you stayed like that for a long moment, the water warm around you both, sharing breath and space and something that felt too big to name.

Eventually, you finished washing him, and he finished washing you, and you both just sat there in the water, facing each other, hands loosely clasped between you.

"Thank you," Fizz said softly. "For tonight. For trusting me. For letting me be close to you."

"Thank you for being gentle," you replied. "For being patient with me. For letting Ozzie help guide you."

"Couldn't have done it without him," Fizz admitted. "Or you."

Before you could respond, the bathroom door opened and Ozzie returned, carrying a tray laden with snacks and drinks. His eyes took in the scene—you and Fizz in the bath, facing each other, clearly having shared something tender—and his expression went impossibly soft.

"Well," Ozzie said, his voice warm with approval. "Don't you two look like a picture."

"We're pruning," Fizz said, but he was smiling.

"Beautifully pruning," Ozzie corrected, setting the tray down on the counter. "That was quite the show earlier. Both of you were magnificent."

You felt your face heat up, and Fizz laughed.

"She's blushing," Fizz observed. "Even after everything we just did, she's blushing."

"It's endearing," Ozzie said, moving closer to the tub. "And I mean what I said. You were both wonderful. Fizz, you were attentive and communicative. And little one, you were responsive and trusting and absolutely radiant."

"Stop," you protested weakly, covering your face with your hands.

"Never," Ozzie said, clearly amused. "You're going to have to get used to being praised, little one. Because both Froggie and I plan to do it frequently."

"So frequently," Fizz agreed, grinning. "Like, all the time. It's going to be annoying how much we tell you how amazing you are."

"I think I'll find a way to live with that," you admitted, lowering your hands.

"Good," Ozzie said, satisfaction clear in his voice. "Now, are you two going to stay in there until you turn into raisins, or would you like to get out and have some snacks?"

"Snacks sound good," Fizz said, already moving to help you stand. "Come on, cutie. Let's get dried off."

Ozzie helped too, producing impossibly soft towels that he wrapped around both of you. Fizz's mechanical limbs made quick work of drying himself, and then he helped you, his touches still gentle and careful.

Once you were both dry and wrapped in comfortable robes, Ozzie guided you both back to the bedroom, where he set the snacks on a low table near the bed.

The snacks were perfect—light enough not to be heavy on your stomach. You and Fizz settled on the bed, Ozzie joining you, and the three of you shared food and quiet conversation, the intimacy of earlier shifting into something softer, more domestic.

"This is nice," you said, already feeling your eyes getting heavy again.

"Sleep, little one," Ozzie said gently, noticing. "You've had a long day. A good day, but long."

You forced your smile wider, painted your expression with that vacant, glittering joy that audiences ate up like bootleg gin. Around you, the other dancers fell into formation, a kaleidoscope of sequins and fringe and stockings rolled just above the knee. The pianist hammered out the opening bars again, and you were off.

The studio was a converted warehouse in the cheaper part of town, all exposed brick and questionable heating, but when the music played, it transformed. Your arms swept through the air in those exaggerated, angular movements that defined the era you were trying to resurrect for audiences who'd never lived it. Charleston, shimmy, break, pose. The routine was a love letter to a time that existed now only in fading photographs and scratchy recordings.

Sweat beaded along your hairline, threatening the carefully pinned waves you'd spent an hour crafting that morning. The other dancers—Rosie with her gap-toothed grin, Marco who always counted beats under his breath, Jean who'd been doing this since she could walk—they were all in their own worlds, chasing their own dreams across the scuffed floorboards.

"Better!" Gerald called out as the number reached its crescendo, all of you frozen in a final pose, arms outstretched like you were trying to grab onto something just out of reach.

"That's a wrap for tonight, ladies and gents. Don't forget, we've got the showcase in two weeks. Be brilliant or be gone, those are your options."

The spell broke. The music stopped. You were just tired people in a cold studio again, gathering bags and street clothes, transforming back from fantasies into ordinary humans with ordinary problems.

You changed quickly, pulling on your threadbare coat and wrapping a scarf around your neck. The dance shoes—your good ones, the ones you'd saved three months to buy—stayed on your feet. They were too precious to risk losing, even if they pinched your toes and had already rubbed one heel raw.

The bus stop stood under a flickering streetlight that buzzed like an angry wasp. You checked your watch and winced. Late. Again. The buses ran infrequently this time of evening, and you'd already missed the usual one by fifteen minutes. The next wouldn't arrive for another twenty.

Your stomach knotted. He'd be waiting. He was always waiting.

When the bus finally wheezed to a stop, you climbed aboard and fed coins into the fare box with shaking fingers. The driver didn't look at you—they never did. You were just another body, another passenger in a city full of people trying to get somewhere else.

The bus rumbled through streets that grew progressively darker, progressively quieter, progressively more desperate. Neon signs gave way to broken streetlights. Shop windows with elaborate displays became barred doors and security gates. This was the part of the city that the postcards forgot to mention.

Your stop came both too soon and not soon enough. The apartment building loomed above you, all crumbling brick and rusted fire escapes, a monument to deferred maintenance and broken promises. You climbed the stairs slowly, each step an act of will, each floor bringing you closer to a door you didn't want to open.

The hallway on the fourth floor smelled like old cooking oil and defeat. Your apartment was 3C, right next to 3B where the lights were always off and strange sounds sometimes echoed through the walls at odd hours. You'd learned not to ask questions in buildings like this.

Curiosity was a luxury you couldn't afford.

Your key turned in the lock with a click that sounded too loud, too final.

The apartment hit you like a physical force—the reek of cigarettes and cheap booze, the staleness of air that hadn't circulated in days, the particular quality of tension that came from sharing space with someone who'd been drinking and thinking in equal measure.

He was sitting in the armchair, the one piece of furniture in the whole place that wasn't falling apart, because he'd claimed it first and defended it like a lion did territory.

The ashtray on the arm was overflowing, a pyramid of butts and ash that threatened to spill onto the floor. A bottle stood on the table beside him like a soldier at attention.

"You're late." His voice was flat, emotionless, which was somehow worse than if he'd been yelling. "Rehearsal ended an hour and a half ago."

"The bus—" you started, but he was already standing, already moving toward you with that particular gait that made your heart rate spike.

"The bus," he repeated, his laugh sharp and humorless. "Right. The bus. You think I'm stupid? Huh bitch ?"

"I'm not—there's nothing—j-just dancing" The words tangled on your tongue, because how did you convince someone that the narrative they'd invented in their head wasn't real?

"Dancing." He stood up, the bottle clutched in his fist, already half-empty. "That what you're calling it now?"

"It's not—I was at the studio, you can call and ask—"

"Oh, I'm sure you were at the studio. Question is, what you were doing there. Or who you were doing." He moved closer, and you instinctively took a step back, your shoulders hitting the door you'd just closed. "You think I'm stupid don'tcha ? You think I don't know?"

Your bag slipped from your shoulder to the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was dancing. Just dancing."

"Just dancing." He laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. "Dressed up in those little outfits, shaking your ass for anyone who wants to look. You think I don't know what kind of girls become dancers?"

"It's not like that—"

"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' LIE TO ME!"

The bottle shattered against the wall beside your head, and you flinched, throwing your arms up instinctively. Whiskey and glass rained down, and then his hands were on your shoulders, shoving you hard against the door.

"Who is he? Tell me his name!"

"There's no one! I swear, there's no—"

"LIAR!"

The shove came suddenly, violently, sending you stumbling sideways into the tiny kitchen area. Your hip caught the corner of the counter and pain exploded white-hot through your side. You tried to catch yourself, but your dance shoes—those beautiful, impractical, expensive dance shoes—found no purchase on the grimy linoleum.

You went down hard, hands barely breaking your fall, the impact jarring through your wrists and elbows. One shoe buckle snapped with a sound like breaking bone.

Through the thin wall separating 3C from 3B, unheard and unnoticed, came the muffled sounds of someone—or a few somethings—moving around with purpose.

"Okay, so that's one dead cheating husband, one dead secret girlfriend, and—Moxxie, what the fuck is that?"

Blitz stood in the middle of apartment 3B, gesturing at the carnage with the casual air of someone critiquing a restaurant meal. Blood spattered the walls in patterns that would have fascinated a forensic analyst and horrified literally everyone else. The bodies—well, they weren't in positions that bodies normally achieved without significant help from physics and creative use of nearby furniture.

Moxxie looked up from where he was attempting to wrestle a severed arm into a garbage bag, his face scrunched with concentration and barely suppressed disgust. "Sir, this is the dead secret girlfriend. You literally just said that's what we were cleaning up."

"No, I mean that." Blitz pointed at something that might have once been an internal organ. "That shouldn't be... outside. That should be inside. How did it even get over there?"

"Well, when you shot him with the—"

"It was a rhetorical question, Moxx!" Blitz threw his hands up, flinging droplets of questionable fluid across the already-ruined carpet. "Christ on a stick, we don't have time for your nerdy anatomical play-by-play. We've got like twenty minutes before someone reports the screaming, and we still need to—"

"Actually, B," Millie chimed in cheerfully, her Southern accent somehow making discussion of dismemberment sound downright wholesome, "nobody's gonna report nothing in this building. Did you see the state of this place on the way in? Pretty sure the guy on the second floor is running a whole meth lab."

She was wiping down her knife with an efficiency that spoke to long practice, already moving on to gathering shell casings with the kind of methodical thoroughness that Blitz appreciated in an employee, even if he'd never actually say it out loud.

"Still," Moxxie insisted, carefully placing the bagged arm next to what was becoming an impressive pile of biological evidence, "we should maintain proper protocols. The last thing we need is someone investigating and finding traces that lead back to—"

CRASH.

The sound came from the apartment next door—3C—loud enough to cut through Moxxie's protocol speech and make all three imps pause mid-cleanup.

"The FUCK was that?" Blitz said, swiveling toward the shared wall.

Millie and Moxxie exchanged a look, one of those wordless married-people conversations that Blitz found both nauseating and privately enviable.

"Probably just neighbors," Blitz continued, returning his attention to the mess. "Not our problem. We've got enough problems. See? This is problems." He gestured broadly at the crime scene that was absolutely not going to clean itself.

"Sir..." Moxxie started, his tail twitching with that anxious energy that usually preceded him saying something annoyingly moral.

"Nope! No. Whatever you're about to say, the answer is no. We are not getting involved in some random humans domestic—"

"YOU THINK I'M STUPID?"

The yell came through the wall clear as day, male, aggressive, with that particular quality that made Millie's expression harden and Moxxie's hand drift toward his weapon.

"Blitz, " Millie said, her usual cheerfulness cooling to something sharper, "that don't sound good."

"Not. Our. Problem," Blitz enunciated carefully, like he was explaining advanced mathematics to a particularly dim child. "We are LITERALLY standing in an apartment with two dead bodies that we killed on PURPOSE. We are in the murder business, not the—the—whatever the fuck the opposite of murder is business."

"The saving people business?" Moxxie offered.

"We don't have that business! That's not a business we're in!"

Another crash, louder this time, followed by a sound that might have been something breaking. Or someone.

Then silence.

Not the peaceful kind of silence, but the heavy, waiting kind that pressed against your eardrums and made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Fuck," Blitz muttered, because that silence was somehow worse than the yelling had been.

Millie was already moving toward the door, her knife back in her hand like it had never left. "Mox, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we should probably check if someone needs—"

"No! Nobody is thinking anything!" Blitz scrambled after them, trying to physically put himself between his employees and the door. "We have dead bodies! Plural! That need disposing of! This is literally the worst time for you two DIPSHITS to develop a conscience!"

But Millie was already in the hallway, and Moxxie was right behind her, and Blitz was left in apartment 3B having a moral crisis he absolutely did not have time for.

"Should we knock?" Moxxie suggested, which was such a Moxxie thing to suggest that Blitz actually groaned out loud.

"Oh sure, knock! 'Hey, random domestic abuser, can you pause beating the shit out of someone so we can murder you properly? We're kinda in a hurry!'" Blitz's voice dripped with sarcasm thick enough to bottle.

Millie pressed her ear against the door of 3C. "I don't hear nothing. No talking, no moving, nothing."

"Maybe they made up and they're having makeup sex," Blitz tried desperately. "Humans do that. It's weird as FUCK but they do it. Now can we please just—"

"Sir," Moxxie said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made even Blitz shut up. "That wasn't the sound of people making up. That was the sound of someone getting hurt. Badly."

The three of them stood in the hallway, a tableau of demonic indecision, Millie coiled and ready, Moxxie anxious but determined, and Blitz calculating odds and exit strategies and how much explaining he'd have to do to Loonie if this all went sideways.

"Fine! FINE! But if this fucks up our whole evening, I'm blaming both of you in the group chat." Blitz stepped back, sized up the door to 3C, and—

"Wait, shouldn't we—" Moxxie started.

Too late. Blitz hit the door with his shoulder, Millie added a well-placed kick for good measure, and the cheap apartment door basically exploded inward in a shower of splinters and failing hinges.

The first thing you registered was the sudden cold air from the hallway, rushing in through the space where your door used to be.

The second thing was the creatures standing in that space.

Your mind tried to process what you were seeing and failed spectacularly. They were small—shorter than you, which was saying something given your own stature—but they radiated a kind of dangerous competence that made size irrelevant.

Red skin, horns, tails, yellow eyes that glowed slightly in the apartment's dim lighting.

Your boyfriend's voice, usually so commanding, came out as a strangled wheeze. "What the fuck—"

The tallest one—male, you thought, with stripes on his horns and the kind of grin that promised violence—pointed at your boyfriend with something that was definitely a gun. "Okay, here's how this is gonna go, fuckface. You're gonna shut up, sit down, and seriously reconsider your life choices in the next thirty seconds, or—"

But your boyfriend, drunk and angry and stupid, lunged forward instead.

What happened next occurred too fast for your shocked brain to fully catalog. The female one—shorter, with a Southern accent that seemed wildly out of place—moved like liquid death, her knife finding its mark with surgical precision. The other one—nervous-looking, bow-tied—followed up with efficiency that spoke to practice.

Your boyfriend went down hard and didn't get back up.

You should have screamed. That would have been the normal response. But your voice had fled somewhere deep inside you, taking all your other reactions with it. You just sat there on the floor, back against the kitchen counter, staring at the scene in front of you with the kind of detachment that only came from severe shock.

The tall one—the leader, clearly—groaned. "Great! Fantastic! Now we've got TWO FUCKIN messes to clean up tonight. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid!"

"Blitz, sir, he attacked first," the bow-tied one said, already moving to check the body with professional thoroughness. "We were clearly acting in... well, not self-defense exactly, but..."

"But he was a piece of shit who had it coming," the female finished, wiping her blade clean on your boyfriend's shirt with zero ceremony. Then she looked up and met your eyes, and her expression softened into something almost kind.

"Hey there, sweetie. You okay?"

Were you okay? The question seemed absurd. You were sitting on the floor of your apartment, which no longer had a door, watching actually were they demons? they had to be demons, stand over the body of your now-very-dead boyfriend, and one of them was asking if you were okay.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

"Shit, she's in shock," Blitz observed. "Moxxie, do something. You're good at the...at things."

"I don't think this situation is really covered in any manual I've read, sir," Moxxie replied, but he moved closer anyway, hands raised in what was probably meant to be a non-threatening gesture. Given that those hands had been instrumental in killing a man about fifteen seconds ago, the effect was somewhat lost.

Your eyes dropped to your feet, to your dance shoes. The left one's buckle hung broken, the strap dangling uselessly. Three months of saving, of skipping meals and walking instead of taking the bus, of dreaming about the showcase where you might finally catch someone's eye, someone who could offer something better than this apartment and this life and this—

The shoes were ruined.

That's what broke through the shock. Not the violence, not the impossible creatures in your kitchen, not even the corpse bleeding out onto your floor. The shoes.

You started laughing.

It was not a sane sound. You knew that even as it bubbled up from somewhere in your chest, harsh and broken and edging toward hysterical. You laughed and laughed and couldn't stop, even as tears started streaming down your face, even as the three demons exchanged increasingly worried glances.

"Okay, that's... concerning," Blitz said. "That's a concerning reaction. Millie, your call—is that a 'leave her here' laugh or a 'she's gonna tell the cops' laugh?"

But Millie wasn't looking at Blitz. She was looking at you—really looking, taking in the bruises already forming on your arms, the way you'd instinctively curled in on yourself, the apartment that reeked of cigarettes and broken promises, the ruined shoes on your feet.

"We're taking her with us," Millie announced, in the same tone she might use to comment on the weather.

"WHAT." Blitz's voice cracked on the word. "No. Absolutely not. We are not adopting a stray human!"

"Mills, honey," Moxxie started carefully, "I understand the impulse, but we can't just kidnap someone. That's... that's actually very illegal. Even for us."

"She ain't got nothing here," Millie shot back, gesturing around the apartment. "Look at this place, Mox. Look at her. You really wanna leave her here, with a dead body and no door and satan knows who coming around asking questions?"

"That is extremely not our problem!" Blitz insisted. "We kill people! That's the job! We don't rescue them!"

Your laughter had finally subsided into hitching breaths. You looked up at the three of them—these impossible things arguing about your fate like you weren't even there—and found your voice, small and cracked but functional.

"Where... where did you even come from?"

Three pairs of glowing eyes turned to you.

"Hell," Blitz said flatly, like it was obvious, like he was tired of explaining basic facts to idiots. "We're from Hell. We kill people for money. And we're leaving. Right now. Without you."

"Sir—" Moxxie tried.

"Blitz—" Millie started.

"NO! Final answer! We've already had one impulsive decision tonight—" he gestured at your boyfriend's body "—and that's my limit! We're going back home, we're cleaning up the ORIGINAL mess we came here to make, and we're forgetting this ever happened!"

But Millie had that look in her eye, the one Moxxie probably recognized from countless arguments. She crossed her arms and set her jaw, and Blitz visibly deflated.

"Mills, please don't do the thing."

"What thing?" Millie asked innocently.

"The thing where you make the face and then I feel like an asshole and then we end up doing whatever insane plan you had anyway!"

"I ain't making no face. I'm just saying, we can't leave her here. It ain't right."

"We're from Hell! We're not supposed to do what's right!"

You watched this argument unfold with the distant fascination of someone watching a play in a foreign language. Hell. They were from Hell. That should have been terrifying, should have sent you screaming into the hallway, if you could have stood up, which seemed unlikely given how much your legs were shaking.

But somehow, sitting here on your floor with these bickering demons, you felt safer than you had in months.

"I don't... I don't understand," you whispered. "Hell is real? Like, actually real?"

"Oh good, she's forming sentences," Blitz muttered. "That's a great sign that she's totally fine to leave here on her own."

Moxxie crouched down to your level, his expression genuinely concerned. "Yes, Hell is real. So is Heaven, theoretically, though we don't really interact with them much. There's a whole... system. It's complicated."

"Moxxie, stop explaining the afterlife to a human!" Blitz snapped. "We need to FUCKING GO!"

"Her name's on the lease," Millie announced, having apparently taken a moment to rifle through the mail on the counter. "Apartment's in her name, that cocksucker wasn't even on it. She's been paying for everything herself." She fixed Blitz with a look. "We're taking her."

"This is kidnapping!"

"It ain't kidnapping if she wants to come." Millie turned to you, offering a hand that was still slightly stained with your boyfriend's blood. Her smile was warm despite the carnage.

"What do you say, sugar? Wanna get out of here?"

You should have said no. Any sane person would have said no. These were demons. From Hell. Who had just murdered someone in your kitchen.

But you looked at that offered hand, and then at the apartment around you—the prison you'd been living in without even realizing it—and then down at your ruined shoes.

You took Millie's hand.

"Okay, fine! FINE!" Blitz threw his hands up in defeat. "But if she tries to exorcise us or starts praying, I'm leaving all of you FUCKING here!" He stomped toward the destroyed door, then paused and turned back. "And someone needs to carry her because there is no way those shoes are gonna make it down four flights of stairs."

Before you could process that statement, Moxxie had scooped you up with surprising strength for someone his size. You made an undignified sound.

"Don't worry," he said, sounding embarrassed. "This is just temporary. Until we get you somewhere with, um, intact footwear."

Millie grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door—your jacket, you realized dimly—and draped it over your shoulders. "We'll figure the rest out once we getcha home. Blitz is grumpy but he'll come around. Always does."

"I can HEAR you, Mills!"

You should have been terrified.

"Fizz, I'm just helping backstage," you protested weakly, but you did stay still. "Nobody's even going to see me."

"Wrong, wrong, so very wrong!" Fizz declared, applying gold glitter to one eyelid with careful precision. His face was close to yours, close enough that you could see the concentration in his eyes.

"First of all, I'm going to see you, and I have excellent taste! Second, those adorable little hellspawn are going to see you! And third—" He paused, his grin turning softer, more genuine. "—you deserve to feel pretty. So I'm making you pretty. Well, prettier. You're already pretty. But stage pretty! There's a difference!"

He'd already finished the main elements of your makeup—black diamonds on your cheeks that mirrored his circles without being too obvious, a subtle nod to matching without screaming "we're together." The makeup was stage-appropriate but not overdone, letting you blend into the background while still looking intentional.

"Such a good girl, holding so still for me," Fizz continued in that same baby-talk tone, his mechanical hand coming up to gently cup your jaw, keeping you in place. "So patient! So sweet! Letting me make you all sparkly and beautiful!"

"You're ridiculous," you said, but you couldn't help smiling.

"I'm amazing," Fizz corrected, leaning in even closer as he applied crimson glitter to your other eyelid. "And you're precious. My precious, gorgeous, wonderful assistant who came all the way to this garbage Ring just to help me out."

"Of course I came," you said softly. "Where else would I be?"

Something flickered in Fizz's expression—something warm and vulnerable that he quickly covered with his performer's grin. "Well, anywhere else, probably. Literally anywhere is better than Greed. But I'm selfishly very glad you're here."

He finished the glitter application and pulled back slightly, his hands moving to your shoulders. "There! Perfection! Crimson and gold! Objectively the most gorgeous colors that make you look absolutely stunning and I'm definitely not biased at all!"

Before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your cheek—carefully avoiding the makeup he'd just applied. "My beautiful assistant," he murmured between kisses, his voice still carrying that teasing lilt. "So sweet, so caring, so worried about me when you should be worried about yourself!"

"I am worried about you," you admitted quietly. "Yesterday was—"

"Yesterday was yesterday!" Fizz interrupted brightly, spinning you around to face the mirror. "Today is today! And today is going to be great! Look how gorgeous you are!"

You had to admit—he was right. The makeup was expertly applied, the glitter catching the light beautifully, the black diamonds adding just enough flair without being overwhelming. You looked like you belonged at a professional show.

But you also saw the deflection for what it was. Fizz didn't want to re-hash yesterday. Didn't want to think about Mammon.

"It's beautiful," you said, touching your cheek carefully. "Thank you, Fizzy."

"Anything for you, cutie pie!" Fizz declared, pressing one more kiss to your temple before bouncing away to check his own appearance in the mirror. "Now! Let's talk about the game plan for today!"

You pulled out the bag you'd packed—water bottles, healthy snacks, protein bars, fruit—and started arranging them on the counter where Fizz could easily see them.

"So!" Fizz said, applying his own stage makeup with practiced ease, his energy ramping up as he got into performance mode. "First we've got the main show—juggling, acrobatics, balloon animals, the usual! You'll watch from the wings, make sure I stay hydrated, make sure I don't do anything stupid like overextend and pop a joint!"

"That's very specific," you said, concerned.

"It's happened before!" Fizz said with false cheer. "Multiple times! But don't worry about it! I'm a professional! I know my limits! Mostly! And Oz fixes them for me!"

"Fizz—"

"Anyway!" he continued, clearly trying to keep the energy up, to distract you from worrying. "After the show, we've got the meet and greet! That's where all my adoring fans line up and I sign autographs and take pictures and be generally amazing and charming! You'll make sure I actually eat something because, again, I have a tendency to forget basic—needs when I'm working!"

"I've got plenty of snacks," you confirmed, double-checking your supplies as you packed them carefully into your bag.

"Perfect! You're perfect! Have I mentioned you're perfect?" Fizz grinned at you in the mirror. "Because you are! And then!" His voice took on a slightly more strained quality that he tried to hide with enthusiasm. "We've got the VIP experience! That's the kids whose parents paid extra—and I mean EXTRA—for special access. More photos, more autographs, maybe some balloon animals, maybe some personalized tricks! Should be fun! Totally fun! Nothing to worry about!"

He was trying so hard to sound upbeat, to convince you—and himself—that everything was fine. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, could hear the slightly manic edge to his voice.

"That sounds exhausting," you observed gently.

"It is!" Fizz agreed, spinning to face you with his arms spread wide. "But hey, that's show business, baby! And I'm the best in the business! Plus, you know, Mammon gets really pissy if I don't give 110% to every single event, and nobody wants a pissy Mammon! Bad for everyone! Mostly bad for me! But we're not thinking about that!"

He said it like a joke, but you caught the genuine anxiety underneath. Mammon scared him. You'd seen that clearly when the Sin of Greed had grabbed him, mocked him, treated him like a misbehaving toy rather than a person.

"I'm going to be right there the whole time," you said firmly, moving to stand in front of him. "If you need a break, if anything happens, if you need water or food or just a moment—I'm there. Okay?"

Fizz's manic energy faltered for just a moment, his expression going soft. He reached out, his mechanical hands gentle as they cupped your face. "You're too good to me, you know that? Way too good. I don't deserve—"

"Stop," you interrupted, covering his hands with yours. "You deserve everything good. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise."

Fizz stared at you for a long moment, something vulnerable and raw in his expression, before he pulled you into a tight hug. "Okay," he said quietly against your hair. "Okay."

Then, louder, with renewed energy "Okay! Enough mushy stuff! We've got a show to do! I've got kids to entertain! You've got an amazing performer to support! Let's do this!"

He was deflecting again, channeling his stress into manic enthusiasm, but you let him. If this was how he needed to cope, how he needed to get through the day, you'd support it.

"Let's do this," you agreed.

The main performance space was currently filling up with imp families and their excited children. The stage was elaborate, covered in Mammon's branding, with massive screens showing advertisements for Mammon-brand merchandise.

You stood in the wings, your phone already out and texting Ozzie:

Fizz is about to start. He seems okay. Nervous but excited. Trying really hard to act normal.

The response came immediately

Big Guy 💙: I can see him from here. He's putting on a good show but I know him. He's stressed. You have the water and snacks ready?

You smiled despite yourself. Of course Ozzie's first concern was making sure Fizz stayed hydrated and fed.

Yes, I have everything. Stop worrying.

Big Guy 💙: I'll stop worrying when we're home Babe. Have you eaten today? You need to eat. There should be craft services backstage.

I'm fine. Focus on not glaring at everyone.

Big Guy 💙: I'm not glaring. I'm observing. There's a difference.

You looked up, Ozzie's towering form was unmistakable even from this distance, his whole frame flickering with barely suppressed protective energy. Several demons near him had already scooted away, clearly sensing the aura he was radiating.

You're kinda scaring people.

Big Guy 💙: Good. Maybe they'll behave themselves.

You were still smiling at your phone when the lights dimmed and Fizz burst onto the stage in an explosion of color and sound. The transformation was instantaneous—gone was the stressed, vulnerable Fizz from the dressing room, replaced by the larger-than-life performer who commanded the stage with absolute confidence.

"HELLO GREED RING!" Fizz's voice boomed through the sound system. "Who's ready for the GREATEST SHOW IN ALL OF HELL?!"

The children screamed their approval, and Fizz launched into his routine. He was magnificent—juggling flaming pins while doing a handstand, his mechanical limbs extending to impossible lengths to create shapes and patterns that delighted the crowd. He told jokes, made balloon animals at lightning speed, and had every single child in that audience eating out of his hand within minutes.

You found yourself mesmerized, watching him work. This was what he was meant to do, this and the performances at Ozzie's he was great at those too, but this—bringing joy to people, making them laugh, giving them something magical to remember.

Your phone buzzed:

Big Guy 💙: he's incredible. Even when he's stressed and putting on a brave face, he's still the best performer I've ever seen.

He really is, you texted back.

Big Guy 💙: Make sure he drinks water the moment he comes off stage. He'll try to skip it. Don't let him.*

I got it handled Oz 😘

Big Guy 💙: you need to stay hydrated too. Don't think I didn't notice you've been running around taking care of him without taking care of yourself.

You felt warmth bloom in your chest at his fussing.

I promise I'll drink water.

Big Guy 💙: Good. I'm holding you to that. I have eyes everywhere.

You're literally standing in the back of the theater.

Big Guy 💙: Exactly. Perfect vantage point.

The show continued, Fizz's energy never flagging. He brought kids up on stage for magic tricks, taught them simple juggling moves, created elaborate balloon sculptures that seemed to defy physics. The laughter and applause were constant, genuine, joyful.

This was why he did it. Despite Mammon, despite the stress, despite everything—this moment, these kids, this joy. It made it worth it.

When the show finally ended, Fizz took his bows to thunderous applause, his grin wide and genuine. But as soon as he was in the wings, you saw the exhaustion hit him like a physical weight. His shoulders sagged, and he looked ready to collapse.

"Water," you said immediately, pressing a bottle into his hands. "Drink. Now."

"Thanks," Fizz said, but he was trying to wave you off even as he drank. "But I'm fine, cutie. Don't worry so much!"

"Too late, I'm already worrying. Drink all of it."

"Bossy," Fizz said with a weak grin. "I like it when you're bossy."

Your phone buzzed:

Big Guy 💙: Has he had something to drink

He's drinking. Under protest.

Big Guy 💙: Good. Make sure he eats something too. The protein bars. He needs actual sustenance before the meet and greet.

You held out a protein bar to Fizz, who looked at it like you were offering him poison.

"I'm not hungry—"

"Eat it anyway," you said firmly. "Ozzie's orders. He's watching from the back and he will come down here if you don't eat."

Fizz's eyes widened slightly, and he immediately grabbed the protein bar. "Okay, okay! Eating! Look at me, being so healthy and responsible!"

"How'd I do?" he asked between bites, trying to sound casual but clearly fishing for reassurance. "The kids seemed to like it, right? Nobody looked bored? The juggling routine wasn't too long?"

"You were amazing," you said honestly. "Those kids loved every second. Stop trying to change the subject and eat."

"I'm not changing the subject! I'm eating and asking legitimate questions!"

Your phone buzzed again:

Big Guy 💙: Make sure he eats the whole thing.

"Ozzie says eat the whole bar," you relayed.

"Of course he does," Fizz muttered, but there was affection in his voice. "My overprotective boyfriend, watching from the shadows like some kind of guardian demon."

"He loves you," you said simply.

"Yeah," Fizz said, his expression softening. "Yeah, he does. And he loves you too, even if he's too much of a coward to say it yet."

Before you could respond to that, Mammon's voice boomed from somewhere nearby, and you saw Fizz tense immediately, all his forced cheer evaporating.

The meet and greet was set up in a large open area adjacent to the theater. Tables were arranged with photo backdrops, signing stations, and merchandise displays. Families were already lining up, excited children clutching posters and plush toys, eager to meet their hero.

You hung back, watching as Mammon cornered Fizz near one of the signing tables. The Sin of Greed was massive, towering over Fizz in a way that was clearly meant to intimidate.

"Listen up, Fizzarolli," Mammon said, his voice carrying that jovial tone that didn't quite hide the threat underneath. "These fans paid good money for this meet and greet. Premium prices! Which means you're gonna give them premium service, got it? Smile big, sign fast, take as many photos as possible. Time is money, and I want to make a LOT of money today!"

"Got it, Sir," Fizz said, his voice tight but still trying to sound upbeat.

"And keep pushing the merchandise!" Mammon continued, gesturing at the displays. "Every interaction is a sales opportunity! You see a kid without a Fizzie ? You mention how great they are! You see a parent without a t-shirt? You tell them how stylish they look! You're not just a performer, you're a product! My product!"

"I understand," Fizz said, his performer's smile locked in place even as you saw his hands clench.

"Good!" Mammon slapped him on the back hard enough to make Fizz stumble forward. "Now get out there and make me some fucking money! And don't forget—you're representing the brand! My brand! Every smile, every signature, every photo—it's all selling the Fizzarolli experience!"

Mammon stalked off, already barking orders at his staff, and you immediately moved to Fizz's side.

"You okay?" you asked quietly.

"Peachy!" Fizz said with exaggerated brightness. "Just gotta go be Mammon's favorite dancing bitch for a few hours! No biggie! All part of the job! Hey, did I tell you how great it is having you here today? Because its amazing!"

"Fizz—"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, but his voice was gentler. "Really. Don't worry about me, cutie. I've been doing this for years. I can handle some eager fans and pushy parents!"

Before you could respond, the first family approached, and Fizz's performer smile slid into place like a well-worn mask.

"Hey there!" Fizz said to a small imp child clutching a Fizzarolli plush. "Did you enjoy the show?"

The child nodded shyly, and Fizz launched into full entertainer mode, signing autographs, posing for photos, making balloon animals on request. You watched from nearby, making sure he stayed hydrated, occasionally handing him water or snacks between families.

Your phone buzzed:

Big Guy 💙: Hows it going Little one ?

We're fine. I'm keeping an eye on our Fizzy

Big Guy 💙: Text me if anything happens, I'm worried about both of you. Anything at all. I mean it.

The kids were, as predicted, adorable. They looked at Fizz with stars in their eyes, asked questions about his performances, wanted to know if he could really juggle fire and if his robot arms were cool. Fizz was patient and kind with each one, taking his time despite Mammon's demands to move fast, making each child feel special and seen.

But then the tone started to shift.

It started with one adult demon—some kind of incubus in an expensive suit—who approached with his teenage son. The father looked Fizz up and down with an expression that made your skin crawl.

"Fizzarolli," the man said, his voice oily. "Big fan. Huge fan. I actually own several Fizzie-bots."

You saw Fizz's smile falter for just a fraction of a second before locking back into place. "Oh yeah? Thanks for the support!"

"Very sophisticated models," the father continued, leaning in closer. "The customization options are impressive. My wife and I have gotten a lot of use out of them."

Fizz's mechanical hands clenched briefly before relaxing. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying the product! Thanks for coming to the show!"

But the man wasn't done. His eyes raked over Fizz's body with uncomfortable intensity. "I have to say, the bots are remarkably accurate. The proportions, the flexibility settings... very true to life. Makes me wonder—" He paused, his smile turning predatory. "—do you personally test them? Make sure they're functioning correctly? Because I'd love to know if the real thing matches up to the product."

Your stomach turned. The man was asking if Fizz—the actual person—matched the sex robots made in his image. If he 'performed' the same way.

"Next!" you said loudly, stepping between Fizz and the man. "We need to keep the line moving!"

The man shot you an annoyed look but moved on, and you saw Fizz take a shaky breath, his smile more strained now.

But it didn't stop there. More adults approached, clearly more interested in the Fizzie-bots than the actual performer. The questions got progressively more invasive.

"Do you have input on the bot designs? Like, are they anatomically accurate?"

"I heard the deluxe model has some special features—can you confirm that?"

"My partner and I were wondering if the flexibility demonstrated by the bots reflects your actual capabilities?"

"Is it true they modeled certain... specifications... directly from you?"

Each question made Fizz's smile more brittle, more false. He deflected with jokes, with performer's charm, but you could see the toll it was taking. The way his voice got slightly higher, more manic. The way his hands shook between autographs.

One particularly bold succubus leaned in close, running a finger down Fizz's arm. "So if I wanted to verify the accuracy of my Fizzie-bot's specifications, would you be willing to provide a... comparison? For quality control purposes?"

"Ha! That's—that's very flattering!" Fizz said, his voice strained. "But I'm just here to sign autographs! The bots are a Mammon product, so any questions about features or accuracy should go through his customer service line!"

"But surely you'd know better than anyone," the succubus persisted. "After all, they're based on you. Your body. Your... capabilities."

"Snack break!" you announced firmly, physically stepping between Fizz and the succubus. "Fizz needs five minutes."

"But I haven't gotten my photo yet—" the succubus protested.

"Five. Minutes," you repeated, using every ounce of customer-service authority you'd ever developed. "He'll be right back."

You pulled Fizz aside to a quiet corner, pressing water and a protein bar into his hands. His usual energy was flagging, replaced by something exhausted and hurt.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, but his voice was shaking. "Just a few more minutes and we'll be done with this part. Then just the VIP thing and we're home free! Well, back to the suite. Same difference!"

"Those people were way out of line," you said quietly.

"Eh, comes with the territory!" Fizz said with false brightness. "Mammon makes the bots, people get curious! It's fine! Totally fine! I'm used to it!"

"You shouldn't have to be used to it," you said firmly.

Fizz's expression cracked for just a moment, something raw and vulnerable showing through before he plastered the smile back on. "Only got the VIP thing left. Then we can go back to the suite and I can stop being... on."

Your phone buzzed insistently:

Big Guy 💙: I saw that! Tell me you got them away from him.

I did. We're taking a break. He's eating.

Big Guy 💙: I'm two seconds away from coming down there and ending this entire event.

Give us five more minutes. Just the VIP thing left.

Big Guy 💙: Fine. But I'm watching. And if one more person crosses the line, I'm intervening. I don't care what Mam thinks.

When Mammon had mentioned a VIP experience with kids, you'd made certain assumptions. Based on Earth, you'd pictured sick children, maybe something like Make-A-Wish, kids who needed something special and magical to brighten their difficult lives.

You could not have been more wrong.

The VIP area was a separate, more exclusive space with premium seating and elaborate decorations. The "kids" filing in were still children, sure, but they were dressed in designer clothes, dripping in jewelry that probably cost more than most families' annual income. Their parents were worse—dressed in expensive suits and dresses, checking phones that looked like they cost a small fortune, radiating wealth and entitlement.

These weren't sick kids who needed joy. These were rich kids whose parents had money to burn.

"Alright, everyone!" one of Mammon's staff announced. "Thank you for purchasing the premium VIP experience! Fizzarolli will be spending the next hour with your children for personalized entertainment, photos, and autographs! Please remember that this is an exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

The parents barely looked up from their phones. The kids, however, looked at Fizz with expressions that made your skin crawl. Not wonder or joy or excitement.

Ownership.

"You there," one child—who couldn't have been more than ten—pointed at Fizz like he was summoning a servant. "Do a backflip."

Fizz's smile didn't waver. "Sure thing, little guy!"

He executed a perfect backflip, landing with a flourish. The child didn't even look impressed.

"Now do it while juggling."

"You got it!"

This wasn't a meet and greet. This was a performance. A command performance for children who had been taught that money meant they could demand anything from anyone, especially from an imp.

"I want a balloon animal," another child demanded. "A dragon. A big one. And it better be perfect."

"One perfect dragon, coming right up!" Fizz said, his voice maintaining that cheerful tone even as his eyes showed the strain.

You watched, horrified, as the children treated Fizz like a toy. Demanded tricks, criticized his performances, complained if he didn't move fast enough or make things exactly to their specifications. Their parents barely supervised, more interested in their phones and their own conversations than in what their children were actually doing.

"You're an imp, right?" one particularly nasty child asked, looking Fizz up and down. "My dad says imps are the lowest class. Says you're lucky someone like Mammon even lets you work for him."

Fizz's mechanical hands clenched for just a moment before he forced them to relax. "Well, I am pretty lucky!"

The false cheer in his voice made your heart break.

"Do another trick," the child demanded. "And make it better than the last one."

You couldn't take it anymore. You stepped forward, plastering on your brightest smile.

"Who wants to help Fizzarolli with the next trick?" you asked, your customer-service voice in full force. "It'll be even more special if you all participate!"

The children looked at you with varying degrees of interest and suspicion, but you managed to corral them into a group activity, taking some of the pressure off Fizz. He shot you a grateful look, and together you made it through the remaining time.

But barely.

By the time you made it back to the suite, you were exhausted and Fizz looked ready to collapse.

Ozzie was already there, having left to prepare. The moment you walked through the door, he was moving, scooping Fizz up despite his protests.

"I can walk, Oz—"

"Don't care," Ozzie said firmly, carrying Fizz to the massive couch and settling down with him. "You've been performing for hours. You're done. You're resting."

"So demanding," Fizz said, but there was something playful in his tone now, some of his energy returning now that you were away from Mammon's domain. "What if I don't wanna rest? What if I wanna keep going? I'm still wired from the show!"

"Then you can be wired while sitting down," Ozzie said, but his voice was gentle. "You've done enough today, Froggie."

You locked the door behind you, feeling the tension of the day finally start to release.

"How bad was it?" Ozzie asked, looking at you over Fizz's head.

"Bad," you admitted, moving to sit beside them. "The meet and greet was... uncomfortable. People asking about the Fizzie-bots. Making crude comments. And the VIP thing was worse. Those kids were awful."

"They're just kids," Fizz said automatically, but there was no conviction in his voice. "Besides, I handled it! I'm fine! See? Totally fine!" He stretched his arms out in demonstration, one of them extending to boop your nose. "Not even a little bit traumatized!"

"Fizz—" you started.

"Nope!" Fizz interrupted, his grin widening. "No serious talk! I've had enough serious for one day! Now I just wanna hang out with my two favorite people and not think about entitled brats or creepy fans or—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Not thinking about it! New topic! Like how great you both are! And how lucky I am! Very lucky! The luckiest!"

You exchanged a look with Ozzie over Fizz's head. The manic energy was back, but it felt different now—forced, like Fizz was trying to prove something. Trying to show you both that he was okay when clearly he wasn't.

"They're entitled brats who treated you like property," you said gently, reaching out to take one of his mechanical hands. "And their parents are worse for letting them."

Ozzie's expression was barely suppressed anger. "I should have been there Babe. Should have stepped in."

"You were there," you reminded him. "In the back. Ready to intervene if needed. It helped, knowing that."

"Still wanted to actually intervene," Ozzie muttered darkly. "Specifically wanted to remind those people that money doesn't give them the right to treat him like—"

"But you didn't!" Fizz interrupted brightly. "Because I had it handled! And now we're all here, together, and everything's fine! Great, even! Better than great!" He shifted in Ozzie's lap, draping himself more dramatically. "See? Totally relaxed! Living my best life!"

"Fizzy... Baby," Ozzie said softly, his large hand coming up to cup Fizz's face. "You don't have to perform for us."

"I'm not performing!" Fizz protested, but his voice cracked slightly. "I'm just—I'm fine, Oz. Really. Both of you came all this way, and I don't want you to worry, and I just want to—"

He cut himself off, something vulnerable flickering across his face before the manic grin returned.

"Come here," Ozzie said gently, pulling Fizz closer. "Both of you."

You didn't need to be told twice. You curled into Ozzie's side, his arm coming around to hold you close. Fizz immediately reached out, his mechanical hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together, his other arm wrapping around your waist.

"Better?" Ozzie asked softly.

"Getting there," Fizz admitted, some of the manic energy draining away. "Would be even better if we were in bed. Comfortable. All cozy. You know, really committed to this whole 'relaxation' thing."

"Are you trying to rush us to bed?" Ozzie asked, amused.

"Maybe!" Fizz said, his grin turning more genuine. "Is it working?"

"We should eat something first," you said practically. "Real food. Not just the snacks from earlier."

"Or," Fizz countered, already extracting himself from Ozzie's hold and pulling you up with him. "We could order room service and eat it in bed like fancy people! Fancy people who are very tired and deserve to be horizontal!"

Despite yourself, you smiled. "Room service in bed does sound nice."

"See? She agrees with me!" Fizz declared to Ozzie. "Two against one! Democracy wins!"

Ozzie sighed, but he was smiling. "Fine. Room service in bed. But you're both eating actual meals. Not just dessert."

"I would never just eat dessert!" Fizz said, scandalized. "Okay I would definitely just eat dessert but I won't tonight because you asked nicely."

After room service which Fizz had insisted on feeding you at least half of, claiming you needed to "keep your strength up", the three of you had ended up in the bedroom, getting ready for sleep.

You'd changed into the comfortable sleepwear you'd packed—soft shorts and a loose shirt—while Fizz had stripped down to just a pair of sleep pants a shirt and his hat, his usual performance outfit discarded. Without all the bells and whistles, with his makeup removed, he looked nore vulnerable.

But his energy hadn't diminished. If anything, it had just redirected into pure, frantic affection.

"Okay, everyone in bed!" Fizz announced, bouncing onto the massive mattress with enough force to make the whole frame creak. "Cuddle pile commencing! No excuses, no take-backs!"

You climbed in more carefully, and Ozzie settled himself in the middle like he was made for it, his enormous frame taking up most of the bed even though it had clearly been built for someone his size. Fizz immediately plastered himself against Ozzie’s side, tail wrapping around one thick thigh as he reached over with both arms to tug you closer.

“Come on, cutie, don’t be shy!” Fizz said, his voice bright and teasing even though exhaustion was starting to creep in at the edges. “This is prime real estate right here! Ozzie’s chest is basically a luxury resort. Get in here!”

You let yourself be gently arranged until you were curled against the warm, broad expanse of Ozzie’s chest, Fizz had moved to mirror you on the opposite side. Ozzie’s massive arms came around both of you, one hand resting heavily but gently on your back, the other stroking slow circles between Fizz’s shoulder blades.

“There we go,” Fizz said, though his usual manic bounce was softening. “Perfect setup. Everyone comfy? ‘Cause if not, I can scoot, or we can rearrange, or—”

“Fizz,” you murmured softly, reaching across Ozzie’s chest to rest your hand on his arm. “We’re comfortable. Can you please relax now.”

“I am relaxed!” Fizz insisted, though he immediately contradicted himself by pressing even closer to Ozzie, one mechanical leg extending to hook over Ozzie's hip. “Super relaxed. The most relaxed imp in all of Hell. Look at me—totally chill.”

Ozzie let out a low, warm chuckle that vibrated through his chest like distant thunder. “You did real good today, baby,” he rumbled quietly, his large hand still moving in those slow, soothing patterns along Fizz’s back. “Handled those kids like a pro. Handled everything Mammon threw at you. I’m proud of you.”

“Of course I did,” Fizz replied, but the bravado was gentler now, quieter. “I’m Fizzarolli. Can’t let that greedy sack of shit ruin a perfectly good show.” He nuzzled his face into Ozzie’s chest, then reached across to lightly brush his fingers over your cheek. “Besides… had my best backup right here. Couldn’t let you two down.”

“You couldnt let us down if you tried, and besides where else would we be?” you asked, voice soft.

Fizz gave a small huff of laughter against Ozzie’s skin. “Literally anywhere else. Greed’s a dump. But… it’s a lot less dumpy with you two here.”

“We’ve got you,” Ozzie said simply, his voice deep and steady, the kind of certainty that left no room for doubt. “Whatever you need. However long you need it.”

Fizz made a small, wordless sound and burrowed closer, his mechanical fingers tightening slightly around your waist like he was anchoring himself. You could feel the faint tremors still running through his frame slowly easing under Ozzie’s touch.

The three of you settled deeper into the bed, the tension of the long, awful day finally bleeding out. Ozzie’s breathing was slow and even, a constant, grounding rhythm beneath you. Fizz’s usual restless energy had mellowed into something quieter—his tail occasionally giving a lazy flick, his hand staying warm and present on your side as if making sure you were really there.

You let your eyes drift shut, safe between the steady heat of Ozzie’s chest and the familiar, slightly jittery warmth of Fizz pressed against you both.

“Night, cutie,” Fizz mumbled eventually, voice thick with sleep as he reached across to give your hand one last gentle squeeze. “Night, Oz.”

But the line was moving slowly. Too slowly. Some families were taking their time, asking multiple questions, requesting several autographs, and you could see the congestion building as kids further back started getting restless.

You looked down at the bag you'd prepared this morning—stuffed with Fizzarolli stickers that one of Mammon's staff had grudgingly provided, after a enthusiastic 'talk' from Ozzie, and a collection of pre-made balloon animals Fizz had created at 6 AM when neither of you could sleep.

Making a decision, you grabbed the bag and started walking down the line.

"Hi there!" you said to the first family, kneeling down to the child's eye level. "The wait's a little long today, so I brought some presents to help! Would you like a Fizzarolli sticker?"

The little imp girl's eyes went wide. "Really?!"

"Really, really!" you confirmed, pulling out a sheet of stickers. "You can pick whichever one you like best!"

The girl studied the options with intense concentration before selecting one of Fizz mid-juggle. "This one! Thank you!"

"You're very welcome," you said, then offered a pre-made balloon dog. "And one of these too, if you want!"

You continued down the line, handing out stickers and balloon animals to increasingly delighted children. Most were enthusiastic and grateful, bouncing with excitement over their prizes. Some were shy, hiding behind their parents' legs and only peeking out to accept the offerings with quiet thank-yous.

One young teenage imp looked at the sticker sheet with disdain. "These are for babies," she said with all the authority of someone who definitely still slept with stuffed animals.

"That's okay," you said pleasantly. "You don't have to take one if you don't want to."

She paused, then grabbed three stickers. "I mean, I guess I could give them to my little sister."

"How generous of you," you said with a straight face.

By the time you made it back to Fizz's table, your bag was significantly lighter and the restlessness in the line had eased. Kids were happily comparing stickers and playing with balloon animals while they waited, the energy shifting from impatient to excited.

Fizz was in the middle of signing an autograph for a young imp boy when you approached. He glanced up, catching your eye, and his whole face lit up with a grin that was entirely genuine.

You gave him a small smile back and carefully slid a bag of snacks onto the table behind the signing area where the current family wouldn't see. Fizz's eyes flicked down to the bag, then back to you, and something soft crossed his expression before he turned his attention back to the child.

"There you go, little man!" Fizz said, handing back the signed poster with a flourish. "One official Fizzarolli autograph, complete with rockets and stars and general amazingness!"

The boy clutched the poster like it was made of gold. "Thank you, Mr. Fizzarolli!"

"Anytime, kiddo!"

As the family moved on, Fizz reached for the snack bag, pulling out what looked like a prestel and taking a bite. He caught you watching and winked, his mouth too full to speak but his expression clearly saying "thank you."

You pulled out your phone to check the time—still another hour of this, probably—and started refilling your bag from the supply stash. More stickers, more balloon animals. You could make another round or two before the line got restless again.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Ozzie:

Big Guy 💙: How's it going? Fizz doing okay?

You smiled, typing back: He's doing great. Knowing this is the last one is helping.

Big Guy 💙: Good. That's good. And you? You're okay?

I'm fine. Just playing assistant. Handing out stickers and balloon animals to keep the kids entertained.

Big Guy 💙: Wonderful. Can't wait to get you both home.

The warmth in the message made your chest feel tight. Home. Back to Lust, to the palace, to safety and comfort and no more fucking Mammon.

You couldn't wait either.

You were about to head back down the line when you noticed something. Near the front—maybe three families back from where Fizz was currently stationed—there was a small imp child practically glued to their parent's leg, peeking around nervously.

The parent, a tired-looking imp mother, was trying to coax the child forward. "Come on, sweetie, we're almost there. Don't you want to meet Fizzarolli?"

The child shook their head vigorously, pressing closer to their mother's leg.

You watched for another moment, then made your way over, kneeling down a safe distance away so you wouldn't overwhelm the little one.

"Hi there," you said softly. The child peeked at you, eyes wide and uncertain. They couldn't have been more than five or six. "I'm Fizz's friend. What's your name?"

The child didn't answer, just stared at you.

The mother sighed. "I'm sorry, they've been so excited about this all week, but now that we're actually here..." She looked down at her child with fond exasperation. "This is Pip. They're the biggest Fizzarolli fan you've ever seen. Watches every video, has all the toys, practices juggling in the living room. But they're also very shy."

"That's okay," you said, still keeping your voice gentle and your posture non-threatening. "Being shy is totally fine. It's actually pretty smart to be careful around new people."

Pip peeked at you again, marginally less terrified.

"Can I tell you a secret?" you asked, pitching your voice like you were sharing something important. Pip nodded slightly. "Fizzarolli gets nervous too sometimes. Before big shows, he gets butterflies in his tummy."

Pip's eyes widened. "Really?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

"Really," you confirmed sitting on the floor next to them. "But you know what helps? Having friends nearby. People who care about you. That makes the scary stuff not so scary."

"Fizzawolli has friends?" Pip asked, their voice still quiet but gaining confidence.

"He does," you said warmly. "And you know what? He'd love to meet you. Because anyone who's a big fan of his is already his friend, even if you haven't met yet."

Pip considered this seriously. "I'm a really big fan," they admitted. "I watch him every day. I think he's the coolest. I wanna be a per... perfor... per—" They struggled with the word, frustration crossing their small face.

"Performer?" you offered gently.

"Yeah! That!" Pip's face lit up. "I wanna be a performer just like Mr. Fizzawolli! Wait, no. Fizzawilli? Fizzar—" They scrunched up their face in concentration. "Fizz-a-roll-i?"

"Close enough," you said with a smile. "I bet Mr. Fizzarolli would think that's adorable."

Pip suddenly seemed to realize they'd been talking to a stranger. Their eyes went wide and they clammed up again, pressing back against their mother's leg. You could see the tears starting to well up, the embarrassment and fear of having been too much, too excited, too—

"Hey, it's okay," you said quickly. "It's actually really cool getting to meet someone who loves performing just as much as Mr. Fizzarolli!"

At the autograph table, Fizzarolli kept the energy high for the fans in front of him, but his sharp eyes kept flicking sideways.

He caught the whole sweet exchange—the shy little imp, the way you handled it so patiently and kindly, the soft way your voice wrapped around the kid like a safety net.

Without missing a beat in his conversation with the current fan, he subtly extended his mechanical arm and angled his phone, snapping a discreet photo of you crouched down talking to Pip.

The jester paint on your face made the whole thing look extra adorable. He fired it off to Ozzie right away.

Froggie 🐸: Big Daddy look at our girl!!! 🥹 i’m literally melting over here 😍😍😍 she’s got the kid calmed down already and she’s still got that cute jester paint on ahhh 😜🌟🤩 too fucking cute.

🥰 Big Daddy 💝: Damn, Froggie. I could watch this all day. Our human’s got such a gentle touch… makes my chest feel all warm and full just seeing it.

Froggie 🐸: right?? she told the kid i get butterflies before shows lmao 🤯🥴🤯 she’s out here spilling my secrets but it’s WORKING. 🥳 There eyes are all big and sparkly. she’s so sweet big daddy i cant stop staring 🥰😍😘 we are so lucky she’s ours 💕

🥰 Big Daddy 💝: We really are. Look how that little impling is starting to relax. She’s got this way about her… So patient, so kind. You’re both killing it over there, babe. Keep an eye on our girl for me.

Froggie 🐸: already doing that 😏 she’s making me look good without even trying and i’m over here signing crap 📝 while she’s winning tiny hearts. 🤩🤩🤩 my heart’s doing flips.

🥰 Big Daddy 💝: Mine too. She’s precious. Both of you are. Don’t get worn out, I’ve got cuddles waiting for my favorite duo.

Froggie 🐸: You got it Big Man 🫡 will deliver one amazing human and one slightly hyper jester safe and sound. love you Oz. 🤪😜🤪

Fizz slipped his phone away just as smoothly as he’d taken it out, flashing another bright, theatrical grin at the next fan in line while his tail gave an excited little flick behind the table.

He couldn’t stop the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest as he watched you handle Pip so sweetly, completely unaware that both he and Ozzie were quietly gushing over how cute and perfect you looked.

"Would it be okay if I took Pip up to meet Mr. Fizzarolli now?" you asked there mother. "Sometimes it's easier to be brave when you don't have time to think about it. And I promise, he's going to think Pip is absolutely wonderful."

The mother looked relieved. "Would you? That would be... yes, please. If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," you assured her. You looked at Pip, who was still teary but watching you with interest now. "What do you say, Pip? Want to come meet Mr. Fizzarolli with me? I'll be right there with you the whole time."

Pip hesitated, then slowly nodded.

"Okay," you said, standing up and offering your hand. "We'll go together. And if you get scared, you can hide behind me, okay? I'm a very good hiding spot."

Pip took your hand with their tiny one, and you led them toward Fizz's table. The current family was just finishing up, and Fizz was waving them off with his usual theatrical flair.

"Mr. Fizzarolli?" you called softly. "I have someone very special who wants to meet you."

Fizz turned, and when he saw you leading the small, nervous child, his entire demeanor shifted. The showman persona softened into something gentler, warmer, more genuine.

"Well hello there!" Fizz said, his voice losing its manic edge and becoming genuinely kind. "Who do we have here?"

"This is Pip," you said. "They're your biggest fan. They want to be a performer just like you when they grow up."

Fizz's expression melted into something so tender it made your chest ache. He immediately lowered himself down, using his mechanical limbs to bring himself closer to Pip's eye level without looming over them.

"A performer, huh?" Fizz said warmly. "That's amazing! Do you juggle? I bet you'd be great at juggling."

Pip nodded shyly. "I practice," they whispered. "With... with bean bags. Mama says I can't use fire yet."

"Your mama is very smart," Fizz said seriously. "Fire juggling is advanced stuff. You gotta master the basics first! How many can you juggle?"

"Two," Pip admitted. "Sometimes three but I drop them a lot."

"Two is fantastic!" Fizz said enthusiastically. "I couldn't even do two when I was your age! Well, I probably could have, but let's pretend I couldn't so you feel extra impressive!"

Pip giggled, a small, sweet sound, and you saw them relax slightly.

"You know what?" Fizz said, like he'd just had the best idea ever. "I think someone as talented as you deserves a very special autograph. And maybe..." He produced a balloon from seemingly nowhere. "A balloon animal? What's your favorite animal?"

"Dragons," Pip said immediately, their shyness temporarily forgotten in their excitement. "I love dragons!"

"Dragons it is!" Fizz declared, and his hands moved in a blur, twisting and shaping the balloon into an elaborate dragon that was a little more detailed than what you'd seen him make for the other kids. He even added little wings and spikes along the back. "There we go! One official Fizzarolli dragon, made especially for Pip!"

Pip took the dragon with eyes huge. "It's so cool," they breathed.

"Just like you," Fizz said with a wink. Then he pulled out a photo print—one of his promotional posters—and signed it with elaborate flourish. "To Pip, the future greatest performer in all of Hell! Keep practicing, keep dreaming, and remember—you're already amazing! Love, Fizzarolli." He added hearts and stars around his signature, then presented it to Pip. "There you go, superstar."

Pip clutched both the dragon and the photo, tears welling up again, but happy tears this time. "Thank you, Mr. Fizzawolli!"

"You're very welcome, Pip," Fizz said gently. "And hey, when you're famous someday, remember to let me into your show before you sell out, okay?"

Pip nodded vigorously, and you guided them back to their mother, who was watching with tears in her own eyes.

"What do we say?" the mother prompted.

"Thank you!" Pip said again, louder this time, clutching their treasures. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

You rejoined Fizz at the table as the next family approached, and he shot you a look that was pure warmth and affection.

"You're incredible with them," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

"They just needed someone to believe they could be brave," you said.

Fizz's expression went soft, and he opened his mouth like he wanted to say something important, but the next family was there, and the moment passed.

By the time the last family left, both you and Fizz were exhausted but satisfied. The meet and greet had gone well—genuinely well, not just "survived" well. Kids had been happy, parents had been pleasant, and there hadn't been a inappropriate question about Fizzie-bots in over 5 hours.

"Freedom!" Fizz declared, stretching his mechanical limbs out to their full extension. "Sweet, beautiful freedom! No more Greed! No more Mammon! No more entitled brats! Well, until the next tour, but that's future Fizz's problem!"

"Future Fizz is going to have opinions about present Fizz's attitude," you said, starting to pack up the leftover stickers and balloon supplies.

"Future Fizz can bite me," Fizz said cheerfully, already breaking down the signing table. "Present Fizz is going home!"

You worked together in comfortable synchronization—you gathering supplies, Fizz handling the larger equipment. Mammon's staff had mostly vanished now that there was no more money to be made, leaving you two to clean up on your own. But you didn't mind. It was peaceful, actually, just the two of you working together.

"You were amazing today," you said as you sealed up the last box of merchandise. "With all those kids. Especially with Pip."

Fizz paused in his packing, something vulnerable crossing his face. "That kid was adorable. Did you hear them trying to say my name? 'Fizzawolli.' I'm gonna think about that forever."

"They love you," you said simply. "Really love you. Not the brand, not the character. You."

"Yeah, well," Fizz said, but his voice was rough. "Kids are easy. They haven't learned to be jaded yet. Give them a few years and they'll be just as cynical as everyone else in this hellhole."

"I don't think Pip's going to become cynical," you said firmly. "I think they're going to become a performer, and they're going to remember the day Fizzarolli made them a dragon and told them they were already amazing."

Fizz looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he crossed the space between you and pulled you into a hug—careful, gentle, but tight enough that you could feel him trembling slightly.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his face buried in your hair. "For being here. For helping. For... everything."

You wrapped your arms around him, mindful of his mechanical parts. "Where else would I be?"

"Literally anywhere else," Fizz said, but there was affection in his voice. "Greed sucks. This whole week has sucked. But you and Oz being here made it suck less."

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me," you said dryly, and Fizz laughed, the sound muffled against your shoulder.

"I'll work on my romantic declarations," he promised. "Add it to the list of things to improve. Right after 'stop agreeing to Mammon's bullshit.'"

Your phone buzzed, and you reluctantly pulled back to check it.

Big Guy 💙: I'm outside with the car. Take your time, but I'm ready whenever you are. Can't wait to get you both home.

"Ozzie's here," you said, showing Fizz the message.

"Finally!" Fizz declared, immediately shifting back into his energetic mode. "Let's blow this joint! Or whatever the Hell equivalent of that saying is! Let's blow this... suffering stand? Pain stand? That doesn't work. Anyway, let's get the fuck out of here!"

Ozzie was waiting outside his face brightening when he saw you both emerge from the venue.

"There you are," he said, and the relief in his voice was palpable. "How was it?"

"Better," Fizz said, already moving to load boxes into the trunk. "Way better than the other days. No creepy fans, no entitled brats, just actual kids who actually wanted to be there."

"And one very shy fan who wanted to be a performer," you added, helping with the lighter boxes. "Fizz was so sweet with them."

"Of course he was," Ozzie said warmly. "He's good with kids. When they're actually kids and not miniature nightmares."

"Hey, even the miniature nightmares weren't so bad today," Fizz said. "I think the universe knew it was my last day and decided to cut me some slack."

Once everything was loaded, Ozzie ushered you both into the car. You took one of the individual seats while Fizz sprawled across another, and Ozzie settled into the massive back area designed for his size.

"Comfortable?" Ozzie asked, and when you both nodded, he raised the privacy partition and signaled the driver to go.

The relief of leaving Greed was immediate and physical. You felt your shoulders relax as the car pulled away from Mammon's territory, heading toward the road that would take you home.

The seats were incredibly comfortable—plush and soft with just enough support. The gentle motion of the car, combined with the exhaustion from the day, made your eyelids heavy.

"You should rest," Ozzie said gently. "It's a long drive back to Lust."

"I'm fine," you said, even as you yawned.

"You're exhausted," Ozzie corrected. "You've been running around all day helping Froggie. Sleep, Little one. We'll wake you when we get home."

You wanted to protest, but another yawn overtook you. The seat was so comfortable, and you were so tired, and the rhythmic motion of the car was so soothing...

"Just for a few minutes," you mumbled, already drifting.

You were asleep before you could hear Fizz's fond laugh or Ozzie's soft "She's out already."

Fizz waited until he was absolutely sure you were deeply asleep before moving from his seat to settle next to Ozzie in the larger back area. Ozzie's massive arm came around him immediately, pulling him close, and Fizz melted into the familiar embrace.

"She did so good today," Fizz said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ozzie, you should have been there to see it. Her walking up and down that line, making kids smile, helping that tiny little Impling meet me. She was fucking amazing."

"I'm sure she was," Ozzie said, his own voice low and warm. "She's been amazing through all of this. Supporting you, being there, never complaining."

"I don't deserve her," Fizz said, and there was something raw in his voice. "I don't deserve either of you."

"Fizz—"

"I'm serious," Fizz interrupted, still keeping his voice down so he wouldn't wake you. "Look at her, Oz. She's perfect. She's sweet and kind and patient and she doesn't even realize how incredible she is. And she's here with us. Chose to be with us. With me."

"Yes, she did," Ozzie confirmed gently. "Because she cares about you. About us."

Fizz was quiet for a moment, watching you sleep, your face peaceful and relaxed in a way it hadn't been during the stress of the day.

"I'm kinda scared," Fizz admitted finally, the words coming out small and vulnerable.

"Of what?" Ozzie asked, though his tone suggested he had an idea.

"Of fucking this up," Fizz said. "Of hurting her. Literally hurting her, Oz. When we... when things get more ... When we..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"When we make love to her," Ozzie supplied gently.

"Yeah," Fizz said, his voice cracking slightly. "That. I'm terrified, Oz. I haven't been with a girl since I was a teenager, and that was before the accident, before all of this—" He gestured at his mechanical limbs. "I don't even know if— she's human too, that makes her fragile. What if I hurt her? What if I'm too rough, or I don't know my own strength with these fucking robot arms, or what if the joints lock up at a bad time, or—"

"Fizz, Baby," Ozzie interrupted gently, his hand coming up to cup Fizz's face. "Thats not gonna happen."

Fizz took a shaky breath, but his eyes were still panicked.

"You're not going to hurt her," Ozzie said firmly, voice deep and reassuring. "You're the gentlest, most attentive lover I've ever had. After all these years, you still know exactly how to drive me wild—those clever hands, that perfect rhythm you find when you're focused on making someone feel good... You’re incredible in bed, Fizzy-frog. Passionate, playful, and so damn responsive. Our girl is going to melt."

"But sex is different," Fizz said desperately. "It's vulnerable and intimate and there's so much that could go wrong. What if I can't feel enough to know if I'm being too rough for her, or fuck ... not rough enough—"

"Froggie" Ozzie murmured, softer now, leaning in to press a lingering, affectionate kiss to Fizz's lips before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "You'll figure it out, its just communication babe. Besides you know you're the one who makes me lose control every time we’re together —the way you move, the sounds you make. You know how to please. And with her? You’ll be careful, more loving. Because that’s who you are."

Fizz leaned into Ozzie's touch, eyes drifting closed for a second. "What if she doesn't like it? What if I'm bad at it now? It's been so long, and even back then I wasn't exactly experienced, and now with everything that's different—"

"She's not going to judge you, baby," Ozzie said gently, his hand sliding down to squeeze Fizz's waist possessively. "She cares about you. Not some picture perfect bullshit. You. And trust me—once she feels how good you can make her feel, how attentive and loving you are... she’s going to be just as addicted to you as I am."

Fizz met his eyes, and Ozzie's expression was so tender it made his chest ache.

"I don't know if I can—"

"Yes, you can," Ozzie said firmly. "You're the same person who just spent all day making children feel safe and happy. The same person who can perform intricate acrobatics that require perfect body control. You're not going to suddenly become clumsy and careless when we're with her."

Fizz leaned into Ozzie's touch, his eyes drifting closed.

"She cares about us, Fizz. Not our performance in bed."

"Easy for you to say," Fizz muttered, though some of the tension was starting to ease under Ozzie’s praise. "You're literally the embodiment of Lust. You're a sex god."

"And you're the crooked, horny, freaky, delicious little joker who’s had me wrapped around your finger for years," Ozzie replied with a low, amorous chuckle, nuzzling closer. "You’re amazing, Fizzy. In every way you're the person I'm in love with," Ozzie said simply. "The person she's falling for. Not because of what you can do in bed, but because of who you are."

Fizz opened his eyes, looking over at your sleeping form. You'd shifted slightly in your seat, curling up into a more comfortable position, completely unaware of the conversation happening a few feet away.

"She's so trusting," Fizz said quietly. "She just... falls asleep in the car with us. Doesn't worry that we might do something, doesn't second-guess. Just trusts us completely."

"Because she feels safe with us," Ozzie said. "And that trust is precious, Fizz. We're going to honor it. Both of us."

"I want to," Fizz said, his voice barely audible. "I want to be with her. With both of you. I want... everything. I'm just scared I'm going to fuck it up."

"Then we'll go slow," Ozzie said. "We'll talk about it. We'll make sure everyone's comfortable. And Fizz?" He waited until Fizz met his eyes. "I'll be there too. We're in this together, remember? All three of us. You don't have to figure everything out on your own."

Fizz let out a shaky breath, some of the tension finally starting to ease from his frame. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably implode from anxiety," Ozzie said dryly, and Fizz let out a watery laugh.

"Probably," he agreed. Then, softer: "I really do want to be with her, you know. With both of you. Together. I'm just..."

"Scared," Ozzie finished. "I know. But fear doesn't mean you can't do something. It just means it matters enough to be scary."

Fizz nodded, settling more comfortably against Ozzie's side. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise," Ozzie said with mock offense. "You just never noticed because you were too busy being a chaos gremlin."

"I'm a delightful chaos gremlin," Fizz corrected.

"You are," Ozzie agreed warmly. "You really are."