Maintenance

by bluexjayy

Summary:

Striker sighed, as he looked out into the mirror of the shittily lit bathroom of the motel that he and Blitz were staying in.

 

It was 6:30 on a Saturday morning, and Blitz was still asleep from the night before when he’d gotten drunk at the saloon next to the motel that the imp had gone to after they’d arrived in the town for their current supply run. It’d been a month or two since their last run anyways, along with their run-in with the popstar succubus Verosika Mayday, but that was a story for another day.

 

Running his reddened claws through his hair, he noticed the dark, black strands that protruded out of what was dyed an off white, thicker and longer than they had been in a while.

~~~
Or:

Striker is trans and is desperate to hide the fact that he is, since nobody can know that.

Sometimes though, he needed to maintain the parts that he hid, his darker hair showing through from under the dyed whites, paint to cover his mostly darkened horns, that kind of thing.

And sometimes, he had to restock on the items he used he used to hide these.

But, sometimes, accidents happen.

Notes:

• For prince_of_the_stars, sobeksewerrat.

Trigger Warnings for minor transphobia, internalized transphobia, minor use of the T slur, slightly implied self harm and accidental outing.

~~~

I’d suggest you read other fics that this series (Fresh Blood) is apart of first before reading this, but it can be read on it’s own, you’ll just be missing context to it.

~~~

For Adam and Em, just thank you for everything. I’m so glad to have you as friends/gen

Chapter 1

Striker sighed, as he looked out into the mirror of the shittily lit bathroom of the motel that he and Blitz were staying in.

 

It was 6:30 on a Saturday morning, and Blitz was still asleep from the night before when he’d gotten drunk at the saloon next to the motel that the imp had gone to after they’d arrived in the town for their current supply run. It’d been a month or two since their last run anyways, along with their run-in with the popstar succubus Verosika Mayday, but that was a story for another day.

 

Running his reddened claws through his hair, he noticed the dark, black strands that protruded out of what was dyed an off white, thicker and longer than they had been in a while. 

 

Under normal circumstances, he’d have just covered up the dark colored hair, hidden under the cover of his hat, or have slicked back the visible strands of black to be unnoticeable like he normally would, but now, it was just too long to not notice the darker colored stands that leaked through into the sea of whites.

 

Sure, he could probably go a few more days, maybe a week if he was lucky without having to dye it, but he couldn’t wait for more than that, or he’d be revealed.

 

He groaned upon realizing he’d have to dye it again soon, already knowing that he’d run out of what he had back at the lava cave. That meant he’d have to buy more while they were out here, along with more of the white paint he used to simulate the horns of a male imps’. 

 

Just great.

 

Picking at the strands at the back of his head, he realized how long it had gotten as well. It had grown to just above where his neck met his back, which wasn't necessarily too long, but still, it was longer in length than he liked, even when he had it slicked up.

 

Meaning he’d have to cut it. 

 

Lovely.

 

He wouldn't have even minded that much had he been living alone, even if it meant having to deal with how gross his body felt whenever he did cut it, but no, he was living with Blitz now, and he didn't know.

 

And he couldn't let Blitz know.

 

He just couldn't. 

 

No one could know.

 

No one.

 

He looked down at his hand, noticing that he’d been clutching onto his left wrist again, once more leaving an imprint on it.

 

Satan, he had to stop doing that.

 

Looking back up, he glanced at his horns in the mirror, letting out a sigh of relief once he saw that, at least the white horn paint hadn’t started to fade, crack or peel yet, which was good.

 

The longer he didn’t need to repaint them, the better.

 

Putting on his hat after securing it over his horns, he felt his long tail sway behind him as he exited the motel room, Blitz still snoring loudly on the bed.

 

He rolled his eyes at that, before locking the door and making his way into the town.

 

The ground in this town was firmer than Twister Basin’s, but was still rather sandy, said sand dancing in the wind near his ankles as he walked through the quiet streets of it, not many demons up or out yet.

 

He pulled the red cloth of the bandanna he almost always wore over his snout, covering a good majority of the burn scars that spread over his face, over top the teared black jacket he’d grabbed when he’d left the motel room, before stopping in front of a pharmacy-like building, a newer edition to the town based on the building style of it, he noted.

 

Walking in, he was blinded by the bright whites that lit up the store despite it being early morning, and a half-assed “Hello” from the demon sitting at the front desk.

 

He made his way through the store, not bothering to look at anything in the store other than the labeled rows of shelves until he found the sections with the dye and paint, before making his way back to the front of the store to buy the shit.

 

Normally, he’d have just stolen the stuff, since the store reeked of a capitalist chain, but he’d nicked a card off some pompous dickhead the night before, back when he had to pick up Blitz from the bar the night before. Besides, it wasn’t his money, and the store wouldn’t be getting any of the money anyway.

 

It was a win for him and a loss for the other fuckers, so he was happy with it.

 

Once he’d paid he made his way to the exit, before getting stopped by the same demon that’d half-assed the “Hello” from earlier.

 

The demon stood taller than Striker, which sadly, wasn’t out of the ordinary from him with most other demons, and had light blue-purple skin with accents of a yellow similar to Striker’s eye color. From what he could tell, they were a mix of an incubi and a loan shark. They wore a beanie and sweatshirt that were similar colors to the teals that speckled his face, with a grey vest over it that was likely store mandated. It had a name tag on it, stating that the demon was named “Colfin”.

 

“Hey there buddy,” The demon said, placing a hand on Striker’s shoulder, which he immediately disliked, before continuing saying, “I’m gonna need to check your bag. New store policy.”

 

Striker glared up at the demon, annoyed as the fish rudely snatched the bag that contained the dye and paint from him. 

 

He felt his tail begin to rattle as he watched the fish rummage through the bag, before setting it down the counter behind him.

 

“Pfff. Oh my fucking Leviathan! Is that seriously what you’re buying?” The demon in front of him started laughing, before continuing, “What, your girl decide she’s some tranny or something, and sent you out to do the dirty work for her? Oh my Satan dude..”

 

Striker let out a soft hiss, reaching towards the dagger he had concealed inside of the jacket he’d worn, before moving his hand back.

 

He didn’t need to make a scene, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

No matter how much that fucker deserved it for calling him a girl and whatever the hell the other thing meant.

 

If he made a scene, it’d be worse for him and Blitz.

 

And besides, last time he did, he ended up in an abandoned mineshaft with a fractured tail and sprained wrist.

 

He let out a sigh, before responding to the demon.

 

“Heh, so what if ‘I was doin’ that for ‘er,” Striker silently grimaced as he said that, the discomfort of referring to himself with feminine terms rushing throughout his body as he continued, “It ain’t none of yer business though. So, why don’t ya hand me my bag and ‘ll be on my way huh? ‘N I’d rather not have tah deal with blood on my hands this early in the mornin’ if ‘I ain’t gotta.”

 

The demon stared down at him, a look of shock and fear on his face, before quickly changing it to anger.

 

“I… Fucking hell dude, can you not take a fucking joke..” 

 

Striker grinned as he watched the incubi loan shark hybrid sulk off back to where he’d sat behind the counter previously, back when he’d first entered the store, the same look of fear and awe still stuck on their face from his implied threat.

 

Serves ‘em right, he thought to himself, before grabbing the bag with his stuff and leaving the store, making his way back through the sand covered streets, still quiet as they were before, back to the motel.

 

Once he’d made his way up the creaky planked stairs back up to Blitz and his motel room, he looked through the window next to the door. 

 

Phew.

 

Blitz was still asleep, likely a mix of being hungover from the night before and yesterday’s drive over.

 

The imp would never know that Striker was gone, never know that he’d bought what he did.

 

He sighed before unlocking the door to the room, entering it as silently as he'd left it.

 

Checking again, he looked around the area, making sure that nothing had been moved or repositioned in the 20 minutes he'd been gone.

 

…

 

The remote to the TV that Blitz had insisted they had to have in their room was still in the same position he’d left it in.

 

The bathroom door was still slightly ajar, same as it'd been when he'd left and the clothes that Blitz had left to the right of the bed were still piled up, not a crease in the fabric having shifted at all.

 

Yep, everything was the same as when he left. 

 

He exhaled once more, before setting the bag down next to him, and taking off the torn pinstripe jacket, hanging it onto the corner of a chair that sat in the room, before realizing that the jacket wasn’t his, and was instead, Blitz’s.

 

That explained why it felt so weird on him, he thought to himself before picking up the bag once more.

 

He walked over to where he and Blitz had left their baggage, settling his items at the bottom of the saddlebag he normally used for Bombproof. Sadly, the horse was back at his cave of lava, he and Blitz having taken Blitz’s van to the town. More room to carry supplies was the reason, Blitz had said. (Though Striker suspected it was due to the imp’s poor horse riding skills.)

 

He didn’t think Blitz would look in the saddlebag anyway, he'd never done so before, but it was better to take precautions than not, he thought.

 

And so time went on, he and Blitz managed to collect enough resources that could last them a little more than 2 months, with only a few minor mishaps, which was a new record, considering what had happened last time.

 

Then came the time to leave the town with their supplies, to head back to the Lava Cave Lair. 

 

“Hey, Strikes?” Blitz asked him, standing in the center of the room, a yellow bag slung on his back, just nearly matching the color of the bandanna he wore, “Ya ready to get going? The van’s almost packed, and Satan, that fucker is full. I’m pretty sure we’ve got everything though, just my pack and your horse bag gotta go in. I can take it out for ya, but you’ll owe me…!”

 

“Yeah yeah, whatever the fuck ya said Blitzy,” He responded back, finishing the buttoning of his vest. Sure, it made his ribs hurt like shit, especially with sleeping with the bandages wrapped around his chest, but it was better than Blitz finding out he was a fraud..

 

“‘ll be back B, ‘ve gotta grab some apples fer Bomb quick. She’ll be a real bitch when we get back, so that’ll hopefully calm ‘er down enough fer her to not stampede ‘round the cave this time,” he said, looking up at Blitz now.

 

“Ha, right. Go get your kinky shit for your cool as fuck horse, I’ll see ya at the car in a few, ‘Kay?” 

 

“Right.” 

 

Striker left the motel once more, walking towards the market in the center of the town.

 

It was sunset, so the stands would be closing for the night soon. 

 

He figured he could grab the apples for cheap, hide his face in the dark, warm shadows from the star’s fallen rays, and leave quick so that he couldn’t be recognized. 

 

And it worked flawlessly. 

 

He sauntered to the stand, owned by an older baphomet who ended up giving him a satchel of the fruits for free. (He slipped the older goat a few souls though. Satan knew that the demon needed it, and besides, this was the kind of thing he was willing to spend his money on. He knew how it felt anyways.)

 

Then he got back to the car.

 

It felt everything was normal at first, the vehicle was still dark in color, the hastily spray painted B.B.L. still in yellow that caused demon to give them weird looks still there, but he kept feeling like something was up. Then he heard a loud “FUCK” emit from the back of the car, followed by a string of shits.

 

And even then, that was normal. Blitz probably just dropped something and overreacted like he normally did.

 

But still, it felt like something had happened. He wasn’t sure what, but it was something.

 

That was when he saw what Blitz’d dropped.

 

His saddlebag.

 

There it layed on the firm red sand, its contents spilled out.

 

He heard Blitz begin to talk, rambling out something, but he barely heard what.

 

He had frozen, his neon colored eyes locked on the hair dye and horn paint, fallen in the crisp reds of the sand.

 

Blitz knew.

 

He knew, he knew, he knew.

 

He wasn’t supposed to know, he wasn’t supposed to know, he wasn’t supposed to know!

 

Striker felt his breathing speed up, heavy pangs in his chest from the bandaging holding those stupid fucking breasts back.

 

That was when he ran.

 

Now that Blitz knew, he’d have to go back.

 

Back to the fucking long black hair, the dark colored horns, the horrible chest he’d been cursed with having.

 

He couldn’t do that.

 

He just couldn’t. 

 

He hated it, he hated living like that so fucking much. 

 

It wasn’t him, it had never been him.

 

But now Blitz knew.

 

So he hid.

Notes:

Hi all!!
I know this isn’t an update for Lusting for Blood yet again, but it’s something!

Striker being trans has always been an important thing to me, and I wanted to have a few fics in this series that were shorter and delved into the topic a bit more, thus creating this :D

Don’t worry btw, in the next chapter our snakey boy gets comfort, but not for now :3

And finally, as always I hope you enjoyed reading this, and maybe if you did, you could leave a kudos and a comment? (If ur comfortable with commenting of course) I love reading them, and they give me more motivation to write :D

See ya soon! (hopefully)

—Jayy

Chapter 2

Notes:

Trigger warning for implied/referenced self harm and self hatred, but that should be about it with the warnings I think.

Enjoy :3

Fuck, Blitzø thought to himself, as he quickly reached down, digging his claws in the sand to grab the hair dye bottles and horn paint that had fallen out of the saddlebag he’d so carelessly managed to to empty. 

 

He hadn’t even fully processed what had happened in that moment, he just knew he’d something fucked up.

 

One second, he’d been packing the last two bags from the motel room he and Striker had shared into his van, the next, he’d spilled out the contents of his partner’s bag. Then, Striker, upon came back froze upon seeing the emptied bag’s contents scattered about in the sand, and ran away as if it were for his life, almost the same as he had previously, all those months ago when Blitz’d shot the bullet at that gasoline canister that hit Striker in the eye, giving his fellow demon scars that matched and were as hideous as his own.

 

He hastily shoved the bottles back into the bag, not bothering to brush off the flame colored sand off the the items before throwing the bag in the trunk of the van.

 

That was when he realized why the half-serpent had ran.

 

Shit. 

 

He had fucked up bad. 

 

What he’d done was so much worse than he could’ve thought.

 

He’d accidentally outed the demon. 

 

The much more western imp was the same as he was, born in a body that wasn’t meant to be his own.

 

That was what the hair dye was for, what the horn paint was bought for. To hide the parts of the snake’s body that’d made him seem feminine. 

 

He understood where the cowboy came from with that at least. He himself had gotten his titties chopped off as soon as he could, had gotten a horn transplant from some random ass donor who’d had a similar horn shape to the mostly black ones he’d grown up with, getting the surgeries when he’d been with Ver.

 

It probably explained why the bandages they had back at the cave went through so quickly too. The snake probably bound his chest with them. How the demon’s back was alright with that and the shitty ass bed the guy slept on, he’d never know.

 

He'd try to find something else for the snake to bind in at some point too. Bandages were never good for that shit.

 

Satan, of course he had managed to accidentally out the snake! It felt like all he did was fuck up when it came to Striker.

 

He had to find the demon, he had to make this right. 

 

No one deserved to get outed, not even demon who were dickheads like Striker. (Though he was still a lovable idiot, Blitz thought.)

 

He threw the black leather jacket he’d been wearing into the car, before slamming the van’s trunk door shut, kicking up the rust colored sand from his boots, before going off to look for the half-snake. 

 

He just first had to figure out where the fuck said half-snake would’ve gone.

 

-

 

Striker let out a heavy breath, as if he were panting in the same way hellhound did when they ran, before slamming a sharp reddened fist down onto the cold brimstone tiles that decorated the floor of the shitty motel bathroom.

 

Satan fucking damn it.

 

He’d exposed himself. 

 

He never should’ve let that fucking fool touch his bag, never should’ve even left to grab those stupid fucking apples, they were the devil’s fruit for a fucking reason!

 

He was so fucking stupid for trusting that imp.

 

And now he knew his biggest fucking secret, and all those sleepless nights, the all-nighters he’d pulled, ever so meticulously trying to make sure that he’d never know, were useless.

 

Blitz knew that he wasn’t born a man.

 

He knew that he was a fake, a fraud.

 

And soon enough probably, that there was more shit about himself he’d hidden, other than just the fact that he didn’t have a fucking ballsack.

 

He looked up at himself in the now cracked mirror, a virtue from when he’d first ran into the room.

 

The paint on his horns was now cracked, crusty, and looked as if it were beginning to bunch together like wooden beams molding from acid rain.

 

He sighed, before bringing a claw to a horn to scrape off the white paint that remained in a sad attempt to hide his feminine horns. Why should he give a shit about it anymore, now that his secret was out?! 

 

It felt gross knowing that someone else knew that he… about his… Satan, he didn’t even know how to fucking describe what he was, other than a vile amalgamation of things no one wanted.

 

He hated himself, hated his body, hated everything to do with it. 

 

His natural hair color was too dark, and if he were to ever let the soot colored strands grow out, (not that he wanted to, or planned to), he’d be thought of as a woman and he wanted everything but that. It was the same with his horns, their ink colored natural physique causing the same outcome as his hair. (He didn’t mind them as much, but still.)

 

Then there was his torso. It was already smothered in scars, many scratches from when he’d rake his pointed claws across his chest, often drawing blood, causing the skin around it to turn red, from when he’d been younger, (despite still doing it somewhat often now), and others being casualties from his line of work. It had been speckled with imperfections long ago, and they didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon. 

 

And his breasts. The biggest imperfection of them all. The cursed pieces of flesh that had developed when he’d been small, hunks of meat and fat that made him feel horrible. They were the things that cemented his hatred for his body, the real kick in the ass that made people think he was a woman. 

 

It was why he covered his body up.

 

Bandages wrapped around his ever too thin body, covered by dark colored shirts, vests and jackets. 

 

He wanted to hide it all. 

 

He just.. he wanted to hide it all away…

 

He sighed again, before raising a claw to his face, wiping away at his eyes. 

 

He felt liquid on his fingertips, tears that’d likely formed while he sat on the bathroom floor. 

 

Shit, he hadn’t realized he’d been crying. 

 

Satan, he was so fucking weak. 

 

Real men didn’t cry, he knew that. But he was no man, not with the body he’d been born with. 

 

He was just a fraud, like everything else he pretended to be. A man, happy with himself, and the best assassin the Ring of Wrath had ever seen.

 

 It was all just a lie. And even then, that lie was unfolding, pulling apart at the seams underneath him.

 

He heard a few light patters, but paid no mind to it. It was probably just the bathroom’s leaky sink faucet pebbling out water droplets like it had during he and Blitz’s stay there that’d kept him up at night. 

 

“Striker?”

 

He looked up from where he sat, the other imp now standing inside the bathroom’s doorway.

 

He scoffed. Of course Blitz had to come and find him. Probably to make fun of him for being a fake man or something along the sorts.

 

“The ‘ell do ya want?” He responded in a sour tone, looking away from Blitz as his voice cracked, “n’ how the ‘ell’d ya get ‘ere without me hearin’ ya?”

 

The other imp sighed, adjusting his eyes onto the snake imp, his legs sprawled out onto the ground. 

 

“Listen Strikes, I fucked up. I fucked up bad, I accidentally outed you to me and I’m just.. I’m sorry.”

 

Striker glanced back up at the imp in the doorway, a look of confusion flashing across his face.

 

“What the ‘ell are you on about?” He muttered through sharpened teeth, the taste of metal sinking into his mouth from the golden insert in his gums. 

 

“I… fuck. Did I read this wrong?? You are trans, right???”

 

“Trans?”

 

“I-You know, Transgender?? Being born and getting told by everyone that you were a girl, while in reality, you knew you really were a guy? Or… vice versa, born a guy when you really were a girl. Basically, getting told you’re one thing when you really are something else.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

Striker looked away from the imp, a million thoughts rushing through his mind. 

 

So. 

 

There was a term for what he was. 

 

Transgender…

 

He let it roll off his forked tongue, before sighing. 

 

Why would it matter anyway, if he wasn’t a real man.

 

“Strikes?”

 

And with that, he was tossed out his thoughts yet again by the scarred imp. It happened so often at this point, Striker felt, that he shouldn’t be surprised by it anymore.

 

“Shit. I’m sorry for springing all this on you, I know you’re probably dealing with a lot right now and with me accidentally doing what I did and all. I just. I figured I’d try to at least give you an outlet for it all. Or at least some of it. Or nothing if you don’t want to actually. I just, I’m here if you wanna talk buddy. And I’m sorry. Again. For everything,” Blitz rambled, his tail waving as held onto the bathroom’s door.

 

Striker paused for a second, before muttering to himself, “Yeah, well it ain't matter anyway, not if ‘m a fake.” 

 

“Striker, get your ass off that floor.” 

 

“What?!” 

 

He hissed out, shocked at what the imp’d said. Wasn’t that fucker literally just on about how he was “sorry” and shit???

 

“You heard me, pick your ass up off the floor. I wanna show you something, and it’s kinda hard to do that when you’re moping on the floor like that, fuckass,” The imp replied, a mischievous grin beginning to form on his face.

 

“Fine,” was all Striker responded with, before —begrudgingly— getting up and trailing behind Blitz over to the bed he’d slept on the previous night.

 

As he Striker sat down next to the imp on the bed, his ever long tail on his side, flicking softy, he turned over to Blitz, arms crossed.

 

“So, the ‘ell’d ya want tah show me so fuckin’ badly, n’ the ‘ell does it have tah do with me bein’ a freak?”

 

He heard the other imp sigh, before saying, “Give me a second, ‘Kay?”

 

He muttered another “Fine,” to Blitz, before turning to him, before having his eyes widen up, the dark saggy eyebags he had suddenly seeming to disappear as they opened.

 

Blitz was in the midst of unbuttoning the cream colored shirt that he’d been wearing, the mustard colored bandanna he’d repurposed as an ascot this trip already off and next to him on the wrinkled bed sheets.

 

“‘Ey! I-What the ‘ell are ya doin’?!”

 

A hundred thoughts flashed through Striker’s head once again, causing him to spiral once more. 

 

What the fuck was Blitz doing?!! They didn’t do this sort of shit together, they didn’t take off clothes in front of each other! They’d never done so before when they traveled together, let alone when they were home! It was some sort of unspoken agreement that he and Blitz had had, at least, that’s what he thought! Taking off clothes led to… other vile activity in his experience, and he. He just didn’t want that.

 

“Calm your tits Snakey, I told ya ‘m showin’ ya something!” Blitz responded back, before quickly continuing in a stammer, “Wait fuck no don’t do that. Shit sorry fuck.”

 

He murmured an “‘T’s fine,” to him, crossing his arms as he looked away from Blitz. 

 

“Alright uh, Strikes, look at me. I’ve got what I wanted to show you out now.”

 

Striker turned back to Blitz, looking at the imp for whatever he had wanted to show him so badly.

 

Blitz’s shirt was off, showing off the dark red colored skin on his chest, scattered with cotton colored scars of various shapes and sizes, each likely with their own story.

 

“I-What the ‘ell ‘m I lookin’ at Shotgun. Ya just want me here tah so ya can show off how yer a man and ‘I ain’t? ‘Cause ‘I already know that,” He snarled out at Blitz, watching as the imp’s scared face changed from something cheerful to a look of concern.

 

“The fuck? Nah, I’d never fucking do that. It’d be hypa, no that’s not it… hypo-cat.. fuck. You know the word, whatever,” Blitz responded back, reaching towards Striker’s right hand that he’d laid on the bed spread, “Mind if I…?”

 

Blitz looked towards the hand he’d already been reaching towards, and Striker yet again, begrudgingly obliged, letting Blitz take his hand and guide it towards whatever the hell he wanted to show him.

 

“Right so uh, Striker, you weren’t looking hard enough when I told ya to look at me. See this?” Blitz pressed Striker’s claw onto a scar on the darkened chest.

 

 It looked slightly faded, and was rough, seeming like it’s been there for years. There seemed to be a matching one on the other side of his chest.

 

“Yeah? It’s just a scar B, we’ve all got ‘em,” he responded back, rolling his neon spiraled eyes.

 

“Well uh. Satan this is gonna sound dumb as fuck… Those are the scars from where my tits used to be.”

 

Striker’s eyes widened yet again, upon hearing what Blitz’d said.

 

“Used to? The fuck did they go?!” 

 

“I - for fuck’s sake Rattles, I’m trans too.” 

 

Striker paused, quickly taking his hand away from Blitz. 

 

Blitz. 

 

He was like… like him?

 

“I - ya are? But yer horns…”

 

“Fuck yeah I am, ‘t’s like ya don’t know me! You never noticed me makin’ the tittie-having and dickless jokes, did ya Scales?” Blitz grinned at him, placing down his own clawed hand onto Striker's before continuing, “As for my horns though, after I got my tits cut off, decided to get a transplant to match instead of havin’ to paint ‘em all the time. That knick there’s from a.. uh, a mission I had with Mills a few years back… but that just makes it look more natural, ‘specially paired with my T.”

 

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, before Blitz turned to him.

 

“Look, Striker, no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re a fake or a fraud or whatever the hell you say about yourself, you’re a man. You chose that, and you’re been living it for years it seems, and you’ll never have to go back to being the bitch you never were. If anyone says otherwise, I’ll shoot ‘em in the balls or tits, ‘Kay? You’re just as much of a man as anyone else.”

 

Striker turned towards Blitz, sighing before placing a hand on Blitz’s shoulder.

 

“Thanks… Blitz,” he muttered to the imp, before getting up, “Ya ready tah leave this god forsaken town now? ‘I never wanna come back ‘ere.”

 

“Eh, fair enough,” Blitz responded back, shrugging, “We’d better get a move on if we wanna get back before your horse destroys the damn place huh?”

 

“Bomb?” Striker snorted, opening the door for Blitz as they walked out of the room, “My girl’d never do that.”

 

“Yeah… sure Scales. Now, mind telling me about how they ya got your mustache? Ya been holding out on a stash of T on me or somethin’?” Blitz giggled, his tail swishing the reddened sand out behind them from under their hooves.

 

“Nah, This thin’s all natural, grew it mahself. Enough about me though B, ya never answered my question ’bout how ya got up there without me hearin’ ya, did ya?” 

 

“Fine fine, you’re right… Well, growing up in the circus and having a deadbeat dad have a lot of overlap, but…”

 

Striker grinned softly, looking at the imp next to him as he went into full story mode as they walked over to the van. 

 

Maybe Blitz wasn’t as much of a fool as he once thought. 

 

Maybe he could trust the imp in a way he hadn’t for years.

 

After all, he couldn't keep maintaining everything on his own forever.

 

Notes:

Chekchejchecjehcjch YAYYY :33

Finally posted chapter 2 of this!! And on international trans day of visibility no less :3

Sorry for the 2 month delay on posting anything for this, my mental health sadly was on what felt like a never ending decline, but I’m happy to say that I’m doing better now :3

This fic’s a pretty personal one as well, as both Striker and Blitz in it are very much projected onto in here.

I’ve got more to say about this fic, but I can’t really explain em right now, so maybe I’ll update this later on with more about it. Maybe.

As always though, I hope you enjoy, and maybe if you did, consider leaving a kudos, or of you’re more adventurous, perhaps a comment? Thanks :3

Oh and happy international trans day,

— Jayy :3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Fresh Blood AU