#makes direct and uncomfortable eye contact with Striker

[starryeyeddreamer21]

Characters as things I've said/heard people say

Angel: *scoffs* everyone knows that to be a cowboy all you have to do is be gay and shoot people

[ficcrimes]

By the Horns

Fandom: Helluva Boss Characters: Blitz, Striker Ship: Blitz/Striker A/N: Takes place during ep 5, off-screen. I like to think this happened before the Pain Games started. Suggestive, but not entirely spicy.  Summary: Two idiots and a mechanical bull.

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The bull jerks and rocks beneath him, doing its programmed due diligence to buck him off, but Striker doesn’t budge from his place in the saddle. He lifts one hand from the horn between his legs and waves to the locals gathered around the pen to watch the display. The already loud and rowdy crowd grows louder and more lively; some cheer for the rider, others for the bull.

Blitz’s grin is wide as he leans forward against the fencing, claws digging into splintered wood with excitement and anticipation. There’s no doubt that he’s very much enjoying the way Striker looks perched atop that rickety machine, swaying and lurching with its every sudden move. But there’s also a very real, raw part of him that wants to see him thrown off, that smug face ground into the dirty mats below.

Blitz is aware that, perhaps, his competitive nature is getting the better of him here, but he does nothing to reign in it.

“Quit showing off and give someone else a chance already!” Blitz calls over the hooting and hollering of the crowd, and Striker’s attention snaps toward him. Even the rocking and rolling of the bull beneath him doesn’t break his stare.

By someone else Blitz means himself. Striker’s smirk is crooked and sharp, gold tooth gleaming in the dingy, dirty light. He reaches for his hat, lifts it from his head, and tosses it effortlessly toward Blitz just before the bull yanks him into another direction.

Blitz grabs at the hat just as it makes contact with his face, lowering it so he can glare, somewhat playfully, in Striker’s direction. And Striker’s already twisted around to face him again, still smirking.

“A lil patience ain’t gonna kill ya,” he calls back to Blitz. “You’re just gonna have t’wait your turn, Boss.”

Blitz’s grip on Striker’s hat tightens just a little, and his grin is wide and just as pointed as Striker’s. Impatience and impulse get the better of him, and suddenly he’s jamming Striker’s hat between his horns. The brim and body of it fold and dent unnaturally, but he doesn’t have the patience to try slipping it on properly over his horns and doubts it would fit, anyway.

“Oh, fuck that,” is the only warning Striker receives before Blitz vaults over the wobbly fencing. This sends another ripple through the crowd, curses and encouragement alike at Blitz’s back. He makes his way to the bull and its rider quickly, just barely dodging a pair or two of hands desperate to pull him back over the fence.

The bull dips, and Blitz grabs it by its rusty horns, hauling himself up over its head. It rears up again, and Blitz straddles the thick base of the bull’s neck, the horn of its saddle - and Striker’s knuckles - pressed uncomfortably against the inside of one thigh. He wraps his tail around the bull’s neck and grabs at Striker’s shoulders to keep his balance as the bull bucks beneath them.

“Hey there, Cowboy,” Blitz smirks, delighting momentarily in the wide-eyed surprise on Striker’s face. He digs his claws into his shoulders slightly, leaning in to accommodate the rocking motion of the machine. “I think you’re in my seat.”

The surprise leaves Striker as quickly as it came, replaced once more by that grin. His hand leaves the saddlehorn in favor of the other imp’s hip, knuckles grazing the crotch of Blitz’s jeans, palm sliding over thigh before his grip settles. Striker’s other hand finds Blitz’s other hip, and he squeezes without shame.

“Can’tcha see this seat’s already taken?” Striker asks, and the rings in his eyes seem to glow in the sputtering neon light as he leans in toward Blitz. “I’m thinkin’ maybe we oughtta share it instead.”

Blitz had been prepared to have to wrestle his way into the saddle, and so this catches him off guard. For just a heartbeat, he’s stiff in Striker’s hands, eyes quickly raking their way over the other imp, trying to read him for any sign or cue of trickery. Finding none, he instead decides to let the gravel in Striker’s voice settle comfortably someplace inside him. His grin returns and he allows Striker into his space, giving his shoulders an approving, encouraging squeeze.

“Well, if you insist,” he says, attempting to coo, but he knows that Striker is not to be an easy conquest. Not that he minds; he likes the challenge for a change.

Striker chuckles, and it’s a low and deep sound that Blitz finds himself surprisingly appreciative of.

“I do,” he says, and one hand leaves Blitz’s hip to reach further behind him, taking hold of the base of his tail instead. There’s a deliberate, slow stroke of his thumb before he tugs on it roughly, causing Blitz to hiss and then growl, as well as lean forward and into him.

“But if you wanna share this seat, you’re gonna ride this thing proper,” Striker instructs with a grin and another tug. “No tail.”

Amid the ruckus of the crowd and the grinding gears of the machine beneath them, Striker’s rattle sounds, alarmingly and suddenly close to Blitz’s ear. A testament to his statement, a reminder of his own physical prowess.

A scowl flashes across Blitz’s features but he obeys. He releases the bull’s neck from his tail’s grip, and then uses the spade of it to swat the offending rattle away from his face.

“There ya go,” Striker croons, finally releasing the base of Blitz’s tail. “A strong and sturdy fella like you’ll get the hang of this in no time, I’m sure.”

His hand doesn't go back to Blitz’s abandoned hip and instead claims the saddlehorn again.

That hand, wrapped around worn leather, is dangerously close to his crotch again, and Blitz lets himself grin with acknowledgment. There’s no doubt in his mind that Striker is doing that on purpose, and so he presses forward just as the bull begins to bow again. He curves his spine with practiced ease and rolls his hips, riding that first wave with a confidence that surprises Striker.

Blitz squeezes Striker’s shoulders while hooking one knee over his, digging the heel of his boot into the back of Striker’s calf.

“I’m sure I will, too,” Blitz says with a grin and a wink, and then the bull starts to rear back.

Blitz surges forward with momentum, releasing Striker’s shoulders if only so he can press his palms to his chest instead. He braces himself this way and effectively causes the other imp to lean back with and against the bull. Striker’s grip on his hip tightens just a fraction, claws digging into flesh through denim. The leather of the saddlehorn creaks in protest of the grip around it.

For just a moment, Blitz has Striker pinned against the bull’s back. His grin is wide and confident and Striker’s gaze roves over every detail of that face hovering inches above his own. His hand twitches, itches to move from hip to suspender strap, but he’s never given the chance.

His hat, which had been wedged between Blitz’s horns to the best of the other’s ability, suddenly pops free. It was somewhat incredible it hadn’t been lodged loose before now. Regardless, Striker’s reflexes are fast, and he withdraws from Blitz’s hip to grab for the hat before it can hit the ground.

More hollering from the crowd, and Blitz can’t blame them. He’s more than a little impressed himself.

“Nice catch,” he says through his grin.

Striker grins back and chuckles quietly, all at once shoving the hat up against Blitz’s face, the inside of it swallowing his smugness momentarily. Blitz grunts as he’s shoved backward and he reaches for Striker’s wrist, both to try and push his hand away and for support as the bull begins to buck and spin. He hates how tight his grip is, knowing that now Striker knows he has the upper hand again.

Too easily, Striker pushes him onto his back atop the wayward machine, and by the time he pulls the hat away from Blitz’s face, his hand’s moved from the saddlehorn. Striker grins something sharp and charming down at Blitz as he takes hold of a thigh instead. He squeezes the tense muscle beneath his hand as he places his hat back atop his head. His other hand, now free, comes for the other thigh, and the sound Blitz makes is admittedly breathier than he would have liked it to be.

“Fast learner,” Striker comments, and those hands slide upward to Blitz’s hips despite the rocking and spinning of the bull. In this position and without those hands on him and Striker’s weight above him to pin him down, Blitz knows he would have been thrown off the bull by now.

And he knows that Striker knows that, too.

“But you still got a ways t’go and a lot t’learn, Sir.”

Blitz smirks up at Striker, one hand reaching for the bandana tied around his neck. He grips it, and tugs ever so slightly.

“Yeah? Well, why don’t you teach m—”

The bull almost violently rears back again, catching both imps off guard. There’s nothing to grab for or brace against to keep either of them on the bull, and so both of them unceremoniously tumble to the pen’s floor in a heap. Blitz winds up on top of Striker, and despite having practically cracked his skull on the other’s jaw on the way down, he considers this a small victory.

The bull’s attendant curses and shouts at them from his place behind the controls. Something about their bit getting old fast, and how there are other places to eye-fuck each other besides his bullpen.

Blitz flips the attendant off before he sits himself up properly, straddling Striker’s thighs for the time being. Striker doesn’t seem to mind as he props himself up on his elbows, smirking despite the ache blooming in his jaw.

“Y’know, maybe I will teach ya a thing or two sometime.”

[punkpoemprose]

December 1st- Sparks

Universe: Canon (shortly before Frozen 2)

Rating: G (General Audiences, fluff)

Length: 1849 Words

A/N:Hello friends and welcome to the 2019 Kristanna Advent Fic season! Let’s see how far I make it this year, shall we?

This is just some soft canonverse. You can blame @lukin08 for that post about Anna’s abilities with flint and steel being related to her time spent with Kristoff and I couldn’t not run with it. It was so perfect! This is just all about kissing. Some F2 spoilers if you really squint, but not really.

Anna hummed when she felt Kristoff’s chest press against her back, when she felt his arms wrap around her, his palms gently guiding her hands. She’d initially thought that his offer to teach her some “survival skills” was just an excuse to get her out of the castle and into the woods with him where they could be alone. She should have known of course that Kristoff was always as genuine as he came off, and that he absolutely was bringing her out of the city to learn something. She was finding it anything but boring of course. His hands-on teaching methods were exactly what she needed, and his proximity felt even more special with no prying eyes on them.

“So you have the flint, and the striker,” he was looking over her shoulder as he showed her in the most physical way possible, what she was meant to do. As he brought her right hand, the one holding the steel striker, slowly to the left, which held her flint, he directed her motion fluidly, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Anna realized that he probably had.

“You want to hit the striker against the flint quickly, but you have to hit it on the sharp edge of the flint if you want it to actually spark. The flint is stronger than the steel, the energy you put into the strike is what makes a sliver of the steel break off the striker, and the friction makes it hot enough to light a fire.”

Anna nodded, focusing more on the way it felt to have him holding onto her, how having him teach her something felt like one of the best gifts she’d ever been given, than she was on the task at hand.

It wasn’t really her fault that she couldn’t focus, he was breathing on her neck, and she was wrapped up in him. When they were alone together, she had the unique opportunity to not worry about the world for a while and it was her every intention to savor the moments, to make them last. She never knew when they’d find another moment to escape together, but she did know for certain that he was just as glad for the time away as she was herself.

“Got it?”

“Got what?”

She felt him trying to hold back a laugh, the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way he shifted away from her just slightly like he could distance himself enough in a few moments that she wouldn’t hear his snort. She didn’t mind. Normally she’d give him a pout or at least raise an eyebrow at him, but she couldn’t help but smile a bit to herself. She’d been caught, plain and simple.

“Just try it Anna,” he said as he stepped away from her, removing his arms from her side to step around to her front to watch her attempt.

She frowned at the loss of contact. She thought for a moment that she should have paid more attention so that she could have asked him for several more hand over hand lessons. She wasn’t above playing dumb when it meant there would be benefits like that. She had a feeling he always knew when she did so, but he always played along.

She felt his eyes on her, so she looked down at the flint and steel again, trying to remember what he had said about it while she had been focusing on just how good it felt to have him holding her. She’d watched him do it a few times, and it looked so effortless. She knew that it wouldn’t be, he made a lot of things look effortless that she needed multiple hours to even make a passable attempt at. She didn’t mind so much, because it meant that she got hours with him, and because she knew just how long it had taken him to learn how to do a box step.

Her first strike of the steel against the flint yielded no sparks, and the second attempt she quickly endeavored fared no better.

“Am I not on the point enough?” she asked, recalling what she had listened to, about needing to strike the steel against the pointed edge of the flint. She thought that she had been doing so correctly, but she wasn’t above asking for help. She particularly wasn’t above asking for his help, not when he gave it so freely and with such a broad smile.

She looked to him when she asked and immediately felt the small tinge of frustration, she’d initially felt blossom in her chest fade away. He was giving her a look that said so many things that she was still trying to get used to. It said that he loved her, that he was proud of her, and that he was genuinely happy to be sharing this moment with her. After years of pounding on a door, hoping her sister would give her the affection she sought desperately, after her first relationship turning out to be a lie, she was still sorting through what it meant to have anyone in her life. She saw Kristoff taking it in stride every day, but it in was the moments like this, where they were completely alone and she knew that he wasn’t going anywhere. Everything in her life before Kristoff was flux and secrets, but he was solid and true.

What they had went beyond any romance, any snapshot portrait of a courting couple she’d ever seen. What they had was real.

“No, you’ve got that part right, I think you just need to hit it harder and faster. You’re trying to cause friction so the faster and harder the contact the more likely it’ll work.”

She nodded and focused again on the two items in her hand. She was going to figure it out. She’d taught him how to dance, how to do a proper bow, how to blend into the aristocracy enough that he could begin to feel less uncomfortable when he happened to be around for the reception of whatever dignitary of the week was visiting Arendelle. She could at least learn how to make some sparks.

He took her hands in his once again, this time facing her. His fingers were rough on the backs of her hands, and she thought about all the ways that they were meeting in the middle. He was rough, she needed that in her life. She wouldn’t describe herself as soft, and she couldn’t quite get herself to believe that he needed her in the way she needed him, but that he was always so willing to meet her where she was, to help carry her forward, she had to believe that it meant something more than words could say.

When she allowed herself a glance up at his face, his eyes met hers instantly. There was a gentleness in his expression that she only ever saw him have when he looked at her, and she knew that it must truly be a look for only her because she watched him often. She watched him from across rooms, from across the marketplace, from a castle balcony, from Elsa’s side, from Sven’s back, and he only ever gave that soft, open look to her.

“I know you can do it,” he said quietly, “I believe in you more than anyone or anything Anna.”

Her heart raced. She knew that he didn’t believe that he was good with words, but to be on the receiving end of such a sincere compliment made her melt. She thought that maybe a moment before she would have been able to do it, to make sparks fly, but now she wanted nothing more than to drop both the objects in her hands and grab onto him instead.

When he pulled his hands away from hers, smiling pleasantly as he took a step back, giving her room, the movement of her hands was instinctual. Maybe, she thought, the reason that he could believe in her so strongly, is that when she thought of his belief in her, it made her believe that she could do whatever he thought she could. He gave her strength, he was solid, he was steady, and he was hers.

His face lit up before she even realized what she’d done. By the time she looked down at her hands again, she had entirely missed the spark, but seeing his face, seeing her prove him right and his joy because of it, was more rewarding than her newfound ability to potentially start a fire.

He took a few steps back to her, filling the once empty space between them. She easily slipped the flint and steel into her bag and stepped into his embrace. It was such a small thing for him to be so proud of her over, but she took it. She drank it in and pressed her face into his chest as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

“Thank you,” she said into his chest, smiling to herself appreciatively.

“Thank you for wanting to come try this with me,” he responded. He had moments where he was almost too humble. She wondered, causing herself to giggle, if he could give lessons in that to visiting aristocrats.

“I like trying things with you. I’m catching up on a lot of years of trying new things.”

He pulled back slightly and her heart fluttered as soon as she saw the playful expression on his face.

“Can we try something then?”

“You know I’ll never say no to you.”

He shrugged at the comment, as if he wasn’t certain of it, but was happy to take the statement in the spirit in which it was given, then leaned down slightly to kiss her.

She tiptoed up to meet him, gladly, and was only slightly surprised to find that he kissed her nose chastely.

It wasn’t necessarily something new, but there was still a playfulness in his eye. She opened her mouth to question it and found herself being lifted from the ground, suddenly, but not at all roughly.

He kissed her then, fully, on the mouth, with one arm on the small of her back and the other under her knees. The realization that he was holding her like a bride didn’t come to Anna until much later, a thought that came with questions she desperately wanted the answers to. In the moment, however, her only thought was to kiss him back, unreservedly.  

“I love trying things with you,” she whispered against his lips.

“Lets hope we never run out of things to learn then?”

She laughed and rested her forehead against his. For a moment they were still, but it was a brief intermission only before he was carrying her to his wagon to kiss her again and to continue to do so until she was senseless.

Even if she hadn’t succeeded on her first try with the flint, she knew that there was a flame between them that never went out.