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Summary
Stolas can see the future so clearly:
Blitzø’s drunk. Or high. Or on some ineffable combination of the two Stolas could never think up. Chemicals he’s never heard of with proofs higher than Heaven. Blitzø breathes in, and silently steps off the ledge without a hint of hesitation. Just a quiet drop, and a quieter crack as he hits the pavement. He doesn’t leave a note. Just an apartment with framed pictures and his face furiously scribbled out with black marker in every single one, like a vampire with a stake through the heart.
The thought propels Stolas off of the couch for the first time in three days, and he leaves without any idea as to where the fuck he is even going, just the uneasy certainty that Blitzø is somewhere, contemplating the irreversible.
(Or: the Blitzø Bender Power Hour! feat. stolas Trying His Best)
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Summary
Blitzø is not a hedonist. Mostly.
(Or: The Blitzø Blood Loss Power Hour Speedrun Jamboree Carnival 5000!)
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Summary
And it’s not Blitzø. It can’t be. He writhes his way out of everything. He’s smart, and he’s charming, and he’s quick, and he’s strong, and he’s vicious, and he’s protective. It’s not—
(A.K.A: You can’t Ferris Bueller all of your problems if you are a hitman! Girl, you will die!)

