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moonstruckme · 7 months ago

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Ok, your little jily about hypothermia gave me the urge to see :

The reaction to the marauders to you falling through the ice. Like you were skating on the Black Lake with Sirius and James because they convinced you (against you initial worry) while Remus stands off to the side and watches (the most unsure and worried of them)

And I can see James and Sirius trying to race each other as you try to get a hand of ice skating. Then a crack and you fall through.

It’s like you know that scene with Amy in Little woman

I would totally get if you don’t like it since you’ve just written a similar one.

Your work is amazing ! Hope everything is ok for you ❤️

Thank you lovely <3

cw: ice skating trauma?

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

It’s just like Sirius and James to goad you out onto the lake and then get bored of you when—as you tried to warn them—you can’t skate. James is fizzing with energy, promising to come back as soon as he makes one quick round of the cove, and of course when he challenges Sirius to a race your boyfriend is too competitive to decline.

They take off at light speed, blades schwicking across the dark ice. Remus, sitting bundled up on land, eyes you worriedly over the top of his book.

“Be careful,” he warns, not for the first time.

You are nervous, with no handholds and no boyfriends to help you, but you’re eager to reassure him. “Don’t worry.” You smile. “I’m not going to go racing after them.”

Remus returns your smile, and, mollified, returns to his book.

The ice on the Black Lake is far from pristine. There are dips and ridges, and soon you find yourself being channeled down curving paths away from the shore, hardly moving your skates and arms out to your sides for balance. The ice beneath your feet begins to look darker, less of the frosty sheen or slashes from other skates. It feels smoother, too.

You let yourself glide forward, raising your head to see if any of your boyfriends are looking to witness your success. The first crack is a light sound. Almost negligible, but it gets your attention. You scream as the ice falls out from beneath you.

The cold shocks you down to your bones, freezing the blood in your veins and pressing in on your lungs. Instinct propels you upwards.

“H—help!”

Your voice is a tight cry. The air doesn’t feel much better, colder even, but you try to stay above the surface, the blades on your feet slicing uselessly through the water below. Each time you try to grasp at a piece of ice and pull yourself onto it, it breaks away. Your breaths are gasping, panicked puffs that send white clouds into the air in front of you.

You can hear your boyfriends shouting.

“Pads, wait—wait—”

Sirius is crawling towards you on the ice, another shape moving quickly in your direction.

“Accio branch!”

James tosses the long stick to Sirius, who holds it out for you to grab onto. The bark bites into your palms, but you don’t let go as both boys use it to drag you out, ice jutting into your middle. As soon as you’re out to your hip you’re in Sirius’ embrace, his strong arms bringing you closer and helping you pull your legs from the water.

“You’re okay,” he says, firmly. As though daring anyone to prove him wrong. “You’re okay, baby, we’ve got you. We have you.”

James and Sirius keep you tucked between them, pushing you on dripping skates and wobbly legs to the edge of the lake. Remus looks like he tried to come out wearing his shoes. His face has drained of its wintery flush, brow set tense with worry.

Sirius helps him back to the shore, but not before Remus casts a warming charm on you. You give an odd shiver at the change.

“How’s that, angel?” James scrubs a hand up and down your arm. His voice is light, but its lightness is so forced and so different from his exuberant tone of a few minutes ago.

Remus pulls you into a hug as you start to cry. Tiny sobs mixed with shivers, your frame shaking in every way possible. Remus holds you securely to him as he lowers you both to the ground. He casts another warming charm for good measure.

“You’re lucky she didn’t get dragged under by the grindylows,” he says with your head tucked beneath his chin. He sounds angry, but it’s quickly succumbing to weariness. His arms wind around you tighter.

“We didn’t know she’d try and go into the middle!” Sirius argues as he kneels beside you, James at his side. Your boyfriend’s face is lined with guilt as he reaches for you, unsticking a damp piece of hair from your cheek.

“How was she supposed to know?”

“Sorry,” you offer wobbily. Each of them makes some sound of sympathy.

“No, sweetheart, it’s not your fault,” Remus soothes, covering your cheek with his warm hand. James rubs up your calf from your ankle as though he intends to warm you inch by inch. “It was only your first time, you couldn’t have known.”

“Yeah,” James agrees, “you’re fine, lovie. Nobody said for you to be sorry.”

You try on a smile. There’s snot frozen above your top lip. “So I can only be sorry when you say?”

“Yes,” says Sirius, very seriously.

He grins when you laugh. Remus cracks, too, and James looks relieved at no longer being scolded. Sirius smooths another piece of hair from your face, looking at you carefully.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m okay,” you confirm. “The warming charms are helping a lot. Thanks, Rem.”

“That’s our Moony.” Sirius smiles at him, clearly eager to be back in your boyfriend’s good graces. “Always knows the perfect spell.”

“You know that one, too,” Remus grumbles as James starts to unlace your skates for you. “You could’ve done it the moment you got her out.”

“Ah, but we’re not all as quick on our feet as you, you swot.”

“Do you think you can walk back inside?” James asks you, slipping your shoes on. “One of us could go get some tea from the great hall while you warm up in the common room.”

“Fuck that,” says Sirius. “I know where Slughorn keeps his nice cocoa now. I’d say we’re entitled to some of that after our trials.”

“One of us is,” Remus corrects him drily.

“Right, then.” James takes your hands, standing you up slowly and fitting an arm around your waist for support. If the wet of your clothes chills him, he doesn’t complain. “We’ll pilfer enough of Slughorn’s cocoa for one person, and you’ll be good as new by dinner.”

“I already feel okay,” you try to reassure him.

“Shh, shh.” Remus takes you by the hand, squeezing gently. “Don’t correct them. Take your dues.”

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onlyforsebastianstan · 7 days ago

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Breaking Bucky

Summary: Set in 1940s Brooklyn, this story follows you, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers, lifelong best friends navigating the complexities of love and jealousy during wartime. Bucky, a charming playboy, dismisses your feminine side, treating you like “one of the guys” while parading his dates in front of you. Despite your unspoken love for him, he insists you’re not the dating type. When Steve, newly transformed by the super-soldier serum, pretends to court you to make Bucky jealous, tensions rise.

Genre: Historical Romance | Slight Angst | Jealousy

The dance hall was alive with the brassy wail of trumpets and the shuffle of polished shoes on the wooden floor. Brooklyn’s wartime energy pulsed through the crowd—soldiers on leave, girls in victory rolls, and the bittersweet hum of a world that didn’t know what tomorrow held. You, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers had been inseparable since you were kids, dodging trouble and sharing dreams in the backstreets. But lately, the air between you three crackled with something new, something unspoken.

Bucky was the same old charmer, a playboy with a smile that could talk his way out of anything. Every week, he’d waltz into the hall with a different girl on his arm, each one flashier than the last. He’d parade them past you, tossing you a grin as he spun them onto the dance floor.

“Whaddaya think, doll?” he’d say, his latest date giggling as she clung to him. “She’s a knockout, right?”

You’d force a smile, swallowing the ache in your chest. “Sure, Buck. She’s swell. Just like the one last week.”

He’d laugh, mussing your hair like you were his kid sister. “Stick to bein’ our pal, kid. You ain’t the datin’ type.”

That stung, though you never let it show. You weren’t all frills and lipstick like his girls, but you had your own charm—slacks and a sharp tongue, a girl who could keep up with him and Steve in a scrap or a laugh. You’d loved Bucky for years, a quiet ache that lived in stolen glances and brushed-off compliments. But he never saw you as anything more than a friend. He’d made that clear, dismissing your feminine side like it didn’t exist.

Then Steve changed everything. The scrawny kid who’d always been in Bucky’s shadow came back from that army program looking like a Greek god. The first time you saw him, striding into the diner with broad shoulders and a new swagger, your jaw dropped.

“Steve?” you said, cola fizzing over your fingers. “That you?”

He grinned, a little shy but steadier than before. “Yeah, it’s me. Guess I grew a bit.”

Bucky, slouched against the counter, froze. His eyes flicked between you and Steve, catching the way you stared. His jaw twitched, but he covered it with a laugh. “Well, hell, punk. You tryin’ to steal my thunder now?”

Steve just chuckled, but his eyes lingered on you. Bucky saw that too.

A few days later, you and Steve were at the diner, splitting a plate of fries. Bucky was off with another dame, probably charming her at some jukebox joint. Steve leaned in, his voice low.

“I told Bucky I like you,” he said, his new confidence making his words bold. “Told him I wanna ask you out.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Steve was your best friend, but your heart was knotted up with Bucky. “Steve, I… I don’t—”

He held up a hand, a sly glint in his eye. “Hold on. When I told him, you know what he said? That I deserve better than you. Said you’re not a guy’s type.”

Your stomach twisted. “He said that?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, but his grin was scheming. “Thing is, I think he’s full of it. I think he’s crazy about you but too stubborn to admit it. So, how about we shake him up? Pretend we’re together, make him jealous. See if he cracks.”

You hesitated, the hurt of Bucky’s words stinging deep. Not a guy’s type. You’d spent years hoping he’d see you, really see you. Maybe this was the push he needed. “Alright, Steve. Let’s do it.”

The plan kicked off the next Saturday at the dance hall. You traded your usual slacks for a dress that hugged your curves, the kind of outfit Bucky’s girls wore. When you walked in with Steve, his arm looped through yours, heads turned. Including Bucky’s.

He was by the bar, mid-flirt with a redhead in a polka-dot dress, when he saw you. His smile faltered. His eyes swept over your dress, then snapped to Steve’s hand on your waist. His grip on his glass tightened, knuckles whitening.

“Looks like he’s noticin’,” Steve whispered, steering you toward the dance floor. “Let’s give him a show.”

You nodded, heart racing. Steve pulled you close as the band played a slow tune, his hands gentle but deliberate. You could feel Bucky’s eyes burning into you from across the room, but when you glanced over, he was back to charming his date, laughing too loud, like he didn’t care. Your chest ached. Maybe Steve was wrong. Maybe Bucky didn’t feel anything.

Steve sensed your doubt. “We need to up the ante,” he murmured as the song ended. “Follow my lead.”

He guided you to a quieter corner of the hall, near the edge of the dance floor, where the lights were dim and a pillar blocked most of the view. From Bucky’s spot at the bar, the angle was perfect—or perfectly deceiving. Steve leaned in, his face close to yours, his hand cupping your cheek. To anyone watching—especially Bucky—it looked like he was kissing you, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours, his broad frame shielding the truth.

Your heart pounded, not from Steve’s closeness but from the thought of Bucky seeing this. “You sure about this?” you whispered.

“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice low, playful. “If this doesn’t break him, nothin’ will.”

Across the room, Bucky froze. His date was talking, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on you and Steve, on the way Steve’s hand cradled your face, the way your bodies were pressed close. From where he stood, it looked real—too real. His glass hit the bar with a clink, and before his date could protest, he was striding across the room, his face a storm of anger and something deeper.

“What the hell’s this?” he snapped, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and yanking him back. Steve stumbled, playing the part perfectly, his hands raised in mock innocence.

“Easy, Buck,” Steve said, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just dancin’ with my girl.”

“Your girl?” Bucky’s voice was low, dangerous. His eyes flicked to you, and the raw hurt in them made your breath catch. “Since when?”

You opened your mouth, but the words stuck. This was the plan, but seeing Bucky like this—his jaw clenched, his hands trembling—made it feel too real, too cruel.

“Since she decided she wanted someone who sees her,” Steve said, stepping closer to Bucky, his voice steady but pointed. “Not someone who treats her like she’s invisible.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his voice rough. “That I don’t see you?”

You swallowed, heart hammering. “You tell me, Buck. You’re the one who said I’m not a guy’s type. That Steve deserves better.”

His face twisted, like you’d slapped him. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “I said it because… because I didn’t want him takin’ you. I didn’t want anyone takin’ you.”

Your breath hitched. Steve stepped back, giving you space, his part in the plan done. The crowd around you faded, the music a distant hum. It was just you and Bucky now, the truth hanging heavy between you.

“Then why didn’t you say somethin’?” you asked, voice shaking. “All these years, you parade your girls in front of me, tell me I’m nothin’ but a pal. What am I to you, Bucky?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild, desperate. “You’re everything,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been trapped too long. “I’ve been tryin’ to ignore it, tryin’ to keep you close without losin’ you. I’m a mess, doll. I chase girls because it’s easier than facin’ how I feel about you. But seein’ you with him—” He gestured at Steve, his voice breaking. “Seein’ him kiss you? I can’t do it. I can’t lose you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “He didn’t kiss me,” you said softly. “It was just for show. To make you see.”

Bucky blinked, his anger faltering, replaced by confusion. “What?”

Steve chimed in, his grin wide. “It was a setup, pal. You were too damn stubborn to admit you love her, so we gave you a push.”

Bucky’s eyes darted between you and Steve, realization dawning. For a moment, he looked like he might deck Steve, but then his shoulders sagged, and he turned back to you, his expression raw. “You let me think that… to get to me?”

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “I had to, Buck. I’ve been waitin’ for you to see me for years. I’m done waitin’.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time. Then, without another word, he closed the distance, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you. It was fierce, desperate, full of all the things he’d never said. You kissed him back, hands fisting in his jacket, pouring every ounce of your heart into it.

When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. “I’m an idiot,” he muttered, his voice thick. “I love you, doll. Always have.”

You laughed, tears spilling over. “Yeah, you’re an idiot. But you’re mine.”

Steve, still lingering nearby, clapped his hands together, grinning. “Told ya it’d work. You’re welcome, jerk.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but there was no heat in it. He pulled you close, his arm around your waist, and for the first time, you felt like he saw you—not as a friend, not as one of the guys, but as you.

The band struck up another tune, and Bucky leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “Dance with me, doll. No more games.”

You smiled, taking his hand. “No more games.”

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

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becertainlust · 3 months ago

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COMPANY pt.1 | Spoke

synopsis: Bring your girlfriend to work day.

The scent of motor oil and warm steel clung to the air, mingling with the distinct musk of leather and sweat. The shop wasn’t busy today—just the hum of neon lights and the occasional clatter of a wrench as Spoke worked on a half-assembled bike.

You perched on a worktable, legs swinging idly, watching him with rapt attention. He was in his element, sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with grease.

"Aren't you going to be bored?" Spoke asked, glancing at you before turning back to the skeletal frame of the motorcycle.

You tilted your head, a smirk playing on your lips. "Not with this view."

He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on an old rag. "Well, aren’t you flirtatious today?"

You shrugged, playful. "Maybe I just like seeing you work."

Spoke exhaled, rolling the lollipop between his lips before tossing the wrench into the toolbox. "Yeah? You like watchin’ me get my hands dirty?"

Your gaze dipped, taking in the grease-streaked lines of his forearms, the way his shirt clung to his frame, damp with sweat. "Something like that."

The air in the shop seemed to thicken as Spoke casually peeled his shirt off, tossing it aside with a practiced ease. The low light caught the faint glint of muscle beneath his skin, and you couldn’t help but linger on the way his back flexed with each movement.

"I'm back with the food!" Hugo’s voice boomed through the garage. He appeared from around the corner, several bags in hand, followed by Watari and Kai, both carrying drinks and more food.

The charged silence shattered. You blinked, quickly shifting your focus as if the moment had never existed. The heat in the air dissipated, replaced by the easy familiarity of their arrival.

Hugo flashed a grin as he set the bags down, his gaze flicking between you and Spoke. "Don’t tell me I’m interrupting something. Spoke lookin’ like a snack again?"

Spoke, unbothered, shot him a sidelong glance but didn’t respond. His attention was already back on the bike, his posture relaxed, rolling the lollipop between his lips with absent ease as he wiped his hands on a rag.

You smirked, rolling with the shift in energy. "Maybe you’re just late," you teased, grabbing a drink from one of the bags.

Watari bumped Hugo’s shoulder with a roll of her eyes. "Move it, nosy nelly," she muttered.

Kai chuckled, setting the last of the bags on the table. "Yeah, quit being nosy."

You slid off the worktable, making your way over as Watari opened one of the larger brown paper bags. The rich scent of food spilled into the air, pushing aside the lingering motor oil.

The air in the shop seemed to thicken for a moment, but before it could settle, Spoke grabbed a clean shirt from a nearby stool and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric stretched momentarily before settling into place, obscuring the toned lines of his torso.

You slid off the worktable, making your way over as Watari opened one of the larger brown paper bags. The rich scent of food spilled into the air, pushing aside the lingering motor oil. The moment had passed—but you couldn’t deny the ghost of a smirk still playing at your lips.

Everyone settled in, pulling up stools and crates around the makeshift dining area. Hugo passed out sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, while Kai popped the lids off a few glass bottles of soda, the soft hiss of carbonation filling the space.

"You actually got my order right for once?" Watari teased, unwrapping her sandwich and inspecting its contents.

Hugo scoffed, taking a dramatic bite of his own. "Of course. I’m reliable."

Spoke leaned against the worktable, his shirt now slightly wrinkled but still fitting him well. He bit into his sandwich with one hand while the other lazily twirled the lollipop stick between his fingers. His eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to his food.

You took a sip of your drink, letting the cool fizz settle on your tongue. "So what’s the plan after this?"

Kai shrugged. "Depends. Shop’s closed early today. We could head to the docks. Might be a good breeze."

Watari hummed in thought. "Or we could just stay here. I like the sound of not moving."

Hugo grinned. "That’s because you’re lazy."

She pointed a fry at him. "Efficient."

"Right" Hugo drawled, sipping on his drink.

The conversation drifted into easy chatter, the kind that only came with familiarity. The warmth of the meal, the company, and the lingering scent of grease and steel wrapped around you. And through it all, your eyes found Spoke again—casual, collected, rolling the lollipop between his fingers like he had all the time in the world.

You pushed off from your seat and wandered toward him, stepping into his space as he remained perched on the worktable. Resting a hand on his thigh, you leaned in slightly, catching his attention.

"What kind of juice did you get?" you asked, your voice laced with curiosity.

Spoke glanced at you, the corner of his lips quirking as he lifted his bottle. "Pineapple," he replied simply, taking a slow sip before meeting your gaze again. "Want a taste?"

You tilted your head, watching him take another slow sip. The way his lips lingered against the rim of the bottle sent a flicker of something warm through your chest—not that you’d admit it.

"Maybe," you mused, reaching out before he could react. Your fingers brushed against his as you took the bottle from his grasp, feeling the cool glass against your palm.

Spoke didn’t protest. Instead, he simply watched, the faintest smirk dancing on his lips.

You took a sip, the tangy-sweet flavor of pineapple settling on your tongue, mixed with the faintest trace of something else—something undeniably him. Lowering the bottle, you met his gaze, your expression unreadable.

"Not bad," you said, handing it back.

Spoke’s fingers lingered against yours for half a second before he took the bottle, setting it beside him without another word. But his smirk deepened just a fraction, as if he’d caught onto something unspoken between you.

Before either of you could say anything else, Hugo’s voice cut through the moment.

"Oh, come on. If you two are gonna eye-flirt, at least be more subtle about it."

You shot him a flat look, but Kai snorted, and even Watari smirked behind her drink.

"You're seeing things," you said smoothly, leaning away from Spoke with an easy shrug.

Hugo waggled his brows. "Uh-huh, sure. And I don’t have impeccable instincts."

Spoke just took another bite of his sandwich, unfazed.

Kai leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head. "Anyway, about the docks. If we’re going, we should head out soon before it gets too crowded."

Watari sighed, tossing her empty sandwich wrapper into one of the bags. "Fine, fine. But I’m calling dibs on the best seat."

"Doesn’t work like that," Hugo said, standing and stretching. "First come, first served."

You glanced back at Spoke. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he finally pushed off the worktable, lollipop still twirling between his fingers.

"will you be fine on your own?" he shoots the question to them, washing down the food with more juice. "I still have a few upgrades on the bike"

Watari pulls up her hair. "what about you" she smiled

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Not in the mood for running errands."

Hugo shot you a knowing grin but didn’t press. "Suit yourself. We’ll be back in a bit—try not to get into trouble kids"

You rolled your eyes as he and Kai stepped out, laughing between themselves. Watari lingered for a moment, giving you a long, considering look before she smirked. "we'll be back in a few."

With that, she turned and followed the others, the door swinging shut behind her.

The garage was suddenly quieter, the absence of chatter making the hum of the city outside seem distant. You turned back toward Spoke, who had barely acknowledged the exchange, still crouched by his bike, focused.

For a while, you didn’t say anything. You just watched—watched the way his hands moved with practiced ease, the way his fingers skimmed over metal, the furrow of concentration between his brows.

"You don’t have to stay," he finally said, voice even, but there was something underneath—something unreadable.

"I know," you replied simply, stepping forward. "But I want to."

Spoke exhaled softly through his nose, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on a rag. "Suit yourself," he murmured, but you didn’t miss the way his lips quirked slightly before he turned his attention back to the bike.

You settled onto the worktable, watching as he worked, the scent of grease and metal mixing with the faint, lingering sweetness of his lollipop.

For a while, the only sounds were the faint clinking of tools and the occasional soft scrape of metal against metal. The garage had a rhythm of its own—steady, methodical, almost soothing. You watched as Spoke adjusted something near the engine, his movements sure and precise.

"You always this focused when you work?" you asked, your voice breaking the silence.

Spoke didn’t look up. "It’s a machine. Give it what it needs, and it won’t fail you."

You tilted your head, studying him. "That why you like bikes?"

He finally glanced at you, another lollypop rolling between his lips. "Something like that."

There was something about the way he said it—something that hinted at more, but he didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he turned back to his work, tightening a bolt with a slow, deliberate twist.

You hopped down from the worktable, stepping closer. "Need help?"

He scoffed lightly but didn’t immediately dismiss you. "You know anything about bikes?"

"I know how to ride one," you said, crossing your arms. "That count?"

Spoke smirked, shaking his head as he handed you a wrench. "Hold this."

You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm, slightly rough with callouses from years of working with his hands. The brief touch sent a flicker of something through you, but you ignored it, watching as he gestured toward the frame.

"Here," he murmured, guiding your hand. "Tighten this bolt, but not too much, or you'll mess up the alignment."

You followed his instructions, turning the wrench carefully. Spoke watched, his gaze flicking between your face and the work you were doing.

"Not bad," he murmured.

You grinned. "High praise, coming from you."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head before reaching for another tool.

The air between you felt different now—not as thick as before, but charged in a quieter way. You fell into a rhythm, passing him tools, watching him work, stealing glances when you thought he wasn’t looking.

#tokyo override x reader #tokyo override x spoke #tokyo override #tokyo override x you #tokyo override smut #spoke fluff

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akirathedramaqueen · 1 year ago

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Some thoughts on the Western Energy trainwreck

Soo, I've come across that post, and... it made me thinking.

Stolas spent there the whole time, not knowing Blitzø *did*, in fact, send help. He assumed he was all alone, although still had some resemblance of hope, a fragile straw he hang on to piss off Striker, allowing to tear up only when one didn't look at him.

And... hell, I used to see many comments about how Blitzø let him down there... But did he?

Oh course, some think he did, and he surely thinks he did, too. But, although the whole sequence with him and Loona trying to get that S.H.O.T. was a fucking circus and looked like a joke compared to suffers Stolas had to endure and barely survive...

To be honest, these scenes being put together on surface do, in fact, make it think that the whole Stolas being on the verge of death ordeal is a joke to Blitzø and he would rather spend time running around with big needles and stuff.

If to get back to the phone convo between them at the beginning of the episode, Blitzø mentions that it took him 5 years to book that appointment, and it means a lot for him to not miss it. Missing out on that shot meant to put Loona in potential danger, his daughter, and, although we don't know what kind of shots they were talking about, we know for sure what does missing out on a vaccine schedule could mean in the real world - we tend to forget how dangerous polio, for instance, is, as most of us have access to the vaccine and don't get to experience it not even themselves, but in close vicinity as well. For us, vaccines might seem to be some kind of stupid routine, something we got comfortable with in a privileged world, something which surely could be skipped for a day, right? But in Blitzø's one they are luxury.

Despite all of that, I also want to put your attention to the fact that he wasn't going to ignore it. He is speeding up, and I think (although it's not expressed explicitly, but not everything should be, right?), that he already made up his mind that Stolas is a priority.

You are not thinking it's about shots, right? He wasn't that reckless in driving before *that* call.

And! He wasn't even the initiator of Millie and Moxxie going instead of him. *M&M's* were.

And Blitzø trusts them, because why not? They are his employees, they are skilled and capable, and they are his friends as well, they know that shit is important to him (although he isn't willing to admit it himself).

We see also, how Stolas was admitted to the hospital immediately, which already gives a hint on how different their stance in the world is. I wonder sometimes how it would've turned out if Stolas proposed to Blitzø to use the royal influence to get another appointment shortly after Blitzø saves him, but we know he didn't get much time to even think about that. He wasn't even able to finish the sentence before Striker took his phone off him.

To be honest, I don't think the outcome itself would have been much different. I don't think Blitzø would've done a better job at saving Stolas, but, maybe, only maybe, he would've felt better because he was, at least, there for him.

Because you know that shit is going to haunt him till the day he dies. Because it only reassured him that he isn't capable of sticking around for his people.

Because, you know... happened once already.

No wonder he left Stolas's message on "read". Knowing all things before and after, it's not a surprise that he, tending to take all of responsibility for all the wrongs on himself more than he should to, couldn't face the consequence of what he thinks he failed in. He, speaking figuratively, left Fizz on "read" for 15 years, and he kinda sorted it out only because he couldn't run anymore and had to face the trauma as circumstances didn't give him a chance to chicken out.

I wonder what he was trying to tell Stolas. But I don't think we will ever get to learn that.

Aw, crap, I am done here, I am going to go and cry for a little bit. Thanks for coming to my ted talk, see ya in like 5 minutes to experience some Full Moon trauma again, because I can't get over these two. XD

#helluva boss #blitzø #stolitz #stolas goetia #stolas #stolas x blitz #here to comfort the imaginative red lizard from a cartoon #because i am too invested lol

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timkontheunsure · 10 months ago

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Blitz's has dyslexia 🙂

Him singing it is just so cute.

He dose know the alphabet as Blitz gets it right right after this. So this is an ordering issue.

(I still have to use the alphabet song to get it right, and worked at a library for a while and used to tutor English).

Dyscalculia is a fairly normal side effect of dyslexia, and is under the same umbrella term.

This can make estimating groups on the fly very difficult.

Blitz struggles to switch language tracks, and doesn't pick up that Loona's making a joke out of he skinning the manly meat with the manly men.

Blitz is normally great at these sorts of dirty jokes, but because it was unintentional he doesn't spot it.

This is because being serious and puns/jokes are sorted in a different 'box'.

Stols - Blitz spell a lot thing as they sound, with a few transportion errors like night to nihgt, and some typos like missing the o in sorry, or missing words out.

As he says Sto-lus, that gets shortened to Stol's when said quickly. It's a cute nickname. 🙂

He also occasionally reverses letters.

(oh look a nice wee pile of evidence).

Transcription - the case files are written by Blitz dictating to Moxxie. This is normal adaptation for working around this disability.

Ok addressing the elephant in the room, cus someone always says it. "But Blitz is just uneducated".

He got in and went to collage. (Dropping out was probably to do with the fire. Blitz is met to have been around 19-20 when that happend).

And Fizz, who he grew up with and worked the same job; has perfect spelling. They would have had the same people teaching them.

Honestly this idea bugs me a lot, because it's equating being poor to a lack of education. And then spelling proficiency as a stand in for intelligence level.

We saw this when people were trying to claim Blitz was too thick to use the word supremacist. 🤦

This ties in to whole host of classist and ableist tropes.

Blitz can with alot of effort Sometimes spell correctly, when it's very important. (For Fizz and Loona).

It takes 4x as much energy for dyslexics to do these tasks. It's common to sometimes get it right, but not others.

Dyslexia is kind of short working memory issue.

Working memory is the time you can hold something like an image, or a string of numbers, in your head before it fades.(Human ram). If it's short it can be extremely difficult to get it into long term memory.

So rote tasks with nonsensical none phonetical rules don't stick well. (Eg Fonetic).

Blitz getting it right some of the time, when trying hard at the hospital tracks. Cus he doesn't want to stress Loona out more.

The 'wiring' of dyslexic brains also makes it difficult, because reading and writing are processed across both hemispheres. Nerotypicals all do that one side, which is quicker as less far for the impulses to travel.

We also don't get the visual overlay trick that alot of Nerotypicals get. The thing were you can see the spelling in your imagination and copy that pattern to spell it right every time. (Anyone able to do this is so cheesy 😛).

And lastly Blitz talks a mile a minute, but only write a few short replies to Stolas' wall of texts. (Which are probably tricky to read as of bad formatting).

Here's hoping Stolas gifts him a better phone with a good spell check, and speech to text at somepoint. Then he gets more than just memes.

#helluva boss #brandon rogers #helluva spoilers #This got long even for me lol

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kier-with-a-k · 1 month ago

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Nailed it! (With love) - N. S.

Photographer! Nick x Artist! Oliver(oc)

A/N: ANOTHER OLLIE AND NICKY FIC!!! I AM HAVING WAY TOO MUCH FUN WITH THEM!!!

Warning: nothing just pure fluff!!!

Piercing.

That's a way to describe my boyfriend's eyes right now.

We're at the beauty shop, crouched by a spinning rack of tiny, glossy bottles, picking out nail polishes that match each other's eyes.

Because Nick saw this video on TikTok... Not that I use TikTok anyways. But I always admire his creativity. It's that special gleam about him that just screams Nick.

He's looking at me now.

"Hey! Ollie! Which one matches my eyes the most?" he asks, snapping me out of my daze.

God, those fucking eyes.

"I... don't think anything can match your eyes, darling," I say, way too seriously.

He bursts out laughing, head tilting back a little, his dumb little “hihi” laugh bubbling out like soda fizz.

"You're so sappy!" he says, nudging me with his elbow.

I just stare. At him. At those stupidly ocean-blue eyes that—honestly—make the actual ocean look like muddy dishwater.

God, I'm so cheesy.

But it’s the kind of cheesy that sticks to the roof of your mouth in a good way. Like microwave mac ‘n cheese.

He holds up a shade called “Mermaid Lagoon” and raises a brow.

“This one?”

I lean in close, squinting exaggeratedly. “Mmm... maybe if you were a little more radioactive.”

He snorts. “Alright, scientist. You pick then.”

So I do. I pick a bottle called “Pacific Crush,” which sounds more like a bad energy drink than a nail polish, but the shimmer in it? Kinda hits close.

He holds it up to his eyes, squinting at himself in one of those tiny display mirrors.

“Damn. You might actually be right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Oh? Since when?”

“Since dating you,” I say, because that’s the kind of thing you say when you’re in love and it’s a Wednesday and the aisle smells like acetone and fake lavender.

Nick just gives me that look—the one where his lips twitch and his cheeks go a bit pink, and he’s pretending he’s not flustered but he so is.

He ends up picking a shade for me too—something dark and earthy, called “Forest Fog.”

“You have, like... mossy storm eyes. That’s your vibe.”

“Mossy storm eyes?”

“Yeah. Like a cryptid that could read my tarot and then disappear into the woods.”

I blink. “I'm an art student, that's not too far.”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning.

And somehow that makes sense. Because in Nick’s world, I’m mystical and stormy-eyed and he’s the ocean and we’re choosing nail polishes like it’s a love language.

I think this is what being happy looks like.

Even if it smells like nail polish remover.

I wonder what it would be like to have a life full of this... Full of sappy, romantic, stupidly pathetic hugs, laughter, cries...

I think it would be pretty great.

A/N: oooo I love this one so much!!! I can't!!! Also requests for nick and ollie are open!!! You can send me scenarios and stuff I would gladly write them!

Taglist: @sturnsblogs @thenickgirl @bambisturns @emeraldsturns @sturns-mermaid @sarahsturnn @jacksonsturniolo @certifiednickboy @nickssidewitch @fentiesturns @oopsiedaisydeer @messi10-fcb

Other people I wanna mention cause I luv em!: @muwapsturniolo @theyluvivi @ed1tssturnn @nicksprincess @nickscoconutwater

#sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #the sturniolos

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tgmsunmontue · 10 months ago

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“I’m sorry, wait, shit, what did you say?”

B-something is looking at him in shock, eyes and mouth all wide circles and okay, that makes all the tiredness he’s been feeling turn to fizzing energy in his veins. Holy shit. He just found his soul mate.

“You… you said my words.”

“And you said mine. If that wasn’t already obvious.”

“You really need to not wander off, I can’t keep you safe if I don’t know where you are,” B-something says, his tone softer, gentler and Jake laughs silently; privately thinks his days wandering off are now gone, not with a soul mate to get to know. However he’s going to have to admit he doesn’t remember his name. Ugh. What a way to seem even more like an asshole.

“I’m sorry, I know we were introduced only a couple of days ago, but I don’t remember your name…”

“Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Bs… lots of bs, that did stick in my head. The alliteration.”

“Some of my friends call me Bradbrad.”

“Well, I’m Jake. Uh. Call me Jake.”

“Not Mr Seresin?”

“No!” Jake responds instantly, vehement.

“So, what do you think we’re working with here?” Bradley asks, and it’s going to take Jake a while to get used to using his name. His mind is offering up potentially ridiculous lines Bradley Bradshaw the bodyguard built of beautiful bricks I want to lick. God he definitely needs some sleep. And proper food. Not necessarily in that order.

“Huh?”

“What kind of bond do you think we’re working with?”

“Oh. Uh,” he swallows roughly, because he’s an out and proud not-straight man, and soulmates generally get a free pass anyway. Except… “Hopefully not platonic,” Jake provides, and the slow smile Bradley gives him makes his skin prickle and he’s suddenly feeling a lot more awake.

#hangster #sereshaw #a snippet from my SoulmatesAU which I started for the TopGun AU Bingo #Aiming to finish it this weekend

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gothic-aesthetic-gal · 5 months ago

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Old Scars (Part 15)

Ledger!joker x reader

Fem!reader is kidnapped by the joker and his henchmen while just trying to get a moment's reprieve from her boring, soul-destroying job ✨️

Tw: I mean, we all saw TDK, right? I'd say this is on the same level/rating. Kidnapping, violence, mentions of minor characters (not J) being misogynist/threatening SA, reference to past traumatic injury. This chapter's pretty soft actually, no violence for once 😂 Beyond this i'm not sure, i'll update these when I write more.

Chapter 15 -

The next thing I was aware of was somebody else entering the room, though some time later. Their footsteps rounded the bed to the side I was curled up on and the sudden intrusion of the sound woke me up with a jolt. I looked up to see the familiar tall figure of a man in dress pants and a dishevelled shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked recently showered; his hair was still wet and his bare face still had some traces of shaving foam on it. He clumsily replaced the errant strap of his suspenders as they slid off of his shoulder and crouched down beside me. As I realised who he was, I struggled to untangle the knotted threads of reality and the dream.

"Hello there," he said, with a voice like dry leaves on asphalt.

"I saw you," I murmured shakily.

He sat down beside me on the bed with a hum which suggested he was intrigued.

"And you were afraid."

I pulled myself upright so that I was seated with my legs crossed, and much to my alarm quickly realised how few clothes I was wearing. I hurriedly clutched the bedsheets to me, feeling very exposed but trying (and failling) to play it off like I wasn't. Oh god, there was no way he and Tony hadn't already seen too much.

"Afraid of you? A little, yes, but everything in that place was terrifying. You were just part of the landscape," I said as nonchalantly as I could.

He seemed a little surprised by my candid answer and highly amused by my attempt to preserve some kind of modesty. He handed me a cold glass of water with a tablet fizzing away inside it.

"Drink that."

"What is it?"

"Just drink it."

I sighed, for once not having the energy to argue and began to sip it quickly, not liking the taste. When it was half empty, I put it on the bedside dresser. He stayed sat beside me, fingers pressed together into a steeple as he seemed to drift somewhere far away in his mind. I watched the muscles and tendons of his forearms flex as his fingers moved in repetetive shapes and sequences.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I asked in my hoarse voice, recalling that he had used this particular turn of phrase on me before.

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in the faintest hint of a smile, recognition of how i'd passed his own words back to him. He didn't share, of course. He never liked to show his hand, no matter what game we were playing.

"What happened to me?" I asked instead.

"You don't remember your little, uh, scuffle with the Russian?"

"Don't be difficult, you know what I mean. What did he stick me with?" I grumbled.

He turned to look me up and down, measuring the depth of my frustration and finding it to be fairly shallow.

"A kind of fear toxin, courtesy of disgraced Arkham psychiatrist Jonathan Crane. I hear it's causing all sorts of trouble in the Narrows since the dealers got hold of it."

"Why would that ever be sold as a recreational drug?" I scoffed in disbelief.

"To be fair," he said, flicking his tongue against his lower lip, "I think it's deliberately mis-sold."

"False advertising," I echoed as I wondered if he'd always had such an unusual tic, or if he'd developed it over time. I still found it unnerving.

"Yes. Maybe he wants to hold people to ransom and grind out a little profit selling the antidote," J added.

"You think that's Crane's M.O.?" I asked.

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he let out a kind of exasperated sigh.

"How should I know? He's crazy."

I failed to stifle a grin at the irony of such a dismissal coming from him, of all people.

"What's so amusing to you?" He asked, his voice slithering back into a slightly more sinister register.

His face took on a serious expression and he flexed his jaw. I realised I might be treading dangerous ground.

"I just find it a little hypocritical. I bet people call you crazy too," I answered earnestly, not wanting his unpredicatable moods to mold my own behaviour.

"I'm not crazy. I'm not," he muttered, though whether he was talking to himself or me was unclear.

"I didn't say you were -".

"Ah but you were thinking it. You were about to," he pointed a finger in my direction as his eyes narrowed.

"I only meant that people would say it, I've no idea whether you actually are. Besides, I wouldn't know what counts as crazy anymore, not after that bad trip," I muttered with a roll of my eyes.

He seemed to ease off a little.

"So how long was I out?" I changed track.

He paused, like he was at an intersection deciding whether to follow me down this new road in conversation, eventually he did.

"A couple of days. We got the antitoxin in you within three hours but you had a highly concentrated dose."

I thought about what the whole syringe might have done to me. Vladislav had clearly meant to kill me, or drive me permanently out of my mind. I shuddered just as Tony reappeared with a bundle of clothes in hand and my duffle bag.

"Here, I washed these for you."

There was something so unexpected about this enormous, fierce man, handing me my clothes like a mother getting a child ready for school. He set down the bag and clothes on the unoccupied side of the bed

"You can go now, I'll call when I need you. You know the drill by now," J said, tossing him a set of jangling keys.

I wondered how long Tony had been away from his family, and tried to remember what having people waiting at home for you felt like. I heard his footsteps fade, a door open and close, and finally, the rumble of a car engine as it pulled away. In his absence, the silence that fell over us was deafening.

"What happened to them?" I finally asked in my desperation to end the quiet.

"Are you sure you'd like to know that?" J asked, his tone dancing between seriousness and playfulness.

"Nicky shot Trigger, and you shot Nicky, but what happened to Vlad?"

Even without the paint, I watched a growing darkness twist the features of the man beside me. I hurriedly turned my eyes away from his face, instead settling on the peeling yellow wall paper in the corner of the room.

"I wasn't sure what to do with him at first. I considered killing him, but he just seemed to go deeper and deeper into madness. It was fascinating to watch."

Unable to stop myself, I turned back towards him, and watched the growing fire in his eyes as he spoke; he was becoming increasingly animated with each word.

"Tony dropped him downtown. Most likely he'll be picked up and carted off to Arkham. His fate is an excellent warning against any of the other men who might be tempted back into Maroni's deep pockets."

"He's stuck in a living nightmare. Yeah, I'd heed that warning," I said dryly.

"Exactly! This is so much better than just shooting him and dumping him in the harbour: the mob are desensetised to that. It's basically a regular tuesday for them, but this? No, no, this is much more of a powerful threat..."

His piercing gaze met my own.

"Still, I suppose you disapprove..." he said with a smirk.

"Are you kidding me? He tried to kill me and nearly had me stuck in some kind of endless hell."

I laughed a little at the idea I was going to be reproachful and I had his intensely undivided attention as I continued:

"It's satisfying to know that he's stuck like that. He set those wheels in motion. Let him suffer like I did."

He made a kind of sound under his breath, like he was pleased with my outburst and I moved to drink the rest of the water, still clutching the blankets to my chest. I still felt like I was nursing the worst hangover of my entire life, like I'd suffered an electric shock. One time I had forgot to unplug the toaster when I was cleaning it with a damp cloth and it felt like someone tied a housebrick with a string connected to each of my fingers and thrown it off of a cliff. The way all of my muscles had snapped taught and suddenly cramped - it was one of the worst pains I had ever experienced. This felt like that but all over, somehow worse. I grasped a tshirt from the fresh pile, and looked pointedly at him.

When he didn't move, I was forced to use words.

"Turn around already," I grumbled.

Both his eyebrows pulled up into a knowing look as he laughed.

"I hate to break it to you doll, but you tore off your clothes whilst screaming like a banshee yesterday evening. It might be a little late for that."

My cheeks flushed red as I felt the sting of embarasment. Still I hurriedly stuffed the t-shirt over my head and pulled it on the moment he made a big scene of turning to face the wall for me.

"You can turn back," I groaned and laid my head back down against the cool pillow, feeling terrible.

The next time I woke up, J was sat on the empty side of the bed, his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle and he was holding out a plate. His face paint had reappeared by now and he wordlessly gestured for me to take the food he'd brought. I sluggishly propped myself up enough to take one, and instead he forcibly shoved the plate into my hands.

"You need to eat these," he said sternly.

Wordlessly and methodically I worked my way through the crackers as he watched me intently. They had a layer of peanut butter and jelly haphazardly slapped on top of them, I assumed for the purpose of giving me some sugar intake.

"It's a good thing i'm not allergic to peanuts, huh? Did you think of that?" I jabbed an elbow into his ribs playfully, somehow forgetting the many reasons not to do that kind of thing.

He looked baffled, which made me laugh a little.

"What's so funny?" He said sounding almost hurt.

"Your face; you just looked so confused."

"People don't tend to touch me," he muttered, rattling over the t sounds..

"Yeah, well people will give you a wide berth if you go around blowing up half the city. Who'd have guessed?" I rolled my eyes.

Suddenly, he produced something from his pocket. It was a brilliant red apple, almost as vibrant as his painted smile. He rubbed it against his waistcoat as though he was polishing it. I watched him quizically as he took a bite and then tossed it into my lap. He had a maddening habit of chewing without properly closing his mouth which immediately made my skin crawl.

"What?" He asked, spotting my change in body language.

I gently put my hand over his mouth.

"Don't you have any manners?" I said as playfully as I could manage.

His eyes locked with my own and he slowly pulled my hand down.

"Define manners... I find that most of them are a waste of time. An unwritten social contract we're all just dragged into."

"Yes, but -" I tried to argue. He cut me off.

"Do you know, what happens if you get lacerations from here, to here? He asked, following the red line of paint which almost went from ear to ear.

"No," I answered, anxiety rising in my chest.

"Well, about here, is something called the parotid duct. It's basically the tube that carries your saliva, from where it is produced further back, into your mouth. If that gets cut, a surgeon will have to try reconstructing it. Even if they are successful, you'll probably have issues with it for life."

He gestured to a point on his cheek about two thirds of the way from his mouth to his ear, right at the top of his longer scar. Instantly, I realised what an asshat I had been and felt a burning shame spreading throughout my body.

"Not to mention, there's all kinds of nerves in here..." he pressed further, tracing the forked outline of some of them against my cheek with a finger.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think -"

He waved a hand to shut me up, but I ignored him.

"No, I am. That was me being a prick. I of all people should have thought about that."

He placed a finger to my lips in a shushing motion and my words finally came to a halt.

"Don't waste your time, doll. I don't care. Not about manners and not about what you just said." He said, nodding his head affirmatively in a frantic way.

I was sure that I felt a rogue tear slip out and roll down my cheek, despite my attempts to suppress the overwhelming feeling of regret that was welling up inside me. How had I missed the obvious and said something so careless, like so many people had done to me? Before I could wipe it away, he spotted it and pulled his body closer to mine. He cupped my face in his hands with a look of childlike fascination in his features.

"What's this, a tear? For me?" He mused.

I tried to turn my head away, but he tightened his grip in resistance against me. I was then suddenly afraid of what he would do next. He swept the tear away with his thumb and released me from his grasp. Not knowing what had taken over me, I folded my arms around his waist and I laid back down.

He remained sat with his back to the headboard, and surprisingly didn't try to remove my clinging grasp on him as he stayed uncharacteristically still. I felt him rest a hand against the side of my face. Normally I would have recoiled even at the idea of anyone touching my broken skin, but there was something about his touch that felt like it was white hot and purifying. It was the opposite to the feeling of disgust and corruption that my attacker in the alley had left lingering on me.

"Sometimes, when its about to rain, espescially if theres a storm coming, it feels like the plate in my head starts to vibrate."

"So they turned you into a human barometer? That's unfortunate..."

"I mean it's a pretty shit power, it fucking hurts, but I can tell you if it's about to rain really heavily," I smiled weakly.

I felt his hand smooth the hair over the location of my titanium plate.

"You know, I applied for a specialist plastic surgeon to help me heal better," I began, seeing an opportunity for a little dark humour; "to stop me looking like I lost a fight to someone wielding a cheese grater..."

I felt him chuckle at my ridiculous image which was at odds with the emotional weight of what I was sharing.

"but my insurance provider denied me everything except the most basic stitch-up and a permanent plate."

He gave a hum which indicated he was listening intently.

"I can't help thinking maybe I wouldn't have a lifetime of headaches if they hadn't put the cheapest thing possible in there. And, of course, the scars could have been much less noticeable," I sighed, running my hand over the valleys and ridges travelling down from my temple.

"The whole system - It's a bad joke," he muttered.

I nodded with a sigh.

"But it will never change. It's so utterly depressing. I hate it."

"We live in a cruel world, it's true."

I felt his fingers clumsily tracing over my face again.

"Are you wondering how it happened?" I whispered.

"No. The past is the past. When you live in the world we do, the only way to stay sane is to live in the present."

A smile crept its way onto my face.

"If you'd asked, I would've lied to you any way. Even to you, I wouldn't give that away," I admitted, looking up at his face.

He seemed struck by this, looking down at me with a renewed kind of fascination.

"What?"

"Nothing," he answered, patting me on the head.

Unlike him, my thoughts drifted to the future. Whatever this was could not end well: It couldn't last. Reality was always chasing me down.

"Lie to me," I said suddenly.

"What?"

"Tell me we have a future, that there's hope. That whatever this is between us, it will all be okay."

"Doll, you know that's really not -" he began with a sigh and shifted within my grasp.

"It doesn't have to be convincing. I just need to hear the words."

He was silent for a while, as I waited to see if he would do what I'd asked. He sighed and grumbled under his breath as he turned closer to me.

"We can leave all of this behind us. We'll run off into the sunset and live happily ever after. No more batman, no more Gotham city, no more police. I'll take you to the mountains - or are you the sort of girl who prefers the ocean? We can do both, all that greenery, and you can swim in the water."

It didn't matter that I knew the words were empty, or that he himself sounded utterly unconvinced. I picked up the apple, which had already started to brown where the missing piece was, and ate some of it myself. It was surprisingly sweet and crisp. I let my eyes drift closed and fashioned myself a strange sort of Eden in my imagination. I found myself falling back into the dance we had been locked in when I was under Crane's toxin. I was so tired.

I had nearly died a second time, and like the first, it had changed me in ways I didn't yet know...

Link to the masterlist for other chapters:

Tag list:

If I forgot anyone or you want to be removed from the tag list - please let me know! 💕

@dis0rderly-cl0wn-nerd

@dance-like-a-clown

@furisodespirit

@heath-ledger-jokers-wife

@sunfyrejoker

@lightsabergirl

@clowning--around

@ruby-da-archangel

@harleenqvinn

@helchronicles

@ostricx

@knoepfl

@jumpingjellyfishhaha

@nicklet94

Dividers by @strangergraphics ✨️

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rudyking · 3 months ago

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Drunk curiosity:

Justin, JJ's son accidentally finds himself drunk when his father leaves his beer out.

The afternoon sun dripped gold onto the weathered deck of the Chateau, painting the worn wood a honeyed hue. JJ, shirtless as always and radiating a careless energy that belied a surprisingly meticulous nature beneath, was attempting to teach five-year-old Justin how to properly cast a fishing line. Justin, a miniature replica of his dad, right down to the shaggy blonde hair sticking up in defiant spikes and the deep dimples that punctuated his wide, earnest smiles, was mostly interested in using the fishing rod as a pretend sword, swishing it dangerously close to JJ’s head.

“No, no, buddy, gently!” JJ chuckled, his own line dangling forgotten as he wrestled the rod away from Justin, demonstrating again. “It’s like you’re… you’re gently giving the ocean a hug, but with a string. Got it?”

Justin, predictably, did not have it. He giggled, eyes sparkling with mischief, and launched himself at JJ, tackling him in a squealing heap onto the deck. Their laughter echoed across the marsh as Yn emerged from inside the Chateau, a cool glass of iced tea in her hand and a soft smile gracing her lips. She was the calm anchor to JJ’s chaotic whirlwind, the gentle breeze to his unpredictable storm.

“Everything alright out here?” she asked, her voice like honeyed sunshine.

“Just teaching the protégé the ancient art of angling,” JJ grinned, ruffling Justin’s already messy hair. “Though sword fighting seems to be his preferred discipline.”

Yn chuckled, handing JJ the iced tea. “Here. Hydrate, teacher. And Justin, maybe we leave the sword fighting for later. How about we draw some fish instead?”

Justin, ever easily swayed by the promise of art supplies, bounced up immediately, grabbing Yn’s hand. “Draw fishies! Yes!”

“Excellent diplomacy, as always,” JJ murmured to Yn as she led Justin inside. He took a long swig of his iced tea, then, remembering he’d grabbed a beer earlier, snagged the frosty bottle from the cooler beside his chair. He’d just crack it open when John B and Pope’s beat-up VW bus rattled into the driveway.

“Yo, Pogues!” John B yelled, hopping out, Pope hot on his heels, clutching a stack of maps that looked older than the Chateau itself.

“Operation Royal Merchant update, reporting for duty!” Pope announced, unrolling the maps with dramatic flair.

Lost in the thrill of treasure hunting whispers and ancient map deciphering, JJ completely forgot about the beer he’d set down on the low table beside his chair. The sun was setting, casting long, dramatic shadows across the deck as they huddled over the faded parchment, their voices a low murmur of excitement and speculation.

Meanwhile, inside, Justin, having exhausted his artistic enthusiasm, had wandered back outside, seeking his dad. He spotted the forgotten beer bottle, glinting invitingly in the fading light. It looked… interesting. Like a grown-up juice box. Curiosity, a trait he undoubtedly inherited from JJ in spades, propelled him forward. He reached for the bottle, his small fingers fumbling a bit, but he managed to pick it up. It smelled… weird. Faintly sweet, faintly… something else he couldn't quite place. But it was cold, and he was a little thirsty.

He tipped the bottle up, taking a tentative sip. It fizzed on his tongue, a strange bitterness quickly followed by a… not unpleasant warmth. He took another sip, then another, the initial weirdness fading into a curious, bubbly sensation. Hey, this wasn't bad at all. He drank a little more, and a little more, until the bottle was noticeably lighter. He giggled to himself, feeling a warm fuzzy feeling spread through his tummy and making his giggles louder.

Outside, JJ, John B, and Pope were deep in debate about a potential clue hidden in an old church graveyard when they heard it. Giggles. Loud, slightly slurred giggles.

“What in the…?” John B frowned, glancing towards the Chateau.

JJ straightened up, instantly alert. “That’s… Justin?” He moved towards the sound, his brow furrowing in confusion.

The giggles were coming from the corner of the deck. JJ rounded the corner, and his eyes widened. There was Justin, sitting cross-legged amidst a pile of discarded fishing lures, swaying slightly, a goofy grin plastered across his face, a half-empty beer bottle clutched loosely in his hand.

“Justin?” JJ’s voice was a mix of disbelief and dawning horror. “Buddy, what are you doing?”

Justin looked up at him, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and bright, were a little glazed and unfocused. “Hi, Dada!” he slurred, his words coming out thick and wobbly. He held up the beer bottle, offering it with a generous, if slightly off-kilter, flourish. “Juice!”

JJ snatched the bottle, sniffing it incredulously. Yep. Beer. His beer. The almost empty beer bottle his five-year-old son was apparently using as a juice box.

Time seemed to freeze. JJ stared at Justin, then at the bottle, then back at Justin, a chaotic cocktail of emotions brewing inside him. Panic was the first and most potent ingredient. Followed quickly by a tidal wave of guilt. Then, inexplicably, bubbling up through the panic and guilt, a hysterical laugh started to build in his chest.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped in a snort. John B and Pope arrived, peering over his shoulder, and their jaws dropped in unison.

“Dude,” John B whispered, eyes wide, “is he…?”

“Drunk,” JJ finished, the word escaping as another choked laugh. He couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity of the situation, the sheer ridiculousness of his son, Justin, getting tipsy on his carelessly left-out beer, was almost too much. It was tragic, it was terrible parenting, it was… hilariously, terribly JJ-esque.

“JJ, you left beer out where a five-year-old could reach it?” Pope’s voice was laced with disbelief, but even he couldn’t quite suppress a twitch of a smile.

“In my defense,” JJ said, still battling the urge to laugh and failing miserably, “I was saving the world! Or at least, trying to find some gold! Look, maps! Pirates! Priorities, Pope, priorities!” He gestured wildly at the maps still spread on the table.

Justin, oblivious to the brewing parental crisis, started singing, off-key and at the top of his lungs, a song that sounded vaguely like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but with significantly more enthusiastic and less coherent lyrics.

“Row, row, row the… boaty! Gently down… the streamy! Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but… a… dreamy!” he finished with a flourish, then promptly lost his balance and toppled sideways onto the deck with a thump.

JJ’s laughter died in his throat. Okay, humor break over. Time for dad mode: Level – frantic. He scooped Justin up, cradling him in his arms. “Hey, buddy, hey, you alright?”

Justin blinked up at him, his dimples flashing. “Dada… I feel… floaty.”

“Floaty is bad, Justin,” Yn said, appearing on the deck, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. She quickly assessed the situation, her usual calm demeanor unwavering, even as her eyes flashed JJ a look that could curdle milk. “Very, very bad.”

“I know, I know, I messed up, majorly messed up,” JJ mumbled, his earlier amusement completely evaporated, replaced by a gnawing worry. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt so intense it was almost physical. His carefree attitude, his ‘live in the moment’ philosophy, had just backfired spectacularly.

“Let’s get him inside,” Yn said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “He probably just needs some water and to sleep it off.” She shot JJ another look, this one softer, more understanding. She knew him. She knew his heart, even if it was sometimes hidden beneath layers of bravado and recklessness. She knew he didn’t mean for this to happen.

Inside, Yn gently coaxed Justin to drink some water. He was giggly and uncoordinated, but thankfully, not vomiting or distressed. He mostly just seemed… blissfully unaware of the minor crisis he had caused. As Yn soothed Justin, JJ paced the living room, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“I am the worst dad ever,” he muttered to John B and Pope, who were watching the scene with a mixture of concern and morbid fascination.

“Nah, man, you’re not the worst,” John B said, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just… maybe the most… Outer Banks-y dad ever?”

Pope nodded in agreement. “Look, it was an accident. It happens. Just… maybe hide the beer better next time?”

JJ couldn’t help but chuckle, a real, genuine chuckle this time, laced with self-deprecating humor. “Yeah, lesson learned. Apparently, ‘hide beer’ is now on the dad to-do list, right after ‘teach fishing’ and ‘sword fighting safety 101’.”

Yn emerged from Justin’s room, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s asleep. Out like a light.” She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at JJ. “And you, Mr. Carefree Dad, have some explaining to do.”

JJ’s dimples flashed, and he moved towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Explanation coming right up, my love. Starting with… I am so, so sorry. And maybe ending with… can we still go treasure hunting tomorrow?”

Yn sighed, a soft, fond sigh. “JJ,” she said, shaking her head, but her eyes were full of warmth. “You are a menace. But… you’re my menace.” She leaned in and kissed him, a slow, forgiving kiss that tasted like home and second chances. And JJ knew, despite his epic parenting fail of the day, he had everything he needed right here in the chaotic, loving mess that was his Outer Banks life. And maybe, just maybe, become a funny story to tell Justin when he was old enough to appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #dad!jj maybank #dad jj maybank #jj obx #jj outer banks #jj x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj mayback x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x pogue!reader #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank blurbs

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2minutesnotice · 1 year ago

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do you think the others ever treat blitz like a sugar baby? cause, while he has a successful business, he is the poorest of the four. two of them are literal hell royalty and fizz is one of the most famous people in hell.

i just like imagining them showering blitz in gifts and being silent partners in his business so he doesnt have to worry about going under if he doesnt get enough clients one week

Just so you know, I'll go just with my headcanon Polycule and kiiiinda ignore canon here, if that's okay?

I'm still trying to stay in character as possible but there's some stuff I'm still trying to figure out, without ignoring their own character traits.

For your question:

Private Blitzø appreciates gifts, as long as they're mindfully chosen. He's not into expensive stuff, he has no need for expensive clothes or jewelry, he's fine with his last generations phone, he loves to chose his weapons himself.

But he definitely loves the little gifts, horse merch, a new blanket from Stolas, a date night in which he doesn't need to pay (and sometimes he does and they let him).

I think he would be really pissed when it was obvious that they would gift him things just because he's not in wealth. Like, when Stolas's tried to buy him clothes for an fancy event they attended to (and it was nerve wracking anyway since it was one of the events in which they showed up together, like officially announced and Stolas was all over him the whole time, nervous energy spreading) he got really angry at some point, since it felt like a weird degrading dress up game for him.

Or Fizz gifting him expensive tech, like, he doesn't need a damn watch that talks to him, thank you very much.

BUT Ozzie is smarter lol

Ozzie involves Blitzø into things. He shows him fancy cooking and Blitzø is so damn well good with a knife, cutting those onions without shedding a single tear, and that pan which they use has a special knack to it and nothing sticks on it and oh, these plates are nice, thanks, they're from a manufacturer handmade from Sloth.

So he gifts him these thing, like, a fancy cutting knife for cooking, to prepare dinner faster. Nice looking tableware, in Blitzøs favorite color because he liked them so much and now he can prepare fancy dinners for them on fancy plates.

He involves Blitzø into HIS business and the man is all over the pleasure bringing things, why not gift him those, he had his fingers in them anyway.

If they think Blitzø is absolutely wrecked tired from doing mission after mission and keeping a relationship with 3 people, Ozzie will tell him how good he is and that his business is thriving and gifts ALL of IMP a day spa gift card. That he owns that Spa is a secret lol

So, Blitzø is good with gifts but they know he has boundaries and even if it is hard to accept these sometimes, they really try to not make him uncomfortable. Also, he loves gifts that involve all of them, LuLu Land tickets, coffee dates, sex toys, vacations (he pays his share of the expenses but who would say no to free drinks). He just does not like to feel like he's using all of them for their money.

(And that's something that hits hard, since Stella constantly is on their back screeching that into the crowd. Also tabloids and newspapers rip their relationship apart, since Blitzø moved into the palace, calling him a Homewrecker and that his status is definitely not good enough for a prince, that he's a moneychaser. That does something to people..)

Business Blitzø will talk business.

IMP is good, they're making money and some of that really gets into their pockets. They can buy better guns, better ammo.

It's not as chaotic as it was at the beginning, since they now can use the damn Crystal (yeah it exists, yeah there was a sad hiccup in Stolitz relationship. They worked it out..kinda) and Ozzie is way better at keeping that a secret then Stolas was, with letting Blitzø handling the book.

(I'm still waiting for that court episode since I think the use of the book will be addressed there and they will be in deep shit lol)

Since I headcanon that Blitzø is half Succubus (or Incubi, since he's a male), Ozzie has that card ready when someone asks.

They also have human disguises now (and yes, Stolas fucked him human, he really wanted to try lol), which makes dealing with the human world way easier.

And when it comes to his business, Blitzø allows his partners a little bit of help, but mostly to keep things smoothly. Obviously Ozzie did his biggest part by giving him a Crystal, but sometimes Stolas does some long overdue Paperwork ("You have to do your taxes, darling! You're throwing away money" "Of course Hell would have taxes, it's literally Hell!") , Fizz looking over their schedule ("You should keep up with the timezones, Idiot. Look, if you do your killing in France and then go to Japan, there will be daylight in Japan and it's way easier of you do that at night, I'll keep an eye on that!") and trying to keep his boyfriend alive lol

But no, no partnership with anyone. IMP is Blitzøs work, his pride. He's good at what he's doing there, he loves his employees, he's glad he has something to get up to every morning. There's his name and his name alone on that door.

He needs that and they accept that. It's that one step to a better picture of himself and his self worth. They even got him to hang a picture of them all into his office and his face isn't blacked out. Just a post it glued over it.

So, thank you for your question! As you can see I love to rant about these idiots lol

#helluva boss #fizzarolli #blitzø #stolas #asmodeus #fizzarozzie #stolitz #2minutes answer

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cpeedemon · 2 years ago

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Green/Blue Fire in HB + Specific focus on Asmodeus

Gonna start off by saying that I am certainly not the first person to identify the clear narrative difference between green and blue fire in HB.

While green fire has destroyed everything, it arguably correlates both to the nature of fire and the symbolism of the color green.

Green symbolizes money/greed (this is redundant, ik im sorry). But we can say, Fizz became both literally and figuratively wounded/consumed/scarred by the greed of Cash Buckzo. I’m not sure of the extent that Fizz was working under Mammon at this time, so I think it might be better if we stick with Cash’s greed. Although Fizz’s idolization of Mammon may have been one of the factors that aided in ignoring the abuse, we can also argue that Cash laid the groundwork for normalizing an exploitative relationship.

Furthermore, green can symbolize envy. So maybe, we can view green fire as not only a symbol of Cash’s greed, but .... possibly Blitzo's jealousy?

I'd argue it is a bit of a reach. Although his jealousy is apparent from childhood, before the fire Blitz always seems to be supportive of Fizz even after he's got fans.

After the misunderstanding between the two that further separates them, his jealousy is a bit more obvious though. Never can he forget about his own lack of success in the circus, and Fizz seems to represent that era of his life.

So again, the idea of Blitz's jealousy as one of the things that "destroyed" Fizz is iffy... But Cash’s greed makes sense symbolically.

Let's move on.

Blue fire, on the other hand, seems to be ineffective to hell's citizens just like normal red fire, seen as how Fizz doesn't flinch using Ozzie's fire batons and yknow openly cuddles his big blue flaming bf.

But I looked into the further symbolism of blue fire, cuz I felt that there had to be a reason why it was such a big aspect of Ozzie's design. Furthermore, what makes blue fire more tame? In part because i was interested, in part cuz of my increased procrastination during finals season, I stumbled upon this dandy lil article --

https://atlasmythica.com/blue-flame-symbolism-meaning/ .

TLDR: describes distinct symbolism of blue fire (meant to be interpreted in relation to dreams, but i think it's interesting to see in HB's context, too)

Although red fire -- fire in it's purest form, really -- can symbolize destruction, it also symbolizes passion, energy, desire, or love.

The color blue intrinsically seems to combat fire in itself, being that it symbolizes depression, tranquility or rationality.

What the article really deduces is that blue fire can represent 'healthy emotions' -- those in which we balance passions and desires without repressing them.

Not gonna go over Ozzie's little love/lust tangent we get when we're first actually introduced to him cuz I think by now everyone gets the gist of it. But it's important, cuz it underlines his regard/performance of his sin. And I think the article's conclusion of what blue fire represents really correlates with his identity as the embodiment of lust/passion.

Lust is not meant to be forced, neither should it be repressed.

Arguably, his expression of lust can correlate to how he shows all other emotions.

Overall, Ozzie is a chill guy - blue very well matches his personality in the sense that he kinda oozes comfort, contentment and self-possession. Outwardly, he seems naturally charismatic, like Fizz, loves entertaining a crowd, and is very open and proud about his sin.

But, dude doesn't hold back when he's pissed, as do all the other sins we've seen, yet even that has nuance. Yeah, he gets disgruntled at the thought of all his factory assets being given to Crim, but at the thought of Fizz's head on the guy's wall -- that's an automatic hell no.

When it comes to things he's passionate about, he bares his emotions on his sleeve, impulsively letting them guide actions that someone like Stolas would have thought twice about.

He wanted Fizz back so badly, he was willing to sign Crim's contract off the bat -- imagine if Stolas hadn't intervened. And what about the factors that built up to his public confession of loving Fizz?

I get it -- Ozzie was fed up of hiding his relationship, but this confession wasn't a goddamn soft launch either, it was very abrupt, in the heat of the moment. Right then and there, he's not thinking of the consequences of his actions, which are hinted at considering Mammon will def make a reappearance.

So, along with his naturally relaxed demeanour, there’s that component in accordance with fire — the passionate, fiery, shameless side that cannot be repressed.

What I mean to say, at the end of it all, is that what we can surmise about blue fire really matches with Ozzie's character. It's a testament to his design. Love the guy and I'm so curious to see what the show ends up doing with him and Fizz.

#helluva boss #helluva boss asmodeus #helluva boss fizzarolli #fizzarozzie #this was meant to be an anlytical comparison of fire but just spiraled into a deep dive of ozzie's character #i wont apologize hes my favorite character #ozzie stans get behind me

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