#less punch from stella in this one

[anika-ann]

Take the Ache - pt.2

Part 2: The Take in Mistake

Type: series, slightly canon-divergent, idiots in love with sprinkles of angst

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 4700

Series masterlist (and summary)

Warnings: mentions of canon-typical injuries, missions and weaponry, tones of self-deprecation, unrequired love (is it though), a not-so-great pun, language

A/N: written for Stella’s Starry Winter Sky challenge; DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; this prologue is a flashfoward and is very short, especially on my scale; title is, just like chapter titles, taken from The Script’s No Good in Goodbye

A/N 2:  No use of Y/N. Main character’s nickname made up by Steve is 'Lo (will be expalined at some point, promise). Thank you for reading so far and enjoy 💕

This weapon – this stupid pile of metal plates and wiring and humming electricity – was about to be murdered.

You were going to dismantle it piece by piece if you had the patience, or slam it with a hammer enough times to make it break into thousands pieces by sheer force of your frustration and guilt.

Because the damage the weapon had done was on you; at least the most savage side of the ruin.

An EMP. A stupidly advanced machine to create an electromagnetic pulse and knock out all the tech the Avengers relied on. Of course not all your weapons could have withstand that; of course it had stunned the Avengers.

Your friends, your people.

That was bad enough and you’d wish to bite off someone’s carotid just for that, perhaps even your own because you should have thought about the possibility of one of the many evils the Earth’ mightiest heroes fought operating an EMP, but it got worse.

And that was the reason why you knew you’d take a hammer for at least a part of that weapon just out of pure spite. To make it feel the pain. Inanimate objects didn’t feel pain, but the image of smashing it was too alluring and it only seemed fair.

Coming back from the mission, a little more shaken and a little less successful that usual, everyone had been so nice about it. They had been so kind and reassuring that it wasn’t your fault the second they spied the expression on your face upon seeing the destroyed gear and being explained what had happened. Upon seeing the sheer horror in your eyes when they told you the EMP had took it out and somehow absorbed the electric energy and redirected it however the person operating the EMP wished, making it all the more destructive.

They were so nice you wanted to punch something, every tight-lipped smile cutting into your gut and kindling a wildfire inside your chest. Even Sharon, the hero of the day who had been there to have Natasha’s back when she got hurt – because of course Agent Carter had been there to save the day which you were grateful for but also despised it with vigour because she had been fixing your mistakes – was sweet about it. She was enraged on everyone’s behalf but benevolent with you, genuinely not taking any credit or accepting any pats on the back, because having a teammate’s six was the basic rule.

And that was the worst part of it all; you hadn’t had your team’s back. You had fucked up.

Because you had failed to take a variable into account when creating the Widow Bites. And as they had got hit by the EMP discharge, they malfunctioned enough to burn Nataha’s wrist.

The mere idea of the pain that had to cause would be enough to chase tears into your eyes, but the worry for your friend got overruled by guilt and fury, because you hadn’t been smart enough to prevent that.

Now that was where you’d draw a line. That was where you hit your limit. The fact Steve wasn’t amongst the ones who came here to tell you this, because he had to be too damn disappointed in you to face you with how at odds you were with each other lately and with no doubt having to explain your failures to higher-ups and probably staying with Natasha throughout her treatment, because he considered everyone’s safety his responsibility, now that was just a cherry on top, wasn’t it.

You were surprised Bucky wasn’t here to snap your neck; then again, he was emotionally mature and loving enough to know being with Nat was more important at the moment, even as Clint was probably hovering in the background.

So you got Tony, Sam and Sharon, speaking to you with soft undertone of anger directed at stupid fraction of HYDRA and too much kindness directed at you, looking at you as if you were about to break down or explode any second. Because you weren’t an agent or an Avenger. You couldn’t keep your cool like they did.

You hated being talked to as if you were a toddler or another emotionally unstable human being, but they had a point.

You already began to silently dismantle this goddamn weapon they had managed to get a hand on, even as they were still standing there, waiting for god-knew-what.

Tony and Sharon took the hint eventually, supportive smiles on their faces as they left.

Sam did not.

He lingered, a little too much in your workspace, hovering like a ghost of your conscience and guilt, watching you wrestle with tools. You could feel the compassion and understanding coming off of his figure in waves and you wished you could built a dam tall and sturdy enough to withstand it until the irritation they were feeding in you could turn into crumbling self-pity and tears.

“So… you wanna get something out of your chest?” he asked, his calmness just as obnoxious as his presence, all the softer and warmer in comparison to the sharpness of the cold edge you found yourself on.

You were not sure how long you could keep balancing at the top until you tipped over to either side, one worse than the other.

“Not particularly,” you muttered.

Peeling off one of the metallic plates covering the EMP at last, you nearly cheered, grabbing the hammer and hitting it with all your might in hopes to chip enough pieces off. For analysis of the material that was not affected by the discharge and managed to absorb it the power instead. For your own dark indulgence because fuck did that feel good.

The loud bang and clatter echoed in the now almost empty room; and one would think that would chase any onlookers away.

But not Sam.

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at your method, which he probably considered simply distressed antics. He was half-right. But that didn’t matter; the way he looked at you, arms crossed on his chest, did.

“…clearly.”

You set the hammer down with an unnecessary but completely satisfactory clang and unclasped your protective googles to look at Sam, huffing.

“Look, Sam, I’m sorry, but I have some work to do, so if you could… go away, I’d appreciate it,” you said bluntly, turning back to the weapon with a mutter under your breath that felt real good to speak out loud as it had been sitting on top of your chest, heavy like a herd of elephants. “Work I’m clearly not capable of.”

You heard the soft rustle of his steps as he came closer, seeing peripherally that he uncrossed his arms. You could feel the weight of his annoyingly concerned gaze on your face, while you willed your eyes to remain on the printed circuit board of the EMP.

Interesting. Judging by the colour of the metal alone, they had definitely used a peculiar alloy for the conductive traces.

“Hey now… you know that’s not true,” Sam offered, his gentle tone both soothing and irritating, his next words painted by knowing more than anyone should. “And we both know that’s not the real problem, is it?”

The question sliced through your insides like the sharpest knife, your spine suddenly strung tight as the air in your lungs burst out in an explosion. Your hand was slamming the tweezers on the counter before you knew what you were doing, white-hot rage nearly blinding you as you spun to Sam, shame and fury firing through your nerves.

“How can you say that?! Of course that’s the real problem, Sam! Natasha is hurt because of me!”

He took an instinctive step back, raising his palms in defence.

“Okay, sorry, poor choice of words. Not the only real problem,” he corrected himself, regret lacing his warm irises. “But she’s really not. She’s hurt because the agents took us by surprise with the EMP-”

“Which took out thegear I designed-“

“As well as Tony and without which we would have been dead at least ten times before,” Sam threw back without hesitation, your argument dying on your tongue, causing you to gulp against the lump having grown in your throat, your hands trembling with echoes of the adrenalin spike. “But we’re not, because you have our back and we have each other’s back.”

Evading his sincere gaze as he spilled facts, you swallowed loudly, the all-too-familiar burn of tears in the bridge of your nose a welcomed sensation to focus on.

He was right, of course. To a point. But unlike you, Tony was out there with them and he could make up for any short-comings or lapses in his judgement.

And so was Sharon, the girl who saved them all; or protected Natasha for long enough at least.

You took a deep breath, unfocused gaze nearly swimming in the tears you stubbornly fought because they would help no one.

“So I hear. It was lucky Sharon was there, otherwise we might not be having this conversation, because Nat, Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, might have gotten killed the moment she was too stunned by pain to face the enemy.”

“But she was there and so was I and you have contributed to that.”

Sam eyed you pointedly as you had no response momentarily, that all-knowing gaze of his once again rather annoying. Because yes – saying all of this it out loud did not make it any less nor any more true, but it eased the pressure in your chest the tinniest bit.

You loved him, but you hated when he was right.

“But it’s not the same, is it? I fucked up and someone else had to fix it. Here. I said it. Happy now?” you sighed, turning back to your project, mind racing as you tried your best to focus on the very real problem at hand where a solution could come much easier than the one to your current emotional state.

Brief silence settled, the fact Sam did not move an inch telling you that this conversation, this attempt at heart-to-heart, was not over, as convenient as it would be.

“Anything else you needed, Sam?”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight, hand leaning onto the counter a few feet from you. “We worry about you. He’s worried about you.”

Your fingers twitched at the mention of Steve, but you stubbornly kept staring ahead, squinting at the PCB as you used the tweezers to extract the alloy and placed it into one of the glass dishes for samples.

“And he’s our strategist for a reason. He can still be little slow and blind when it comes to certain things, but he’s not an idiot,” Sam added.

You bit your cheek at the call out, the uncomfortable knowledge of Sam being aware of just how complicated your feelings towards Steve were twisting your stomach, almost as much as the hint at Steve’s care.

Yeah. You were sure Steve was losing sleep worrying about you. Unless he was using his nights to wank over the image of Sharon in her perfectly tight-

You shook your head, tearing off another piece of metal. You so did not have time for this mess, especially now.

“Well, if he’s worried, he can come and check up on me,” you uttered, hoping Sam would take the hint at last.

He did not.

He was way too invested in your emotional well-being and normally you would love that, because he was simply a good friend like that, but you did not want to deal with that now. Not ever, if it were up to you, but life wasn’t that merciful. Life was quite the opposite, in fact; such was the ultimate truth.

But you were an adult – as aware as you were of your own behaviour being a little childish – and adults had to be okay with not feeling okay.

“He’s been trying to,” Sam argued softly. “He says that the one time he caught up with you, you told him you were just going through something and you needed to deal with it alone, which, pardon me, is a terrible idea. And other than that, you’re avoiding him. Avoiding all of us.”

Am I? you wondered mutely against your better judgement, a telling sting of shame in the back of your throat.  

Perhaps you had. But you were also speaking the truth when saying you needed to deal with certain shit – in this case, heartbreak over lost chances and foolish hopes and unfair jealousy and disdain – on your own.

You were feeling rather sorry for having pushed everyone away along with Steve, but it wasn’t like your best friend was the only person who was taken by Sharon Carter’s brilliance.

Not that you felt like saying any of that to Sam, who was, despite his kindness, definitely overstaying his welcome in your workshop. You supposed it served you right and it was your karmic punishment for being at fault with Natasha’s Widow Bites.

You sighed.

“Look, Sam, I have no idea what-” You heard his snort even before you glanced up at him and saw his right eyebrow arched in challenge. Your shoulders slumped as you sighed once more, your lips pursing. “He avoided me first and he doesn’t need me nearly as much as he used to. And neither does either of you, Sam. It’s clear you all have better people to-”

“Horseshit.”

You winced slightly at the curse, but you returned your attention to the EMP, willing your voice to sound as steady and unaffected as possible despite having just revealed a very raw wound in your heart and pride.

“It is really? Come on, Sam, I might be slow and blind when it comes to certain things too, but I’m not an idiot either,” you echoed his earlier words, congratulating yourself on the steadiness of your words. “And I get it. I really do. So now, can we please finally-”

“Do you really?” he interrupted you again and you had had just enough.

Straightening your posture, you put away the tweezers again and put your hands on your hips, acutely aware of how your angry posture must have seemed absurd with the semi-fastened googles still on your face.

You must have looked like picture perfect of tragicomedy; which, you assumed, was rather fitting. The warm gentleness in Sam’s eyes made your insides clench with longing after a pair of blue eyes caring just as much about what a wreck you were; but the man behind the cerulean eyes was untouchable. He had been for a while and your own behaviour had only contributed to that. 

“Of course I do. Want me to spell it out? Fine,” you scoffed, throwing your hands up just a bit. “Fine. I get it. Sharon is… she’s everything. Of course everyone is falling for her. She’s beautiful and charming, she’s smart as hell, speaks like 8 languages, she’s badass but kind, she can talk about anything because she knows at least a little bit about everything, she’s a brutal fighter and a dead-precise shot, she’s excellent at undercover, she’s more than a decent hacker and hell, she could probably do my job with one hand tied behind her back. Blindfolded.”

Sam raised his other eyebrow at your last, obviously exaggerated note. Other than that, however, concern twisted his expression, something flashing in his eyes and telling you that you had just confirmed all his suspicions about how you felt.

Great.

Maybe you should just walk around in nude; to his observant eye, you might have as well been, stripped of all things to reveal the naked truth. Of course Sam fucking knew all about your insecurities – you had probably hinted about some of those, deliberately or not, and the rest was obvious.

A small part of you felt a little warmer, pleasantly so, grateful he had noticed, grateful that not all of his attention had turned to the newest addition to the team, but you cooled that part off immediately, tasting the poison of resentment and unfair jealousy on your tongue.

“Well, that’s another load of horseshit,” Sam hummed almost casually.

Despite knowing exactly what he was doing, you felt the acute feeling having been suffocating you for weeks slowly claw its way out and lead you straight into his trap.

“But is it, Sam? There’s one, one thing that I could possibly do better than her,” you said, raising your index finger to drive the point home, words suddenly spilling before you could stop them. “Just one. And even that I’m failing at miserably, case on damn point. She’s perfect and I really do get it. She’s all the things I said and more and I can see that she’s very… loveable. She’s everything, not to mention she’s a Carter-”

“Ah, there we go-”

“Oh go to hell, Sam!”

You threw up your hands wildly, turning away as the ugly blend of shame and frustration twisted your stomach, your voice as harsh as Sam deserved for such note, nausea rising up your throat.

“I love you, but go to hell with this-!”

You felt tears of humiliation sting in your eyes, but just before they spilled over, Sam, who had very much not gone to hell and stayed instead, pulled you into a gentle hug.

The cacophony of feelings of the past weeks and today in particular came crashing down, their weight falling on your shoulders and making you squeeze your eyes shut as you let Sam embrace you despite just having just snapped at him to get out; you were that selfish. You needed that hug that much.

Your shoulders shook with the force of your dry sobs, your teeth gritted tight as not to release a single sound, but little good did that do for the storm of emotion raging inside of you. The dam was already broken, feeling spilling out and washing over your whole being like a tsunami and you cursed Sam and thanked him at the same time, because even now, you knew you’d come out of this freer of some of your aches.

That didn’t mean you could afford lose time with tantrums nor it meant that this felt good now. In fact, this was exactly what you had wanted to avoid, but Sam’s arms held you like a tight protective cage, and it felt so damn nice  despite those damn goggles digging into your skin.His impressive frame almost, almost made it possible to imagine this was Steve; the only person who could have possibly comfort you further, sooth your pain in but a few moments, just a few seconds to lend you some of his strength to keep you going and figure it all out.

But Steve wasn’t here. Steve had moved on, even as there was nothing to move on from but your laughable fantasies.

For someone of your intelligence – one you fairly doubted now, to be completely honest – you sure could be silly.

Your breath hitched in your ribcage, Sam’s palm gently running up and down your back.

“Hey. Hey. You’re okay, ‘Ron. I got you”

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, fingers clutching at the soft material of his hoodie on his back, the few tears that found their way out soaking the front. “I’m so sorry – about fucking up, about acting like a jerk and pushing you all away because I apparently can’t do feelings beyond pride, and most of all about Nat-“

“Hey, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

You tried to speak, to protest that none of it was actually fine, but you couldn’t find your voice, the only sound tearing through a dry breathless sob. And so for a moment, you allowed Sam’s words the sound of comfort rumbling in his chest wash over you. You leaned into the lie, the promise of a better future.

“Now listen to me, ‘Ron. First of all, Nat is going to be okay.”

“Not thanks to me,” you murmured at last, despite welcoming the reassurance, earning a soft slap on your back.

“Bull. Second of all, we allcare about you a little too much to have you replaced that easily.”

You huffed at that, unable to protest, because deep down, you knew he was telling the truth.

“And third, I really don’t think Agent 13 is better at everything. But even if she was, you’re forgetting one important fact.”

You took a deep steadying breath, feeling grief sparkle into indignation instead, the most effective motor of all. You released Sam’s hoodie from your merciless clutches, his arms around you loosening as he felt your need for a bit more space and you took it, knocking your forehead against his sternum with a huff.

“She’s blond, so she and Steve will be the perfect match and will make the most perfect babies?”

Despite himself, Sam snorted, the sound causing the corners of your lips to twitch upwards the tinniest bit. You stepped back slightly, meeting Sam’s sincere gaze with your teary one, his palms settling on your shoulders.

“That you are you,” he said earnestly, one corner of his lips rising in a lopsided smile. “You are incredible and more importantly, you are irreplaceable. To the AI, to the team, to your friends… and to Steve.”

You gulped, gaze flickering down at the pang in your heart, knowing all too well that while there might be some true to you being irreplaceable to Steve, you occupied a place in his heart different from what you would have wished.

“And don’t forget there’s ‘hero’ in heron. That’s not a coincidence.”

You snorted in a very undignified matter, pushing off his hands from your shoulders and stepping out of his space, his grin contagious despite the painful sincerity behind his pun.

Your nickname – codename, really – was a callback to one of the greatest inventors of all time, Heron of Alexandria, as well as to Clint reminding you not to hunch over your work and twist your neck as that of the heron bird, which Tony found hilarious. The ‘hero’ actually was a coincidence, but you had to give Sam A for effort.

“Hey, you do have our backs and we’re all aware of that. You didn’t let anyone down.”

“But I did,” you whispered, pushing past the lump in your throat. “And I don’t. I… is Nat really going to be okay?”

Sam’s grin blended into a sympathetic smile, his relaxed posture speaking volumes; he wasn’t worried about her and he believed what he way saying.

“Nothing the cradle won’t fix. And she’s had much worse.”

That’s not reassuring, you wanted to say, because seriously, you loved all your friends, but their job came with some really strange and concerning standards. They would tell you they were fine and pass out the next minute, only for doctors to reveal they had been bleeding out, inside or outside. And then they’d tell you, again, that it was fine and that they had worse.

Not to mention this situation was painfully different from Nat’s usual injuries.

“Maybe. But never because of me,” you noted softly, inhaling shakily and releasing the breath slowly as your ribcage ached at the reminder weaved into your own words.

“Going in circles here a little bit, ‘Ron.”

You shrugged helplessly, even as the desperation thrumming in your chest had much eased, your motivation to fix thing burning hotter and hotter, your gaze flickering back to the EMP as your mind already began to reel.

“Well I’m sorry, but I can’t exactly help it. Because this is my part, Sam. This is what I’m supposed to do best. I worry about you out there, alright? I worry so much, but I do my best and lose sleep over making sure I’ve done everything possible so that you’re a little safer. There’s a reason why I never let you to the field with an untested prototype. It has to be damn near hundred percent or nothing, and if the math was mathing, as Clint would say, I’d make hundred percent and twenty my standard.”

Sam’s smile earned a sad but warm edge at your words, but he didn’t comment, sensing you had more to say. And you did. Whether you liked it or not, it did help to get it out of your chest and you knew he would understand.

“Because this is all I can do, Sam. I can’t help you out there. I’m not some… badass with a gun and thighs that could choke a man to death,” you said, a fondness towards Natasha’s insane fighting skills echoing with ache as those worked even without the Bites you had made for her, but could not very well help her if she was too stunned with unexpected pain. “And it’s one thing to fail at making something in the first place, which would be bad enough, but this… my Bites hurting Nat, because I failed to take a variable into account, that’s new. That’s on me. And I can’t have that happen again.”

“It’s really not on you, but we could stand here talking for hours to no end and I happen to know you have work to do… and I do agree that you should keep going and do what you do best,” he said, eyes flickering towards the EMP that had been attracting your own gaze more and more. “You go and take this shit apart and figure it out, because that’s what you do. … and if you smash a few pieces in the process because that’s what you need, well that’s just the science method of it all, isn’t it?”

A teeny smile found its way to your face as you stepped forward again, giving Sam a quick hug.

What a man. What a wonderful friend.

“Thanks for the peptalk, Sam. I mean it. I appreciate it,” you said in earnest. “But uhm… I really have stuff to do and… you should get some rest. I’m… really glad you’re okay. Had-- had the EMP hit when you were in the air-”

“But it didn’t. And for the record, I meant every word.”

Your smile grew another fraction and you moved to your station, clasped on the goggles properly, settling in the tall chair and leaning your elbows on the counter. Screw Clint and his notes about a heron’s neck. “I know, Sam. You’re a good guy. Jess is a lucky girl.”

The new sparkle of joy lighting up in Sam’s eye at the mention of his new lady made your heart stutter with joy for your friend as well as quiver in dull ache. Wide smile spread on his face.

“I’m a lucky guy, so that makes two of us. Take care, Hero-N.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Sure. Take care, Sam.”

You took a deep inhale as Sam finally walked out, your attention already fully consumed by the goddamn EMP. Staring at the gun-shaped device for a moment, you moved to examine the piece you had chipped off, wondering about the material structure which no doubt had to be a little miracle of science to have the attributes it had.

“Alright, talk to me. How do we make sure you don’t do any more damage than a goddamn water gun…” you mumbled to yourself, missing Sam’s smile as he glanced at your antics through the window.

It was not the only thing you had missed in the past minutes.

Nor you nor Sam had seen Steve hovering by your workshop as he had rushed there straight from the meeting, knowing you would misplace blame on yourself, needing to assure you that that was not the case and to comfort you.

He had never made it inside the lab, getting a glimpse of at two figures in a tight embrace through the very window.

The understanding that he was not needed nor wanted and would in fact intrude on an intimate moment instead tasted bitterer on Steve’s tongue than the residual adrenalin from the mission, the sudden empty ache deep within his ribcage much more acute than the one in his bruised bones.

He had missed his chance to be there for you when you needed it.

And what hurt so much worse was the fact that apparently, he had missed his chance at love, once again.

Next chapter // Series masterlist

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you for reading, loves! Thoughts, encouragements and reblogs are always appreciated ✨

May your March be filled of sunshine and hopes 💕

If you’d like to be notified on updates, follow my other blog @anika-ann-writes or let me know for a tag.

[almacambiondaughterofsaleos]

Helluva Boss's Handling Of Stella and Stolas's Relationship Is Equivalent Of Family Guy's "Screams of Silence: Story of Brenda Q"

I think one of the most criticized elements of Helluva Boss is how the series handles Stolas and Stella's relationship. We see in the Circus that it's been abusive since they have been married and Stolas has been covering up the more unpleasant parts from his daughter. It has been praised by fans for showing male domestic violence, but in my opinion it's very hamfisted. It doesn't feel like it's domestic violence to show how accurate and disturbing it is. More like it's being used as an excuse to justify why Stolas belongs with Blitzo and how he was right to cheat on her. Their relationship reminds me of another badly execution of how to address domestic abuse is Family Guy's "Screams Of Silence: Story Of Brenda Q".

It first came out in 2011 where it was met with divisive reviews mostly because of the fact that it was going to handle domestic abuse seriously rather than as a joke. However, critics of the episode felt it was tone deaf due to how it was going along with the shift especially the episode before that "Seashell Seahorse Party" was encouraged to stay in an abusive relationship for her own family's sake and Brenda and Jeff's first depiction was portrayed as dark comedy like other situations before. There was also the fact that Jeff and Brenda's written as so over the top that you can't take it seriously and that they are very flat characters. Also we never see why Brenda stays with him or drew him to him in the first place. Or maybe even say he's threatened to kill her or even is financially dependent on him since he's a unemployed bum. In other words, they just exist to sell a message and not actually be interesting on their own.

The same thing can be said of Stella and Stolas' relationship since "Circus" there is nothing to her character except Stolas's bitchy ex wife. She never interacts with her daughter and everything we hear about them is through second hand accounts but never anything about how they both feel about each other. In other words, Stella feels like a male Jeff who is just defined by the fact that she's an abusive asshole who lives to torment Stolas and she even admits it. She's not even smart as shown in "Western Energy" she's shown to be instructed by her older brother in order to think anything through. As a result, we see less of a hated tormentor and more like a poorly executed hate sink made with tons of badly written fanfiction tropes found in yaoi fanfiction.

Most of all is the shows' hypocrisy in depictions of abuse. Both state that abuse is not funny, but then in another episode treat another character physically abusing someone as comedy. Again Family Guy's constant abuse of Meg made the episode hypocritical when you keep in mind the narrative tries to depict it as right she goes back to being a punching bag. The same thing with Helluva Boss it tries to depict Stella as despicable for abusing Stolas but allows Loona to do the same thing to her father who saved her from being aged out of the system and thrown on the streets. Again when you are trying to do comedy with serious moments don't get things muddled when it comes to the latter moments because then things can get confused.

[flower-boi16]

Lucifer is a dad character who has a not so good relationship with his wife and his daughter has complicated feelings which the show tells that he’s trying his best when you think about what he actually done, he didn’t do jack shit which the show then has his daughter easily forgives him for doing the bare minimum and oh wait isn’t just Stolas?? Wow Viv just recycles Stolas, Stella, and Octavia? She really can’t come up new stuff huh?

He does have depression so that's at least an excuse for why he's neglectful since depression can cause someone to be closed off from loved ones. But ya, it's annoying to see ANOTHER instance of daddy issues in Hellaverse, though Lucifer is admittedly the most tolerable instance of this because he's less one-dimensional than Crimson, Paimon and Blitz's dad and I don't want to punch him in his stupid face like Stolas. (Though Charlie easily forgiving him for...ya know...letting Hell get genocided does seem weird.)

But at this point, it just feels like a cheap way to artificially add "drama" into the story. It's getting old.

[lonelycowgirls]

Harry and Stellaween

Liked by itslucyy, riley.wills and others

stellaflorals LEAK OF STELLA'S HARRYWEEN COSTUME via dolly_malonex

View all 1,235 comments

itslucyy she's jessica rabbit!!!!

starrylove his very own bunny 🐰❤️

novalove13 Stella's first Harryween?!

frankie_oliver11 boring 🙄🙄🙄

harrysgirl she's so beautiful tho guys 😭😭

↳starrylove brb throwing myself off a bridge

harryflorals 🌼

sideboobrry she kinda ate

yasfullman harry going feral somewhere rn

larry4life wouldn't a real couple match? 🤔

stellerrrr god bless @dolly_malonex

↳lauraloo21 she stays feeding us 😩

31 October 2022

Liked by samanthastewart2, freddie_m and others

harryflorals THE BACK OF HARRY'S SHIRT SAYS 'HARRYWEEN'! via fernsrrylou

View all 4,054 comments

harrytheone this picture will be studied one day

florence_oliver_ HARRY LAMBERT I TAKE EVERYTHING BAD IVE SAID AB YOU

starrylove stella gets this man every night

↳just.nia SHES GETTING THAT DICK EVERY NIGHT SHES GETTING THAT DICK EVERY NIGHT SHES GET-

tbslamber just saw stella walking to the tech box!1!!

tbslamber she looks amazing

↳larrysinlove FAKE

↳corinne_styles how can it be fake its been like 10 years 🤣🤣

andreaashley wonder if the gf likes the black hair

31 October 2022

Liked by katyjonessss, harryking21, and others

harryflorals "You've come as... Jessica Rabbit? Yes? Yes! I got it! That's proving to be a very popular costume this evening." HARRY POINTING OUT A FANS COSTUME AT HARRYWEEN via babyhoneymonique

View all 6,221 comments

starrylove stella punching the air somewhere 🤣

↳larrylove that's what you get for having no creativity or originality

heatherbrown he was so cheeky with Stella tonight! When he said this he kept glancing towards the tech box and winking

↳charliebennett our king of subtlety

↳harrystella18 he just loves to wind her up and I love it

giovanna_rodriguez stella was so drunk tonight we could hear her singing from the tech box behind us!

harrytheone whoever wore the same thing as his gf won tbh

trinawong but who wore it better @harrystyles?!!

31 October 2022

Liked by starrylove, stellamalone and others

harry_update More of Harry on stage for Harryween last night! via pia321234

View all 5,213 comments

rina_gee Stella liked!!

court_xo Stella liking this is so me coded

stellerrrr if only Stella's account wasn't private 🫠

rowanelizabeth Stella screenshotted this for sure

tbslamber he is beyond hot

itslucyy I mean how am I supposed to go on with my day after seeing this

dee_rizxx stella liked omg omg she's creeping on fan accounts????

1 November 2022

Liked by annetwist, gemmastyles and others

stellamallone Throwback to Halloween 2018 because I'm missing my spooky soulmate @dolly_mallonex

View all 23 comments

dolly_mallonex miss you my girlie! Harryween is calling my name! 🦇

annetwist gorgeous girls ❤️

harrystyles was this grim's party?

↳stellamalone nah, corden's

↳harrystyles ohhhh yeah

hannahparker this lewk stell 😍

↳stellamalone miss you Hannah! 🫶 we must catch up soon

↳hannahparker absolutely

1 November 2022

Liked by stellamallone, niallhoran, mitchrowland and others

scottysakamoto "Harry, you actually have Halloween weekend off for once, we're going to a haunted house. Whether you like it or not."

View all 24 comments

niallhoran ten quid that chair will end up in your house mate

dolly_mallonex Don't lie to yourself, H! We all had so much fun, good to have you back on the dark side ❤️

benselleymusic on the beers Stell, good girl! 💪

↳harrystyles you don't have to carry her home

↳stellamalone two pint Stell is OUT OUT 😘

roxannedrake come through leather trousers 👏🏿 miss your arse @stellamallone

↳stellamalone I'm coming Manny soon babes, we need a reunion asap 🫶

28 October 2023

Liked by harrystyles, dolly_mallonex and others

stellamallone no Harryween but we're still gonna party 🎃

View all 13 comments

hannahparker yesss

Angel_212 killerrrrr, missing my night shift gyal

↳stellamalone back in less that 48 hours 🙃

dolly_mallonex the dark bride 🕷️😍

annetwist Have fun tonight you lot. Be safe ❤️

harrystyles Out with the sole breadwinner. Drinks on you x

31 October 2023

~~~

Happy Halloween. Only short but hope you love.

For more from this universe, click here.

Nel xo

[chaifootsteps]

I think the biggest problem with Helluva Boss is that they keep changing what it wants to be and what you should and shouldn’t take seriously. If you criticize it for it’s simplicity, you get told that “No! The show’s actually a really a deep, introspective thought piece that tackles abuse and generational trauma!!” But when you dig deeper, realize that underneath is a pile of shit, and criticize it for failing to be deep and introspective like it’s supposed to, all of a sudden it becomes a silly little comedy show where you shouldn’t be taking anything seriously!! Just shut your brain off and enjoy it!!

Stella going to slap Stolas is seen as cruel, abhorrent, and something that you should be taking absolutely seriously, men’s physical and mental abuse is not a joke; Now laugh as in the next episode, Loona beats the absolute shit out of Blitz for constructively criticizing her work ethic! Blitz says in one episode that he’ll start treating Moxxie as more of a friend and less of a punching bag, but then goes back to treating him like trash almost immediately after this. Stolas says that he’ll never abandon Octavia, but when he has to go looking for her after she runs away, he spends almost all his time dicking around with Blitz on a sound stage, when they should be experiencing a massive fallout from previous episodes, but that’s been swept under the rug for some reason— Oh, you’re confused? Well fuck you! This show’s a writing masterpiece about horrible people learning to grow and change but it’s ALSO just a dumb lil demon cartoon where everyone just sucks, so quit overanalyzing everything and stop caring about things like character inconsistencies and retcons!!

Exactly. This show's about five different things, none of them meshing coherently, and en route to turn into five more. Vivzie's diehard fans might be willing to pretend it makes sense, but everyone else is starting to realize the emperor has no clothes on.

[core-bagg]

Okay fine- *Fastballs my doormen ocs at you*

These are my sillies!

First there's Felix, my doorman based of F-Rank. He's...Well, as you can see by the bandages, a punching bag. Someone give this man a hug, or at least better pay (I hc that the D.D.D don't really pay well)

Then there's Stella, my doorwoman based of the S-Rank. She's less friendly than her friend, but she's got her moments. Also, very sleep deprived from...Y'know...The nightmares

And then there's the nightmare version...Keyword being version and not versions:

Yeah, this is what's keeping all the doppelgangers out of the astral circle: This frankenstein'd abomination of three completely different doormen (All of which are actively conscious and aware of what's going on) is what's keeping everyone safe. Long story short, three doorman came to the astral circle and instead of hiring them all like their arcade version, they were all sent to Abducius and...Yeah.

AAANNNDD, If you remember my HC post on Yog, he has a crush on the doorman... That headcanon still applies and no, we don't know what he see in them...No, Cerberus does not have an interest in Yog, it is very one-sided.

[magixfairyix]

HII QUEEN

Sorry to bother but I wanted to ask

May I please have some larcy hcs I'm hungry D:

AHHHH thank you <3 Don't ever apologize 'cause GAH I have an excuse to talk about Iarcy (Iorda, oc, x Darcy) again.

Iorda (after the ritual Almah put her through, forcing her to carve runes into her own arms) doesn't wear tops that show her arms for a while because of the scars. Darcy definitely helps Iorda get her confidence back. Just by giving Iorda a lot of hugs, physical affection, and things like that, if Iorda has enough courage on her own to wear a short-sleeve shirt or smth. Darcy won't straight up SAY something, because she doesn't want to make Iorda uncomfortable either, but she'll show her support without directly pointing "oh yay proud you're showing your scars." Darcy will complement Iorda though, like, just smiling and saying, "you're beautiful."

They only had one big almost-breakup argument, and it was after Almah's ritual. Almah sucks. Iorda gets paranoid for a short period of time and doesn't want Darcy to get hurt if life decides to fuck Iorda over again. Iorda is the one to say that "I can't do this, if you stay with me you'll die or smth" and then LEAVES THE APPARTMENT. Darcy would just be in the apartment crying to herself, wallowing in self-loathing. Iorda is in Magix or smth, in a park, feeling like shit and just an underlying sense of unease. Riven is the one to show up and talk a lot of sense into Iorda, Iorda apologizes to Darcy PROFUSLEY because of fuck what did she just do? They are still together, except now, Iorda is in therapy

Darcy is the one who is more clingy physical affection-wise. She likes being physically close to Iorda, weather it's holding her hand, a hand around her shoulder, or Iorda laying across her lap if they're relaxing on the couch of smth.

I feel like both Iorda and Darcy are decently well-known people. Not like "OMFG STELLA PRINCESS CAN I HAVE A STATEMENT!" More so that if they go out to a bar or smth, a few-ish people will recognize them, but stay out of their way. No one really messes with them though for this reason. Darcy the ex-war-criminal, and Iorda I-killed-a-council-member-while-possessed.

At the beginning of their relationship, Darcy was still dealing with some self-hatred issues and not wanting to scare Iorda away. This fear went out the window soon. Iorda and Darcy were chilling at a bar, just chatting, a drunk dude was about to just punch Iorda in the face after she turned him down. So, in self-defense, Darcy fucked with his pain reflex. Iorda meanwhile as just resting her chin on Darcy's shoulder like, "thank you but also don't waste your energy <3" and being a fucking simp. Iorda runs on vengeance, so she's just blushing ngl.

Both of them are petty bitches. In one scenario I have, Darcy had a random ex before Riven (Thomas or whatever) who didn't treat her right, and when Iorda finds out about this, the two of them track Thomas to a bar. Iorda fake flirts with him (dying because gurl is gay af) and Thomas is a dick, and then Darcy appears behind him like: Fuck you, I pulled the girl ur flirting with.

Iorda is aware she needs therapy and will admit it. Darcy will not and is in denial that she is fine, despite all the nightmares.

Darcy after waking up from a nightmare is a little on edge (gurl fucking slapped Iorda one time while asleep and within a very bad nightmare) and so she needs control. She also needs physical touch, but SHE has to be the one initiating it. Until she gives Iorda the notice like, "yes, I've calmed down, pls run your fingers through my hair or smth." Until then, Iorda reassures Darcy verbally while letting the witch cling to her, but Iorda not doing any of the touching yet.

Less of an angsty headcannon (ur welcome) but oh god the beginning of their relationship makes me laugh. Very much this during the first time they did the deed, wanting each other, and wanting to kiss each other senseless among other things. Darcy: "Oh god I want to bite her neck. Does that make me a shitty person? Am I going to hurt her? Am I the problem?" Meanwhile Iorda: *already prepared to die for the tenth time that night because she is a people-pleasing little bitch*

Iorda can cook, but she can't bake. Darcy can bake, but she can't cook. A match made in heaven. Food is very much a love language for both of them, I feel like. Iorda will learn to cook Zenothian foods IF IT KILLS HER, meanwhile Darcy is VERY careful not to add any type of vanilla to baking because (during Almah's ritual, when Iorda was forced to drink a potion) a potion she drank tasted somewhat like vanilla and Iorda's body WILL NOT let that shit enter her system.

[askstevella]

—This Day Aria / 💍💒👰‍♀️🤵

The man huffed and puffed punching a wall after wall so hard some completely collapsed, grunting loudly then gasped seeing the bitch who fucked up his best friend wedding. His so called bride! He tackled her onto the ground, causing both of to go tumbling and hitting a wall.

“Bucky stop!”

His fist was curled hovering over her as his chest began to tighten sending daggers her way. His face looked straight at her brown eyes, scared face, bruised body and knotted hair. He thought it was a trick and yelled, “Why should I?”

She gulps tiredly, “Because I know you..your mother was named Winifred but everyone called her Winnie, you’re a night owl and your favorite music is 40s Jazz, the classic kind.”

“True again. Anyone could know that, Steve must’ve told you about that.”

“You have a secret crush on Sam. You won’t admit it but you care about him dearly, you only ever told me that information.”

That caused the man who shake his head and uncurl his fist sighing as he repeatedly apologized for what he done. Stella smiled softly and tiredly rubbed her face explaining what happened, how she ended up here in the first place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~💍~~~💍~~~

The bride to be grinned staring at the mirror in her long blushing white gown, tied up curls already pulled back into a high positioned bun and makeup done just right. She turned around and hummed walking around the room and then turned over her shoulder.

“This day is going to be perfect. The kind of day of which I've dreamed since I was small.” She said in a singing voice smirking as she walked around grabbing the face of the mannequin.

“Everybody will gather 'round. Say I look lovely in my gown.” She continued and yelled, “What they don't know is that I have fooled them all!”

~~💍~~~

The two were racing looking for a way out, Bucky helping Stella stand up in support despite them being surrounded by rock and dust from the caves. He gave her a soft smile, repeatedly apologizing and wondering how he is gonna explain to his best friend he tackled his bride to the ground.

He shrugged muttering, “Ah he’ll be fine.”

“This day was going to be perfect. The kind of day of which I've dreamed since I was small.” She hummed looking at him with tears in her eyes, “
But instead of having cake. With all my friends to celebrate.”


He sighed keeping the soft smile as he’s hearing her sing the words, “My wedding bells, they may not ring for me at all..”

~~~~💍✨~~~

“I could care less about the dress. I won't partake in any cake! Vows, well I'll be lying when I say.” She sing smirking with pride, pushing the female mannequin out her way, staring straight up at the one of the groom, “That through any kind of weather. I'll want us to be together.”


Her smirk only grew as she cupped the face of the mannequin that was shaped like a groom as she continued, “The truth is I don't care for him at all! No, I do not love the groom. In my heart there is no room! But I still want him to be all mine!”

~~💍🎵~~~

Bucky and Stella raced for their lives, using their strength and endurance to make a big impact into the walls of the cave.”

“We must escape before it's too late. Find a way to save the day! Hope, I'll be lying if I say..” Stella sings running and climbing up the rocks, following Bucky in between the narrow halls.


She glanced at him, “I don't fear that I may lose him. To one who wants to use him.” She grabbed his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her secure position as they jumped and landed on steady ground as she hummed, “Not care for, love and cherish him each day!”


Bucky smirked finding an old abandoned cart down the mines into the river that will allow them to probably. The two of them pushed as Stella smiled at her friend and promptly sang, “For I oh so love the groom. All my thoughts he does consume.” 


He returned the smiled helping her into the cart, launching himself inside as the pair rolled down the tracks into the river. As they did, Bucky swiftly turned around and sang, “Oh, Steve! We’ll be there very soon!”

~~💍✨🎵~~

The wedding marches were held high and mighty. The crowd gathered around dressed in plenty of glamour outfits, bridesmaids were wearing their best all designed by Liane and Amelia. The Avengers, The Young Avengers, Fantastic 4, X-Men and many others surrounded the place in glorious colors.

Steve was standing there smiling having recently seen nursing a headache with Nat and Sam beside him. A few faces looked indifferent while others were more than pleased with the outcome of the event.

The doors opened as the bride sung proudly, “Finally, the moment has arrived! For me to be one lucky bride!”

She dressed trailing behind her in glory, her headdress perfectly matched and the whole thing was all set in motion. With help from Leo and Cassie, she stood above the steps looking at the groom who’s eyes were more blue than before, with a hint of green in the middle being mind controlled to look like a mild headache. His blonde hair was swept back and his tux was fitted to match the theme of the wedding.

~~💍🎵✨~~

They were almost there as Stella looked at the broken clock with tears filling her eyes. She gasped as she sing, “Oh, the wedding we won't make! He'll end up marrying a fake!”


Bucky sing the continued line rubbing her shoulder and huff, “Steve will be...”


~~🎵💍✨~~~


“Mine, all mine.” Sang the bride, her eyes flashed a deep green for a second before returning back to normal brown.

——————

Soo tell me what do you think? 💒 hehe I was listening to the song and decided why not.

Did you guess who the other Stella is? 💍😏

Tags: @missstrawbs2001 @purpleprincessonfyre @meiramel @gcthvile @rickb-chaos @gaminggirlsstuff @wizzzardofoz @cherrysft @thechoooooosenone @luna-d-marsh @rooster-84 @sherloquestea @yetanotherwells and etc

[st0r-fruit]

I have another Gakuen babysitters crossover guys, bare (bear 🐻) with me.

Spy x Family x Gakuen Babysitters crossover!

General Changes

So Instead of Youko Morinomiya (Oba-Saan) being the Chairwoman of Morinomiya Academy, she will be the Chairwoman of Eden Academy, working alongside Henry Henderson (Mr. Henderson). I'm still considering and figuring which one of them should be the higher authority.

Ryuuichi and Kotaro are still 16 and 2 years old in this crossover

Now, the manga & anime never mentioned how old is the average Emperial Scholar students, sooo I'm putting my thumb around 16-19 years old.

So that makes Ryuuichi an Imperial Scholar, of course he got that title with his own hard work (Oba-Saan is strict as heck).

There is a daycare center for staff children. Founded by Oba-Saan and led by Ryuuichi.

Teachers and Staff of Oba-Saan also works there and left their children in the daycare center.

Context in School

So, of course, Ryuuichi and Kotaro got adopted by Oba-Saan (canon)

Which automatically puts him in the academy.

Ryuuichi has only become an Imperial Scholar for 3 months, last 6 months spent studying and getting Stella Stars.

He has 8 Stella Stars from good grades and contributing to society and providing special services supported by the school and 1 Tonitrus Bolt from punching a same-grade student as a defense for himself and the toddlers.

The Stella Stars comes from him leading the daycare center, raising fundraisers for the less fortunate, doing bake-sales and doing general services (Although he was confused on why doing general services are a big deal, like? It's normal?)

Ryuuichi is busier than usual, so he left Kotaro most of the time with Saikawa-san, but as soon as he gets free time, he will bring carry Kotaro everywhere. (he loves and misses his baby brother okay? 🥺🥹)

Plot aligning with Spy x Family

A normal day in class, with Mr. Henderson being the teacher.

It's homeroom class (not sure if that existed in spy x family), and Mr. Henderson announced a program that they will all attend. Right now.

Said program is a group sessions q & a with 10 Imperial Scholars on how to get Stella Stars and avoid Tonitrus Bolts (because he thinks the students these days are lazy and lack of Eden spirit-y).

He has invited 10 Imperial Scholars to the program.

Said Imperial Scholars get in the room. The class has 50 students (according to some people, I'm just using this as a reference.), so they split 5 students to each Imperial Scholars.

Anya, Becky, Damian, Emile & Ewen gets into one group, with the usual arguments and Damien being a tsundere and grumpy.

Then, Mr. Henderson paired them with the scholar none other than **drum roll please** Ryuuichi Kashima!

To put it short, Ryuuichi tells his experience about being an Imperial Scholar, ways to earn Stella Stars and more.

Then, they started to hangout more often if they see each other in-between breaks.

Spoiler alert‼️ Ryuuichi has now 5 gremlins to look out for and he loves them very much :))) (The Eden five also loves him back ofc)

I have many more ideas and headcanons, do tell in the comments or reblog if you wanna hear more! :DDD

[moodywritesmoody]

Sally silently snuck back into the van, about an hour after she’d left it. She thought she’d managed to sneak back into her blanket unnoticed, when Stella mumbled over her shoulder. “Nightmare?”

Sally gave a satisfying yelp, and punched Stella in the arm. It was worth it though, and she snickered but turned over to get a look at Sally’s face. She didn’t look more annoyed than usual; she was basically fine then. Except her face still looked haunted, and that had less to do with Stella and more to do with whatever she saw when she closed her eyes.

“My mum used to say that I got nightmares because I ate too much before bed.” She offered. They had just had a feast. Sally didn’t look too comforted though.

“Maybe you’re right.” She said without much conviction.

Stella reflected on how tired Sally seemed all the time. “Except it’s not the first time, is it? Dare I say not the second, third or fourth either?”

“Alright calm down detective.” She scoffed. “Recurring nightmares are not unheard of, and we’ve both seen some things.”

“You can say that again.”

Stella didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t feel very sleepy either. So she just lay still and listened for interesting noises outside - the universe beyond London traffic. Crickets, the creek, possibly a frog, something else she couldn’t pick out.

She thought Sally had fallen back asleep, but very quietly she spoke again.

“Stella, do you ever have dreams about cases you were on?”

“Yeah of course.” Stella couldn’t count how many times.

“Yeah but like, do you ever have the dream but, from the victim’s perspective? Like you were the victim? Or the perpetrator?”

Stella had to think more about that one. If she did have dreams like that, none stood out.

“Cause it’s been happening for a while, I think it might be my guilty conscience or something.”

“Guilty conscience?” Stella searched for Sally’s eyes in the dark, “guilty about what.”

Sally shrugged, turning to look at her. “You don’t ever feel guilty? Or have any regrets?”

“Are you talking about your last case? Cause that wasn’t your fault Sally.”

“No, not just that, I mean in general.”

In the silence, Stella tried to find the right words. Because she probably did know what Sally was talking about on some level. How could she not, they were both cops in what critics and pundits were calling one of the most corrupt police forces in the world, guilt and regret were standard fare. But it was a loaded conversation, and Stella was still at least half asleep.

“I guess I try my best to have nothing to feel guilty about. Why else do you think half the guys hate my guts.” She wasn’t exactly popular at work, except for the people she was popular with, but they were a minority. Incidentally a minority of people who she herself could stand being around.

“We’ve just got to work towards improving things, Donovan, that’s all there is for it.”

Sally scoffed, “You sound exactly like Lestrade.”

“What, you don’t buy it?”

“No!” She sat up and stared Stella down, “And I don’t think you buy it either.”

Stella tried to shush her, reaching for her mouth; Sally just batted her hand away.

“Well what are we supposed to do Sally, shut down Scotland fucking Yard? Come on, in what reality could that ever happen?”

“Yeah, good question. I feel like we’d actually get somewhere if we asked ourselves that question, but seriously - and not as a way to just shut people down.”

Stella sat up too, because Sally looked like she wanted to storm out into the cold again. “Hey, no, I’m not trying to shut you down, ok. I’m just being realistic, because I take this seriously too. Sal, look at me. I mean it.”

They didn’t want to wake everyone else up so they were sort of whisper yelling; but they had to talk kind of close to hear each other. If Stella leaned down just a few inches, she could lay her head on Sally’s shoulder. The Orange jumper she wore to sleep looked like it was made of fine desert sand.

Instead she nudged Sally with her shoulder. “Ok then, what kind of reality would have no Scotland Yard?”

“A fucking peaceful one.” Sally muttered, Stella could tell she was also trying to avoid a full blown fight. “A less paranoid one.”

“Mmm. One with less paperwork.” Stella added, getting into the mood a bit, like they were playing a game. “Probably one with better traffic honestly.”

“Yeah definitely.” Sally laughed quietly. She continued a little more seriously, “One with fewer traumatised kids, for sure.”

Stella nodded, this was definitely at least tangentially connected to Sally’s last case. But if she wanted to discuss it she’d bring it up herself.

“A London that doesn’t need Scotland Yard is a London that has figured out better ways to deal with all the shit that we handle disastrously, because we’re not equipped for it. I mean why are we handling mental health calls when half of us are bloody psychopaths?”

Stella hummed in understanding. Letting Sally get as much as she could off her chest; she’d been waiting for her to let her in on what was bothering her for a long time. But Sally held her cards close to her chest. Actually in that regard they weren’t so different. It probably also meant something that Sally still talked like she worked at Scotland yard; probably she didn’t need Ella to tell her that it was a sign of lack of closure or whatever.

“Most of the guys in the force are ten times worse than most of the people they lock up. I’m bloody worse than most of the people I’ve locked up, its no wonder I can’t fucking sleep. I don’t know how you do it.”

“What, sleep? Imported Melatonin baby.”

“No, how you manage to keep your untarnished soul. You’ve got that whole righteous anger thing going for you, don’t you?”

Something about that remark grated on Stella. At this point she regularly caught herself reacting as much to the things Sally didn’t say as to the things she did. “I dunno, sounds a bit like you’re putting me on a pedestal, Sergeant Donovan.”

———————————————————————

Chapter 3 Snippet

[darkfrogcell-blog]

part2 to 'stella re JMB two kiosks printing down billing upon receipts received on paper at POS line, where payment received, cash or electronic transaction. billing as legal entities, happening 20 meters away, at front-desk, using LCD screens, so if damaged, used by PAX, should be regarded as attacking the Treasury and the money, because everyone these days has a smartphone and a tablet, and punching force onto LCD screens is not justified as accident, so it be a deliberately use of excessive force onto computers of JUMBO. thus a real event security should be mentioning down in written, and NEVER does. and all be CCTV recorded, and available 45 days under law, then servers gradually erased, and gradually new CCTV streaming on. but paper registries at SECURITY holding all those DATA at least EIGHT years on, and inspecting policemen might be at some point reading all that, randomly. and all due to WAR in Ukraine which made Internal Affairs re-introduce paper-based tracking of Security activity. ignoring CCTV whatsoever, and electronic payslip proximity cards for shifts and labor purposes, too. another event 3rd kind, and more interesting, should be PERIMETER doors left unlocked and bypass-ed onto main-board of 40 doors armed for the night at shop premises locally, the fire-brigade also interested into that one, also. PERIMETER iron doors from ITALY, the three-ways of locking and arming redundancy, might be 20 of the 40 of JMB shop. applying paper seals, and sealing of such temporarily locked by iron chain and padlock, when battery failings noticed. that be EVENTS security registry and NEVER noted down, again. only when preservation of premises, conservation of premises such as MILKA Suchard sweets plant was during 2011, when Poiana and M&M moved into Bulgaria, and RAP (raptronic) bought warehouse and new spaces on Aeroportului ave at Ghimbav, leaving the Avram Iancu Cibo plant into preservation. only then applying paper seals onto buildings perimeter doors was tracked by SECURITY. and written down into the EVENTS registry the range of seals used during that shift. there were RANGE of SEALS and had to be written down, so at least ten minutes to write down doors and seals applied. and doors were indeed locked by way of padlocks, and magnetic door-trapping sensors ignored. and at night still melting chocolate entering a window, not using doors, and using electricity for melting oven, on a failsafe line, failover invoice pattern, w security chief signature, and sold under RAP and raptronic credencies, not MILKA Suchard, HORECA not shelf retail to PAX. JMB used such practice door 13, and had to bypass on the fire-board of sensors, where all 40 doors red LED if anything, and I WANTED LENEL ONGUARD software for 1,000 USD one year ago 2023, CARRIER Group. because they believed security was going to begin writing down PERIMETER battery failed events on magnetic sensors, inside the Events security registry. ten minutes of calligraphy. and 4-digit PIN issued for the exercise, and 20 minutes overtime on a Monday last week, and i had to go BANK ATM to check cash balance into my account, no BANK app onto my smartphone, just the ATM network at UniCredit Bank. and Bank showed 19.57 RON, and i was aware i should be 8 RON only, so ATM screen was showing 11 RON more cash!! and on tuesday next day i went shopping at end of shift at S2 night and above 8 RON, and chief cashier called for cancelling receipt over insufficient funds available 11 RON smth, less than 19.57 RON showed by ATM at Banking network 20h before. and chief cashiers made aware i was checking the BANKING ATMs and stop playing jokes on bypassing magnetic sensors on door 13 perimeter JMB, because timestamps onto my daily routes be ATM level and credencies, because am not using smartphone app. thus Vodafone GSM for 3rd party pooper. RANGE of SEALS to be written down by security would trigger SELGROS ARGO Ltd security too, so we be pampering them, we on a CAMPUS and that E60 level Airport road labeling, or E60 component, sort of Interstate I95, and campus. m

[poisonedace]

Inferna Academy

11013 words | Mature | Part 7/11 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Inferna Academy Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Eight Summary: Blitzo refuses to fade into the background, even as his father demands he play shadow to his childhood friend Fizzarolli at Hell’s elite university. “Fizzarolli’s our ticket to the big time.” “Don’t screw up.” “You’ll never make it on your own." Everything changes when he reunites with Stolas, a Goetia prince shackled by suffocating expectations. What begins as a quiet connection blossoms into a love neither anticipated, built on stolen glances, whispered conversations, and study sessions full of laughter. But, their happiness is short-lived. Stella’s schemes threaten to tear them apart, straining their love and fracturing Blitzo’s friendship with Fizzarolli. A story of star-crossed lovers, broken trust, and fragile hope. Can Blitzo and Stolas find their way back to each other, or are they destined to remain distant souls, yearning for what could have been?

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

Chapter Seven: Fractures and Fault Lines

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

The academy halls buzzed faintly with the distant chatter of students, the rustle of papers, and the squeak of shoes against polished floors. Blitzo moved through the crowd like a shadow, his boots clicking a little too loudly in his ears. He kept his head down, weaving past clusters of classmates as if they might call him out if he lingered too long.

The whispers always seemed louder than the noise around him.

“Why would someone like Stolas hang out with him?”“Blitzo’s just a walking disaster waiting to happen.”

Each phrase landed like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t let it show. He clenched his jaw and straightened his back, throwing on a smirk he didn’t feel. His deflection was muscle memory by now—project confidence, hide the cracks. Yet beneath the mask, Fizz’s voice played on an endless loop:

“You ruin everything.”

“You sabotage the people closest to you.”

The words clawed at him, sticking like barbs he couldn’t dislodge. They’d been flung in anger, sure, but that didn’t make them any less true.

He couldn’t bear the whispers. The laughter. He imagined the sneering faces of the Goetia—their perfect, pristine feathers ruffling with disdain as they mocked Stolas for associating with him.

“A washed-up clown,” one might sneer.

“Pathetic,” another would add. “Dragging Stolas’s name through the mud with his... antics.”

Blitzo clenched his fists as he turned a corner, shaking the fabricated voices from his mind. They felt so real, even if they hadn’t happened yet. He couldn’t let them happen. He wouldn’t let himself be the weight that dragged Stolas down.

Blitzo turned a corner, his boots echoing in the quieter hallway that led to his next class. He paused outside the door, the muffled hum of the teacher’s voice filtering through. His crimson eyes flicked to the small window on the door, where he could see Fizz sitting near the front. The imp’s posture was rigid, his tail swishing slightly in irritation as he scribbled in his notebook.

Their gazes met for a brief, electric moment as Fizz glanced back. His sharp glare cut through Blitzo, a familiar mix of anger and hurt flashing in the imp’s eyes. For a second, Blitzo’s mind flickered back to better days—days when that gaze had been filled with laughter instead. He could almost hear Fizz’s laughter as they scrambled to perfect their act under the big top, the way they’d collapse in a pile of limbs and giggles after a show well done. 

But that laughter had soured, replaced by the bitter echo of, “You ruin everything.”

The memory felt like a knife twist, sharp and cruel.

“Yeah, I get it,” Blitzo thought bitterly, rolling his eyes. “I screwed up. Story of my life.”

Instead of stepping inside, he turned sharply and stalked away, ignoring the pang of guilt in his chest. The muffled chatter of the classroom faded as he climbed a back stairwell, the quiet wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket. He kept moving until he was able to get outside, the air rushing over his face as he slumped against the cold metal railing, running a hand over his spikes.

The silence should have been a relief, but it only amplified the noise in his head.

“Was Stolas laughing with me... or at me?”“Did he only invite me along because he felt sorry for me?”“Why did I even open up to him? He probably thinks I’m pathetic.”

“Blitzo!” He turned his head and scoffed as his eyes landed on Millie’s grinning face. Her energy was as bright as ever, but even in his self-loathing state, he could see the undercurrent of concern in her eyes.

She skidded to a stop beside him, her grin broad but faltering at the edges. “You and Fizz at it again, huh? You two have barely looked at each other all week.”

Blitzo shrugged, glancing away. “Fizz is just being Fizz. You know how he gets,” he replied flippantly, pushing off the wall and stepping around her.

Millie’s smile faded. She reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him in his tracks. Her voice softened. “Hey, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Blitzo froze, staring at her hand on his. The warmth of her touch cut through the buzzing in his head, grounding him for just a moment. He wanted to squeeze her hand back to let her know he appreciated it. Instead, he pulled away, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as his smirk flickered back into place.

“I’m fine, Mills. Don’t get all mushy on me,” he said, his voice light but brittle. Without waiting for her response, he strode off down the hallway, leaving her standing there.

Millie stood there, her hand still outstretched for a moment before she let it drop. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her gaze lingering on the empty hallway where Blitzo had disappeared. A soft sigh escaped her lips, worry and frustration warring on her face as she turned back toward her class.

Blitzo turned the corner and stopped, pressing his back against the cool stone wall. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breath catching in his throat as guilt and frustration surged like a tide. Millie’s concern had been genuine, but he couldn’t shake the nagging voice in his head: “She only cares because she feels sorry for you.”

His fists clenched at his sides as another thought followed, sharper and crueler: “What’s the point of letting her in? You’ll just screw it up like you always do.”

Blitzo raked a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Why does she even bother?” Why does anyone? The vulnerability in Millie’s eyes flashed in his mind, twisting something deep in his chest.

He wanted to go back, to apologize for brushing her off, but his feet stayed rooted in place. The weight of his failure felt too heavy to move past.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with a flood of notifications, all from Stolas:

Stolas: Are we still meeting to study tonight?Missed Call: Stolas.Voicemail: 1 new message.

Blitzo’s thumb hovered over the screen. Stolas’s name glowed brightly against the dark background, the list of messages pulling at him like a thread ready to unravel everything he’d worked so hard to keep buried.

He could almost hear Stolas’s voice, warm and gentle. It would probably be something annoyingly sweet, like “I hope you’re okay” or “I’m here if you want to talk.” That softness used to feel grounding—like something he could maybe hold on to. But now? Now, it just felt like a spotlight on every way he was failing.

The ache in his chest grew sharper as his mind twisted the kindness into pity. “He probably feels sorry for me. Why wouldn’t he? He’s a prince, and I’m... this.”

His thumb hovered over the voicemail icon, but the idea of hearing Stolas’s concern—or worse, his disappointment—made his stomach twist.

“What’s the point?” he thought bitterly, locking the screen and shoving the phone deep into his pocket. “The guy doesn’t need my mess. Hell, he’s got enough of his own.”

Blitzo exhaled shakily, forcing himself to move. He had Gymnastics next, which would be the perfect place to blow off some steam.

The gym buzzed with movement—students flipping, stretching, perfecting their routines. Blitzo ignored them. His pulse hammered, his body tense with restless energy. He needed to burn off the frustration crawling under his skin. The whispers, the rumors, Fizz’s words—he needed them out of his damn head. He scanned the room as his classmates worked diligently through assigned drills, their focus unwavering. He, however, had no interest in drills.

Without a word, he darted past the others and headed straight for the trapeze. The coach’s sharp voice followed him. “Blitzo, warm up first!”

Blitzo waved a dismissive hand without looking back. “Relax, I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. Got it down,” he said with a cocky edge, already climbing the platform.

The coach sighed, their irritation palpable. “You’ll get yourself hurt pushing like that. Stick to the routine, Blitzo.”

A trick flickered in his mind. A twist-and-release combo he hadn’t attempted in years. It was too advanced for his current condition, but he was too wound up to care. If he landed it, maybe—just maybe—he’d shut up the voice in his head telling him he was just a liability.

Gripping the bar, he swung out hard, his muscles coiling, every motion fueled by something reckless and desperate. His hands burned against the metal as he picked up speed, preparing for the release—

Fizz’s voice slammed into his head like a gunshot.

"You ruin everything, Blitzo. You always do."

His grip wavered, just a fraction—but it was enough. His fingers slipped.

Instead of cleanly releasing into the flip, his body twisted too soon.

For a sickening moment, he was weightless in the worst way, his body spiraling off-axis and out of control. The mat rushed up to meet him.

His left leg took the brunt of it.

Pain exploded up his knee, sharp and immediate, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He barely had time to register the gasps from around the gym before Millie was already storming toward him.

“Are you—what the hell was that Blitzo?!” she snapped, crouching beside him.

Blitzo gritted his teeth, shoving himself upright before anyone could help him. His knee screamed in protest, but he refused to let it show. “I was improvising,” he muttered, brushing the dust off his pants.

“Improvising? You almost busted your damn leg!” Millie’s eyes flashed with something beyond concern now—frustration. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

Blitzo grabbed a towel from the bench and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead, smirking like he hadn’t just narrowly avoided serious injury. “Come on, Mills. I’ve done way worse in the circus. Do you think this is dangerous? Please.”

Her hands went to her hips, her voice sharp. “This isn’t the circus, Blitzo! You’re not there anymore!”

Her words hit harder than he expected, cutting through his bravado. For a moment, Blitzo’s smirk faltered, the cracks in his confidence exposed. His voice dropped, bitterness creeping into his tone. His fists curled at his sides, his jaw tightening as Millie’s words dug under his skin. “And you know why? There’s no circus anymore. Because of me.”

The weight of his own words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Millie’s expression softened, her frustration replaced by quiet understanding. “I don’t want to see you crash and burn, Blitzo. You’re better than that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Blitzo cut her off, limping toward the locker room. His knee throbbed like a reminder of his stupidity. “Stop worrying, I’ll be fine.”

“You aren’t fine, Blitzo!” Millie shouted after him, her voice raw. But he didn’t turn around. If he faced her now, he might see the worry in her eyes—and that was worse than anything else.

He shoved open the doors to the courtyard, the cool air rushing over his face. It wasn’t enough to cool the heat burning in his chest. His knee throbbed with every step, and he limped slightly as he reached a nearby tree. Sliding down against the rough bark, he lit a cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark.

“Maybe proving something’s all I’ve got left,” he muttered.

Millie’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and cutting.  “This isn’t the circus, Blitzo! You’re not there anymore!”

No, he wasn’t. The circus was gone, and with it, the only place he’d ever felt like he belonged. His throat tightened, and he pressed his forehead against the tree. The bark dug into his skin, grounding him in the present even as his mind spiraled.

He muttered under his breath, a bitter laugh escaping. “What’s the point of trying to prove anything?”

His fingers curled into fists as he stared down at the grass. The pain in his leg was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. It wasn’t just about the circus or the near fall—it was about everything he’d been running from, everything he couldn’t seem to fix.

Blitzo sank beneath the tree, letting his back slide against the rough bark until he hit the ground. He stretched his legs out in front of him, boots scuffing the dirt, and fished a crumpled cigarette pack from his jacket. His movements were slow, almost methodical, as he lit one and took a deep drag, the ember flaring brightly against the encroaching dark.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and letting it burn until the scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, curling lazily around him. 

He tilted his head back, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled up toward the canopy of the tree’s leaves. The silence should have been comforting, but the whispers of self-doubt still clawed at his thoughts. The throbbing in his knee was now a dull ache, overshadowed by the weight pressing down on his chest.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel broke the stillness, and Blitzo didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Millie’s voice carried frustration, softened by concern. “So this is your grand plan now? Skipping class, pulling stunts, and drowning yourself in… whatever that is?”

Blitzo took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “What’s it to you, Millie? I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she shot back, stepping closer. Her shadow loomed over him as she crossed her arms. “You’re acting like you’ve got something to prove, and it’s gonna get you hurt. Or worse.”

Blitzo finally looked up at her, his crimson eyes glinting in the faint light. Anger flashed there, but something else lingered beneath it—something raw and aching. “Maybe proving something’s all I’ve got left,” he snapped, flicking the cigarette away and watching the ember scatter into the gravel.

Millie’s tone softened, though her resolve stayed firm. “That’s crap, and you know it. You’ve got people who care about you—Stolas, me. But you’re too busy trying to tear yourself apart to see it.”

Blitzo let out a bitter laugh, grabbing his flask and taking a long swig. The alcohol burned, but it was easier than addressing what Millie had said. Standing, he brushed past her, his tone sharp. “Thanks for the lecture, but I don’t need a babysitter.”

Millie stayed rooted in place, watching him disappear into the shadows. Her arms fell to her sides, and her gaze lingered on the empty path he’d taken. Frustration flickered in her eyes, but it was worry that ultimately won out. With a sigh, she turned back toward the main building, leaving the faint scent of cigarette smoke and unspoken words behind.

Blitzo strode forward, his steps uneven and his jaw clenched. His mind was a cacophony of anger, guilt, and self-loathing. But his smirk returned, practiced and hollow, as he pulled his jacket tighter around him. If he couldn’t fix himself, then running would have to do.

For now.

~o0o~~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Blitzo stood in the center of the cafeteria. The floor beneath him gleamed with polished marble, with intricate gold patterns weaving out in all directions. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a cold, unwelcoming light. Around him, high-ranking Goetia filled the space, their sleek feathers pristine and their sharp eyes filled with disdain.

Stolas stood across the room, dressed in his usual regal attire, but he looked smaller somehow—his shoulders slightly hunched, his usual confidence dimmed. The Goetia flocked around him, their laughter a grating symphony.

“Is that him?” one sneered, their voice cutting through the haze like a knife. “The washed-up clown Stolas keeps dragging around?”

Blitzo’s chest tightened. Heat crawled up his neck, his palms growing clammy. The polished marble floor seemed to pull him down, rooting his boots in place. He tried to move, but the weight of their stares—cold and sharp—pinned him.

“Pathetic,” another drawled, their words dripping with venom. “He’s parading around with a circus act. How quaint.”

The group erupted in laughter, the sound jagged and cruel, each note slicing into him. Blitzo’s gaze darted to Stolas, desperate for some kind of defense, but the owl prince looked away, his feathers ruffling nervously under the weight of their judgment.

“Really, Stolas,” a particularly haughty voice purred, stepping closer. “What are you thinking, associating with someone like... that?” They waved a jeweled hand in Blitzo’s direction like he was dirt on their perfectly polished shoes. “A clown with no audience. A failure clinging to scraps of attention.”

Blitzo’s fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. The tightening in his chest made it hard to breathe. “I’m right here, y’know,” he barked, though his voice sounded smaller than he wanted it to. The Goetia didn’t flinch—they didn’t even acknowledge his words.

“Oh, we know,” someone quipped. “That’s the problem.”

Stolas shifted uncomfortably, his wings twitching, but still, he didn’t speak. His silence cut deeper than any insult.

“Blitzo,” Stolas finally said, his voice soft and hesitant, “perhaps it would be best if...” He trailed off, his eyes darting toward the Goetia, their mocking smiles urging him on. “If you gave us some space.”

The cafeteria twisted, chandeliers stretching into eerie, jagged spirals. The laughter warped, morphing from the Goetia’s mocking tones into voices he knew too well—his father, Fizz, himself. Stolas stood just out of reach, his face flickering between warmth and detached cruelty. 'You were always a liability, Blitzo,' his voice echoed, layered over the laughter, sinking into his bones.

Blitzo jolted awake, his chest heaving, the phantom echoes of laughter still ringing in his ears. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. He sat up abruptly, sweat clinging to his forehead. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, willing his racing heart to slow. The weight in his chest was unbearable as if the cruel voices from his dream had followed him into reality.

“Blitzo?”

The voice startled him, softer than the mocking tones in his dream, yet enough to make him flinch. He turned sharply to see Stolas sitting on the edge of his bed, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. The owl prince’s feathers were slightly ruffled, his usual composure replaced with quiet concern.

“What the hell are you doing, birdbrain?” Blitzo snapped, his voice sharp and defensive. He wiped at his face hastily as though trying to erase any sign of vulnerability.

Stolas tilted his head, unfazed by the tone. “You were... thrashing in your sleep,” he said gently, his hands folded in his lap. “It woke me up.” He hesitated for a brief moment, his claws curling slightly against his knees. Was he overstepping? Would this make things worse? Blitzo had been pulling away, and Stolas couldn’t tell if his presence would comfort him—or drive him further into his walls. Still, the sight of Blitzo’s unease was enough to outweigh his doubts.

Blitzo stiffened under the contact, his instincts screaming at him to deflect, to push away. “Nightmare? Pfft, nah. Just my usual beauty sleep. Can’t help it if I’m so stunning that I wake up in a panic over my good looks.”

Stolas gave him a knowing look, his expression soft but steady. “Blitzo,” he said firmly, his hand continuing its gentle motion. “You were murmuring something—my name.” His voice faltered slightly, but he pressed on. “And you seemed... afraid.”

Blitzo’s jaw clenched, and he turned away, yanking his blanket up as though it could shield him from the conversation. “Yeah, well, maybe I was dreaming about you trying to smother me with a pillow or something,” he muttered. “You do have that ‘creepy stalker’ vibe down pat.”

Stolas sighed, his touch pausing for a moment before resuming. “I’m not here to argue. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

The words, so simple yet so genuine, made Blitzo’s chest tighten. He hated how they made him feel—seen, cared for, vulnerable. “Look, I’m fine, okay?” he shot back, his tone sharper than he intended. “Go back to doing whatever it is you do when you’re not hovering over me.”

Stolas straightened slightly, leaning forward to meet Blitzo’s gaze even as the imp tried to avoid it. “Blitzo, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to push me away.” His voice was quiet, filled with an unshakable patience that only made Blitzo’s defenses rise higher.

Blitzo barked out a bitter laugh, finally meeting Stolas’s eyes. “Push you away? Oh, come on, Stolas. We both know I’m doing you a favor. I’m not exactly the kind of guy you can bring home to impress the family. I’m a circus act, remember? A ‘washed-up clown.’ That’s what they think of me, right? And you’re just too nice to say it.”

Stolas’s feathers bristled slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Blitzo, that’s not true. I—”

Blitzo waved him off, his grin forced and brittle. “Save it, Prince Charming. I don’t need your pity party.” He flopped back onto the bed, folding his arms behind his head in an exaggerated gesture of nonchalance. “Go play hero somewhere else. I’m good right here.”

Stolas stared at him for a long moment, his expression a mix of sadness and determination. Finally, he stood, his hand lingering briefly at his side as if debating whether to reach for Blitzo again. His claws twitched slightly, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’m not here to pity you, Blitzo,” he said softly. “But I can’t force you to believe that. Just... don’t let those thoughts win, alright?” His voice was heavy with meaning, his crimson gaze lingering on Blitzo one last time before he turned toward the door.

Blitzo watched him leave, the grin slipping from his face the moment the door clicked shut. His chest felt hollow, the echoes of his dream mingling with the weight of Stolas’s words. He rolled onto his side, staring at the photo on his nightstand—the one he hadn’t yet put away. His fingers reached for it, trembling as they brushed against Stolas’s laughing face.

With a quiet sigh, he pulled his hand back, burying his face in his pillow. “Damn bird,” he muttered, his voice muffled but tinged with something softer than before. He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “Gotta burn this off. Gotta get out of my head,” he muttered, pulling on his jacket. He didn’t care where he went; as long as he could move, he could breathe.

Blitzo stomped into the gym, his boots echoing against the polished floor. The sharp smell of sweat and rubber filled the air, mingling with the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting mats and the squeak of gym shoes. He preferred the chaos of the gym to the suffocating quiet of magical theory class—or worse, the tension of sitting next to Stolas.

He tossed his jacket onto the bleachers, ignoring the faint twinge of guilt tugging at him. Group work could wait. Stolas could wait.

Rolling his shoulders, Blitzo stretched out the stiffness in his neck before heading toward the parallel bars. He launched himself into his routine, his movements sharp and aggressive as he swung, flipped, and landed with a satisfying thud. The physical exertion dulled the noise in his head, at least for a while. His muscles burned, and his knee throbbed, but the ache grounded him in a way his racing thoughts couldn’t.

After several minutes, he stopped, leaning against the bars as his chest heaved. His gaze drifted toward the bleachers—and froze.

Stolas sat there, his crimson eyes fixed on Blitzo with an intensity that made his stomach twist. He wasn’t dressed in his usual regal attire; instead, he wore a simple button-up and slacks, but the elegance clung to him regardless. His posture was as regal as ever, but there was a hesitation in his gaze—a silent question Blitzo refused to answer.

Blitzo’s heart stuttered, his grip tightening on the apparatus as he forced himself to look away. Heat crept up his neck, not just from exertion but from the weight of being watched.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Blitzo muttered under his breath, irritation flaring as he vaulted again, pushing harder this time. The landing was rougher than usual, but he didn’t care. The motion, the adrenaline—it was all he had to shake off the weight of Stolas’s gaze.

When he couldn’t bear it anymore, Blitzo stalked off the floor and headed for the locker room, his steps brisk and purposeful.  Once inside, he pressed himself against the cool metal of the lockers and slumped down, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He started at his reflection in a cracked mirror nearby—tired, angry, and hollow. He peeled off his sweat-soaked tank top, grabbed a towel, and flopped onto a bench, elbows on his knees. His flask was already in hand. The burn of the alcohol steadied him for a moment, but not enough. It never was.

The creak of the door made him stiffen. “What now?” He muttered to himself before he glanced over his shoulder, his stomach dropping when Stolas stepped inside.

“What the fuck, Stolas?” Blitzo barked, spinning around to face him. “What are you doing here? This is the locker room! You can’t just—”

Stolas crossed the distance between them in long, determined strides, his expression unreadable. Blitzo’s words died on his lips when Stolas cupped his face with surprising tenderness and kissed him.

Blitzo froze. His heart raced, heat flooding his face and sending a jolt of shock through him. The warmth of Stolas’s beak, the softness of his feathers brushing against his cheek—it was all too much and not enough at the same time. For a split second, his body betrayed him, leaning into the contact before his mind snapped back to reality. He shoved Stolas away, his chest heaving.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Blitzo demanded, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and confusion.

Stolas hesitated, doubt flickering in his gaze. He pressed forward, stepping closer. “I’m kissing you.”

“Well, fucking stop it!” Blitzo snapped, grabbing his towel and throwing it over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here, Stolas?”

Stolas’s feathers ruffled, his usual calm demeanor faltering. “I was worried about you. You’ve been avoiding me, skipping class, and ignoring my messages. I thought—” He faltered, uncertainty creeping in. 

“You thought kissing me was gonna fix that?” Blitzo interrupted, his voice sharp. “Newsflash, birdbrain, it didn’t.”

Stolas flinched but didn’t back away. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Blitzo. I’m trying to understand, but you won’t let me in.”

Blitzo turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s for the best,” he muttered. “You don’t need to get dragged into my mess. You’ve got your shit to deal with, Your Highness.”

“Stop calling me that,” Stolas said softly, his voice laced with hurt. “I’m not here as a prince, Blitzo. I’m here because I care about you.”

Blitzo barked out a sharp laugh, bitter and hollow. “What, you here to play my therapist?” He tilted his head back, taking another swig. “I’m fine, birdbrain. Go back to your classes or whatever.”

Stolas’s feathers ruffled slightly, but he stepped closer, his expression steady. “Blitzo,” he said, firmer this time, “you’re not fine. And it’s okay not to be.” He hesitated before sitting on the bench beside him, his claws brushing against his lap as he considered reaching out. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The silence that followed was heavy, Stolas’s eyes searching Blitzo’s face for something he couldn’t name. Stolas’s insecurities bubbled to the surface—should he push further or step back? Would saying more push Blitzo away forever? Or would leaving now mean the same?

Blitzo stiffened, his grip tightening on the flask. His voice dropped. “Trust me, it’s better this way.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth. An image flashed in his mind—Stolas, hurt and disappointed, walking away like everyone else had. The thought twisted something deep in his chest, so he did what he always did: he struck first.

Stolas watched him carefully, noting the tension in Blitzo’s shoulders, the way his tail flicked erratically. “You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out?” he asked softly. “You think I’d be better off without you?”

Blitzo barked out a strained laugh. “Oh, come on, Stolas. Look at me. I’m a screw-up, a walking disaster.”

“That’s not true,” Stolas said, his voice trembling slightly but steady enough to press on. He dared to reach out, his claws brushing Blitzo’s shoulder. “You’re not a screw-up,” Stolas said firmly, his feathers ruffling. “And you’re not alone, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise.”

Blitzo flinched at the contact and stood abruptly, the sudden movement making the bench creak beneath him. Blitzo’s voice cracked as he barked, “I don’t need your pity!”

Stolas rose as well, his feathers bristling slightly as his patience wavered.  “This isn’t pity, Blitzo. It’s—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “You matter to me. But I can’t make you believe that.”

Blitzo scoffed and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Go back to Stella, Stolas,” he muttered as he stalked toward the door.

“Blitzo, wait,” Stolas called after him, his voice a mix of desperation and patience. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to push me away.”

Blitzo paused for a fraction of a second, his back stiff, before shaking his head. “Yeah, I do,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something raw.

As Blitzo stormed out, the door swung shut with a dull thud that echoed in the empty locker room. Stolas stood there, his talons clenching at his sides as frustration and sadness warred within him. He wanted to follow, to say more, but Blitzo’s tone had stopped him. He wanted to follow, to say something that would break through Blitzo’s walls, but the doubt in his mind kept him rooted. What if Blitzo was right? What if his presence was only making things worse?

Outside, Blitzo paused under a flickering streetlamp, his breath visible in the cold air. He glanced back at the locker room door, his chest tightening with emotions he couldn’t name. His voice was barely a whisper as he muttered, “Why do you have to make it so damn hard to keep you at a distance?”

~o0o~~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Fizzarolli sat on the edge of the academy’s roof, his legs dangling over the side as his tail swished irritably behind him. The sprawling grounds below were quiet, most students either in their dorms or heading there, but up here, the world felt detached. The distant hum of the academy mingled with the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. His mind was stuck on a loop, one he couldn’t seem to escape.

“You ruin everything.”

The words had left his mouth too quickly, sharper than he’d meant them to be, but now they felt like a curse echoing back at him. He tilted his head forward with a groan, letting his horns scrape lightly against the wrought-iron railing nearby. His tail lashed against the rooftop, an unspoken outlet for the frustration simmering just below the surface.

The sky stretched above him, streaked with hues of orange and red as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. The light bled into the edges of the clouds, turning them into glowing embers that seemed to burn away the edges of the world. He stared at the horizon, his chest tightening. The sunset felt like a clock ticking down, pressing him to make sense of the chaos swirling in his head.

The sharp click of heels on stone broke the stillness. He stiffened, his tail freezing mid-swing as Stella stepped onto the roof. Her silhouette was bathed in the soft glow of the fading sunlight, and her silver gown caught the light with every calculated step. Her expression was serene, but her eyes gleamed with something colder, sharper—like a blade hidden behind velvet.

Fizz straightened slightly, trying to mask his irritation. “What are you doing up here?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended. His tail flicked faster, betraying his agitation.

Stella paused, studying him like a hawk eyeing its prey. “I could ask you the same thing, but the answer’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” She gestured vaguely to the academy grounds below.  It’s so predictable. And yet...” She tilted her head, her gaze piercing. “So telling.”

Fizz bristled, his tail resuming its agitated flicking. “I’m not hiding,” he muttered, turning away. His claws tapped against the rooftop edge in an uneven rhythm. “Just needed some air.”

“Of course,” Stella said smoothly, taking a few slow steps closer. “Air. Reflection. The things we tell ourselves when what we really want is to escape.” Her lips curled into a faint smile. “You’re not the first to come up here, you know. It’s a good spot for clarity.”

Fizz didn’t reply, but his silence seemed to spur her on. She stopped just a few feet away, her posture relaxed but commanding. For a moment, she simply observed him, her eyes lingering on the way his shoulders slumped and his tail flicked like a metronome of unease.

“It’s Blitzo, isn’t it?” she said finally, her voice soft, almost pitying. “I’ve seen the two of you. That connection you share... It’s admirable, in a way. Messy, but admirable.”

Fizz froze, his tail snapping to a halt mid-swing. His claws dug into the rooftop edge, leaving faint scratches on the stone. “What’s your point, Stella?” he said tightly, not looking at her.

Her smirk widened imperceptibly, her tone dripping with faux sympathy. “No point, really. Just an observation. He’s... difficult, isn’t he? He was always charging headfirst into chaos, dragging everyone down with him. It must be exhausting trying to keep up with someone like that.”

Fizz’s fists clenched, but he didn’t refute her. Instead, he sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. “It’s just...” he began, his voice quieter now, almost like he didn’t want to hear the words out loud. “I’m scared Blitzois gonna burn everything down, including himself.”

The confession hung in the air, stark and unguarded. Fizz let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “He doesn’t even realize it. Or worse, he does, and he just doesn’t care. He’s like a match waiting to drop on a pile of dynamite, and no matter what I say or do, it’s like he’s daring me to try and stop him. I can’t just sit here and watch him destroy himself.”

As the sun dipped lower, its light flared briefly against the edges of the horizon, painting the rooftop in deep, bloody hues. Fizz’s shadow stretched long and jagged behind him, a distorted reflection of the turmoil within.

Stella’s eyes glinted, her expression softening just enough to appear genuine. She moved closer, her voice dropping to a soothing, conspiratorial tone. “Oh, darling, it’s entirely possible. You mean well, of course, but people like Blitzo thrive on chaos and self-destruction. It’s their nature. You try to save them, and they lash out, pulling you down with them.”

Fizz turned to her, conflicted. His fingers tapped anxiously against his leg, and his tail lashed again, more violently this time. “I’m not trying to save him. I just... I don’t want to lose him.”

Stella chuckled softly, her tone laced with just the right amount of sympathy. “And that’s where it gets tricky, doesn’t it? Your loyalty is admirable, Fizzarolli, but loyalty can be... misplaced. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is let someone go. Let them spiral. Are you staying in the blast zone? It’s only going to hurt you.”

Fizz’s gaze snapped to hers, his tail lashing hard against the stone. “You don’t know him,” he said, his voice sharper now, though his uncertainty lingered. “He’s not some ticking time bomb you can just throw away. Blitzois isn’t perfect, but he’s not... hopeless.”

“Isn’t he?” Stella countered, her voice still calm but with an edge of condescension. “How many times has he dragged you into his messes? How often do you find yourself cleaning up after his mistakes? Tell me, Fizzarolli, does he even see how much you sacrifice for him? Or does he take it for granted?”

Fizz’s gaze dropped to the rooftop beneath him, his tail going still as her words sank in. He remembered the time Blitzo had laughed off his concern after a near-miss at the circus, the frustration in Fizz’s chest twisting into helplessness. He’d tried to brush it off back then, convincing himself that Blitzo’s recklessness was just part of his charm—a quirk that made him unpredictable and exciting. 

That same helplessness gnawed at him now, sharper and more insistent. His claws scraped faint lines into the stone as his tail lashed erratically, an unspoken outlet for the turmoil surging through him. Each of Stella’s words settled like weights on his shoulders, pulling him deeper into doubt.

And then, another memory surfaced—sharper, brighter. The time Blitzohad pushed Fizz out of the path of a falling prop during one of their circus shows, laughing it off as though it hadn’t been a big deal. “Can’t let my favorite act get squashed, can I?” Blitzo had said with that crooked grin. Fizz had rolled his eyes at the time, but now, the memory settled like a balm against Stella’s barbs.

Fizz let out a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper as the words escaped him: “But what if I’m the one making it worse? What if... what if he’s better off without me?”

Stella placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, her touch cool and calculated. “Perhaps he is. Sometimes, being too close to someone only feeds their fire. You’ve done your best, haven’t you? You’ve tried to help him. But if he refuses to change, maybe it’s time to think about yourself. Your future. Do you really want to keep being the one who picks up the pieces every time he falls apart?” 

She watched the way his claws scraped the stone, his tail betraying his inner turmoil. Her voice softened just enough to nudge him further into doubt.  “Think about your brilliance, darling,” she said softly. “You deserve more than to burn for someone else’s chaos.”

Fizz flinched, his tail snapping sharply against the rooftop with a sudden, sharp thwack. He turned his head slightly as if the words had struck him physically. “He’s not holding me back,” he whispered, though his voice wavered, lacking the conviction he wanted it to carry.

Stella tilted her head, her expression calm and almost pitying. “Oh, darling,” she murmured, her tone dripping with condescension. You’re sweet to think that. But deep down, you know the truth, don’t you?”

Unbidden, a final memory came forth. Not one of the times Blitzo had saved his life, not one of the reckless circus stunts, but something smaller. More personal.

Fizz could still see it—the way Blitzo had patched up a ripped puppet from their act, carefully sewing it back together with clumsy but determined stitches. He had grumbled the whole time, claiming he didn’t know why he bothered, but Fizz remembered the look in his eyes: Blitzo didn’t just fix things. He held on, even when it hurt.

Stella’s hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment longer before she stepped back, her gaze calculating as she watched his internal conflict. “You’re not responsible for him, Fizzarolli,” she continued, her voice low and almost tender. “No one can save Blitzo from himself—not you, not anyone. Maybe it’s time you stopped trying.” She watched the way his claws scraped the stone, his shoulders tense as if bracing against an invisible weight. Satisfied, she stepped back, the click of her heels breaking the silence.

“I’m not giving up on him,” Fizz said finally, his voice steadier now. “You think you’re so clever, playing your little mind games, but you don’t know what it’s like to care about someone who’s struggling. You wouldn’t understand.”

Stella raised an eyebrow, her smirk faltering slightly. “And what makes you so sure of that?” she asked, her tone colder now.

Fizz stood, his tail curling tightly behind him as he squared his shoulders. “Because you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You just want to plant doubts and watch people fall apart because it makes you feel powerful.”

Stella’s smile returned, colder and sharper than before. “Perhaps,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “But power comes from knowing when to let go. I just hope you don’t let his fire consume you, darling. You deserve better than that.”

Fizz’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Yeah. You don’t know him. He screws up, sure, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t give up on people. He’s never given up on me.” His voice wavered slightly, but the conviction was there, solidifying into something unshakable. “I’m not giving up on him either.”

“I’ll leave you to think about it,” Stella said smoothly, turning toward the stairwell. Her heels clicked softly against the stone, each step measured and deliberate. She paused briefly at the doorway, her gaze lingering on him one last time. “Don’t let his fire consume you, darling. You’re too brilliant for that,” she said, her voice distant now, fading into the sunset as the door creaked shut behind her.

Fizz stood there, his tail twitching slowly as the rooftop fell silent. The setting sun bathed the academy grounds in deep amber tones, and the sky darkened at the edges like a smoldering ember. He stared at the horizon, the ache in his chest still sharp, but beneath it, a flicker of resolve began to grow.

Blitzowas wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t giving up—not yet. Because what if she was right? What if he was only making things worse? And yet, could he live with himself if he walked away?

~o0o~~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The courtyard buzzed faintly with life—students chatting in hushed tones, the distant scrape of chairs in the library, and the soft trickle of water from the central fountain. Stolas sat on a stone bench near the fountain, his long legs crossed, a book resting in his lap. His talons idly turned the pages, though his glowing crimson eyes lingered blankly on the text, absorbing nothing. The carved pathways around him were immaculate, weaving through patches of perfectly trimmed grass and flowerbeds that felt too pristine to belong to a place of learning.

Above him loomed the stone figures of GGoetia's Ancestors, their cold, hollow eyes casting long shadows across the courtyard. Meant to inspire, today, their gaze felt like a silent rebuke, pressing down with unyielding weight.

He had waited by the library for close to an hour before giving up and retreating to the courtyard in search of solace. The silence between them had grown unbearable, a gap neither of them seemed willing to bridge. Does he think I agree with the rumors? That I see him the way they do? The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and unwelcome.

For a fleeting moment, Stolas allowed himself to sink into the quiet rhythm of the fountain, the faint murmurs of students melting into background noise. It wasn’t peace, not really, but it was close enough. His fingers twitched as he reached for the edge of the book again, pretending to focus, when the sharp, deliberate click of heels on stone shattered his fragile illusion of peace.

Stella.

The sound cut through the courtyard like a knife, growing louder with every step. Stolas’s shoulders stiffened, his talons tightening against the book as he forced himself not to look up. He recognized the cadence of her approach all too well—purposeful, domineering, and dripping with disdain.

“Oh, Stolas,” Stella said as she stopped in front of him, her tone laced with mock sweetness. “How quaint. Hiding here while the academy—or should I say all of Hell—buzzes with rumors about you. Rumors, I might add, that you’ve done nothing to dispel.”

Stolas looked up slowly, his glowing crimson eyes meeting hers. Stella stood tall, her posture regal, the faintest smirk playing on her lips. Her silver gown shimmered faintly in the sunlight, but it did nothing to soften the cruelty in her gaze. She was a picture of control and malice, every movement measured, every word a barb.

“I wasn’t aware I was hiding,” Stolas replied evenly, though his voice carried the faintest edge of weariness. He set the book down beside him, his movements deliberate as he rose to meet her eye level. “And I wasn’t aware it was your concern.”

“Stolas,” Stella said again, her smirk widening as she folded her arms across her chest. “Everything about you is my concern, darling; you should know that by now. Do you think your... choices don’t reflect on the rest of us? On me?” Her voice dropped, cold and biting. “Your foolishness has made us all the subject of ridicule.”

Stolas’s feathers bristled, but he forced himself to remain composed. “I didn’t realize you cared so deeply about public opinion,” he said, his tone cutting as his crimson eyes fixed on hers. “You’ve never seemed to mind the whispers before—at least not when they were about you. If I remember correctly, you called them... tedious? A pastime for the lower classes, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t care about their opinions,” Stella replied smoothly, her voice dipping into a near-purr of cruelty. “But I care about what their mockery represents. They see you as a punchline, Stolas—a Goetia prince stripped of dignity. And all because of your... unfortunate choices.”

Stolas’s talons curled into fists, his irritation sharpening into something colder. “Those whispers,” he bit out, his voice steady but edged with steel, “they’re your doing, aren’t they? You’ve orchestrated this entire spectacle.”

Her laugh was soft, almost delicate, but the malice behind it was unmistakable. “Of course. Did you think it was all coincidence? That people simply noticed how far you’ve fallen?” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “But I must admit, you’re handling it better than I thought. No tears? No desperate pleas? How... admirable. Though I imagine that won’t last long.”

Stella stepped closer, her smile fading into something colder, sharper. “You think the whispers are bad now? Imagine what they’ll say when I start telling the truth. About you. About your... associations. How much longer before the rest of the Goetia court questions your ability to uphold the family’s reputation?”

Stolas’s chest tightened, her words slicing through his carefully constructed composure. But for the first time, something stirred within him—a flicker of defiance, faint but present. His talons flexed at his sides as he forced himself to meet her gaze.

“You’ve spent your entire life twisting people to fit your image, Stella,” he said, his voice trembling but growing steadier with every word. “You don’t care about the family. You care about control. You don’t see people—you see pawns.”

Stella’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. “Pawns?” she repeated, her tone icy. “Is that what you think this is? I’m protecting our legacy, Stolas. Something you seem incapable of doing.”

“No,” Stolas said, his voice rising slightly as the years of conditioning and fear threatened to choke him. He pushed through it, his chest tightening as he added, “You’re not protecting anything. You’re using my name—my family name—as a weapon to manipulate and control me. And I won’t let you use me anymore.” 

The stone pathways of the courtyard felt colder under the shadow of Stella’s presence. Stolas’s feathers bristled, but he didn’t back down, his crimson gaze locking with hers even as Stella’s gaze darkened. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, like the faint scent of rain before a storm.

“I’m not a tool for your schemes, Stella,” he said firmly. “And I refuse to allow you to define who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy and taut, and Stella’s expression was unreadable. Then, her lips curved into a smirk. She didn’t lash out or shout, as she was wont to do; instead, she laughed—a cold, dismissive sound that echoed against the looming statues of their ancestors.

“Oh, Stolas,” she purred, stepping closer with slow, deliberate precision. Her heels clicked against the stone, each step feeling like the countdown of a clock. “You think your little rebellion makes you brave, don’t you?” she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. “That it somehow undoes everything?”

Stolas stiffened, his talons clenching at his sides as she drew near. He forced himself not to look away, but the weight of her gaze was suffocating.

“You’re a Goetia,” Stella continued, her voice low and venomous. “Bound by your name, your duty, your legacy. Everything you do reflects on this family—and me. Don’t think for a second that your little outburst changes the fact that you belong to this system. To this family. To me.”

She leaned in, her cold eyes narrowing. “You’ll always be mine to control.”

Stolas’s shoulders tensed, his crimson eyes flickering with suppressed frustration. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Her presence loomed over him like the statues that surrounded him, relics of history he could never seem to escape. 

Stella straightened, brushing an invisible speck from her gown as though the conversation had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “I suggest you think carefully about your next steps, dear Stolas. Because while this has been entertaining, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place if you forget it again.”

With that, she turned on her heel, her gown sweeping behind her as she strode away. The sharp click of her heels echoed through the courtyard, fading into the distance but leaving her presence behind like a bitter aftertaste.

Stolas stood frozen, his arms trembling slightly at his sides. The ancestors’ statues stood motionless, their unblinking gazes seeming to weigh his defiance against centuries of tradition. He swallowed hard, his composure cracking at the edges as he lowered himself onto the edge of a nearby fountain. The cool stone beneath him offered little comfort, its unyielding surface a stark reflection of the indifference he had spent his life trying to overcome.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breaths shallow and labored. He pressed his talons against his knees, gripping tightly as if to ground himself, but it wasn’t enough to stop the spiral of thoughts flooding his mind.

"You’ll always be mine to control."

Her voice echoed in his head, mingling with another, one he hadn’t heard in years but could never forget. His father’s tone, cold and unwavering, resurfaced from the depths of his memory:

"Your life isn’t your own, Stolas. It never was."

The weight of it pressed down on him like the heavy stone pathways beneath his feet, his father’s words intertwining with Stella’s until they became an unrelenting refrain.

"She’s right, isn’t she?" Stolas’s thoughts clawed at him, bitter and relentless. "I’ve spent my whole life being exactly what they wanted—a dutiful pawn in their game. And now, when I try to stand, I stumble. Am I just fooling myself?"

His talons curled tighter, the sharp tips digging into his thighs. For years, he had allowed himself to be shaped and manipulated, first by his father and then by Stella. Every choice and action had been made with the Goetia name in mind, his desires buried beneath layers of obligation and fear.

But beneath the despair, another voice whispered—a softer, more fragile one that refused to be silenced.

"But... what if I could?" it asked, tentative but insistent. "What if, just once, I didn’t let them win? Could I be something more? Something better?"

He lifted his gaze to the fountain before him, the water rippling in the faint breeze. Its surface caught the light of the setting sun, golden and fractured. For a moment, he let himself imagine a different life—a life unbound by duty, where his choices were his own. The thought was fleeting and fragile, but it was there, igniting a small ember of hope in the hollow of his chest.

Stolas exhaled shakily, his breath catching as he fought back the tears burning behind his eyes. He glanced up at the statues towering above him, their expressions stern and unyielding. For the first time, he didn’t bow his head in submission. Instead, he met their gazes, his crimson eyes steady despite the turmoil within.

"I may have stumbled,” he murmured, forcing his voice to steady. “But I won’t let you decide if I fall… I won’t let you decide if I fall.”

The words felt foreign on his tongue, hesitant but genuine. They were a promise, not just to himself, but to the faint flicker of defiance that refused to die. Stolas wasn’t sure if he could win against Stella or the crushing weight of his family’s expectations. But for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that he could try.

Stella strode away from the courtyard, her heels clicking against the cobblestones in a measured, deliberate rhythm. The smirk she had worn during her confrontation with Stolas faded as she moved further into the shadows, the cool night air wrapping around her like a shroud.

She paused by a tall hedge, glancing back at the courtyard. From this distance, Stolas was a faint silhouette, still seated by the fountain. His shoulders slumped, his defiance extinguished—or so it seemed. Stella’s lips pressed into a thin line, her claws curling around the edge of her gown.

“Fool,” she murmured, though her voice lacked its usual venom. Her gaze drifted upward to the towering academy spires, their pointed tips piercing the night sky—the stars above glittered faintly, indifferent to the turmoil below.

For a moment, she allowed herself to drop the facade. Her posture slackened, her hands falling limply to her sides. The air was too quiet, too still, and its weight pressed against her chest. Memories clawed their way to the surface—her father’s voice, sharp and cold, echoing in her mind:

"You must control him, Stella. If you can’t, then what use are you to this family?"

The words cut as sharply now as they had then, carving into her with a precision that left no room for doubt. Stolas wasn’t just her husband—he was her responsibility, her proof of worth to a family that demanded perfection and obedience in equal measure. And yet, controlling him had always felt like trying to grasp smoke. Every time she thought she’d contained him, he slipped through her fingers, leaving her grasping at nothing but frustration and failure.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as though to banish the thought. “Weakness,” she hissed under her breath, straightening her posture with practiced ease. Her mask slid back into place, the familiar smirk tugging at her lips as she adjusted her gown.

Her gaze returned to Stolas’s distant figure, her crimson eyes narrowing. He might have stumbled today, but she couldn’t allow him to rise again. His defiance, however faint, was a threat to the order she’d worked so hard to maintain—a reminder of her failure to keep him in line.

Turning sharply, Stella resumed her path toward the dormitories. By the time she reached the courtyard fountain, her composure was flawless once more. The faint ripple of vulnerability in her chest had been buried, sealed beneath layers of calculation and cruelty.

~o0o~~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Back in his dorm, Blitzo sat on his bed, his leg propped up, gingerly rubbing his knee. The dull ache in his knee was nothing compared to the storm raging in his chest. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the glow of another message from Stolas lighting up the darkened room. He picked it up, his thumb hovering over the notification, the temptation to respond tugging at him. 

Stolas: Blitzo, please don’t shut me out.

He had even opened the keyboard once, typing out a hasty reply: I’m fine, just busy. Don’t worry about me. But as quickly as he typed it, he deleted it. What was the point? Stolas deserved better than his half-hearted attempts at connection.

Instead, he swiped to his photo gallery, scrolling until a rare picture of him and Stolas popped up. It was from a rare moment of peace, snapped during one of their study sessions. Stolas was mid-laugh, his eyes crinkling in genuine joy, and Blitzo was beside him, his grin lopsided but real.

For a long time, Blitzo just stared at the image, his chest tightening with a mix of longing and guilt. He wanted to hold on to the moment, to that fleeting sense of connection, but the doubt crept in, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. “He deserves better,” he muttered, locking the phone and tossing it onto the bed.

Leaning back, he let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. The faint glow of the room barely pushed back the shadows creeping in from the corners. Blitzo’s gaze drifted to his bag, half-open on the floor. On impulse, he reached down, rummaging through it until his fingers closed around something small and familiar—a chipped figurine of a jester.

The faded paint and worn edges stirred memories he’d spent years trying to bury. He could almost hear the distant laughter of the circus, the crackle of a roaring crowd, and the vibrant chaos of a life he’d lost. Fizz’s laughter rang clearest of all, bright and full of joy—until it wasn’t. The sound twisted, replaced by the bitter echo of his last words: “You ruin everything.”

Blitzo’s grip tightened around the figurine, his chest constricting as the ache settled deep in his bones. For a moment, he turned it over in his hands, tracing the cracks in the paint like he was searching for something he couldn’t name.

“Why did I even keep this?” he muttered under his breath. It had been a gift once—a token of something brighter, something full of promise. Now, it felt like a monument to everything he’d broken, everything he’d lost.

With a sharp exhale, he shoved the figurine into a drawer, slamming it shut as if that could lock away the pain. But the echoes of the past refused to be silenced, lingering in the quiet like an unwanted guest.

Blitzo leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. The whispers, the doubts, Fizz’s words—they wouldn’t shut up.

“Maybe Fizz was right,” he thought bitterly. “Maybe I’m just a disaster waiting to happen.”

His crimson eyes flicked to his phone, the screen dark now. For a moment, he considered calling Stolas, his thumb twitching toward the device. He could already picture Stolas’s voice, warm and steady, asking what was wrong, offering the kind of patience Blitzo didn’t feel he deserved.

But what could he even say? That he felt like he was coming apart? That the mess in his head was swallowing him whole? The ache in his chest sharpened as he clenched his jaw. “He doesn’t need this,” he thought bitterly, locking the screen. “He doesn’t need me.”

Blitzo switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness. The shadows crept in around him, heavy and unrelenting, settling like an old, unwelcome companion. They wrapped around him, familiar in their weight but still as suffocating as ever. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, one thought echoed louder than the rest:

Maybe pulling away isn’t for Stolas—it’s for me.

The courtyard outside the academy was quiet now, and the soft trickle of water from the central fountain was the only sound breaking the stillness. A faint breeze stirred the trimmed hedges and sent ripples across the surface of the fountain, but Stella remained unmoved. Standing in the glow of the moonlight, she was like a statue come to life. Her sharp gaze lingered on the dormitories, where faint lights flickered through the drawn curtains.

A smirk curled her lips as she imagined the fractures spreading between Blitzo and Stolas, cracks deepening into chasms. The rumors, the whispers she’d so carefully seeded, were taking root like weeds, choking out anything that might have flourished between them. She reveled in its satisfaction, the power of knowing she had orchestrated the distance that now stretched between them.

She trailed a claw lightly along the edge of the fountain, watching as her reflection distorted in the water’s shifting surface. “Such fragile little things,” she murmured, her voice soft but tinged with venom. “They think themselves unbreakable, yet all it takes is the right pressure in the right place to shatter them.”

Her gaze flickered toward the dormitories again, but this time, her smirk deepened—sharpened into something colder, more deliberate. The whispers were merely the first strike, the gentle push before the real fall. There were more threads to pull more fractures to widen. She had spent years learning how to dismantle Stolas piece by piece, and Blitzo? He was barely an inconvenience. A few more well-placed moves, and he’d do all the work for her—burn himself out before Stolas could ever catch him. “Poor Stolas,” she purred, her tone mockingly sweet. “Caught between wanting to save a sinking ship and realizing he might be the anchor dragging it down.”

Her smirk widened, her nails tapping against the stone rim of the fountain. “But this is only the beginning, dear Fiance,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a near hiss. “Because the next time I come for you, you won’t even see it coming.”

With that, she turned sharply, her gown sweeping the cobblestones as her heels clicked in precise, deliberate rhythm. She disappeared into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of roses and the cold, lingering weight of an unseen storm gathering on the horizon.

Part Eight

[pxrifiedmxniac]

@xdeerxhealerx sent: 🔥

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.

Gonna be real, season 2 of Helluva Boss was hit-or-miss compared to the first season. Just as a rundown of my quick thoughts (under the cut due to length):

The Circus: I get trying to go into Stolas' background with Blitzo but it didn't feel like it worked out how they wanted and makes Blitzo look worse. Also, I've said my piece about how they wrote Stella.

Seeing Stars: Better than the first episode, but felt like a retread of Looloo Land. The moment between Loona and Octavia was good though.

Exes and Oohs: A surprisingly good Moxie and Millie episode with a pretty decent villain in the form of Crimson.

Western Energy: ...well that happened. Next!

Unhappy Campers: Not gonna lie, I think this is the worst episode of the show for me. What should've been the B-plot was the A-plot and what should've been the A-plot was the B-plot. Also felt like it while Exes and Oohs did one step forward for Moxie ended up taking three steps back for him.

Oops: That... was... great! An actually really good episode and may be my second favorite of the show! Fizz is great, Ozzie may be one of if not my favorite from this show, and it actually makes Striker into a better villain than Western Energy. More like this please!

Mammon's Magnificent Musical Mid-Season Special (ft. Fizzarolli): Another banger! Just when I thought the season was going on the decline, we get two really good episodes! Made Fizz and Ozzie even better, Blitzo was actually really good even if he was relegated to being a side-character over Fizz and "Two Minutes Notice" is still a great song!

The Full Moon: WHAT HAPPENED!?!?! You did so good with the last two and then... oof... It's not the worst, Unhappy Campers is still that, but it just cements that they have nothing for the Cherubs to do at this point other than being punching bags. The first part and the ending were fine, but everything else... blech! Nice to see Fizz though.

Apology Tour: I liked it a lot. Gives me mad props to Verosika for throwing parties like that to help people affected and it was a good episode to open Blitzo's eyes up a bit more to what he's doing and how it affects others.

Ghostf**kers: And we got another really good one and it's a good Blitzo and Millie episode. Also, really cool that we got to see what Millie was like before she signed up to I.M.P.

Mastermind: Cool we got to see the other Sins and it did tug on the heart-strings, but the more I thought of it, the less it made sense and kinda makes Stella and Andrealphus into incompetent villains. But still some decent moments throughout.

Sinsmas: A decent finale for this season, but still thought Ozzie's/Queen Bee were better finales. Loved the fight against Andrealphus, really hope to see more of Octavia in the next season, maybe see her interact with Loona again. Also, Loona's true form looked amazing! And I'm kinda okay with Millie being pregnant as long as it's written well.

tl;dr - Kinda let down by season two aside from some good episodes. They're really gonna have to pick up the slack for season 3.

[realredbanana]

which I think is at least partially because I agree with tvmicroscopes perspectives on the yr subtext

//

I'm curious about these perspectives! what are they?

Honestly, it’s kinda hard to explain without either, a, sounding a bit like an insane conspiracy theorist or, b, basically just repeating stuff that he’s already explained but worse.

(If you want to ignore me and just read his posts, here’s a link to the first one)

The main kind of ideas though (+ links to the posts where he’s explained them (although, warning that a few of them are paywalled)) are:

Music is a metaphor for love.

　(which makes the piano scene in 1.03 a bit sadder, but a bit less abrupt)

Water is a metaphor for feelings.

　(rowing generally represents more shallow or fake relationships)

Lockers are a metaphor for secrets.

Stella and Fredrika mirror (subtextually act as) Simon and Wilhelm respectively.

Felice and Sara sometimes mirror Simon and Wilhelm, but, when they do mirror them, it’s not always Felice = Simon, Sara = Wilhelm, sometimes it switches.

Marcus is a “ghost” mirror for a guy who doesn’t exist within the text (let’s call him ‘Person X’ for clarity’s sake) (and is essentially just Marcus but significantly worse, like, take most of Marcus’ defining traits and exaggerate them: dating Simon (doesn’t need changing), 18 (legally an adult), manipulative, and works at/with Simon’s school.. (you can see why I say he’s significantly worse, I want to actually punch this fictional man for what he did to 12-14.5yr old Simon)).

August also sometimes mirrors Person X (but also sometimes Wilhelm or Simon. Which makes that scene where Sara goes to August’s room to talk subtextually super interesting, because it’s basically ‘Sara (Simon) goes to meet August (Person X) and, after some conversation, Sara says “I don’t think you’re the worst person” (or something along those lines) and now it’s Sara (Wilhelm) and August (Simon), having their cute moment (therefore making that scene cute for saraugust, cute for wilmon, horrific for younger Simon)).

　(this also kinda explains why Stella was generally more judgy towards Felice in s3 about the idea of her telling someone about the initiations (ie: Person X) it’s basically subtextually two sides of Simon deciding whether or not to tell someone about what happened, one side feeling like it was “just a relationship gone bad” and that it was his fault that it even happened, the other side realising that they need to tell someone about it. Another scene that’s got this kind of thing going on in it is Sara and Simon’s argument in 1.06, both of them are subtextually Simon in that scene, with Simon being more rational yet a bit invalidating, and Sara being a younger Simon who felt like he wasn’t protected from Person X, that Linda should’ve paid more attention to what was happening. (In summary, young!Simon was (and still kinda is) dealing with this heartbreaking combination of feeling like it was his fault that everything with Person X happened, but also desperately wishing that someone would’ve prevented it from happening)).

Rousseau is/horses are an allegory for the line of succession.

　(hence why I was, privately, slightly pissed at Wilhelm in 3.05 for suggesting that he might get back into riding, because it was clear it was just another way he was trying to play the Perfect Crown Prince to appease his mother).

[agentcable]

Chicago Fire Season 4 Ep. 18 "On the Warpath"

While responding to a call involving a victim with a leg wound, Sylvie Brett witnesses a murder and is threatened by the shooter not to go to the police. Unsure what to do, she tries to track down Antonio from the Chicago P.D. Elswhere, Firehouse 51 springs into action when a restaurant fire traps several people in a vault. Meanwhile, with his wedding day to Trudy fast approaching, a nervous Mouch is getting cold feet.

If you want to watch the series for yourself, stop reading! This post contains spoilers to the storyline.

Matthew Casey has become the new Alderman of the 52nd Ward, but his victory is bittersweet. Casey ran for alderman because he thought he could make more of a difference if he had power, and unfortunately for him, he finds out that power doesn't work that way. And a recent newspaper article has also made things uncomfortable for Dawson.

Apparently, someone had mistakenly written that she was his wife. The two had laughed it off at the time, but eventually realized they hadn't talked about marriage. Or about children for that matter, since Dawson's earlier pregnancy had come as a surprise to both of them. And so they had a lot of ground to cover. But not the time to cover it. First they had been overwhelmed with all the phone calls and emails Casey had been getting.

Then the thing with Brett had happened. Brett and Jimmy had gotten a call about an injured young man and they soon saw that the victim was suffering from a gunshot wound. And yet something happened when Jimmy went to call for backup, leaving Brett alone. Someone had run up to Brett and shot the victim again, this time in front of her. So Brett had been left alive as a witness to a murder, but the shooter hadn't been stupid. He had decided to take her driver's license to scare her into silence. And knowing that such a person knew where she lived made Brett nervous about trusting the police.

Brett and Jimmy had reported what had happened, but Chicago P.D. had sent a baby-faced cop to protect them. So she wanted to know if she could get someone else. Like maybe Antonio or someone just as capable that Sgt. Platt could handle. But Platt had taken the weeks leading up to her wedding off because she wanted to focus on the big day. And so there had been a reason for Mouch to freak out lately.

Mouch had been told to write his own vows. But he kept coming up with nonsense and inviting more people to the wedding than either he or Platt had planned. So Platt was busy trying to make room for Stella at Severide's table, and the guys at 51 were dealing with the aftermath of a fire at a place called the Vault Bar. Which had walls made of Styrofoam, and that kind of material burns faster than anything else.

So Casey ended up with something a little controversial to bring up at his first council meeting. But John Gallo of Gallo Construction had gone to the firehouse before that council meeting and tried to bribe Casey. With a round of golf, of all things. And so Casey was in the middle of figuring out how to let John down when Dawson hit him with the one-two punch. Dawson told Casey that John Gallo had his hooks into every other councilman. So Casey wasn't going to be able to sway one, much less an entire council of people who use and have used the Gallo money to fund their elections. But he had to try, so he made as many calls as he could. And talked to them about Gallo Construction's unsafe practices in using deadly building materials.

But the House was more concerned about Brett. Brett had another run-in with the shooter later. So she and Jimmy had finally gone to Chief Boden to tell him what had happened, and he had been able to pull the necessary strings to get her better police protection. And so Brett thought she was safe.

Jimmy had offered to drive her home, and her friends had even stayed the night to cheer her up. But the shooter had called Brett and told her that the police and her friends would leave eventually. So she reported this to Boden. And Boden thought it was necessary to take her off the phone. Boden said he had to protect her and that they couldn't risk anyone getting hurt because a maniac was showing up trying to get to Brett. So Brett had to reluctantly agree with her chief's decision, and funnily enough, she had givven Jimmy and Dawson (who replaced her in the ambulance) the call about another shooting. Apparently the cops had finally found the man who had been targeting her and he died at the scene.

So Brett was safe in the end. But she told Jimmy that she wasn't sure if she would have done anything to help that man if she had been the one out there. And so she wasn't really okay. She was just going through emotions.

Meanwhile, Casey had lost his attempt to change his fellow councilman's mind. So he had gone to Mouch and Platt's wedding a little upset. Though he hadn't expected Dawson to tell him during the reception that she was okay with the way things were between them, which meant that he had hoped for something more one day while she hadn't.

[officerwhitmore]

As soon as Tony’s voice reached his ears, Vincent felt a chill race down his spine, his body breaking out in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the crisp October air. It was like a flash flood of memory, vivid and inescapable—the same voice, low and rough, murmuring filthy things against his skin. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his expression neutral as guilt and sadness clawed at him, raw and insistent. He could see it, the faint shadow of disappointment in Tony’s face, and it hit Vincent like a sucker punch to the gut. Of course Tony was upset. He’d ghosted him, read his text and blocked his number like a coward, and yet here Tony was, playing along with June’s boundless enthusiasm.

When Tony glanced up and their eyes met, Vincent’s breath hitched. The sadness was unspoken, yes, but it was there, as plain as the flicker of hurt lingering in his gaze. And still—still—Vincent could see that faint glimmer of attraction, the way Tony looked at him like he still saw something worth wanting. It was so much like that last glance they’d shared in Tony’s apartment, moments before Vincent had bolted out the door, leaving behind nothing but a trail of regret.

When the word "nerfherder" left Tony’s mouth, it caught Vincent so off guard that he laughed, a loud, unabashed belly-laugh that startled even himself. He clutched his sides, grinning wide enough that his cheeks ached, and for just a second, the weight in his chest lightened. “Touché,” he managed between chuckles, shaking his head. It didn’t mean Tony had forgiven him, but it meant something. It was a lifeline, thin and tenuous, but real.

When he caught his breath, Vincent replied, “More or less. I’m sort of the Wish.com version.”

June, as always, was quick to defend him. “No, you’re not!” she shot back, her dark brow arching as she stared him down. There was something so fierce in her expression, so much of Stella in that moment, that it caught him off guard. “Don’t say that, Daddy, you look just like Obi-Wan. Even better.”

Vincent blinked at her, caught completely off guard by the sweet, unyielding pushback. God, he should’ve expected it—this was June, after all—but her words hit differently in front of Tony. His face heated instantly, his bashfulness forcing him to avert his gaze from Tony to focus on her instead. He felt like a kid caught red-handed, his body drawing in on itself as he squeezed her shoulders gently. “Well, thank you, Junie,” he said, smiling down at her, his voice softer than usual. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“You’re welcome!” June replied brightly, her grin wide and radiant. The Halloween lights caught on her braces, twinkling in bursts of color, and Vincent couldn’t help but smile back, his heart full despite himself.

When Tony explained that he couldn’t join them, Vincent’s gaze flicked back up, catching the way Tony stood—just a little too stiff, his shoulders weighted down, his posture betraying a long day’s work. The breeze tugged at his flannel, and Vincent noticed the way it clung to his frame, the thin fabric doing little to shield him from the cold. His jaw tightened slightly, his lips pressing together as he took in the faint flush on Tony’s cheeks, the way his fingers flexed and shifted to keep warm. God, he shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t. But he did.

The thought slipped in before he could stop it: He looks cold. He’s probably hungry. He’s been standing here all night in this weather, working his ass off for—what? A few bucks and some free tacos? Vincent shoved the thought of Stella out of his mind, hard and fast. This wasn’t cheating. It was food. Nothing more. Just food.

His gaze darted to the sign above the booth. Tacos: $2 each. Simple math. He’d get six: three chicken, three beef. June wouldn’t finish her second one anyway, and Tony could take whatever was left home. The logic felt solid, reasonable, and it gave Vincent something to focus on besides the storm raging in his chest.

He looked down, fumbling through his Obi-Wan robes in search of his wallet. His fingers brushed fabric after fabric, his brow furrowing as he tried to find the right pocket. Somewhere in the background, he heard a strange crunch and June’s giggle, but he didn’t glance up, too preoccupied with his search. His wallet was proving elusive, and the noise barely registered until he heard someone mention breaks and the end of Tony’s shift. Vincent smiled faintly, relief blooming in his chest. That meant Tony could join them after all.

Finally, his fingers closed around the leather wallet, and he pulled it free, flipping it open to retrieve a twenty-dollar bill. Straightening, Vincent placed it deliberately on the booth where Tony could reach it, his tone steady as he ordered, “We’ll take six tacos, if you don’t mind—” which was a stupid fucking thing to say. Why the fuck would Tony mind him ordering food at a booth which served that function? “Three chicken and three beef.”

He looked up then, meeting Tony’s gaze fully. It wasn’t intentional, but once their eyes locked, Vincent couldn’t look away. There was something there, something raw and unspoken, and he felt himself get lost in it. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, his face heating up once again. He held the gaze longer than he should have, his thoughts scattering, before finally looking away. His hands trembled slightly as he tucked the wallet back into his robes, but he ignored it, focusing on smoothing the fabric instead. The air between them felt charged, heavy with everything they weren’t saying. Vincent’s chest tightened, and he couldn’t tell if it was from guilt or longing—or both.

Placing a hand on June’s shoulder, he cast one last glance up at Tony before moving to turn away, shooting him a soft smile. “Keep the change, okay?” He said. “C’mon, Junie, let’s find—hold on...”

Vincent craned his neck and tilted his head, leaning sideways to get a better view of the teenager standing behind Tony. The sight of what the kid was doing made him blink and then squint in disbelief. A raw onion. The kid was munching on a raw onion like it was a goddamned apple, his jaw working steadily as the sharp crunch of each bite rang out, making Tony visibly cringe. Vincent couldn’t blame him. 

The kid’s appearance hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d seen him. Choppy, shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair framed a face that hadn’t quite lost all its boyishness, though it was offset by greenish eyes and angular cheekbones that gave his face an oddly skeletal quality. Something about it reminded Vince of Chris Bosh, but in a way that landed somewhere between handsome and unnervingly gaunt. Or maybe both. He still hadn’t figured it out, and judging by the kid’s complaints about his dating life back in the day, neither had most young women. 

It had been at least a year since Vincent last saw Kyle Mulligan, back when he was fresh out of juvie. Seeing him here, in a semi-respectable situation, was… unexpected. Encouraging, even. He wasn’t exactly excelling, judging by the burned tortillas Vince had spotted on the counter, but still, it was good to see him doing something productive for once. 

“Kyle Mulligan, is that you?” Vincent called out, a grin spreading across his face. The familiarity brought with it a spark of mischief, and he couldn’t resist. “What on Earth are you doing tormenting this poor man by eating an onion raw like some kind of swamp creature?” His eyes glinted with playful humor as he added, “Did you forget your Shrek costume in your mom’s lingerie closet again?”

The last jab earned a sharp tug on his hand. He glanced down to find June looking up at him with her brows furrowed, confusion written all over her little face. “Daddy, what’s lingerie?” she asked with the blunt curiosity only a ten-year-old could muster.

Vincent snorted a laugh, his grin softening as he squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry about it, Junie,” he said, his tone light.

Kyle’s expression flickered with irritation for a brief second, but then recognition dawned, and his face shifted into one of surprise and, dare Vincent say, fondness. “Who said—holy cow, Officer Whitmore?”

The way he said it made Vincent chuckle warmly. “I’m off duty, buddy. Just call me Vincent.” His eyes darted toward Tony for a fraction of a second, his heart betraying him by thudding harder in his chest. “Or Vince,” he added, his voice dropping just slightly, softer, almost like the name itself was weighted. “If you like that better.”

Kyle’s lips twitched into an awkward smile, revealing teeth that clearly hadn’t met a toothbrush in a while. “Is ‘Mister Whitmore’ alright?”

Vincent laughed again, shaking his head. “Only if you insist on keeping it weird.” He flashed another grin, his tone teasing as he continued, “I didn’t know you worked at Drifter's now.”

“Oh yeah, Officer Whitmore,” Kyle said, completely disregarding the correction. Vincent rolled his eyes, the fondness still evident in his smile. 

“Been working here since graduation,” Kyle added, his chest puffing up slightly with pride.

Vincent’s brows shot up in pleasant surprise, his smile widening. “You graduated?” 

Kyle nodded enthusiastically, his expression full of pride. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s great, kid, I’m glad to hear it! You worked hard for that diploma, you know that?” Vincent said, his tone genuine. He knew a fair bit about Kyle’s home life—his sick mother, the unclean living conditions, the stress and dysfunction that had been his constant companions growing up. The kid wasn’t stupid, but life hadn’t exactly set him up for success. When Vincent had walked him into juvie years ago, he hadn’t been able to see a clear future for him. Hearing he’d graduated felt like a win against the odds. “And look at you, you turned right around and got yourself some gainful employment. How’s that been treating you?”

Kyle tossed the onion into the air, catching it with a cocky grin, then repeated the action like he was showing off. “Incredible,” he said, and Vincent had to fight the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the word coming from him. Still, he nodded encouragingly.

“Been doin’ so great, they have me training the new cook, actually,” Kyle said, his grin widening like it was the punchline to some unspoken joke.

“Really? The new cook??” Vincent raised an eyebrow, his voice filled with mock admiration as he humored him. In a kitchen with Tony in it, Tony would be the go-to trainer without question. “When do they start?” 

Kyle froze for a moment, his wide-ish eyes flicking to Tony before he shrugged. 

Vince followed his gaze, his brows furrowing as realization dawned. “Wha—” He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re not talking about him, right?” He jabbed a thumb toward Tony, laughing incredulously. “Are you sure about that?”

Kyle gave a solemn little nod, chomping down on his onion again with a crunch that made Vincent wince.

June tilted her head, her brows knitting together in confusion. “I feel like he’s doing all the work, though,” she observed, her voice carrying the sharp clarity of a kid who didn’t bother sugarcoating things.

Vincent nodded sagely, tossing her a wink. “That’s a good point, Junie.” He looked back at Kyle, mischief glinting in his eyes again. “But it looks like Kyle might be administering some kind of performance evaluation, though. Kyle, do I have that right?” He furrowed his brows with exaggerated curiosity. “He does the work, you sample the product and take notes?”

Kyle pulled in a breath to reply, pausing mid-chew with his mouth open and his expression squinting into suspicion. “Officer Whitmore, you’re not… messing with me, are you?”

Vincent considered keeping a straight face but decided against it. “‘Course I am, buddy. Builds character,” he said, his grin sharp and playful. His gaze flicked to Tony, who was still at the grill, and then back to Kyle. “Finish that up and go wash your hands before you take over, ‘kay? Don’t want anyone getting sick during flu season ‘cause you’re slobbering all over your fingers.”

Kyle nodded thoughtfully, somehow managing to take another massive bite out of his onion at the same time. “Sounds good, Officer,” he said, and anyone who was looking got an eyeful of half-chewed raw onion and slightly yellow teeth. Kyle nudged Tony in the back with his elbow, not appearing to make any effort to be gentle about it. “Be right back,” he told him. Then he slid out from behind the booth and tossed the onion into a nearby garbage bin like an NBA player making a free-throw, and the onion hit the bottom as loud as a gunshot.

Even ten years after the shooting, Vince couldn’t help himself. He flinched, his grip tightening on June’s shoulder as he pulled her up hard against him, his shoulders scrunching up in an aborted duck. June stumbled back into his stomach with a little quiet ‘oof!’ and Vincent chuckled a little at the sound, grinning down at her and loosening his grip into a light squeeze. “Sorry about that, monkey. I got a little spooked. You good?”

“I’m good, Daddy!” she chirped, grinning up at him with the kind of brightness that immediately softened the tension in his chest. 

The sound of the onion hitting the trash bin still echoed faintly in Vincent’s mind as he took a moment to scan their surroundings. A few yards away, he spotted a large white tent strung with loops of orange and purple lights that glimmered softly in the dark. Beneath it was a cluster of picnic-style tables, each outfitted with basic condiments and napkins, a perfect little setup for eating in the crisp October air. Nearby, a small stand was selling steaming cups of a thick pumpkin-colored drink, topped with swirls of whipped cream and garnished with cinnamon sticks. The scent of it wafted over on the breeze, warm and spicy.

He turned back toward Tony, his gaze lingering briefly before he spoke. “We’re gonna grab some drinks and wait under the tent till the tacos are done. “Just wave us over when they’re ready, alright?" His voice was steady, casual, but the implication hung in the air between them: ’Or you can join us instead.’

As he started to guide June toward the drink stand, her small hand tugged at his sleeve. She looked up at him, her head tilted in curiosity. “Why did you get so many tacos, Daddy?”

Vincent crouched slightly to meet her eye level, his voice soft but loud enough to carry. “Mister Werewolf’s been working all day. He’s gonna be hungry too, don’t you think?” 

June nodded earnestly, her expression warm and sweet as she turned back to Tony. “See you at dinner, Mister Werewolf!” 

Vincent chuckled down at her, his hand settling gently on her back as he led her away. “Come on, monkey,” he said, steering her toward the drink stand.

The pumpkin drinks were ridiculously overpriced—of course they were—but June’s delighted squeal at the whipped cream and the glittery sprinkles on top made it worth every penny. Balancing the three steaming cups proved to be a minor struggle; Vincent handed one to June, gripped one precariously in his hand, and tried to tuck the third into the crook of his arm without spilling it. By the time they reached the picnic bench under the tent, his fingers were chilled from the breeze, and he let out a relieved breath as they settled down.

The space under the tent was nothing short of enchanting. The string lights overhead cast a dim but colorful glow, their reflections dancing across the tables. The warmth from a nearby heater embraced them like a soft blanket, but the occasional breeze sent a shiver skittering down Vincent’s spine. 

He glanced at June, who was already sipping her drink, her legs swinging beneath the bench. “You warm enough?” he asked.

June nodded, her lips stained slightly orange from the whipped cream. “Yeah, Daddy. The thermal underwear you got us works really good!” She paused, her gaze thoughtful as she furrowed her brows. “But… I think Mister Werewolf looked cold.”

Vincent blinked at her, surprised by her observation. He tilted his head, considering her words. “I think so too,” he admitted quietly. He tried to cast a glance back toward the taco booth, but a family was blocking his view, their cluster of coats and scarves an impenetrable wall. When one of them shifted, Vincent’s gaze inadvertently landed on someone’s ass, and he quickly looked away, his cheeks heating.

He leaned closer to June, lowering his voice. “Junie,” he said softly, his tone taking on a gentle seriousness, “remember that with new people, we need to be very aware of the things we say. We have to be sensitive to certain touchy topics, right? So even if we’re worried that someone looks cold, or that they might not be able to afford something, we keep that to ourselves and tell Daddy what we’re worried about later. Okay?”

June’s brows furrowed slightly, concern flickering in her expression. “Okay, Daddy,” she said softly, her voice serious and thoughtful. She seemed to be processing his words, her small hands gripping her cup a little tighter, as though worried she might mess up.

Vincent’s heart ached at the sight. He reached over, squeezing her shoulder gently, and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smelled sweet and fruity, like the shampoo she’d insisted on picking out. “I love you, monkey,” he murmured, his voice warm. “You’re gonna do great.”

June’s face softened into a smile, her earlier worry melting away. Vincent barely had time to pull back from his kiss on June’s head before she broke into a mischievous grin, her hand darting into his Obi-Wan robes with the speed of a seasoned pickpocket.

“What are you—hey!” Vincent exclaimed, his words turning into a laugh as June triumphantly pulled out the plastic lightsaber he’d stashed away.

With an exaggerated whoosh, she activated it, the blue glow casting dramatic shadows across her face. She thrust it into the air, her voice deep and gravelly as she declared, “The force is strong with this one!”

The sight was so absurd, so perfectly June, that Vincent burst into laughter, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. “Alright, Princess Leia,” he said between chuckles, “Tone it down before you knock over our drinks and start a Jedi rebellion.”

Tony watched those little circles dance across the bottom of the screen as Vince was writing, holding his breath the entire time. The circles slowed, then the circles stopped.

They didn’t start back up again.

He stared and stared and stared as he sat there and nothing came. Sighing, he sat his phone down and went to the stove, flipping the eggs. Apparently he was halfassing an omelet this morning. An egg and… more egg, omelet. Yay.

The mere possibility he might get a text back gnawed at him all day. Tony didn’t get a response to his text, but it was definitely marked as read. He tried not to let this bother him. It was fine, Vince was busy. He had things to take care of. Something had happened, and it sounded serious, and his family needed him. Tony was very much not family in the strongest sense and realistically, the best thing for him to do was step back.

That was easier said than done. Tony checked his phone frequently that day, each time re-confirming that the text had been read, but there was no response. He never did catch Vince in the act of typing again either, not once seeing those dots again. This frustrating wait went on all day, and by the time he got home at almost one o’clock in the morning, he still hadn’t received anything. Dropping his tired body onto his couch, he took out his phone and started typing - and then paused. What the hell was he doing? It was one in the morning. Any sane person on a normal schedule would be asleep. His luck, Vince’s wife would hear or see this. Or maybe Vince had just finally fallen asleep and a text would only wake him up. Tony paused there, a few words typed, then deleted the text.

Nevermind. Maybe tomorrow.

~*~*~*~

Finally a day off - though sometimes, a day off felt like hell. No routine to keep him busy, no work to keep his mind occupied. If he ever found himself spiraling, it was usually on a day off.

Determined not to spiral, not to sit around and drink all day, not to pine, and not to stress, Tony spent the day passing time in the most trying-to-be-productive way possible. He slept in, then showered and did laundry. He had intended to give the apartment a thorough scrub-down, but only made it through the bathroom, bedroom, and doing the dishes. As he cleared off the small dining table of junk that had piled up - dishes, mail, take-out containers, a grocery bag, he froze when he saw the little origami crane.

It had been nestled between a stack of take-out boxes from Drifter's and an empty bottle of mouthwash that sat there as a reminder to get more, or at least add it to the list of things he needed more of. It was a bad habit he’d picked up as a child and even now, he couldn’t shake it. But the larger objects had protected the fragile little thing and kept it from getting squished. It was still in pristine, perfectly-folded condition. Tony reached for it, picking it up so gently he acted as if it were made of glass.

Vince’s crane.

Something clenched in Tony’s chest. Part of him wanted to crush it, to erase that day from memory, to make it all go away and make it stop - but a far larger part of him wondered how he could preserve this little crane forever.

Setting it on the countertop in a safe spot, he had an idea. Tony crouched down and opened a cupboard under the sink, rummaging through a small collection of empty containers. Another habit picked up from growing up poor - knowing the value of a ‘good container’ that must be saved, because you’ll never know when you might need one for something. It was there that he found it - an empty, clean, clear glass jar that in a previous life held apricot jelly. This would work perfectly.

Tony carefully slid the origami crane into the jar, fitting it in lengthwise, and screwed the cap on tight. Bringing it into his bedroom, Tony sat the jar on its side atop his dresser, keeping it in place by propping it up on two folded pieces of cardboard that were once the box his toothpaste tube came in. It was makeshift as hell, but it would keep the crane safe and uncrushed. Tony lightly ran a thumb over the top of the glass and sighed.

Maybe it was still the wrong time to text.

~*~*~*~

Tony ran out of things to clean. He needed a distraction. He had a really stupid idea, but the FBI never said he couldn’t, so…. He’d do it. Gathering up his spare cash, taking another shower, and putting on something decent looking (though not as good as what he wore on Monday), Tony headed downtown to the Jack of Hearts bar. It was just in time for happy hour, when drinks would be the cheapest.

Parking himself on a barstool, Tony ordered the least expensive thing on the drink menu (a light beer that tasted like disappointment) and surveyed the crowd. There was some live music playing that he tuned out. He kept his phone in his pocket, where he’d feel the vibration if it went off as well as hear it, just in case Vince texted back. But otherwise, he tried to look engaged and open to chat. He glanced at the football game playing on the suspended television now and then, not really following the score beyond the fact the Dallas Cowboys were getting their asses kicked and a ref had made what he thought was a stupid call. There were some people in groups, some people by themselves, and… the pickings were slim.

It wasn’t that there weren’t any single people here, and it wasn’t that none of them were attractive. There were plenty that, objective and subjectively, were nice looking. But…

None of them were Vince.

Tony wasn’t really sure what he hoped to accomplish by coming here. Did he really want a random hookup with a stranger? Was he trying to finish what he started on Monday? Was he looking for someone intended to be a replacement? Or was this something else? He couldn’t tell. The few people who caught his eye just… didn’t do it for him. All he could think about was the way Vince’s lips tasted, that wide-eyed look of pleasure and adoration he gave him while sucking him off, and the feeling of his skin under his palm.

None of them were Vince, and that was their shortcoming. All of them.

Tony finished off his beer, slid off his stool in time to hear that the Cowboys lost the game, and headed home.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, there were still no texts, and he couldn’t think of what to say. A joke? A comment about a recipe? A straightforward question about how he was doing? He had the desire to talk but absolutely nothing to talk about. What the hell would he say, anyway? ’Good morning, how is your family emergency going? I went to a bar alone last night and nobody talked to me. I'm also thinking of working a closing shift this week followed by an opening shift with overtime so that I can afford car payments’? God no. That had ’pathetic loser’ written all over it for so many reasons. Apparently he just was not an interesting person when his dick was not involved.

That afternoon while on his break, he couldn’t take it anymore. Hiding out in the back office of Drifter's, his feet up on a crate that was doubling as an ottoman and his lunch (a tuna sandwich, fries, and water) on the desk next to him, Tony pulled out his phone. He felt rather stupid, like this was a thing teenagers did, but he really just wanted some indication of…. Something? What did he want, anyway? He had no idea. He just wanted something. A response. Acknowledgment. Some sort of sign that he hadn’t hallucinated Monday’s (failed) hookup. It took him several times before he settled on something to send.

“I know you’re busy but let me know if you want me to arrange catering for the station again.”

After several seconds, the phrase ’Unable to send message’ popped up beneath his text, and the words turned red.

Tony stared at it, holding his breath. The warning message didn’t go away. He had full bars and a strong wi-fi signal. He tapped and held the message, then selected the resend option.

’Unable to send message.’

Tony stared, brow furrowing. Slowly, he turned his phone’s screen dark and sat it aside, screen-down, on the table.

”Fuck.”

Something in his chest hurt.

~*~*~*~

The only reason he agreed to go to this damn event in costume was because Drifter's was paying for it, he managed to talk himself into getting overtime pay, and he got to keep the clothes. Admittedly the fake fur stuffed in pieces under his shirt, meticulously arranged to poke out through the slashes in the white t-shirt, was itchy. At least it was sort of warm - but only sort of. In some spots. The rest of the heat keeping him from freezing his ass off was coming from the grill and the periodic blast of warm air coming out the bottom of the mini-fridge near his feet. The makeup had been itchy at first too, but when it set he eventually got used to it. He was good about not touching his face anyway - not while he was handling food.

The stream of people visiting Drifter's booth for food - particularly his tacos - wasn’t exactly throngs of people, but it was frequent enough to keep him busy and moving with minimal downtime. Like was common for this little town, people were distantly polite, paying and thanking him before skittering away with their meals and snacks. He didn’t get any compliments - but did have one kid who was also dressed up as a werewolf in a rather shitty attempt at such tell him he looked cool. So, at least there was that. He upstaged a child.

Woo.

”Can you try and not burn the tortillas for five fuckin’ minutes?” Tony snapped at his idiot coworker Kyle without even looking at him. He knew the tortilla he was warming up was burning. He could smell it. Hell, he could hear it. It irritated him to no end that he wasn’t working this table alone, but instead had to babysit Kyle. He wasn’t getting paid extra for that. Even worse, Kyle was getting paid to stand here, burn food, and ‘sample’ the food like some kind of cretin. Hearing a crunch, Tony glanced over his shoulder - only to see Kyle holding a whole raw onion, a bite taken out of it like it was an apple.

“You fuckin’ inbred, did you really just-”

”... Johnny Cage!”

That name snapped him right out of whatever rage he was about to enter, pulled him right back into the present, and then immediately flung his brain into the past all at the same time. Tony’s heart stopped, then dropped, and then possibly rolled in a futile attempt to extinguish flames that were already clawing up his throat. There was only one reason a kid should be yelling about Johnny Cage.

Tony’s eyes flicked up briefly, spotting Vince. He was looking the opposite direction and hadn’t yet looked this way - but his little girl, June was it? She had spotted him, and was actively trying to drag Vince this way.

“It’s edible just fine,” Kyle commented as he plopped an overcooked tortilla shell onto the wax paper in front of Tony. It sounded crispy and cracked on contact with the hard surface of the table. Tony shoved it aside. Maybe he’d make old fashioned chips with it or something later. For now, he had to focus on breathing.

His hands shook as he attempted to shake a bag of mixed fajita vegetables into a rectangular metal container, trying not to spill. Even in costume and facing away, he knew it was Vince. His mind immediately ping-ponged back and forth between the hookup and that glaring red message on his phone about the undelivered text. That undelivered text that meant he’d probably been blocked or something and not only was he just a hookup and a piece of meat he wasn’t even that good of one and-

’Hi, Mr. Werewolf!’

Fuck.

”Well hey there Princess Leia,” Tony greeted June first, playing along because she didn’t deserve his turmoil, being the innocent kid third party here. Tony glanced up at Vince, met and held his eyes briefly, then glanced back down at June. ”Who’s this nerfherder you got with you? Ol’ Mister Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Tony offered Vince a smile. It reached his eyes, but he still felt a little sad despite it. Vince looked damn good in that costume, and it just made memories come charging right back at him: Vince's body pressed between his and the wall. The sounds Vince made. That last kiss they shared. The look Vince gave him as he left.

”Sorry to say I can’t come with you - I gotta work.” Tony gestured down at the table, scattered with fixings for tacos - both beef and chicken. Kyle came up behind him, taking another obnoxious crunch out of the onion and talking with his mouth full. Tony made a face and scrunched his shoulders up a bit, the sound grating on his nerves and making the back of his neck tingle uncomfortably.

”You never took your breaks, and you got like ten minutes left on your shift. Boss said no more overtime this week.” A smack-smack of his lips, and Kyle swallowed. ”I’ll watch the table.” Tony highly doubted he would. Watch the table go up in flames or get robbed, maybe, but that was it. Tony exhaled through his nose, bit his lower lip, and idly adjusted his stuffed shirt.

”Care for some tacos before I clock out?”