#technically because this post started with him

[aimfall]

house md got me im sorry guys

[levanswrites]

troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank. 

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed. 

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.  

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts. 

And maybe he should��ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills. 

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go. 

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser. 

Freak. 

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug. 

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this? 

This he’s good at. 

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page. 

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced. 

Then: 

Churn. 

Nope. 

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then: 

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?” 

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze. 

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone. 

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly. 

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.  

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch. 

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway. 

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head. 

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale. 

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real. 

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels. 

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked. 

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact. 

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?” 

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.  

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging. 

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale. 

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips. 

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.  

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest. 

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch. 

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?” 

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm. 

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod. 

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you. 

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while. 

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy. 

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly. 

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks. 

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look. 

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine. 

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.  

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight. 

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.  

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—” 

He laughs. 

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window. 

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall. 

You lick your lips again. 

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.  

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth. 

After that, you go quiet again for a while. 

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread. 

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat. 

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward. 

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should. 

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric. 

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning. 

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know. 

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.  

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play. 

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’    

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space. 

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while. 

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you. 

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows. 

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer. 

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek. 

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed. 

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.  

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him. 

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. 

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips. 

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow. 

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord. 

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything. 

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky. 

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod. 

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight. 

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.  

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door. 

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console. 

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes. 

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel. 

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink. 

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters. 

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[camficdiner]

Hi, could I request [1.5] [1.6] [2.1] (older reader), [3.4] [4.2] maybe with Will being cocky about his ability to pick up the reader and Mack betting that he won't be able to score (but it turns out the reader wants both of them)

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 048 

🍒 Thank you, angel — this one’s setting the kitchen on fire already. Age gap tension, cocky rookie energy, and the slow-burn hallway setup? Just the appetizer. Main course coming soon. 💌

💬 “You think I won’t pull her? Watch me.”

✨ Description and prompts (Part 1):

characters: Will Smith, Macklin Celebrini

prompt: hallway kiss setup; Will bets he can pull the reader (older, PR staff); Mack says he can’t

type: age gap tension, cocky-flirty energy, hallway build-up

tropes: bet, “older woman x cocky rookie,” mutual pining, hallway proximity

⸻

It starts with a clip.

You’re not even in it — not really — but it circulates all over Sharks TikTok within an hour. It’s from a light post-game interview, some rookie banter. Macklin’s half-drenched in sweat, hair curling against his cheekbones, grinning wide like the kid he still is.

The reporter asks, “What’s something about Will fans don’t know?”

Mack doesn’t even hesitate.

“Oh, he’s got a thing for cougars. Loves older women. Like, can’t shut up about them.”

You laugh when you hear it in the hallway.

Will does not.

⸻

You’re part of the Sharks PR team — not technically involved with the players, but close enough to manage them when they mouth off in front of a mic. You’ve been with the franchise long enough to be known — sharp suits, high heels, tight NDAs. You walk fast, talk straight, and make even the front office nervous when you raise an eyebrow.

And you’re not blind.

You know Will’s been watching you since camp.

You’ve seen the way his gaze tracks you through media days. The way he calls you “ma’am” with the dumbest smirk on his face. The way he adjusts his backwards hat when you walk by like he’s suddenly aware he’s twenty and you’re… not.

You’ve ignored it.

You’ve ignored him.

But that changes when you walk into the players’ corridor and hear your name.

“She’s not gonna look twice at you,” Mack’s voice is smug, cocky in its own right. “She’s older. She’s hot. And she knows it. You’re a kid in her eyes.”

Will snorts. “You think I can’t pull her?”

“I know you can’t.”

You pause just around the corner.

Hold your breath.

Listen.

Will’s voice drops, low and lazy. “You’re underestimating me, Mac. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.”

“She’s paid to look at you, dumbass.”

Will laughs. “You’ll see. She’s gonna fold.”

Mack claps him on the back. “Sure. And I’m winning the Rocket next week.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Bet what?”

Will doesn’t hesitate. “If I pull her before the end of this month, you owe me dinner — real dinner. Nice place. You wear a tie.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I pay. And I’ll wear whatever you want.”

Mack hums. “Even that ugly-ass turtleneck from media day?”

“Even that.”

They shake on it.

And you turn the corner like you weren’t just eavesdropping.

Both boys stiffen when they see you.

You smile — slow, sharp, professional.

“Gentlemen,” you say.

Will opens his mouth. Probably to flirt.

You don’t let him.

“Will, tuck your damn jersey in.”

He sputters. “It’s — it’s practice—”

“And Macklin,” you add, “next time you want to share my name in an interview, run it through me first.”

Mack grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk away, heels clicking, eyes forward.

But your smirk gives you away.

Because for the first time…

You might be curious what would happen if you let one of them try.

Or both.

Will Smith is down bad.

And you? You’re thriving.

It starts the morning after the bet. You come in early for press coordination — sleek black blazer, heels sharp enough to kill. The boys are still milling around the lower hallway, sticks in hand, hair wet from morning skate.

Will perks up the second he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, jogging over. “You need help with that?”

He nods to your work tote.

You don’t even look up. “No.”

“I mean, I got time. I can carry it to the office—”

“I’m not walking into a press meeting trailed by a rookie carrying my bag like a puppy.”

He blinks. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a never.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Macklin cackles.

⸻

Day two: Will brings coffee.

You’re already at your desk, flipping through credential requests when he strolls in like he owns the building.

He sets the cup on your desk.

You look at it.

Then at him.

“You don’t know how I take my coffee.”

“I took a guess,” he grins. “You seem like an oat milk kind of woman. Balanced. Professional. A little sweet.”

You blink once.

“I’m allergic to oats.”

Will turns red. “Shit. Wait, seriously?”

You slide the coffee back toward him without breaking eye contact. “Try again, and I’ll consider not reporting you to HR.”

He sputters.

Mack, walking by with a protein bar in his mouth, just wheezes and slaps the wall.

“You’re 0 and 2, man,” he says through laughter. “She’s burying you.”

⸻

Day three, Will holds the elevator.

You’re in a rush. Your phone’s buzzing, your earpiece is in, and your hands are full of clipboards and folders.

Will sees you coming and jams his arm between the doors. “Got you.”

You step in. “Thanks.”

He smiles. Victory.

Then you add, “For once.”

Mack, leaning against the back wall of the elevator, loses it again.

Will glares at him. “Shut up.”

“She just bodied you in 4K,” Mack says. “Again.”

“She said thanks!”

“Pity thank. There was a tone.”

“There wasn’t a tone.”

Mack leans toward you. “There was a tone, right?”

You arch an eyebrow. “He’s adorable when he tries.”

Will makes a strangled noise.

The elevator dings.

You step off without looking back.

⸻

That night, Mack tosses his keys on the counter and yells before he even sets down his gym bag:

“Still losing the bet?”

Will, lying face-down on the couch, groans into a throw pillow.

Mack laughs so hard he nearly trips over his sneakers.

--

You’re still in the office.

The lights are low, the halls are empty, the silence thick in that post-game hush. You’re packing up final notes for the press team when Will’s voice breaks the stillness.

“You’re always the last one here,” he says from the doorway, casual, too smooth.

You glance up. “And you’re still here because?”

He steps in, hoodie half-zipped, damp curls falling into his eyes. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

“You,” he says.

You close the folder. “Cut the act, Will.”

He pauses. “What act?”

“The bet. The smirks. The stupid coffee attempts. You think I’m flattered by attention from a rookie who’s still got tape burns on his chin?”

That hits.

His jaw tenses. “You think that’s what this is? A game?”

You stand. “Isn’t it?”

Will steps closer — voice low, shaking. “You really think I’m doing this for clout?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t built your whole thing on it.”

“I want you.”

His voice cracks.

You freeze.

“I don’t give a shit about a bet,” he says. “Mack can roast me all he wants. I want you because you walk into a room and make me forget what I’m saying. Because you’re older, smarter, hotter than anyone I’ve ever met, and you don’t even see me.”

Your chest rises, slow.

Will exhales. “And yeah. I’m a rookie. I’ve never done this before. Not with someone like you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”

You stare at him. His face is flushed, eyes wild. He means every word.

So you step forward.

“You’ve never done this before?”

He swallows. “Not like this.”

You hum. “Good.”

Then you grab his hoodie and kiss him hard.

He whines into your mouth, body folding into yours like he’s starving for it. His hands hover, unsure where to touch. You guide them — hips, waist, thighs — and moan when he finally grips you like he means it.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so— I’ve thought about this so many times—”

“You gonna let me show you how it’s done?” you whisper.

“Yes—”

The hallway door creaks open.

You both turn.

Mack freezes in the doorway.

Will’s flushed, lips swollen, hoodie rucked up. You’re breathing heavy, blouse wrinkled, one hand still on his chest.

Mack blinks.

“Well, shit.”

You don’t flinch. “You here to gloat?”

Mack steps in, cool as ever. “Didn’t think you’d crack this fast.”

Will groans. “It wasn’t— I didn’t—”

You cut in. “What if I said I wanted both?”

They stare.

You glance over your shoulder, voice honey-slick.

“If I can have one rookie…”

You look Mack dead in the eyes.

“Why can’t I have two?”

---

Your office is dark now — just lamplight and silence and heat pulsing in the air.

Will’s on you first — fast, breathless, cocky, like finally tasting you has scrambled his brain. His mouth is rough against your collarbone, hands skimming your hips like he still can’t believe he’s allowed.

But then Mack closes the door behind him, and your whole body shifts.

You look at him over Will’s shoulder, blouse half open, lips kiss-swollen.

“Mack,” you say, voice low. “You’ve been watching all week.”

He hesitates — flush already blooming up his neck.

“I—yeah.”

“You wanna learn something, rookie?”

He swallows. “I’ve never— I mean— I haven’t… not yet.”

Will’s head snaps up, surprised. “Wait—seriously?”

Mack glares at him. “Yeah. Problem?”

You smile slowly. “Not at all.”

You lean back on your desk, skirt bunched around your thighs, and crook a finger.

“Mack. Come here.”

⸻

You undress him slowly.

He’s shaking. You kiss his jaw. Unbutton his shirt. Tell him he’s perfect. That you’re going to make him feel everything. He nods like he can’t speak.

Will watches from the couch now, shirt off, breathing hard — dick in his hand and zero shame as he watches you touch Mack for the first time.

You sit Mack on your desk chair and straddle him.

“You ever had someone ride you, baby?”

He shakes his head, wide-eyed.

You press your hand between your thighs, fingers slick, and guide him in slowly — watching his entire body shudder when he feels you.

“Fuck—” Mack gasps. “You’re so— I can’t—”

You stroke his face. “Shh. You’re doing so good.”

You move slow, grinding down just enough to make him twitch. His hands clutch your hips like he’s afraid to move. His mouth falls open.

Will mutters from the couch, “Jesus fucking Christ—”

You glance over. “You want a turn?”

He’s on his feet in seconds.

⸻

Mack’s still inside you, trembling, overstimulated and glassy-eyed, when Will kneels in front of you, and buries his mouth between your thighs.

You moan loudly — one hand in Mack’s curls, the other tangled in Will’s.

“Such good boys,” you breathe. “Letting me use you like this.”

Will groans into you.

Mack moans brokenly. “I’m— I can’t hold it—”

You cup his jaw. “It’s okay. You can come. You did so well.”

His whole body jolts — shuddering release, forehead pressed to your shoulder, whispering your name like a prayer.

Will stands, hard and leaking, panting. “Please—me next—”

You shove him onto the couch, straddle him, slide down in one slow, soaked motion — and ride him until he’s gasping, whimpering, kissing every inch of your skin he can reach.

You come with both of them whimpering underneath you. Ruined. Shaking.

Exactly how you like them.

⸻

After, Mack sits on the floor, dazed, flushed, a total mess.

Will lies shirtless on the couch, still breathless. “That was insane.”

You sip from your water bottle like nothing happened.

“I think I blacked out,” Mack says.

You smirk. “You did perfect.”

They stare at you like you’re unreal.

You fix your hair in your reflection.

Then: “Next time, I want to see what you two look like when I’m the one watching.”

Will chokes.

Mack just groans. “I’m not gonna survive next time.”

You smirk. “That’s the idea.”

[minaminokyoko]

Oh, thank FUCKING God, someone put the entire list in one post.

So, mates, when you've heard me say "Fuck Ross Geller" over the years, here's the actual factual breakdown of why you hear me say that every single time it comes across my Dash. He's a toxic sack of crap wrapped inside a safe "comedy" cocoon. We need to call out his shitty ass fucking behavior every time. Do not give him a pass just because he's on an excellent, funny (though obviously problematic) show because the intent is comedy. Ross was fucking toxic as hell and even though I personally don't like Rachel, I hated the ending for her. No. You can do better than Ross. Ross never wanted her to succeed and only wanted her to live under his thumb, so it's totally fine if you are still a fan, but don't deny his toxic fucking behavior. Just don't. The show being funny does not erase all of those emotional abuse tactics.

Oh, and I wanna add on a couple more than have always bothered the living shit out of me.

Joey started dating a gorgeous smart black woman who happens to be in a similar field or same field to Ross. Ross proceeds to start slowly seducing her away and lying to Joey about it the entire time, eventually being so bold as to condescendingly insist that Joey is "too stupid" to date a smart woman like her. Class. Fucking. Act.

And the last example I wanted to add to the list is the one that stuck in my craw the most other than him abusing Rachel for years: when Joey was fired from his soap opera and out of work, Chandler couldn't get him to accept money due to his pride, so Chandler then pretends to teach Joey how to play poker and just lies and says Joey is just really good at it, so he "wins" the money AND it doesn't hurt his feelings. Joey accidentally gets overconfident from "beating" Chandler all the time, so he plays Ross. Ross doesn't know Chandler's plan and takes all the money Chandler technically gave to Joey. Chandler then goes to Ross and explains, asking him to lose a game so that Joey can have the money to, you know, pay his fucking bills and be able to fucking eat.

Ross proceeds to refuse to give the money back to neither Chandler nor Joey.

Ross. Is. Fucking. Toxic.

End of story. I'll leave this here for those of you who've always wondered why I ALWAYS reblog hatred for him. Ain't got nothing to do with him being so called "geeky" or not being conventionally attractive. His soul is ugly, and that's that.

“but ross is so funny !! hes my favourite i cant believe you hate him !!”

ross is a main character in a comedy tv show. he has to be funny. and quite frankly, making a couple of jokes every now and then means nothing when you remember

he’s homophobic

sexist

possessive of rachel

didn’t want rachel to have a life that didnt involve him

made fun of phoebes beliefs constantly 

tried to sleep with his cousin 

fatshamed monica

made monica eat fear foods and then shamed her for wanting to eat more 

didnt want his son to play with a barbie

said another womans name at the altar 

cheated on rachel

victim complex

slept with a student 

spread rumours about rachel in high school 

using his girlfriend’s biggest insecurities as reasons not to date them

was uncomfortable when rachel dated elizabeth’s dad, but said it was fine when he dated her sister because “it wasn’t weird for him” 

was completely willing to let his parents hate chandler (his sister’s boyfriend) because it meant he’d get in trouble for something he did years ago 

THE MALE NANNY

attacked rachel and phoebe to prove a point about ‘unagi’ (okay but you can tell that scene was written by a man?? if youre a woman, thats a terrifying thing to have happen to you) 

lied about the annulment 

kept a sex tape without consent (yes i know he filmed it by accident and never watched it, but he should have destroyed it as soon as he found it) 

so annoying about rachel and joey’s relationship - he made it all about himself !! it was nothing to do with him !! 

cheated on julie 

faked his death

refused to admit he did anything wrong when it came to the ‘break’ with rachel 

didnt wanna date a girl anymore when she went bald 

i feel like theres more but thats all i can think of right now. so yeah, on this page we hate ross geller <3 if you like him, stay away from me, if you kin him… yeah just never talk to me please 

[renegadecreation]

this is a bit off topic from the post by @rebeccasteventaylor that inspired it, but as far as Ethan and Benji and skillsets go -

kind of fascinated by the idea of Ethan always having been a bit of an adrenaline junkie but getting into more dangerous solo stunts with no one around for miles after m:i1 in a bit of a nihilistic moment. and then the nihilism passes, but he can start to see the utility of having these extreme skills on missions and so he keeps pursuing them (ADHD lateral thinking curse strikes again). and then things start to snowball, because he has such a specialized ability that the really crazy missions with really tight timelines are all funneled to him, and sometimes he misses just being a really fit linguistics/theater/drama major with a talent for voices.

and as far as Benji goes - being in the field during GP and knowing they have no one to call for help with specialized tasks must have been a great impetus for wanting to build out his own skillset. and he probably enjoys the idea of being the person Ethan is most likely to call in a pinch too, and being able to distinguish himself from Luther as more of a jack-of-all trades (i can imagine him hearing that Luther went scuba diving at the end of GP and thinking oh, i'd better learn that too).

they match each other so well as a combination of breadth/depth of knowledge, and then Luther's been there all along to provide Mariana Trench levels of technical depth that neither of them have the time or inclination to pursue. the perfect trio ^^

[namelessgoose]

Travel related headcanons for the papas! ✈️🌴

I started these when I had down time traveling a while back and I just remembered I did that so I finished it up and yeah!! This is my first time writing out something like this to post so … be nice 😅

Nihil:

- He throws a bunch of random things in his bag with no sense of organization and then needs someone else to fix it for him and will complain about how they organize it because “he had a system” (there was no system)

- He takes his sweet time in the TSA line, no sense of urgency at all. If his bag gets stopped he immediately starts arguing.

- On the actual trip, he cannot stick to a schedule, he’s the least punctual person in existence.

Primo:

- He’s very preplanned and organized without having to put in much effort. He’s able to pack right before he leaves and packs pretty minimally.

- His bags get through TSA easily, that’s not to say that he doesn’t have anything illegal on him. He has his ways. Don’t worry about it!

- HATES airports. Too many loud people who can’t figure out how to do simple things.

- He doesn’t do anything on the plane. He just sits there. What’s he thinking about? Who knows.

- His trips are generally for business only, he doesn’t enjoy traveling very much. Though, he will stop to see the nature of the area if there’s some.

Secondo:

- Secondo is absolutely an overpacker, but denies it completely. But not in the “i’m bringing 10 pairs of underwear just in case I shit my pants every single day” way, no. Like he’s bringing 5 different kinds of cologne and way too many outfit choices (thinking about that one picture where he’s in that very eccentrically decorated room that was scrapped from Papaganda i believe) And he is able to give serious rationale for everything he brings.

- Hates airports just as much as Primo. His bag gets stopped at TSA every time without fail for absolutely no reason.

- I don’t think he travels much outside of clergy duties BUT if he has to go on a trip for business, he absolutely makes the most out of it… he might get a bit distracted and not fulfill some of the business duties.

Terzo:

- Terzo is packed and planned WELL in advance. He knows exactly what he’s wearing everyday and has alternate outfits depending on the weather. He has all of his essentials and his bag is well organized. He always makes reservations with timed out schedules, but isn’t afraid to deviate from the plan to do what he feels like at that moment.

- Though, he really doesn’t like planes. Not that he’s scared of them, the elevation just gives him a headache. He brings a book to read to try to distract himself, but it usually doesn’t work very well.

- Even if a trip is technically for business, he’s able to make the absolute best of it. I think he’d like to travel for pleasure as well. Honestly, I think he would be the best to travel with.

Copia:

- Unlike Secondo, he is definitely the “packing 10 pairs of underwear just in case i shit my pants every single day” type of packer. Overpacks because you never know what could happen. And even with his overpacking, he definitely forgets something essential and has to get it overpriced at the airport. He also procrastinates packing until the last minute which doesn’t help either.

- Doesn’t like sleeping at hotels. Hell, he has trouble sleeping at home. The cold and unfamiliar hotel room is definitely not going to help him out in that regard.

- He only travels for clergy business, so it’s all planned for him. He tries so hard to adhere to what he’s supposed to do that he stresses himself out. He’s able to get it all done though, despite the chaos.

- His ghouls make sure he lets himself relax and actually enjoy the trip at some point when there’s time so he’s not just overworking himself.

Perpetua:

ngl i don’t have a great grasp on his character yet, i can’t wait until i see him at my ritual!!!

- He seems like the type who comes off very planned and put together, but is totally just going off vibes.

- I have a feeling that those claws aren’t getting though TSA easily

Wow you made it to the end! I’m not really anticipating anyone really reading this lmao BUT if anyone wants any of these ideas developed some more or if you have any of your own travel related hcs for them, feel free to drop something in my ask box :3

[paperbacksinner]

Dating Luigi and the two of you elope instead?

💍 Eloping with Luigi

———

- You’d been talking about marriage casually—usually late at night, post-sex, breathless and soft:

“You’re gonna be my wife someday.”

“Promise?”

“Already do.”

- Planning a wedding? Not your vibe. Between family drama, money stress, and Luigi’s inability to sit still for more than twenty minutes, it starts feeling more like a chore than a celebration.

- One morning, you’re both hungover from a friend’s engagement party. You look at each other, puffy-eyed and grumpy, and you’re like:

“Why don’t we just do it?”

Luigi blinks. Then smirks. “Like right now?”

“Why not?”

- You pack one small bag between you. He insists on bringing a tie “just in case it’s classy” but ends up wearing it around his head like a bandana halfway through the drive.

- You pick a little courthouse a few hours away where nobody knows you.

- Luigi forgets to bring the paperwork the first time. You’re laughing so hard in the parking lot he threatens to marry you on the sidewalk.

- He buys a cheap ring from a gas station vending machine while you wait. It's pink plastic. He says, "You deserve better, but you make it look like a million bucks."

- You wear a simple white sundress or something soft and easy. He can’t stop staring.

- When they say “you may now kiss the bride,” Luigi kisses you like it’s the last time. Hands in your hair. Completely unbothered by the clerk awkwardly clearing his throat.

- You go out for burgers instead of a fancy dinner. He feeds you fries in the car and kisses you between bites.

- That night, you stay in a tiny hotel with creaky floors and ugly curtains. You don’t care. You christen the hell out of that room.

- He slow dances with you in the parking lot. No music. Just the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

- You wake up the next morning to him brushing hair off your face and whispering, “Wife,” over and over like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

- You don’t tell anyone for a week. Then you drop the bomb with a selfie captioned: "Mr. & Mrs. Mangione 💍 surprise lol"

- His mom threatens to kill him. Yours cries. Your friends demand a party. You throw one in your backyard two months later with red solo cups and sparklers.

- But nothing—nothing—will ever top the way he looked at you in that shitty courthouse: eyes full of you, hands trembling, like he was walking into the best mistake of his life.

Bonus honeymoon HCs:

- He books some tiny, half-renovated beach motel on a whim. Ocean view technically just means if you stand on the table and lean out the bathroom window you might see blue.

- The AC is half-broken and makes weird noises when it tries to work, so you’re sweaty 24/7… which Luigi claims is a bonus because, “you look so damn good like this, baby.”

- Your room has seashell bedsheets, one flickering lamp, and a floor fan that becomes a third roommate. Luigi names it “Tony.”

- You both pack terribly. Like… one bathing suit, a t-shirt, and no toothbrushes. You wear his clothes most of the trip.

“That’s my wife in my boxers,” he says, grinning. “World ain’t ready.”

- You eat takeout in bed every night. He insists on a romantic “honeymoon dinner” of gas station wine, gummy worms, and soggy fries eaten on a towel in the sand.

- There’s sand everywhere. In your shoes. In the bed. Between your thighs.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters while going down on you in the shower. “Gotta rinse you clean.”

- Being half-naked and heat-slicked all the time? Lethal.

- He can’t keep his hands off you — especially when you're in his tank top and nothing else.

“You’re killin’ me, baby. Don’t start if you can’t finish.”

- You christen every corner of the motel room. Against the wall. Bent over the bathroom sink. On the tiny balcony while someone walks by and he does not care.

- Morning sex is slow and sleepy, tangled limbs and sunlight on your bare back.

- Afternoon sex is sticky and breathless, fans whirring, sheets kicked down to your ankles.

- Night sex is needy and whispered: “I married you for this, you know that? For you. All of you.”

- He writes “Mrs. Mangione” in the sand and draws a crooked heart around it. Then takes a photo and sets it as his lockscreen.

- One night you both fall asleep on the beach. You wake up sunburnt and tangled in each other, and Luigi says, “Best night of my life.”

- You keep calling him “husband,” and every time you do, his ears go pink.

“Say it again.”

“Husband.”

“Fuuuck. I love you.”

- He buys a $5 souvenir ring to replace the plastic gas station one until you get something real. But you both keep that one too.

- You kiss one more time in the motel parking lot, bags half-zipped, sunscreen still on your nose.

- He opens the car door for you, smacks your ass as you get in, and grins:

“Alright, Mrs. Mangione. Let’s go ruin real life together.”

[worlds-worst-ships]

Do you ship it? (cry about this one, I don't care edition)

I have preemptively sat deep in thought and put myself into the headspace of the dumbest, pro-fascist neon-haired chronically online waste of semen that could possibly exist, and will be answering any and all possible criticisms of this poll under the cut.

If you aren't offended by this post, then feel free to keep scrolling. If you chose to be offended, I answer any possible criticisms below;

"You're antisemitic!" No. I'm not. Being Jewish does not innately make you a good person or above criticism. I've made fun of televangelists, dictators, evil celebrities, actual criminals and all sorts on this blog. Its nothing to do with religion, I make fun of awful people who do awful things. He could be Buddhist, Muslim, Sikh, Christian... and I'd make the exact same poll every single time.

"Um, ACKSHUALLY, Hitler's actions were totally different!" I suggest you >click this hyperlink< and watch this extremely dumbed down version of the start of world war 2 (made specifically for both school children and idiots like you) and then come back here and say with confidence that he's any different from Hitler. >Here's a link to a slightly more in depth version<.

"B-b-b-but Israeli people have been killed too!" Let me pose a question to you. Say you're out with the love of your life. Then someone attacks them and starts forcing them into a car. Are you gonna stand there shaking your head saying "wow, awful" or are you going to start swinging? I eagerly await your response.

"Well Israel are innocent because they technically own all the land they're invading!" in the same way I'd own your lunch if I punched you square in the nose and took it off of you. They're school bullies with heavy weapons.

"They're just defending themselves and you're a bigot for insulting them!" shooting dozens of unarmed civilians who are lining up to get food isn't self defense, much less is reducing an entire city to rubble, killing dozens of thousands of people just because you want land and you know the UN are too incompetent to stop you. That's like me walking up behind you, bottling you, then saying it was self defense.

"You're racist!" If being against genocide is racist, then yes, I'm the most racist person on the planet.

"You're pro-terrorism!" But I don't support Israel and their bombings and shootings of innocent families, and unprovoked attempts to invade neighboring countries so how am I pro-terrorism?

"Hamas killed people too, so you're a racist Nazi terrorist!" You're the sort of person to hit a stranger and then genuinely be surprised when they beat you up

"You're only making fun of Benjamin because he's Jewish!" No, I'm making fun of him for being a fucking crybaby for bombing hospitals, schools and residential areas with families, then crying on the news when a handful of people die in an Israeli hospital. I'm making fun of him for being a hypocritical fucking loser who's on the biggest power trip in human history. I'd say the exact same if he was Christian, Sikh, Athiest, Mormon... you name it. Stop trying to be edgy.

"You're making this poll to justify the holocaust!" Are you actually lobotomized? Like, genuinely? I tagged it selfcest. Stop licking the colourful frogs for five seconds and read between the lines... or the dozens of lines up there where I explain why you're wrong.

"I'm unfollowing and blocking you!" well in the words of your parents when you finally left home, "see ya! you will not be missed, nor noticed".

"You're homophobic/transphobic/biphobic/etc!" As I used to say to my ex girlfriend when she turned every little thing into a fight and I wanted to shut her up for five minutes... you're right. You win. You're right and you win.

"I'm *insert obscure culture that Jack has never heard of* and this is racist and homophobic and bigoted towards me!" I don't care, go outside

"My uncle's brother's best friend's dog's previous owner's landlord is Jewish, so that means I'm part Jewish and I'm taking this as a personal attack!" You're... "part" Jewish? And.. sorry, but who are you? Oh that's right, I don't know or care. You're not offended. Stop being a crybaby

"You're a cishet neurotypical white man so you criticizing my daddy Benjamin is antisemitic and racist ableist and everythingphobic!!!" I'm black, diagnosed autistic, have a 69/31% split attraction between women and anything effeminate with a wiener (depending on the day or the mood I'm in) and I couldn't give two shits how you decide that affects the value of my ideas about anything. So cry harder. Use your tears as lube to suck my nuts, bitch.

I think I got em' all. I won't be responding to hate this time around because I've already answered any possible chronically online degeneracy that you unwashed, big mac eating basement babies could possibly throw at me. Maybe if there's enough, I'll make a video on my YouTube channel making fun of them all. Keep in mind I do not censor usernames when I put you in my video so be aware of that. Don't be a fucking Dodo

[wrappedinpinklace]

Mismatched, Chapter Two.

(Authors note!! this chapter is kinda short, mainly because i’m working on other things as well, but i wanted to go ahead and get this out since i don’t have much posted about damian and im still working out how i want the jason todd fic to play out. i wish i could just copy and paste from my brain 😩. anywaysssss much love, angel!!)

“You guys,” you said dramatically, arms flung over the back of the Hufflepuff common room couch, “you are not going to believe what happened.”

Duke didn’t even look up from his Transfiguration essay. “Let me guess. You tripped into another fountain.”

“Or accidentally joined a secret dueling club,” Jon added, upside-down on the rug and halfway through a chocolate frog.

“Worse,” you said, your eyes wide with intensity. “Damian Wayne defended me.”

That got their attention.

Duke blinked.

Jon slowly sat up.

“No, he didn’t,” Duke said flatly.

“Okay, technically he didn’t say something super heroic or anything,” you admitted. “But one of his Slytherin friends said something mean—like real mean, like I was this annoying little bug who wandered into their pureblood tea party uninvited and Damian? He shut them down.”

Jon squinted. “What exactly did he say?”

You leapt off the couch, already full of energy and reenactment potential. “So there I was, standing like a lost lamb among the wolves, right? And Sasha was all ‘Do we know you?’ and I was just being my charming self, but then she started making fun of me for the glitter explosion! And Damian just… rose from the bench like the dark prince he is and said get this”

You lowered your voice, deep and broody. “‘She’s not talking to you.’”

Jon burst out laughing. Duke let his head fall into his hands. “Oh no.”

You pointed a finger. “You’re underestimating the gravity of the moment!”

“I’m underestimating how you’re retelling it like it was a marriage proposal,” Duke muttered.

“And then,” you said, ignoring him, “he looked at me. Like really looked at me. Not annoyed. Not dismissive. Just… intense. Like I startled something in him. Like like I crawled in through a crack in the stone wall of his soul and now he’s questioning everything.”

Jon wheezed. “That’s not what happened.”

“You weren’t there!” you said, spinning dramatically in your oversized jumper. “You didn’t see his eyes. He practically told his friends to shut up and bow before me!”

“She blinked at him once and he blinked back and now she’s naming their future children,” Duke said dryly.

You flopped back down beside them with a sigh, grinning at the ceiling. “His loss if he doesn’t realize how utterly amazing I am.”

At that moment, your familiar chose to leap onto the coffee table, scattering a pile of quills and parchment like confetti.

“Muffin!” you gasped. “Rude.”

Muffin, your gray, one-eyed cat with far too much attitude for something so round, settled proudly in the mess she’d made, curling her tail around her paws like a queen surveying her kingdom.

“She’s just like you,” Duke said. “Loud, unpredictable, kind of alarming.”

“She’s loyal,” you corrected, giving Muffin a scratch behind the ears. “And very emotionally intelligent. Aren’t you, baby? You can smell soulmates. Can’t you?”

Muffin sneezed.

“I’ll take that as confirmation.”

Jon giggled again, and Duke just shook his head, but neither of them were really annoyed. They knew you too well. This was just how your heart worked: fast, bright, and all-in. You loved easily, wildly, without caution. Your crushes burned quick and hot, but this one… this one lingered.

Even you felt the difference.

Maybe it was the way Damian hadn’t looked at you like everyone else did. Or maybe it was just that under all that cold and control, you saw something real.

Or maybe you were completely delusional. But it was fun to hope. And that was more than enough, for now.

————

You hated Astronomy

You hated charts. You hated planets. You hated trying to remember which constellation looked like a bow and which one looked like a deformed duck. Most of all, you hated calculating star paths, because apparently you needed math for that, and no one warned you.

“I just don’t get it,” you groaned, slumping in your chair dramatically. “How do you measure the position of a star that’s probably been dead for a million years?”

Duke sighed, resting his chin in his palm. “It’s not dead, it’s just—”

“Light-years away, I know,” you interrupted, flopping backward so hard your chair creaked. “But what if it is dead? What if it exploded and no one told us and I’m doing a whole star chart based on a ghost? I can’t fail Astronomy because I believe in haunted space.”

Jon giggled beside you, flipping through his notes. “That is both the most and least scientific thing I’ve ever heard.”

You let out a long, dramatic wail and dropped your head onto the open textbook in front of you. “Just leave me. Go to your classes. I’ll rot here among the moons and misery.”

“We’ve still got five minutes,” Duke muttered, scanning his notes like he could delay the inevitable.

But unfortunately, time refused to bend to your will—unlike your friends, who were about to leave you to die. As they started packing their things, you clutched the edge of Duke’s sleeve like he was about to set off for war.

“You can’t leave me!” you whispered fiercely. “This is a crime against friendship.”

“I’ve literally gone over the star chart with you four times,” he said, deadpan.

“I was emotionally unprepared.”

“You were doodling Saturn as a donut.”

“I stand by my artistic choices.”

Jon patted your shoulder with a pitying smile. “You’ll be fine. Maybe you’ll have a breakthrough while you’re alone.”

“More like a breakdown,” you muttered as they waved and hurried off to class, abandoning you to your fate.

The library settled into a hush, as it always did, calm and slightly dusty, with floating candles bobbing high above and scrolls unrolling themselves along shelves. You sighed dramatically into your folded arms, letting the textbook cradle your despair. You weren’t even sure what page you were on anymore.

And that’s when he walked in.

You didn’t notice at first. Damian Wayne moved quietly, like a shadow gliding between the bookshelves. He was scanning the aisles with that permanent look of mild disdain, his hands tucked into his Slytherin robes and his posture effortlessly perfect, because of course it was.

He hadn’t even meant to look your way. He was just checking for an open table.

But unfortunately for him, he lingered. Just a second too long. And that’s when you lifted your head. Your eyes locked.

It was too late.

Your entire face lit up. “Damian!”

He visibly considered turning around. Just for a moment. You saw the micro-debate behind his eyes: fight or flight.

You sat up straighter, brushing hair from your face and gesturing wildly to your book-covered table. “Oh thank Merlin. A friendly face. Come to rescue me from the cruel, infinite void of outer space?”

He didn’t move.

“…It’s Astronomy,” you added, as if that explained anything.

“I gathered.” Still, he didn’t leave.

You took that as a win.

“Duke and Jon abandoned me,” you said, propping your chin on your hand. “They said it was ‘class’ but honestly, I think they were just emotionally unprepared for how dumb I am when it comes to stars.”

“You’re not dumb,” he said automatically.

You blinked. “Wait..was that…a compliment?”

“It was a statement.”

“Which is one inch away from a compliment,” you grinned. “Careful, Damian. People will start to think you have a heart.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped toward your table anyway, hands still tucked into his pockets.

“Do you even know where Polaris is?”

“…That’s the one with the belt, right?”

Damian closed his eyes slowly like he was begging the universe for patience.

You beamed.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?”

He sighed. “Only because you clearly need help before you confuse the moon with a white dwarf.”

“See? I knew you were nice under all that brooding.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure,” you said, sliding a spare chair toward him with your foot. “Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night.”

Damian sat.

And you smiled at the stars for the first time that day.

————

“You’re actually a good teacher, you know,” you said, half in awe, half in disbelief, as Damian calmly redrew a constellation for the third time. “Strict. Kind of scary. But good.”

Damian didn’t look up. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

“Well, I assumed you’d be the type to throw my star chart into the fireplace and say something cutting about natural selection.”

He glanced up, expression dry. “You’re confusing me with Tim.”

You snorted. “Fair.”

It had been almost an hour since he sat down. And somehow, the world hadn’t ended. You hadn’t exploded anything. He hadn’t stormed off in a cloud of contempt. In fact, you were… learning.

Like, actually learning.

You’d even stopped dramatizing your own suffering for a solid ten minutes, which might’ve been a personal record.

Damian had shifted in his seat beside you, his robes neat and posture perfect even now. His sketchbook sat closed near his elbow, slightly askew atop his bag. You hadn’t noticed it at first, too distracted by being saved from the black hole of astronomy.

But now…

“Is that your sketchbook?” you asked, tilting your head.

He paused, hand still over the parchment he’d been writing on.

“…Yes.”

You smiled. “Can I see?”

He didn’t respond right away.

You didn’t press, even though your curiosity was bouncing up and down like Muffin at breakfast. You could tell it wasn’t the kind of thing he usually let people see. Which, of course, made you want to see it even more.

After a moment, Damian sighed—quiet, like something inside him gave way. Then, without a word, he reached for the sketchbook and flipped it open with slow, precise hands.

Page after page of beautiful linework, clean, detailed, controlled. You recognized some of the creatures from Care of Magical Creatures: a Hippogriff mid-flight, a sleeping Niffler curled on a pile of galleons, a Thestral rendered in haunting, delicate strokes.

“You’re amazing,” you breathed. “These look like they could walk off the page.”

He didn’t answer, but you saw his jaw shift—just the slightest tension, like your words had reached a place he didn’t know existed.

And then he turned the page again. And your breath caught. You stared. It was you.

Your hair falling over your shoulders. The curve of your smile mid-laugh. A leaf tangled in your hair. Your eyes were squinted shut, like you’d just said something ridiculous.

But the way he’d drawn you, soft and intricate and focused, made it feel like you were something important.

You looked up at him, blinking.

“Wait… is that—?”

The sketchbook slammed shut.

Damian stood so fast the chair scraped the stone floor. “I have class,” he said sharply, already reaching for his bag.

You blinked again, caught somewhere between stunned and confused. “Wait, what? Damian—”

“Don’t be late for Astronomy,” he said without looking at you. Then he turned and walked off, fast and stiff like something had short-circuited in his brain.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the space he’d just occupied.

Muffin, who had been curled beneath the table unnoticed until now, peeked her head out and let out a very unimpressed mrrp.

“I know,” you whispered, dazed. “But… that looked like me. Right?”

The cat sneezed. You weren’t sure if that was a yes or a no.

You shook your head and tried to refocus, but the thought lingered like a spell gone wrong, fluttering around your heart, impossible to pin down.

Meanwhile, across the castle, Damian sat in the back of Charms class, staring straight ahead, unmoving.

He didn’t hear a word the professor said. His hand was tight around his quill, ink pooling on his parchment. It had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to show her. Hadn’t meant to draw her so many times, either.

She was just… always there. Loud. Clumsy. Infuriatingly sincere.

And somehow, she had managed, without any permission at all, to become the only person he couldn’t stop seeing.

He scowled.

This was exactly why he didn’t get involved.

[whittling-madness]

Hi, howdy, hey, I’m Marius Whittle. I work at the Magnus Institute now so I made this blog to talk about my experience

It sucks so far. It could be worse but why do we have so many weird books. I just wanted to work in a nice academic library. It’s been a month and one of my coworkers went missing and no one has acknowledged it. Considering quitting? It’s weird

Can supernatural shit stop happening thanks.

Uhh, basic info, I’m 25, my pronouns are he/him, my favorite color is grey, and I really like clocks, please tell me about different clocks and watches you know about

I WILL REPEAT THIS. MY FAVORITE COLOR IS GREY. IT’S A GREAT COLOR. BIG MIDDLE FINGER TO YOU, WILLOW.

// ooc under cut

// ooc

heylo, what’s up, im the mod for this account! you can call me Node (or io)! I made this blog because I wanted to figure out how to do like. Rp and stuff. I’m kinda new to it so bear with me

rules/info for this blog

-no nsfw, as I’m a minor

-I have yet to finish TMA so there are inaccuracies but I made this for fun so whatever

-send whatever asks you want, go crazy go stupid, rp if you want, I will try to respond to as many as possible

-you can bully him. it would be mad funny. (slash silly but you can)

-magic anons allowed but don’t try to derail Serious RP please (which I will try to tag once I make a tag for that)

-flirting is. fine I guess? but like. I’m a minor and he’s oblivious so nothing will go anywhere

-you can dm me!! i am perfectly fine with that. just don’t be a creep you will be blocked if you are

-you can injure him! anonymously or otherwise! just nothing fatal!

-6/22/25: speaking (verbally) will now be in quotations because I have been suffering without my beloved “[text],” [dialogue tag] -stuff in character over tumblr will remain the same! this will go for all of my blogs if I remember!! okay announcement over Node out

-tags will probably be as follows

-#node yaps for non rp asks/posts/asks addressing me, #marius yaps for posts talking about working at the Institute, and #whittling away most posts responding to asks. This will most likely not be super consistent but like. Bear with me

-Reworking tags as of 6/13/25, will update this when tags are reworked

Tags as of 6/14/2025

⏱️ Whittling Away — general posts

⏱️ A Ticking Clock — rp chains/answering asks

⏱️ Who Do You Think I Am? - posts with/as Not!Archie

⏱️ Pocket Watch Insanity - Marius yapping about stuff

⏱️ Node Speaks 💿 -OOC posts/answering asks

⏱️ Clockwork Shenanigans -Silly shit/answering silly asks

⏱️ Marius Tumbles -rp posts taking place on tumblr

-unreality warning for the blog I think? I’m figuring it out I’m not super sure sorry

-my pronouns are he/it also

-other blog is @lu-the-illusion

-I’ll let you guys find the third one when I start posting actual TMA stuff

-third one is @burned-at-the-edges <3 Elliot my favorite pyromaniac

-also I’m not British. I have no idea how to British Slang/Spelling so if (when) I get something wrong lmk please 🙏

-also also. my pronouns are he/it. I forgot to add that

-okay im a dumbass nevermind

[arcade-confetti]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[hyperfluffed-scribbles]

Sorry rain world nation I’m divorcing you. It’s tma time now.

[transusopp]

sanuso week day 1 ♡ different first meeting! my stupid ass take on "the straw hats meet sanji at wci." kinda sorta.

@sanusoweek

[dxxtruction]

Louis' "You're boring!" Could mean so many things, but I think what's most apparent about that line is that Armand takes no initiative just for himself. He's not really anybody, because he never goes out and finds himself or gets attached to anyone but Louis. Without Louis as his guide he's literally just sitting on a couch picking lint! That's the thing.

He orbits constantly around what would make Louis happy, and never really fully going what would make me happy? Ultimately that drive to please Louis is what drives him to torturing Daniel, not so much that he'd care to just do it. Ultimately, not giving proper care to Louis is just a way to make sure Louis knows he has to orbit around him as well, with shoving Lestat onto him just that other nail on the coffin. So, even if he fails to figure out how to make Louis happy with him, he still knows what Armand is good for, and better than.

That dependency is what drives Armand's abuse. It really just comes down to that. Armand doesn't even realize how suffocated he is by his own dependency. This is just how life is to him. (It shouldn't be lost either that dependency is a theme considering this episode also deals with addiction).

Daniel's fascinating because he's just so driven to be somebody. He's largely independent, he seeks things because he wants them. It's his drug to poke and prod at all the things that he shouldn't. Daniel's exciting because he lets Louis in to something different, lets him in to all this potential in another person that he can also do the same with for himself. It's a real connection. A two way street. It's easy to tell how Armand can be smothering then because he's never introducing him to anything really new, and most the ways both of them connect are all painful and traumatic. It's never just fun because there's always that layer of that pain. Fun died with Claudia.

50 years on they've gotten to a lot better place, both of them, but it's still that same shit. No seriously, "How is this any different from last time, Louis?"

Well... Because Armand's going to be, at the very least, making one [1] decision only for himself - and that's to hold power over Daniel's life. Fucking sick foreshadowing.

They aren't driving each other to the brink anymore but "The vampire is bored" STILL. Maybe it's even worse, despite being in better places, because Louis' sort of just been defeated by it. (I mean, can he even really leave this either?). He's accepting the dependancy cause he kind of has to. He'd literally ended up letting all the enjoyment be up where he can't reach [The book shelves]. Armand so desperately wants Louis happiness but what really ends up happening is that Louis ends up having to give Armand all his own. He's got no one or anything else to get it from. But like an iPad and an over the top eating ritual. Two extremes of what's just more lint picking.

This whole relationship is one I find just tragic inside and out. You have to just pity it, really. There's ways in which you can find yourself feeling bad for both of them. But you can only really be mad at Armand for any of it. Armand, who isn't even 'free' in any sense, having so little concept of his own independence, but is at the same time so controlling over other's. It's a tragic cycle. It's an infuriating one.

Louis at least has the mind to know when enough is enough. If just needing that extra push to get there. Armand's too scared of it being over to even try.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

just seeing again that phantom ganon, in the optional army section of totk, is called "The Demon King's Phantom Saboteur" and ??? saboteur of what??? is he setting up explosives??? is he derailing construct convoys???

(I think it's actually supposed to refer to Zelda, which !!! if so, it does tie to my idea that she should have been trying to pull Hyrule tribes apart from each other by making them turn against the princess but we cannot have nice things in this economy!!!!!)

[mechazushi]

Fortitude Privilege {Staring Yu/Na and Base Inspector} (A short story)

After everything had settled down, they let Kafka do what-the-fuck-ever. That also includes snuggling on his boyfriend at anytime during work hours.

Vice Captain Hoshina was the first to leave the training room when Iharu passed by with a new recruit. He was showing her around the expansive base when he was presented with an opportunity to have a down to earth meet-and-greet with the base's second in command.

"Hey! Vice Cap! Good timing. Yunna, this is our Vice Captain Hoshina. Vice-Cap, this is Yunna. She's a transfer from Division Seven." Iharu took the lead on the introductions while the two of them were exchanging salutes. They all began trading questions with each other, busy distracting themselves with platitudes to not notice another person turning a corner and coming up behind Hoshina. A tall, burly, and clearly tired individual shambled up behind the vice captain and slumped over his shoulder unceremoniously, almost knocking him over.

"Oof, Kafka! Is everything okay?" Hoshina said calmly at the intruder. The man he called Kafka just wrapped his arms lopsidedly around Hoshina's left shoulder as he dug his face into the crook of his neck on the right.

" 'M fine. Drained" He mumbled incoherently, sacrificing vowels in his state of exhaustion. He nuzzled his nose affectionately in the curve of Hoshina's neck and took a noticeable whiff. "New cologne's nice."

Yunna, the new recruit, became visibly flushed as she continued to stare on. Iharu was already completely desensitized to this and just continued his conversation with the Vice Captain. Noticing the state of shock on the newcomer, Iharu took a second to explain what was happening.

"This is Kafka Hibino. He's the Captain's and Vice Captain's boyfriend. Everyone has learned to just let him get away with this bullshit." Iharu smiled cheekily at Yunna after he had finished.

"What am I supposed to do when he's like this? Tell him 'No'?" Hoshina said as he crossed his arms. He felt the rumbling of deep throated laughter coming from the man on his shoulder.

"Conveniently leaving out the fact that I'm also a kaiju." Kafka said as he lifted his head a little just to speak clearly. Yunna made a small squeak of surprise as the revelation made all the pieces click into place.

Down the hallway behind Iharu, everyone could hear another person aggressively shouting as they came down their direction.

"Aw, shit." Hoshina whispered under his breath.

"Who's that?" Iharu questioned as he turned around to look.

"Base Inspector. Probably looking for me to bitch about something inane." Hoshina continued. Iharu took that as a sign to whisk the new person off to a different location, sensing a need to disappear before he got themselves caught in possible corporate crossfire. Hoshina prepped his best Resting Bitch Face as the lanky inspector approached viciously.

"Afternoon, Inspector." Hoshina said in a deadpan manner. He took a longer look at the man coming toward him and noticed he recognized none of the man's features.

'Hmm. I wonder if he's new?' Hoshina thought. His hopes were raised a little, thinking that this possibly new base inspector wouldn't have the same stick up his ass like the last two did.

"Vice Captain Hoshina. Just the person I was looking for." The inspector called out. He opened his mouth to begin what was most certainly about to be a mindless rant concerning some slighted offence over some breach in paperwork or protocol, but quickly shut it when he noticed Kafka making no move to acknowledge his presence.

"Well, I was going to bring up your continued disregard to execute less leniency toward how officers structure their reports, but now it seems I should take over instilling basic officer conduct as well." The Base Inspector straightened his square framed glasses and leveled the most demeaning glare at the tired, hairy, lump that had made its place on Hoshina's shoulder.

"Oh, lay off. He said he's tired." Hoshina countered. He was beginning to wonder if a mightier-than-thou attitude was a requirement to being an inspector.

"Lethargy is no excuse for blatant indifference to higher authority." The stringy looking man sniffed haughtily. A threatening, rolling, and loud inhuman growl emanated from Kafka, still not looking up from his place at Hoshina's side. Hoshina chuckled as he ruffled his hair while he talked to him.

"Mind being a dear and head up to Mina's office for a bit? The only adult in the room needs to discipline this child, apparently." Hoshina spoke in hushed tones, sounding incredibly loving into Kafka's ear. Only a more disappointed growling whimper was heard in response.

"You could beg for more cuddles if she's in there." Hoshina sang quietly as he nosed Kafka's hair. The slacked-spined man lifted his head to stare disapprovingly at the unwanted interloper before planting a smooch to his Vice Captain's cheek and walked away, radiating an irritated aura all the way down the hall. The two that were left followed his path and waited for him to turn around a corner before continuing the discussion.

"You do know that having a relationship between a higher authority figure and an officer is prohibited, correct?" The inspector said as he turned back to face Hoshina.

"You know that man has a fortitude rating, correct?" Hoshina snarked.

"Don't you mean an aptitude rating?" The inspector returned wearily.

"No, fortitude." Hoshina reiterated firmly as he stepped closer into the inspector's personal space, " Ya'know, because he's a kaiju and all." The inspector tried not to express it, but he seemed taken aback. first from the clear hostility, then from realizing what Hoshina meant.

The inspector's lips flapped open and closed for a moment before letting slip a small, simple "oh."

"Were you not made aware that we had such a person within our ranks?" Hoshina asked poignantly.

"I was made very aware of such personnel." The inspector said as he adjusted his glasses again, "What I wasn't made aware of was how much leniency he seems to be permitted to have because of such an obscenely paltry standing." The inspector spoke with baseless higher authority, attempting to recover from finding himself on the back step. Hoshina could feel his lips being stretched thin over his teeth as he felt the need to use them to rip the throat out of this obstinate and unwarranted trespasser.

"Then you should have also been made aware of how that man had not only saved the lives of millions, but also saved the planet six times over consecutively." While being shorter than the inspector, Hoshina did a fine job of making it seem like he was towering over the other man.

" As... notable... as those achievements are, it shouldn't take away the fact that a relationship between an officer and a Vice Captain is unconducive to to the workplace since it could be used to unjustly gather sway in one's ranking." The base inspector held his position in the conversation, but was forced to slink down in height as he cowered under Hoshina's invasive presence.

"Ohh, trust me. The higher ups have made it very clear that he's already achieved the highest ranking they'll allow him, and that's being an exploitable weapon." Wrath tinged the edges of his words as he managed to climb higher over the base inspector.

"There is nothing in this world that he hasn't earned by not working his ass off for. So excuse me for thinking that the least he's owed is the right to express some fuckin' PDA." Hoshina could feel the tips of his lips curl into an unfriendly smile with an uncanny amount of teeth showing.

"If you really want to drag rank over this and piss off a man who's capable of leveling all of Western Japan for no decent reason, be my guest. If you have nothing drastically important to talk about, like something that's impeding the health and wellness of my officers, then I bid you farewell and hope your day is as wonderful as you are." Hoshina reclined back onto his heels and crisply marched away from the inspector, who still wasn't recovered from the invasion of personal space and was stuck being slant backwards, even as Hoshina moved out of eyesight.

Minutes later, Hoshina had found himself in Mina's office. Hoping to join in on Kafka's sudden bout of needed physical closure, he slipped past the threshold and quietly dumped his gym bag next to the door. Taking up most of the center of the room in front of the desk, was Mina, sandwiched between Bakko and Kafka. Reclined against the tiger formed monster, Mina looked silently overjoyed to have an asleep Kafka nestled between her legs as he rested his head on her stomach. Laying tilted on his side, the left portion of his face was buried in Mina's clothes while his arms had dug a hold around her midsection, framing his head. A low vibration hung in the air, getting louder as Hoshina snuck over.

"Need me to pry him off?" Hoshina lovingly muttered into Mina's forehead as he planted a small smooch as well.

"Later. Now, I need you to grab my phone!" Mina tried to contain her excitement as quietly as she could while gently brushing her free hand through Kafka's hair, the other being trapped under his heavy shoulder.

"Yes, he looks adorable, doesn't he?" Hoshina playfully rolled his eyes as he made moves to stand up.

"Well, yes, but you can't tell me you can't hear this?" Mina's smile was wide as she looked up at Hoshina. He took a second to listen as he processed the low rumble in the room.

"Is... is that not Bakko purring?" Hoshina questioned.

"No, he's awake!" Mina harshly whispered in joy as she jabbed her finger behind her, "This is all him!" She pointed her finger again at Kafka, emphasizing her revelation.

Hoshina made a quiet, deep throated cackle as he comically tiptoed around her desk to grab the phone and pull up the camera. He managed to settle onto the floor and shimmy his way under Mina's free arm as he held the camera close to Kafka's face. They got at least a good minute of audio, starring his purrs before Hoshina decided to end it there, not wanting to push their luck.

"It's a shame he can't purr all the time. Instead of the sleep talking, I mean." Mina commented as Hoshina made himself more comfortable in their embrace on the floor.

"We wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning if he did." Hoshina muttered sleepily as he finally stopped shifting when he found a good spot to settle into. Mina brushed his hair for a second while she returned the forehead kiss from earlier before relaxing into the warm and heavy pile she had unintentionally made for herself.

@iceclew

I hate to ask this from ya, but... Have you seen this yet? If you didn't have an opinion one way or another, that's fine. Just wanted to ask.