#operation fart

[fathercharlesoffdensen]

Hear me out: We get like 9 unblemished red cows and have Dethklok play a concert to dually consecrate the building of the Third Temple in Israel that all three Abrahamic religions have been creaming themselves over for 2k years. They all have to share and/or adhere to a sign up sheet (no piggybacking time slots!) going forward. Someone get Brendan Small on the phone!

[joonsbubu]

hi its joonsbubu lol twt fucked me over so now im migrating to tumblr wsp

[calicojack1718]

Comment on This: The SECOND Assassination Attempt Demonstrates Trump's UNPOPULARITY or Makes Them Black Flag Operations

Reading time: 3 minutes I've got three theories about why there have been TWO assassination attempts on Trump. How many theories do you have? I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours. Heck, I'll show you mine even if you don't, but please do.

Is Orange Trump the New Black? Some weird shit is going down this election cycle, and weirder shit is likely to happen soon, and the weirdest shit is likely to happen after the election. One of the weirdest things to happen in a long time is the attempted assassination of Trump. We’ve had two assassination attempts on the Old FART. We haven’t had a candidate for the presidency shot at since…

[sbnkalny]

Antonin Scalia claimed to be pro-life and DIED ! twas a fun pet game with Added reality you treat me like a Dog get me down on the streets of a town in every downtown drinking friends who've drunk in bars whose drunken friends in drinking bars, waiting for the bus in the Rain in the rain

[akajustmerry]

everytime someone, usually white, talks about the IOF using major US cultural events as "distractions" to commit more genocidal operations in Palestine, I want to SCREAM. The assumption that the IOF is hanging on the us's every fart to make their moves is US centrism, narcissism at global proportions. the IOF don't need "distractions" they've been murdering, torturing and displacing Palestinians and other Arabs for almost a century with impunity because they KNOW they can get away with it. Because the IOF knows practically no one who can actually stop them gives a fuck about Palestinians and Arabs. The IOF don't need a presidential assassination scandal, a met gala, or any large event to cover for their atrocities because they've been doing them in broad daylight everyday, all day for decades, AND BRAGGING about it. Claiming the IOF is doing anything because some event is providing a "distraction" is a vapid projection of a personal inability to deal with the cognitive dissonance and guilt of bearing witness and experiencing these events simultaneously. Not to mention, it plays into anti-jewish conspiracies of Jewish world domination by insulating connections between major events that are often unconnected. It's okay that you feel scared and confused and overwhelmed, but stop pretending the IOF even cares about Palestinians and Arabs enough to wait for the world to be distracted to kill us. They don't need to. They never have and it's hugely ignorant of at least a century of history, anti-Arab racism, and Zionism to say otherwise.

EDIT: I was wrong making this post. @el-shab-hussein took the time to correct me in their reblog here. But I will also copy and paste their correction here:

They committed some of the most atrocious massacres since the start of the acceleration during and directly after the debates between Trample and Bitchen, with several hundreds confirmed dead by day. It's crazy how much Palestinians have discussed the phenomenon of Israel using major U.S. events as a distraction before the acceleration and we've posted about it on tumblr and I've seen other Palestinians make threads about it on Twitter to compile various instances where U.S. events and other major world events used as distractions (wow! Look an example to back my point: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5). "They don't need distractions" yes they do, that is the very basis of the massive Israeli lobby and hasbara industry. Don't patronize us just because you can't understand how central the U.S. and its apathy is in our genocide. Recognizing the role of American cultural imperialism and its far-reaching consequences is not perpetuating it - what an incredibly lazy way to try to shut us up - it's recognizing who's the lynchpin in the equation here.

[shares-a-vest]

cw: smoking. also the brief contemplation of drinking and driving (Steve and Eddie would be like this, but don't do it kiddos!!)

Ever since Dustin made the mistake of begging one of his older male friends to help him find the other, his life has been reduced to, well...

Shit like this.

Standing in the middle of Hawkins High's parking lot like a lost puppy, lingering like a wet, rotten fart in Mike's basement as he waits for Steve and Eddie to finish up their conversation. A little chat that must be oh-so-hilarious this evening judging by all the chuckling Steve is doing.

And the fact that Eddie is allowing this new friendship to encroach on Hellfire? Well, that part is just plain weird.

He cut the night off early and pushed ahead of all the boys to skip on his merry way to the Beemer, where Steve was waiting with a big stupid smile that Dustin quickly discovered was for Eddie and Eddie only.

Dustin must have been a fool to ever think it was a good idea for Steve and Eddie to become friends. Oh, how he regrets that crisp spring morning!

Well, maybe he doesn't regret the whole thing. Y'know, saving the world and keeping Max and Eddie alive, and all that.

Dustin purses his lips. Because screw this. Eddie should be more grateful.

He steps forward, narrowing his eyes as he hopes to grab the attention of his traitorous, rude friends.

"Can I help you with something?" Eddie asks after a long moment of nothing but dead-eyed staring back at him like he's the idiot.

"I thought you were driving me home?" Dustin raises a brow to Steve.

But Steve doesn't notice or say anything as Eddie reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a lighter and a pack of smokes.

Dustin scrubs a hand over his face. Jesus Christ, he is going to be standing here for hours now!

He should have just taken a chance with Ted Wheeler's snoozefest talk-back radio. Or risked his precious life in Grant's car. Maybe he should have found better friends in the first place. Maybe he should have stopped this friendship from blossoming months ago when Eddie was still half-dead in the hospital.

"I thought you quit smoking?" he says, folding his arms with a disapproving huff.

Eddie makes a face at him as if such a suggestion is utter nonsense. Steve meanwhile, plucks a cigarette from the pack, pauses and glares.

"Was your mom within earshot when I said that?"

"Yes!"

Eddie lights up his own cigarette and then reaches for Steve's. Steve meets him halfway, smirking with a look in his eyes that Dustin cannot help but think is some kind of knowing glance. Great – they must be doing this on purpose!

"Tell your mom we smoke and I'll kick your ass, Henderson," Eddie mumbles around a puff, "We have reputations to uphold."

Steve nods, "Respectable."

Ironically, that oxymoron is when Dustin catches the streetlight reflecting off a can. A beer can. One of a six-pack sitting on the hood of Steve's car. His friend must notice (or more likely, Steve's pea-brain remembers the existence of the beverages) because he quickly straightens up, snaps one free and offers it to Eddie.

Eddie giggles and twirls a lock of his hair before taking the beer. Goddamnit, these two are so irritating!

"What is this, a fucking tailgate?" Dustin shrieks.

"Shut it," Eddie shoots back before he takes – probably too many – desperate slurps.

"Relax, worry wort. I'll get you home before I drink anything."

Eddie holds up his beer and jingles it in Steve's face, taunting him. Steve stops to ponder the temptation – he truly is operating at a snail's pace here! – as he glances between Eddie, the Beemer and the now-five pack. So much for being 'respectable'.

Eddie takes another sip and belches, "Come on, Stevie, let's get the kiddo home."

Steve sighs and pushes himself up from the hood of his car.

"Finally! Thank you!" Dustin sighs, exasperated, "Y'know, none of this was supposed to happen!"

But Steve just pushes past him, spinning his keys on his finger as Eddie scoops up the beers, cradling them like they are his babies.

"Watch your shoes when you get in the car."

"And I'm picking the music."

[angelesca]

w.c. 3.4k💀so much words for this crap / sunday x truckdriver!gnreader (dafuqq is this dynamic), small stories, 99% of the penacony cast are impressed by you(they should be), robin is a cutie pie, sunday is a closeted robin fan, you and sunday squabble daily, sunday your wonweek is showing💗, wrote this in the tumblr drafts vro🔥part crack [𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬]: 1 ┃ 2 ┃...

a/n: farted this out bc i got inspired by this otome isekai manhwa i was reading [truck knight taekbae] + aesthetics inspired by [who made me a princess]

darkness monopolised your vision ever since you got here; day time never graced you. the insulated walls do their job well—only the vibrations, the frayed edges of sound, can be heard. 

chains grip your wrists, the metal twisting into your skin, wringing it like cloth. ouch. what now? maybe if you fart consecutively, and hard enough, you can blow your way out?

"brother... why…?" vibrations again. 

"don’t… monitor… danger."

the iron door creaks. light shines a single ray though the gap, and like the sun, the radiance blinds you. you squint your eyes, tracing the outline of two silhouettes.

the taller one approaches, each stride covering an equal, set amount of distance without a lost beat. "i have one question," their tone dashes against the whetstone, pointing a sharpened blade at you. "who are you?"

their eyes did not welcome any light, no reflection of you in them, as if you were only a whisper of the air. you feel the cracks in your throat. "me? i’m just a truck driver."

you are having tea with sunday.

after the less-than-ideal introductions, the picture cleared: you, a truck driver, are isekai’d into penacony via truck inception(?).

"i apologise for my manners," sunday sips his cup. "when you... suspisciously appeared in my bathroom, unresponding, there was no room to be courteous."

"sorry about that," you play with the rim of your cup awkwardly. "i'm not sure what happened either." the honest truth.

sunday shakes his head. he's majestic. "so, you said that you were…" he taps his chin.

"a truck driver."

"a criminal?"

"... truck driver."

“an assassin?”

"..." you almost turned into one.

little did you know, your lone walk was accompanied by a slithering shadow. except... it was no shadow. it was a dazzling spotlight that had fans and reporters following her repslendent glow, as expected of penacony's halovian songstress: robin.

"you mentioned you were a truck driver," finally, someone knows what a truck driver is. "will you allow me to see it?"

yes, your truck teleported into the dreamscape too. how could you live without them? they sit by a pavement on penacony's streets, hoarding the stares of confused citizens.

you watch an infinite cosmos flare in robin's incandescent eyes. your truck is just that impressive. "wow...! it's so beautiful!"

"what a curious machine," a blue and blonde-haired pair are analysing. "a vehicle that inefficiently operates on wheels? rather old-fashioned."

"what in the ever-lovin' fudge? my great-great-great-great-great gramps had one of those!"

"a sight of blissful beauty blooms before my eyes. amazing!"

“where am i?” 

“acheron, it hasnt even been a minute yet and you’re confused.”

people's eager stomping tremble the earth and sky. it's just that impressive. in the distance, an extra pair of wary eyes observe you.

"i admit, i am still suspiscious of you," sunday crosses one leg over the other. "robin sang nothing but praises. however, i'm afraid i'll need you under my surveillance to prove your trustworthiness."

urk. possessive much? "why are there knives, swords, and rocket launchers on the table?" sunday cocks an eyebrow at you, expecting you to make a move. "... i'm really not an assassin, sunday." but you do know his entire life story, so you're actually his stalker.

suddenly. the room blurs. an annoying static repeats, plucking the sensory wires from your circuit. is he... is he using his thingamajig powers?

"you may not be one... for now." he looks out a large window. you follow his gaze. wait a minute. what are they doing to-

“MY TRUUUUCK!!!” your passion transcends boundaries, past the lower-case and forcing the caps lock. lunging, you rush outside the mansion. "HEy!"

"aaaaa!! run!"

"eeek!"

"nyaa~!" who the hell was that?

"what the..." you are stunned. how dare they vandalise your truck! "was this your order?" you turn to sunday, infuriated.

"what will you do now?" a corner of his lips lifts, provoking.

you clench your fist. no one messes with you, the best truck driver, and only truck driver, in penacony.

hypothetically, if you got hit by a truck and ended up here, could you, a truck driver, hit a penaconian and isekai them over to your world?

"hey, robin?"

"hm?" her smile is innocent, gazing at you with a prospering kindness deserving of its own halo.

you smack your head. a dozen times over. then a few more.

"hey, aventurine?"

"hi hi~"

you shake your head. wouldn't his luck interfere? if anything, you'd be the one to get run over again.

"hey, acheron?"

"who are you?"

doesn't even know who you are despite telling her a minute ago. if she ended up in your world, she'd be asking the same question anyway: "where am i?"

you pick your nose. she'd slice you in half. period.

"hey, rappa."

"dazzling ninja rappa at your service!"

"as am i, the dimension-trespassing truck driving ninja!"

unfortunately, ninja roleplay with rappa is too fun. every friday, you play dnd together and you can't miss it this week.

there's only one person left.

"hey sun-"

"don't."

you stare blankly. "i didn't say anything?"

sunday glares back. "if you are going to speak to me, do it in front of me, and not while starting the engine of your truck."

"tch... damn."

"could i use your truck as a stage prop for my next concert?"

"oh, what if it suddenly rains?"

"what if i accidentally trip?"

you notice a gap in robin's behaviour. "how come you're so nervous today?"

robin looks at you, mouth on the verge of speaking. she looks down at her shoes. "hmm..." she tilts her head, lips mumbling. she hesitates, unready to spill her heart.

there's one thing you do best. you suggest, "why don't we go for a ride in my truck?"

robin's hunched back quickly reshapens itself. it's been some time since you've had a passenger, but with the way robin swiftly adjusts herself in the seats, excited, you don't worry about the mess in the truck. you start the vehicle, ready to stroll penacony's streets.

you hand her a piece of unexpired candy from a compartment, and she accepts the gesture. it doesn't take long before robin settles herself afterwards. she sighs. "... it's my brother, he'll be attending a show for the first time. i'm a bit nervous."

"why would he not be supportive?" you question.

robin shakes her head. "it may be because my brother is a perfectionist. i can't help but believe that he'll be expecting a flawless performance."

halovian songstress robin, a nation-wide icon, for her, expectations continually rise without rest. but for now, she sits next to you as robin herself, without the embellishments and performing. a breath of fresh air.

words of reassurance may be able to tend her heart. "make as many mistakes as you want," you comfort, "you are robin yourself before you are a singer, a civilian, and a sister."

the candy in her palm is scrunched. her heart, opens. robin herself, smiles. not because she is expected to, not because she is told to, but because she wants to. "thank you."

on the eighth day, grant... sunday getting down on one knee for you. wasn't this a bit fast?

your mouth opens. "are you proposing right now?"

"what are you on about?" sunday looks up at you, eyebrows scrunched. in his hands, a riiiiiiiiiiing- no, he's just cleaning his shoes with a cloth. better luck next time.

robin suggested to use your truck like a cabbie. that way, you can still keep your pride as a truck driver, and provide ears for wary hearts:

a student struggling with academics.

someone who doesn't know which direction to take.

the ramblings of a doctor whose words are spoken with precision, slicing his words into the victim's flesh. but behind the gloves are trembling hands that only wishes to sew tight the rotting wounds of a poor gambler, if only he would let him.

a galaxy ranger who witnessed the brevity of lives in the isolated expanse of the universe, walked along the shore of nihility. she departs with you her true name so that when she returns, your heart can accompany her solitude once more.

a young girl who cannot tell if the blood on her hands are someone else's, or her own. every allude to life reminded her of a deathly fate. however, as your passenger, she is reminded that she can forge a life of her own, undecided by destiny. penance and redemption, then, in the end, she hopes to regain her humanity.

you've listened to them all. unlocked each of their hearts, always gave back the key if they ever wanted to return again. turns out, the people of penacony are not much different from those in your world.

robin would pass out if she saw this.

from what you remember, there were 88 doors in the oak family's residence (you're a dedicated fan). you've explored each one, door 86, 87, 88... 89?

a secluded door that can only be seen with eagle eyes. the mystery kindles sparks in your chest, flaming curious fires. you slowly open the door. 86, 87, 88, 89... robins? (one for every door?) they all stare at you within their enclosures, as either posters, figurines, or books cover. in the middle sat a familiar head of grey hair, lowered, back turned towards you.

"sunday?"

the head moves up. gradually, it creaks. never in your life, did you expect to see a robin-crazed hidden room, nor a red-faced sunday. oh robin, the brother you were so worried about, is actually your no.1 fan. sunday's halovian wings flap furiously, doing nothing to cool his face down. his expression seems annoyed to have been caught in the act. "... what?"

"is this your robin shrine?" this is it. this will be your revenge, and the beginning tastes sweet. "so, you're the real criminal out of the two of us."

one can imagine the fumes blowing out of his ears. his eyes glisten, on the verge of tears. oops, he's really embarrassed.

you turn your face away, allowing sunday as much privacy as possible within his very private room. or rather, you are avoiding his eyes to suppress laughter. "you're coming to robin's concert, right?"

"you coming?" you gesture towards your majestic truck. it's a beautiful night for a truck ride.

sunday, your victim, is reluctant, of course. he probably still believes that you are an assassin who will run him over. "i won't die, will i?"

you huff. "i'm just a truck driver. what's the worse i could do? kidnap you?" sunday stares at you, frightened. it does not take much for him to believe in your potential for evil. "it's a joke... i'm not a criminal. or an assassin."

"just for a few minutes," he resigns. score. you open the door for sunday, who eventually sits down. you start the engine.

"welcome." sunday is in your truck. what an achievement. heh. you place your foot on the pedal.

it is silent apart from the engine's buzzing. you hand sunday an unexpired bag of chips from the compartment. he receives it, inspecting the packaging. his eyes trail to the window, studying how the sunset paints penacony with autumn's palette, but beyond it, he is watching the dots of people. you watch the melancholic sunday.

"what's on your mind?" you ask.

"nothing significant."

"well, the whole point of my trucking service is to listen to passengers." you turn the wheel. honestly, you don't know where you're going, and neither does sunday. the moon guides you tonight, two lost souls. "say anything."

sunday fiddles with the bag of chips. "...maintaining the oak family status, work, the people," he finally speaks, "it balances on my shoulders."

you hum, signalling him to continue.

"wouldn't a utopia free from suffering solve everything?"

quite a hard-hitting question for a truck driver, sunday. you nod. "of course. the only problem is that it is not real - everyone is forced into the current reality. it is harsh and cruel..." you blink. "but we are not powerless to it."

"how do you suggest we solve it?"

it is quiet for a moment before your mind wanders to every passenger you've had. they all had one thing in common. "i guess, a lot of people want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to open for them, and a voice to validate their feelings. we can do that."

all those passengers seemed to shine brighter at the end of the ride, ready to chase a dream. you may not be saving the world - you are no hero, just a truck driver - but you help tend the invisible wounds of people: the blood that drips from sharp words, the bruises that sting from deprecation, the headaches.

isn't it fine to take it slow? navigate the dark, little-by-little, and by the end, there will be an even brighter light.

"... i see." sunday watches your hands manoeuvre the truck's mechanics. the flick in your eyes that turn to him, to which he shies away from. then, he rests his eyes. as the truck drives, a silence hangs, one of quiet understanding. bit-by-bit, you gaze into sunday's heart.

it's been some time since you got run over.

adjusting to penacony was difficult at first. you had to adapt to life at the family's mansion, and the daily customs. however, the burden was eased slightly, all partly thanks to a special helper.

every morning, a cup of coffee or freshly-squeezed juice presents itself in the kitchen. every afternoon, your favourite bookshop always happens to have the book you wanted, already reserved for you. every night, your bedroom door slowly opens, quietly. your blanket, moves up to cover your torso. the mess in your room, rearranged and picked up. the back of a hand, feathers over your cheek. and nothing more happens. your little helper is easily satisfied at the sight of a peaceful you.

"does robin know about this room?" you are flipping through an ancient truck magazine.

sunday is wiping the display cabinets. his wings are flapping again, turning to you. "you didn't mention it to her, did you?"

"no, but she's going on tour soon after," you play with the corner of a page. "why don't you send her your encouragement?”

"what do you suggest?" he asks.

you look at the ceiling. it's full of robin's pictures. "a heartfelt letter? personally, i would buy her a truck but i don't think she needs that."

a small laugh escapes sunday's lips. you did not expect that. "that would be nice." he moves over to a desk, and from a drawer he pulls out a page adorned with blue flowers, and a pen.

you walk over to his desk. "you're into stationary?"

"i don't see why not," sunday says, "my work requires mostly writing, after all."

he begins from the top: 'dear sister,'. from there, sunday is a bit clumsy and awkward, asks her how the weather is and if she had breakfast. "... i've never done this before," is what he said. but gradually, the pen picks up, and the words flow. now, there was too much left unspoken when sunday reaches the final line, and had to cross out the sentence he was writing. a total of four pages, both sides filled, with more words waiting to be said - those would be left for when the siblings reunite.

"maybe we can have the people of penacony sign it too." you smile, imagining robin's elation when she reads it.

sunday nods. he scratches his signature and hands the paper to you. "here."

you take the pen, hesitant. "what's this for?"

sunday raises an eyebrow. "you're a citizen of penacony, are you not?"

... oh. were you? your throat dries. when did you become a part of penacony? weren't you... just a truck driver?

sunday watches you contemplate. a silence drawls. suddenly, he wraps his hand around yours, holding the pen still. "why are you hesitating?" nib meets page. ribbon by ribbon, the ink dances. "you belong here, don't you?"

your chest grows warm. you weren't expecting that either. full of surprises, aren't we? the same person that chained your hands and observed you, coldly answered to you, is offering his warmth. his hand is resolute, unwilling to let go. it reassure your doubts. you smile.

the pen lifts:

'from, your loving brother and, your dear friend.'

surprisingly, sunday has gotten comfortable with your presence in his forbidden robin cove. as you have with his in your magnificent truck.

yet, as much as you've driven closer, the gap is bottomless. sunday doesn't appreciate you looking at him, yet, he's allowed to drill holes in you when you're not aware?

you've asked robin, but she answered cryptically with a smile. "he used to watch over me as well, overprotective as always, but i'm sure that's his way of expressing himself when words fail him."

you reccount the passing moments.

a person more of action, lesser of words. for his people, he worked endlessly without their validation. for robin, he hid in the shadows of his much brighter devotion and support. for you, he let you slowly seep into his life, and you absorbed him into yours. a truck driver and an overqualified partner-in-crime.

quiet devotion is a tender song. without the beating of his loud commands, penacony would be left unprotected. without the instrumental scratching of his pen, there would be no light on the streets. without the percussive clicking of his shoes, the citizens would not be able to dance and celebrate.

this was sunday's song; no one else heard it, but it hums beneath the surface, invisible. those who press their ears against it can sense its vibrations. a silence that speaks louder than words or lyrics. and now, you can't mistake it, your heart beats to the silent song.

it is the night of robin's last stage in penacony. you and sunday stand on a balcony, watching over her. the final song sways along the night-caressed breeze, setting free the wings of hopeful listeners and dreamchasers.

though for a certain someone, he was using more of his eyes than ears. when you meet his golden pair, they turn away as usual.

"what's with you?" you lean against the railing.

his hands hide behind his back. "nothing significant."

"hey, i thought we were past that already. i told you i'm a truck driver who listen to their passengers."

silence hangs. a few more spoken words, "and? have you told your story?"

"me?"

his eyes find yours, but they don't turn away anymore. behind his role as penacony's figure and as a brother, it is sunday who is talking to you. in his gaze, it doesn't judge, impartial, waiting to listen, asking if it is okay for you to lend him your key.

he's come a long way into this journey. now, he awaits at your doorstep. the words catch in your throat. "i'm... just a truck driver..." you close your eyes. "a truck driver who got lost here."

sunday shakes his head. "i’m not asking about one miniscule part of your life. behind that is you who experienced a reality that built the person in front of me," his voice is shaky. an unsteady hand opens and closes, hopes to reach out for yours, but is uncertain. "i'm... asking for permission to learn all of you."

"..." robin's song is about to come to an end.

you look at the mirror. a mirror that always reflected only you, now fits one more person in the frame. that is your answer.

the you who is listening, reading, watching, all your past versions converge into this quiet meeting. usually, the mirror rejected, criticised, and distorted. but today, it finally listens. the mirror holds your reflection to be true. before you got to penacony, before you stood in the middle of a road, before you became a truck driver, you were...

"speak to me. i'm here to listen as you have for others." and keep that key to his heart, for it remains open unconditionally, always a place for you in there.

two losts souls, under the moon, found a home in each other.

a person closes the novel they were reading. they pick up their phone and start typing:

“-4.2/5 rating, absolute horror. where was robin at the end? i was waiting for her! and what’s with all the mirrors and life lessons? preeeeetty criiiinge. i'm reading a fantasy novel, not a lecture. why is mc even a truck driver anyways? also, not enough hand holding, and definitely not enough kissing. zero points!” this random nobody criticises, slamming fingers on the screen. they pause. “i wonder when the next volume will be released…”

a/n: great use of my holiday tbh, get everything out b4 i'm busy again💖i hate drawing hoyo charas they're so detailed, applause to all the hoyo artists u guys r goated fr i thought itd be cute to turn this into a series. i have some deleted ideas since i only wanted this to be a short piece (i got carried away smh). but tbh this fic ended off nicely, i dont think it needs continuing. idk. i like pistachio ice cream thanks for reading!!😲

[savealsaidifamily]

Urgent appeal to those with kind and loving hearts 🙏🙏

Hello, I hope you and your loved ones are safe and healthy.🙏

My family live in tents which lack the minimum standard of living. My father is now very sick, he had a heart catheterization operation before the war. Doctors recommended him to have healthy diet and life style but because of living in a tent, wet with rainwater, full of insects, lacking hygiene, and because of drinking contaminated water, as well as due to the inability to buy healthy food, now my father is very sick. The doctor told him that he has food poisoning and he needs urgent medical care. Do you imagine yourself sick and there is no clean place around you, no bed to sleep on, no warm drink to give your body strength, no medicine to relieve your pain, and no comfortable mattress to give you warmth?

Furthermore, my mother and our innocent little children have caught cold and infectious viral disease😞

Please, we have lost hope in this life, but don't let us lose hope in your humanity.🙏🙏 we just want to live in safety, and peace.

Your help, no matter how small, will save my family from death and disease and give them the happiness they have lost for a whole year of war.

My family campaign has received only £ 1,413 as of 5/10.

An important note: tumblr recently restricted my previous account from sending messages, i did nothing except that I want to save the lives of my family from this nightmare . I made different accounts, but my family name will not change which is Alsaidi family.

Vetted by @bilal_salah0, info here

and also vetted by @moayesh , info here on Gaza evacuation funds

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Sorry if i bothered you in the mention

[ririright]

“Operation: Go the F* to Sleep”

Husband! Hayden Christensen x Wife Reader

“A romantic comedy, featuring betrayal, sabotage, and one very alert toddler”

It was 9:12 p.m.

Then 9:43.

Then 10:07.

And Barron was still awake.

Hayden leaned in the doorway to their son’s room with the defeated slouch of a man who had just lost a war with a three-foot tyrant in dinosaur pajamas.

“He’s not human,” Hayden muttered.

From across the hall, his wife whispered back, “He inherited your chaos energy. This is your fault.”

Inside the bedroom, Barron was on lap four of his “bedtime victory sprint,” clutching a stuffed tauntaun like a prize, his hair sticking up like he’d just been struck by lightning. Again. Possibly had been. No one knew anymore.

“Okay, champ,” Hayden said, clapping his hands and doing his best Serious Dad Voice. “We’re doing this. Lights out. Story’s over. The Empire has fallen. Go. To. Bed.”

Barron stopped mid-run, looked his father dead in the eyes, and said, “I haven’t told you about my fart dinosaur yet.”

Hayden blinked. “Your… what?”

“He explodes.”

Then he leapt onto the bed and made the most horrifying sound known to man. “PHRRRBT!!!”

Hayden stumbled back like he’d been physically hit. “Oh my god.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✧˖ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

By 10:28 p.m., they had tried:

• A glass of water

• A song (which ended in Barron doing backup vocals with a kazoo)

• Turning off the light

• Turning the light back on

• A second story

• A Jedi meditation exercise that Hayden had completely made up on the spot

• Bribery

“If you stay in bed,” Hayden whispered, kneeling dramatically by the toddler’s racecar bed, “I will let you wear my Darth Vader helmet tomorrow.”

Barron gasped, “for reals?”

“For reals.”

“Deal.”

For five glorious minutes… it worked.

Then there was the sound of tiny footsteps.

Hayden turned to his wife in horror. “We’ve been deceived.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✧˖ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

At 11:03, the kitchen light flicked on.

There stood Barron.

In his wife’s socks.

Eating a banana.

Like a king.

“I’m not sleepy,” he said cheerfully.

“I am,” his mother replied. “I am sleepy. So sleepy I’m legally not responsible for what happens if you say the word ‘dinosaur’ again.”

“I said banana.”

“Same energy.”

Hayden picked the boy up, kissed his cheek, and carried him back to bed like a sack of giggling potatoes. This time, he laid down beside him, murmuring the tale of “Obi-Wan Kenobi and the Sleepy Ewok” in a low, soothing voice.

By the time he made it to the part about how the Ewok built a pillow fort and passed out from cocoa overload, Barron had finally—finally—drifted off.

Hayden crept back to their bedroom like a man who had just defused a bomb.

“She’s down,” he whispered, climbing into bed.

His wife didn’t even look up from the book in her lap. “He’s a boy.”

“Still counts.”

She snorted. “Are we officially off parent duty?”

Hayden dropped beside her and peeled off his socks with reverence. “Babe… I think we made it.”

They exchanged a long, tired, hopeful look.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Moooooom! I forgot to tell you something about the tauntaun!”

They both screamed into their pillows.

Read Pt.3 (Final)

[ashthesalamipiece]

Explosive Love: Part 3 – Baby's Day Out (with Deku & Todoroki)

Pairing: Kirishima x Fem!Reader

Featuring: Babysitters Deku and Todoroki

Genre: Fluff, Chaos, Babysitting Misadventures

Summary: With Bakugo officially traumatized, Kirishima calls in backup. Enter: Deku (nervous but willing) and Todoroki (unfazed... for now). They think babysitting can’t be that hard. But no one warned them about the gas.

---

Kirishima stood proudly at your front door, holding your baby out like she was the MVP of the season.

“She’s all yours, boys,” he beamed. “Don’t worry—Bakugo might’ve exaggerated.”

Todoroki blinked. “I heard she took him down in under an hour.”

Deku nodded nervously, already scribbling in a notebook. “According to my calculations, the frequency of her emissions shouldn’t cause structural damage to a normal household…”

Kirishima slapped his back. “Just don’t let her eat anything orange.”

You blinked. “Wait, why not—”

SLAM.

Too late. The door closed. Operation: Babysitter Bros had begun.

---

Thirty minutes in…

“So, uh… she’s really cute,” Deku said, rocking her gently in his arms. “Look at that smile—so sweet and—”

BRRRT!

He froze.

“That… was a strong one.”

Todoroki leaned in. “I think it shook the floor.”

Deku sniffed cautiously. “Why does it smell like… burnt oatmeal and vengeance?”

Todoroki tilted his head. “It’s oddly impressive. Like she has an internal combustion engine.”

The baby kicked and giggled as if in agreement.

PFFFFT.

Deku panicked. “We need containment!”

Todoroki calmly reached for the diaper bag like a man preparing to diffuse a bomb. “I’ve got this.”

---

One hour in…

Todoroki stood stoically, holding a can of air freshener in one hand and your baby in the other.

“She has attacked three times in twenty minutes.”

Deku peeked out from behind a pillow fort. “I think she’s evolving.”

The baby let out a mighty squeal and flopped happily onto the blanket.

“Her power…” Deku whispered, wide-eyed. “It’s unmatched.”

PHBBBT.

“She’s aiming at me now,” Todoroki said, deadpan. “I admire her accuracy.”

Deku scribbled in his notes. “Hero Name: Gas Mask. Quirk: High-Pressure Flatulence.”

“Wait until Aizawa hears about this…”

---

When you and Kirishima returned, the living room looked like the aftermath of a low-level disaster.

Blankets scattered. Windows open. A fan running full blast.

Deku was fanning himself with a baby book. Todoroki was sitting perfectly still, staring into space.

“She’s asleep,” Deku whispered. “But the damage… it’s been done.”

Kirishima picked up the baby gently, like she was made of pure dynamite. “Did she…?”

Todoroki didn’t break eye contact. “She farted on my soul.”

---

Next time: Mina wants to babysit.

[martialartslover7]

Why I think Kishimoto isn't sexist, but just VERY tonedeaf and an idiot

Boy, will I have some venting to do today. I mean, at this point, it's not a secret, that Kishimoto has consistently stated that "he can't write women", to save his life. And to this day, for as long as I was a fan of the series, I am going to be absolutely real: This statement is so full of shit. Why? Simple. And allow me to express it in very big capital letters, so that even the last giant mental invalid can understand:

WOMEN ARE HUMAN-BEINGS WITH BREASTS AND A V BETWEEN THEIR LEGS. WHAT TYPE OF "NUANCES" IS THIS GUY TALKING ABOUT? THERE IS NOTHING "COMPLICATED" ABOUT THEM. WHAT NONSENSE IS THIS?

Like, this entire statement is bullshit for a completely reason altogether: Why even reduce his own point to the fact that the shinobi just so happen to be female? This just sounds like excuses on top of excuses, especially considering the competition like One Piece and Bleach, who all have badass, memorable and sometimes, quite well-written characters, that just so happen to be female.

Let's count up a few IPs that I am aware of, written or directed by males, that has some of the most badass, and most memorable females in all of media:

One Piece

Bleach

Soul Eater

Kill la Kill

Jujutsu Kaisen

Code Geass

Persona

Tekken

Street Fighter

SoulCalibur

Fire Emblem (not all of them, some of them, from what I have seen, can be insane jokes)

And so on, and so forth, the list goes on. And you know what all these IPs have in common, that make them stand out, compared to what Naruto does to its females?

THE FEMALES AREN'T GETTING BOGGED DOWN BY IRRITATING, REDUNDANT AND DOWNRIGHT OFFENSIVE TROPES, THAT FLAT-OUT RUIN THEIR POTENTIAL AND APPEAL AS STANDALONE CHARACTERS!

Like, allow me to list up all the tropes, that Kishimoto made use of, while writing the manga, or being involved in the process of writing / directing the anime, along with the movies.

1. Making the women overtly dependant on the male characters

This one, is not as egregious, but it's a good kickstarter. In the context of the world these characters operate in, to me, it does make sense to show that, like in the Edo period of Japan, women were always seen as second-class citizens, always needing to be tied to men somehow, otherwise they are "worthless". Considering the corrupt, militarized system that most of the girls work in, mostly operated by wrinkly, old farts, who enjoy playing god too much, it does remain understandable to me, that they would be hesistant to be 100% committed to the job, and just ask for normal lives...

...BUT...

...it does leave you asking: Why did they choose to be ninjas in the first place, then? To get smitten with the boys (not counting Hinata, by the way, because she was literally forced into this role)? Just applying as literal child soldiers in a war, that they didn't even start to begin with? And yes, I get it, kunoichis excel in areas that male shinobi struggle with, like silent reconnaisance, charming other men, or sometimes women, to tickle information out of them, being healers, but here is the thing: As the Naruto progressed as a story, this pattern kept repeating, every time a female character got introduced, it would fall back on the following checklist:

Is this woman a healer?

Is she obsessed with looking for a boyfriend / a husband?

Is she lacking in combat-based strength, to the point where she needs protection from either of the male characters?

Because, except for the healer bit, which is more of a specialized field, I just brought it up, because I felt it to be awfully noticeable how often the girls requested to be healers, as if they have to fit into such a mold, or they aren't capable as shinobi, the other two questions get repeatedly answered, for pretty much 98% of all female characters, especially by the end of Shippuden.

And don't get me wrong: This is NOT a negative, per se, that they desire a boyfriend, or someone to spend the rest of their days with, this is not what I am complaining about. In fact, a good chunk of ships in the series are hella cute, and I don't want them to go away. Because to an extent, the romance aspect feels genuine, especially between Naruto and Hinata, or Sasuke and Sakura (yeah, fight me on that, I will defend these two as a ship, until I die), or hell, especially Shikamaru and Temari, which are the GOLD standard, of what a good ship needs.

What I am complaining about though, is that, the series kind of uses this romance aspect as a shield, or excuse, to undermine the female characters, in the long run. Think about it, when was the last time when Sakura, in spite of all the grueling training she had to suffer through to become this strong in the first place, not wanting to be a hindrance to anyone, legitimately kicked ass, after killing Sasori? Not counting the war arc, because this arc is frankly, an inexcuseable mess, and Kishimoto should be ashamed of himself for making it suck this hard for how many asspulls this arc had. Nope, the moment Naruto goes berserk, and Sasuke just... appears... she is reduced to a whimpering mess, who can't stand on her own two feet, and has to be saved by someone. And this happens. ALL. THE. TIME. That's all that happens with her, sure, she heals countless ninjas during the war, but again, healing isn't the only specialty she got:

SHE IS A SHINOBI! SHINOBIS FIGHT! THEY DON'T JUST STAND AROUND LIKE IDIOTS, AND EXPOSING THEMSELVES TO ENEMY FIRE! GET! ON! WITH IT!

I swear, man, this just frustrates me beyond any reason, and the worst part, even someone as awesome as Hinata, who kicked so much ass in Part 1 (especially the filler arcs, don't get smart with me, I watched the anime, suck a small one on that), who had a whole, potential story arc hinted at with Neji, and the issues regarding their entire clan, was reduced to a simple Naruto #1 fangirl for the entire duration of Shippuden, not even the filler could salvage her in any way, and for someone like me, who relates to Hinata on a spiritual level, I find this just so damned pathetic. And whenever I watch The Last, all I could think about was this one coherent thought: You. Had. ONE JOB. Kishimoto. And you failed her. As a standalone character. Causing the entire movie to come off as if you were just shoehorning everything together, as if we only liked Hinata, because of the NaruHina ship. Well, newsflash, it couldn't be further from the truth. So, screw you, and the entire The Last movie.

Plus, I am sure I am speaking on everyone's behalf here: Anko Mitarashi and Tenten were done the MOST dirty by Kishimoto. Nuff' said.

On that note, that brings me to my next point:

2. The angry Karen housewife stereotype

I swear, this meme right here...

And Kushina's entire existence truly proves my point that, Kishimoto is really not doing himself any favors, whenever he says "I don't know how to write women". Oh, but then THIS is your answer? Is this how you see them all, the very second they get married and have kids?

So let me get this straight, the moment a woman, in the Naruto universe, gets married, has kids, and takes care of them, they become:

Aggressive, to the point of physically assaulting their own kids (Kushina definitely would have done so, let's not lie to ourselves, I love her, but this behavior of hers, combined with Sakura's general attitude towards Naruto, would have definitely made him suicidal after a while, if it weren't for the fact, he accepts it in his mom's case, because she doesn't know any better, considering her childhood)

Unpleasant to be around for their husbands (as if, we get guilt-tripped into thinking, the wives are the ones being selfish, wanting their lovers to be home with them, which, by the way, is a serious piece of shit way of thinking, because, they are married for a REASON, and not to stay apart all the time, THEY ARE FAMILY, at least, from how it gets painted as, in Boruto, from what I have seen so far)

Becoming total sociopaths, as if their genuine worries and concerns get painted as something so abnormal and "creepy"

...and this is how you see them all? THIS is your answer? Again, I know, we have ZERO evidence to prove that Kishimoto himself, is sexist in real life, it would be irresponsible of me to put that out there, because I just don't know the guy. I am just saying that, with how the housewives were all written thus far, and how, from Naruto's POV, he began having a fear of angry moms, calling them "scary", and how the females got seriously underrepresented in the course of the story...

...IT DOESN'T DO HIM ANY FAVORS.

I can't even believe I have to say this, because, newsflash, Kishimoto, and I will say it in caps: NOT ALL MOMS IN THE WORLD, ACT LIKE THIS!

They can get mad with us, they are fully in the right to whenever we do something stupid, no matter how old we get, because they will always view us as their babies that they cradled in their arms. But the problem here is: In Boruto, it gets painted as if the moms are the ones in the wrong here, just for being a tiny bit more concerned than others, because again, the world that they live in, is dangerous. And leaving the Otsu*redacted* aside, I can fully sympathize with them, so seeing someone like Boruto himself taking so many liberties being a spoiled, rotten brat, who never suffers serious repurcussions for his behavior (I know, he lost his headband for cheating, but for someone like him, who wished literal DEATH on his own father, just for him not being around enough, needed a way harsher punishment, you just don't say that your parents, dude, this doesn't take a genius to understand, especially since this is Naruto and Hinata we are talking about her), once again, it undermines the females, as if the kids ALWAYS "know better", and they "just suck, because moms are scary". Fuck off. Seriously. This is just disrespectful. No excuses. It shouldn't be written this way. Even more so, because the POV of the mothers gets never tackled, making this seem one-sided.

3. A few romances fall back on tropes, that disrespect not only the girls, but also the guys

OK, I will probably get some flack for saying this, but, regardless of the explainations in one of the Retsuden mangas, the InoSai ship, is perfectly encapsulating to me, how the romance in Naruto isn't without its flaws, and it mostly stems from how some of the characters just never get the privilege of gaining their own story sections about their own individual struggles as standalone characters.

I AM LOOKING RIGHT AT YOU, CHOJI AND KARUI! THEIR ROMANCE IS SO OUT OF LEFT FIELD, IT'S NOT EVEN WORTH JOKING ABOUT, EXCEPT, IT'S LITERALLY A JOKE, DUE TO THEIR NAMES BEING POLAR OPPOSITES TO ONE ANOTHER. HA. HA. HA.

Personally, to me, Sai is not that interesting of a character to me, I was never able to connect with him in any way, despite the importance he had in the story, alluding to the ROOT Anbu under Danzo's leadership.

But his "romance" with Ino, was seriously pushing it to me, not only because, it just regresses Ino's entire character, pushing her back into this mold that she is only interested in brooding, mentally ill edgelords like Sasuke, which paints her a shallow person, but it just paints Sai himself, as a stand-in for Sasuke, too, which undermines his own character, unintentionally. There are so many things wrong with their overall dynamic, I can't even put it properly into words.

And don't think, InoSai are the only exception to this rule. As much as it pains me to say this, NaruHina and SasuSaku are also affected by this, not as severe, but it's still pretty noticeable.

NaruHina

The fact that, with NaruHina, we needed an entire freaking movie, which, frankly, should have never happened, had they done a better job at utilizing Hinata as her own character, with Naruto present to help her out with her clan, and it all hinged on Naruto himself regressing as a character too, needing to be put in a fucking Genjutsu, just to see how he "truly felt" about Hinata... I am sorry, what is this? I mean, from a writing standpoint, this is just straight-up BAD. It's clichéd, it's painting Hinata as a damsel in distress, needing to be saved by Naruto, and Naruto himself being pardoned with "he is just dense", and overall, you can really tell, this is all just hamfisted into a single movie, because they needed to desperately convince us: Look, this is a thing. They are together now. Now play the emotional music, because that's all it needs.

Listen, I know Naruto never had a clear grasp on his own emotions, but the overall pay-off, to me, is just not there, no matter how hard I try. It just feels hollow, I don't feel happy with this. Because, for this to ship to work, they had to go through all these extra lengths to regress them both first, as individual characters, just so they can shut the lid on the whole thing. Made even worse by how this confession of Hinata during the Pain Invasion arc, was never brought up again to Naruto, until the freaking movie, and I still don't understand why. I know he didn't "ignore" her, but why does he fail to recognize Hinata's love confession, but the moment Sakura drops by to confess to him, too, he immediately calls it BS? Please. Make it make sense.

SasuSaku

Listen, nothing will stop me from loving these two as one, they deserve the peace amongst themselves, but the problem is, like InoSai, it falls back on the trope of, the girl bearing this mindset of "I can fix him", and while Sakura certainly did succeed... hear me out:

This is a purely universal thing now, this isn't just applying to SasuSaku. Otherwise, both ships have a solid foundation, ruined by shit writing. Nothing else to say.

That moment of Ino crying for Sasuke, really made me realize: Kishimoto really is clueless, not just about women, but men, too.

Because, again, for how often some of the girls bore this mindset of "I need me some brooding hunk of meat", essentially, desiring a man that knowingly treats them like crap, just so they can bear the delusion of "I can fix him", while downplaying and belittling the "uncool" guys like Choji, Rock Lee, or hell, even Naruto or Kiba, guys who, for the most part, have a solid grasp on their moral compass and their self-worth, denouncing their advances with "ew, no", is honestly disgusting to me. Like, come on, man, they aren't as cool as the edgelord teammates, but why downplay them so hard in the presence of the girls? Don't they deserve love too? Why belittle them for their eccentricities, it not only paints the girls in a bad light, but it straight up mocks the male "goofball" teammates for being the way they are. In short: NO ONE IS THE WINNER HERE.

Phew, OK, I hope, I made my point, loud and clear now. Because these points have been bothering me for a VERY long time now, and look, correct me if I am wrong. I am never 100% foolproof, so if I left out anything, feel free to correct me.

I needed to vent about this, because I felt so genuinely pissed off for how underpowered and underepresented the girls are, and how unkind and unforgiving the writing was to them, overall.

PEACE.

[bunniisms]

WALTER. C. DORNEZ HEADCANON DUMP

Blame this headcanon dump on the tremendous support from my friends and my unending obsession with this Old Fart and throwing him down the metaphoric staircases in my brain!

THE C IN HIS NAME ISN'T A MIDDLE NAME. Remind me to talk about it at length later, because it's an entire bullshit that would make this post far, far longer that I've already made it. Instead, the C in Walter's name stands for COURTENAY, the name of the old, old noble family he draws descendants from. Who had historical connections to the art of Vampire Hunting & the Hellsing Family via their connection to the Vatican and support of the late Abraham Van Hellsing.

Walter was the son of a daughter who didn't have the name (or any claim) to pass down beyond her and her late husband's friendship with Arthur Hellsing. As an adult, Walter's reclaimed the title and hyphenated his last name (i.e. Courtenay-Dornez)

TLDR: Walter C. Dornez but the C in his name is a desperate clinging symbol and claim to historic (and almost forgotten) notoriety and a connection to the business he’s attached his whole identity to but never found direct happiness from

WALTER DESCENDS FROM PEERAGE BUT ISN'T DIRECTLY OF ANY IMPORTANCE TO ANY NOBLE FAMILIES

This is sort of canon, but WALTER HAS DEEPLY STAKED HIS SENSE OF IDENTITY AND PERSON-HOOD INTO VAMPIRE-HUNTING and the concept of both his body deteriorating with age, and his gradual sense of being rendered obsolete behind New Operatives and Alucard is the heartbeat in the floorboard driving him to madness. FOR WALTER TO BE BENCHED OR TO BE RETIRED, HE SEES THAT AS THE DEATH OF HIMSELF IN A FAR MORE VISCERAL SENSE

WALTER IS AN OXYMORON OF ARROGANCE AND INSECURITY. Walter struggles with his sense of identity and his place in the world. It's not that he feels useless, but he feels like he has been doomed and damned to forever be third best - unable to move forward - unable to be better, to be wanted by existence (and himself), always envious and wanting for any claim of his own that he can truly sink his teeth into and use as a salve to cover the infected wounds of insecurity that have been with him since he was a child.

HOWEVER, the funny thing with Walter? As much as he feels this way, he is a haughty, arrogant, catty bastard. He views the vast majority of people, human and otherwise, as far, far beneath him, even with his insecurity being what it is. Walter knows he could be MORE, but these other people? It would be a miracle if they even got to his weakest position. Their words have precisely as much weight as the clucking of chickens.

WALTER HIDES THESE TRAITS WITH A JEEVES-LIKE FACADE AND PERSONA OF WARMTH AND HUMILITY. A lot of the time, the Walter seen smiling and bowing, offering his hand and advice, greeting the guests and answering the household's calls with a polite warmth is as superficial as a cardboard mockup - it's an act - the Walter we see walk out and make pot shots to scare Jan and quote his speech back at him. THAT'S THE REAL WALTER. Walter hasn't so much changed that part of him that we saw so much of in Dawn, as much as he's learned to hide it.

ONE OF WALTER'S LOVE LANGUAGES IS TRANSPARENCY. Walter has developed such a false crust of subservience and humility and comically stereotypical butler-like deference. You know you've sunk deeper into his person when he begins lifting the act in more intimate settings. Walter might seem to get sharper and cattier, a little more mean-girl-esc with his judgement and quips, but that's Walter! If you took him for a sweet old man, you bought the charade, hook, and sinker. THIS is the real Walter, THIS is what goes on inside his mind's palace. Either embrace it or take the check and go! Haha

UNLIKE THE HOUSE OF COURTENAY'S CATHOLIC ORIGINS, WALTER IS ANGLICAN and sparsely practicing, making sure to attend major Church Functions alongside the Household (such as Integra) but not making much of a habit of attending the small chapel inside the Hellsing Estate

WALTER HAS FOURTH NERVE PALSY, caused during The Dawn Arc after he sustained a massive skull fracture and very nearly died

YES, HE DOES BLAME ALUCARD FOR THE INCIDENT THAT CAUSED THIS, they were assigned to a mission together, flushing out operatives in Warsaw together, and yet, they became separated. Alucard's bloodlust or showboating slowed him down, and Walter was left alone to fend on his own. While successful for a while, Walter was a child, a lone child, and his enemies had no mercy. By the time Alucard dragged his carcass back to Hellsing, there was little to be done. But, despite rescuing him after, Walter never forgave Alucard for the part he feels Alucard played. His blame is partially misplaced, but it still burns hot, and the paranoia festering in the back of his mind forever wonders whether it was delayed by accident or if he orchestrated it all to stunt his abilities and prevent him from surpassing Alucard? (it's absolutely NOT that Walter, I can promise you)

WALTER HAS A SMALL HABIT OF ALWAYS LEANING/COCKING HIS HEAD SLIGHTLY TO THE RIGHT SIDE TO COMPENSATE FOR THE DAMAGE TO HIS EYE AND VISION

RE: THE MONOCLE, it's not there for the aesthetics of a Victorian nobleman, though that's not to say Walter doesn't carefully cultivate his image. Walter's monocle is a prescription medical device; it helps correct issues with his depth perception and acquired short-sightedness caused by his palsy (especially with reading). Additionally, it's been a wonder how ptosis symptoms in his right eye that've stemmed from the palsy have been eased with the monocle supporting that side of his face.

WALTER ALSO HAS PERIPHERAL HYPER-MOBILITY SPECTRUM DISORDER most notably impacting his hands, wrists and fingers, but more broadly affecting his ankles and feet too. In recent years, Walter's found that the symptoms have been worsening and spread to his knees, too, but he's never spoken openly about this and resents it greatly. The records from Hellsing-pocket Doctors making note of the degeneration of his condition have always been burned, almost as though destroying them could silence the truth in some way.

THE PURPOSE OF THE GLOVES, while Butlers wearing gloves is a tale as old as time, Walter wears them not to uphold old traditions of cleanliness and not smudging things - but rather to hide the slight but noticeable gaps at the center of each of his fingertips where he ejects the monofilament from, which is unfortunately essential when facing the public. He removes them the second he gets behind closed doors and happily does that.

WALTER HAS A COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS DISABILITIES, BUT THEN AGAIN, HE HAS A COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP WITH EVERYTHING

WALTER RE: THE WIRES AND THEIR IMPACT ON HIS BODY, the designs of the Late Hellsing and Seward, while innovative, were... imperfect. Flawed even. Walter REFUSES to come to terms with it, but the wires, despite their impeccable qualities, have been degrading his body MORE than gradually. They are the single leading reason for his Hyper-Mobility Spectrum Disorder; they have been EATING at the cartilage and connective tissue in his limbs and making his gradual decline far quicker than had ever been previously believed.

WALTER GOT HIS WIRES IN AN OPERATION AT TEN. It was a deeply invasive affair that left Walter bedridden for months. Directed by Seward and Hellsing loyalists and conducted by the last design of the Late Abraham Van Hellsing and his mentee Seward. WALTER CONSENTED AT THE TIME, IN FACT, HE WAS EAGER ABOUT IT AND THE PROMISE. Walter wanted the prestige, the power, to feel purpose and drive and to have something that was his, that defined him, and the miserable life he'd been gifted that was always at the mouth of the river, leaving him looking up at the source and the promise he had been born outside of and dreaming. HOWEVER, IT WAS STILL SKETCHY AF AFFAIR, AND AS THE WORD OF GOD, IT WAS, WITHOUT A DOUBT, AN INCIDENT OF ADULTS EXPLOITING THE LACK OF KNOWLEDGE, INNOCENCE AND EAGERNESS OF A CHILD FOR PERSONAL BENEFIT.

WALTER'S LOVE LANGUAGE IS QUALITY TIME. Walter, while a womanizer, is no adept man in the art of romance - some would call him a tad clumsy, but that's not it, nor would it be right to call him cold or unromantic. Walter is simply... atypical. He doesn't enjoy grand gestures of romance or constant touch - Walter is a man of boundary, and his ideal form of love is the quiet, cat-like sort of co-existing in joy. Can he perform his duties and passions and look over to see someone he is fond of simply existing - caught in their natural environment and at peace WITH him? That's ideal for him.

WALTER IS A SOMMELIER. Read as Wine Snob, not only for his job, but he just really enjoys wine!

WALTER AND BEING A BACHELOR IS A DELIBERATE CHOICE. He's had proposals passed onto him, and thrice, he's declined. He's had his girls and boys, but never committed even to the point of being considered lovers. Walter is simply most at ease on his lonesome, and though it might seem lonesome at the surface, it's ideal for his line of work and his love style.

HE ALSO IS ALLERGIC TO DEEP COMMITMENT BUT SHHHH

WALTER DOES A LOT OF WORK AND TAKES A LOT OF PRIDE IN KEEPING HIS APPEARANCE. Sorry, I KNOW this man wears expensive colognes that he has organized for the seasons, has all his suits and tail coats properly fitted and has a skincare routine. He IS the type, and I love that for him. His toiletry cabinet is more stuffed with product than either Integra or Seras' COMBINED! He will not leave his room until his hair is slicked back and he smells like sandalwood ON GOD.

THOUGH THAT BEING SAID, HE IS LONELY IN THE SENSE THAT HE FEELS DEEPLY ALONE WITHOUT PEERS; he simply doesn't see most other people, most other creatures, as on his level. In that, and his arrogance, he is deeply alone, but it's a cage of his own creation.

HE LOVES INTEGRA LIKE A DAUGHTER, AND I REFUSE TO SEE IT ANY OTHER WAY; he helped raise that girl - a constant, familiar face in the background of her youngest years. He watched her be born in the house, he was one of the first that held her - she was one of few she gave a big smile to as a baby (she was one of few things that ever made him reconsider his decision to never want children), she watched her walk, then run and grow into a girl and then a confident young woman. And when it comes to the betrayal :,)

I could make an ENTIRE post detailing my thoughts about it and how I portray it, but Walter had been turned into a Freak a long, long time ago, and by the time he met Integra (as in, she was born), he was too far gone to be saved, and he knew it. There was a gun to the back of his head - he had the chip, and he could be toast at any moment; he... well, he selfishly did what he needed to do to survive. Sometimes, the awful truth is that both things can co-exist, and a person can be caught between love and survival and still choose survival, even after everything.

I'm 10000% on copium with this. Still, I feel his whole Ebony Darkness Dementia speech to Integra was to VILLAINIZE HIM AND HIS MEMORY IN HER MIND - he spent DECADES selfishly loving her and raising her, and he knows she returned those feelings. They never spoke about it, but he KNEW. She'd ask him his opinions (even when he, as a servant, wasn't entitled to those against the word of his lord), request him to have dinner upstairs with her and attend church functions alongside him, even when she was a grown woman. He was one of the most consistent fatherly figures she had. He became that for her, but he doesn't want her to spend any years agonizing or grieving over another dead father. Telling her he's a mustache-twirling evil that has always plotted her downfall is another selfish lie. Still, he hopes and needs to believe that maybe, maybe, that'll make it easier on her heart to cope with the rug-pull, his defection (and death) and losing yet another dad.

WALTER IS INTEGRA'S MOST ADAMENT APOLOGIST AND DEFENDER; this is another truth of mine I will take to the grave, and Hirano can fight me. It's not Walter's place as a servant to feel that level of protection over his master - even given his place, having watched her grow. Still, something alien takes over his sensibilities when he hears people speak against her brazenly, and he'll stamp it out in his own petty way. He's her dad, your honour!

[downforthegas]

Fart Prompts!

I got this idea from an account I'm following here where they used a random word generator to generate different burp and stuffed belly prompts. I liked it so much, I thought of doing something similar but with eprocto scenarios

Faithful

Person A and person B are having trust issues in their relationship. Person A questions if B still loves them for who they are, and B proves that... by sticking their nose in their crack and inhaling all their farts. It wasn't A's idea, but at least they know B would do anything for them.

Piano

Your fave is doing a piano recital, or their performing a piano in public somewhere. The only problem is they're feeling very bloated, but they haven't farted yet so they think they'll be fine. That is until a crowd forms around them and they feel a large bubble trying to escape. They continue playing but with both hands busy, they ultimately fail to hold back the huge fart. Do they get embarrassed or brush it off? How does the crowd react?

Slide

Your fave is hanging out with their friends at a water park. The fave is about to go on a big water slide on their back. Their nerves get the best of them and as they wait for the bottom to drop, they accidentally fart, creating little bubbles in the flowing water. Everyone, including the operator, seems to notice, and their friends don't live it down, even after they get done with the slide

Loss

Person A has lost something in the apartment/dorm while their roommate is gone. As they're searching around, they feel their stomach acting weird. They don't pay mind and eventually find themselves on their hands and knees, when their stomach starts cramping up. Knowing they're alone, they rip a long fart that relieves their stomach. They hear tapping on their shoulder. They quickly turn around and it's person B with the thing A lost. Does A feel embarrassed or do they not care? Is B disgusted, amused or aroused? (note: I know it's loss but lost is close enough, and plus I've been wanting to write a prompt like this cause I like this scenario very much)

Invite

Your fave is sending invitations to different people for a party they're having. Whether you're friends or lovers, they've become very close with you and even know about your fart fetish. They decide that, since you're the guest of honor, you deserve an honorable invite. They take the invitation, hold it up to their butt and fart repeatedly into the page. They put it in the envelope and fart a few more times in there, finishing it off with one more blow on the surface of the envelope. They know you'll greatly appreciate this.

Manage

Your fave is working somewhere where they need to be left in charge while the boss is gone. They stand in front of the workers and try to give them a speech about what they're gonna do while the main boss is gone. But while talking, with the employees surrounding them, they can't help but rip one, which catches everyone's attention. A few employees can't help but laugh, but your fave is a trooper and continues. They're not sure if everyone was able to take them seriously after that but they still feel like hiding after that situation.

~I might make more soon!

[3-aem]

Honestly I don’t follow jjk anymore. But last I heard was that gojo apparently described death as a relief and release. Why would it be a happy ending for a person who clearly saw his own existence as a prison back to life? Unless curses were eradicated and Gojo no longer had to use his abilities to protect people or raise the next generation of sorcerers I’d just be like “this guy doesn’t wanna be here :/“ Idk, maybe I’m being too pessimistic about this whole thing. Or maybe there’s new information about Gojo’s perspective in chapters after where I dropped off.

Also, beautiful work as always. Your stuff is stunning!

well i honestly dont care if that were true bc gojo isn’t real but my feelings about him are.

also im pretty sure he didnt say anything like that just: well at least i didn’t die an old fart.

which is a very gojo thing to say about the situation.

tbh i genuinely dont think gojo saw his life as a prison, he was just pissed at the way jujutsu society operated and this makes sense considering how it drove suguru off a cliff and then essentially forced him to end the mans life a decade later.

also perhaps the way he Couldn’t (i mean physically he very much always could) just eliminate the brass. This is ofc exactly what he does later but the idea is he felt he shouldn’t because it would really screw things up™️

did everyone use him as kinda a tool, um ya likely they did. he is the strongest they’re gonna rely on him for a lot. but i kinda don’t like this idea that No one cared for him because they very evidently did. he’s just really annoying and no one should tell him that on principle or something idk.

thats my ted yap 💕

[zaynesbratjoy]

Tech, Tears & Tacos

hi. this story is kind of a mess.

there’s romance (sort of). Includes all lads men. if you're into cringe, chaos, and random shit

welcome. Please make this popular.

lower your expectations.

and let's do this.

Part 1:

“I think I wanna throw up,” I muttered, swirling my coffee like it was some kind of magical potion that could somehow make me feel better. Full milk, of course—because I hate myself. Also, I’m pretty sure I’m lactose intolerant. What if I fart in the interview? God, that would be horrible.

“Definitely wanna throw up,” I mumbled again, tugging at the stray hairs that had somehow escaped my professional-looking ponytail. I pulled it tighter, fingers shaking as the anxiety was about to implode.

“Ah, shit. Please, just—ugh—I’d throw up right now if I could.” I exhaled dramatically, clutching my stomach as I pushed out the stress-dump I had perfected for any inconvenient situation in my life. God, why was I doing this? Well, better than farting in public. Getting rid of that is a whole other disaster.

“Hello, my name is Leila Dylan, and I’m here applying for the Operations and Strategy Manager role,” I announced with what I hoped was a professional tone, flashing a smile that screamed, “I’m definitely faking it.”

I wanted to puke. This guy—this guy sitting across from me was... fine. Too fine. Too good-looking. Fuck.

I tried to focus on his face. How could someone be so... handsome yet make me feel like I was trapped in an Instagram ad? That jawline? Chiseled. Why?

Caleb—oh, right. Caleb. He had dark brown hair, almost too neatly swept to the side like he spent hours each morning perfecting his look. His piercing green eyes were the real weapon, though. They were sharp. Like a knife, cutting straight through my entire existence. Those eyes knew things—probably even things about me I wasn’t ready to confront. He wore a light blue button-down shirt that clung to his shoulders in that way only guys who clearly work out can pull off. Oh, and the silver watch on his wrist? Probably cost more than my entire apartment.

He chuckled lightly, which made me want to throw up even more. He had this... aura about him. Like he could break you down with just a smile. And right now, he was breaking me down with nothing but his presence.

“So, Mrs. Dylan, I see you’ve only been in the same field for about three months according to your resume. Can I ask why you didn’t stay longer?” Caleb asked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer and was waiting for me to screw it up.

I blinked. I wasn’t prepared for this. Yeah, who am I kidding? I didn’t prepare. I get called a lazy-ass all the time. Honestly, it hits me right in every goddamn interview. Fuck, working anyway...

“Well, it was a startup. The company itself had a financial crisis, and—” I trailed off. Why the hell is he laughing?

His smile was still there, almost smug. I suddenly became hyper-aware of my leg shaking under the table.

“You do realize you’re applying to another startup, right?” Caleb interjected, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Yeah, what a dumb bitch I am.

“Right,” I muttered, feeling like I might collapse at any moment. “But I mean, that really isn’t my fault, sir. I’m sure you saw my portfolio... it speaks for itself.” Yeah, real convincing, Leila.

His gaze flickered to my resume. I could feel him flipping through it, his smirk never leaving.

“Last question,” Caleb said, his gaze unwavering. “Why should we hire you?”

I don’t even know why I’m here. Giving up wasn’t an option... yet.

"Uh..." I fumbled, trying to dig myself out of this hole. "I’m a fast learner, extremely adaptable to any work environment. All my experiences, even the ones in different fields, allow me to be a... a potential candidate for this role?"

Nice one, Leila. You barely believe yourself.

Caleb raised an eyebrow. Yeah, that eyebrow didn’t have any confidence in me either.

“Right... experience.” He flipped through my resume again, scanning it like a hawk. “Four online courses and barely any work experience.”

My face flushed. I fought the urge to squirm. What was I even doing here?

Leila swallowed her pride. “Well... yeah, haha...” I laughed awkwardly. “But the thing is, sir, you know this position is rare and... the field is still developing in the current world, so...” I trailed off, unsure of how to finish.

Fuck it. I give up.

Caleb kept staring at me, his gaze unyielding. The silence stretched for a few seconds before he finally smiled. But this time, it wasn’t smug.

“Alright, Mrs. Dylan. We’ll be in touch,” he said, his voice still composed. But there was something in it. Something... mischievous.

Busted. You broke-ass.

“Wait—hold on,” he said, suddenly leaning forward.

I just wanted to be freed, please. I sat down again.

“Before you go, I just have to ask—if you were a type of sandwich, which one would you be, and why would you be the most underrated, yet secretly superior sandwich on the menu?”

Okay, yeah. Funny guy. He thinks he’s being creative, doing corny shit like that. And yet... still looks cool. God, I hate pretty privilege.

“Uh…” Was this man for real?

I stared at him, and laughed. “A... a sandwich? Are you... serious?”

“Come on, it’s a simple question. What’s your secret sandwich superpower?”

“Well, on a daily basis, I’d go with an egg salad sandwich, avocado with eggs—plain choices ‘cause... simply I don’t cook. But on the menu? I’d go with the juiciest, full of meat, extra-sauce thing. Uh... , I hope this isn’t part of the interview- Okay, sorry, that's it.”

Caleb laughed, a full, rich sound that only made me want to dig myself a hole and crawl in.

“Wait, oh no, did I mess up? I think I should've said, ‘Oh, it’s the avocado sandwich—it’s simple, but has... avocado...? So it’s like work but... creativity added?’”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. He’s looking like an idiot now, thank God.

“I love you,” Caleb said.

“What? ...Is this—”

“For me, Mrs. Dylan, you're hired. But yeah, protocol... gotta discuss with the CEO first,” he interjected.

I laughed. Pretty hard. He grinned.

“Uh, what?” I said, without thinking. I don’t even know what to say at this point.

“We’ll be in touch... if you know, you know. Double meaning—”

“Ha? Thanks. I’ll go now.”

I walked out quickly. And, of course, I farted once I exited the room.

Sipping on my hot tea, wrapped in my blanket, “Do I freak out?” I said, Facetiming my homegirl.

“I still don’t understand why he said ‘I love you’ after a freakin’ sandwich question, and why the hell he asked a sandwich question in an interview!” my girl asked.

“I think this whole company is cracked. I don’t know, it feels like a joke, a prank... Man was serious at first but boom, then he seemed like a retarded 10-year-old,” I continued. “But why a company about that specializes in creating immersive digital experiences—think a mix between interactive storytelling apps, virtual AI companions, and gamified mental health tools... all that shit yet seemed... so dumb.”

“Girl, with your damn answers and that messy-ass resume of yours, I don’t think... well, of course, I’m not letting you down, but come on, let’s be real, are you even confident they’ll hire you? Bitch, you don’t want to work, why’d you do that?” Expected from her to say, yeah.

“To pay the fucking bills, Hannah. Obviously, if it’s not for that, I swear I’d do anything but work. I wanna practice electric guitar, ice skating—no, wait, I guess I’m too fat for that. Anyways, I think—” I got interrupted by her.

“Wait, you said QuantumHaven is the name of the company?”

“Yup.”

“Open the screenshot I sent you now!”

“That’s Sylus—oh no, oh no, how????”

“Your fucking ex is running the company? You didn’t know for real?” she laughed.

There’s no way I’m in.

---------------------------------

First time writing, don't come at me

It'll get better, please believe in me

[nanamineedstherapy]

Crack Extended Cut: Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

A/N: Hello. This is not a drill. Nor is it essential to the main plot. This is the DLC side quest that unlocks when your marriage turns into a corporate hostage situation and your therapist writes war reports in scented ink. I present to you: the fic where your postpartum calendar has more kill zones than a military campaign. This oneshot contains: A tactical NanamiA feral Gojo who thinks “time” is a suggestion A reader held together by caffeine and spite And a support staff that deserves a collective raise and possibly divine intervention No plot, just vibes. No fantasy, just Gojo accusing your babies of tax fraud. Reblogs > therapy. Comments > hydration. I crave chaos like Gojo craves unregulated sugar intake. Now enter the battlefield responsibly. Tuesdays only.

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Pre-Shoot: Vogue Verification Interview Recording —Not For Public Release

Int. Briefing Room—Late night.

A silent camera blinked in the corner like it had seen things it wasn’t ready to process. This wasn’t the real interview—just a “vibe check,” according to the email. A pre-verification to confirm nobody would say anything libelous, horrifying, or Gojo-related on camera.

The staff had been summoned. Not invited. Summoned. Like spirits.

A whiteboard stood at the front of the room, bleeding unhinged red ink:

Nanami-San’s Postpartum Operations & Domestic Warfare Protocol (V.17.6.4B)

Below it:

Postpartum Infantry: Rules Of Engagement

Weapons Free = Tuesdays Only —underlined three times.

Keji stood beside it like a grim-faced ghost from a failed banking career. He flipped through a leather-bound operations manual with a pen clenched between his teeth and the eyes of a man who had held your hair back while you vomited from prenatal vitamins and regret.

Someone had left a half-eaten mochi on a legal folder. Someone else held up a single baby sock with tongs, like it was evidence from a crime scene.

“If I don’t make it out of this,” Keji muttered, “delete my browser history and feed Takahashi. Norwegian sardines only. Room temp. Sprinkled with shame.”

The door hissed open with the threat of management.

Enter: Nanami Kento.

Tactical trousers. Black turtleneck. Sleeves rolled with Swiss-watch precision. The expression of a man prepared to deliver disappointing performance reviews and execute people over misfiled invoices.

He didn’t say a word. Just dropped a laminated master schedule onto the polished walnut table like a war crime.

The staff exhaled collectively, like they'd been holding their breath since week 12 of your pregnancy.

Behind him: Gojo Satoru.

He strolled in late, sipping an electric blue drink from a child’s sippy cup shaped like a bear. No shoes. Chest visible under open robe, sweatpants. One sock had a hole in the toe. His hair looked expensive, and his smirk said he knew it.

He radiated power, chaos, and the energy of someone who didn’t believe in chairs.

“Who moved my peach gummies?” he asked the room, deadpan. “Someone’s lying. I can smell fear.”

And then, you.

Barefoot. Hoodie stretched over a bump that could clear a subway seat in under four seconds. Pajama pants. Laptop under one arm, half-eaten protein cookie in the other. You weren’t late, just existing on your own non-Euclidean timeline now.

Your posture: collapsing. Your dignity: questionable. Your husbands: problematic.

Nanami cracked a pointer stick against the table like a courtroom gavel. “The schedule is sacred. That includes hydration windows and postnatal exorcism rotations.”

Gojo leaned toward the baby monitor mounted on the wall, whispering like it was a co-conspirator. “I’m going to teach them to cry in Morse code. Every blink means ‘fart.’”

You sank into a chair like you’d been shot. Your laptop slid out of your arm. You didn't flinch as Keji caught it. Your head lolled sideways—Nanami caught it with the side of his neck without looking, like this happened three times a day.

“I don’t know either of these men,” you told the camera, voice flat as you yawned. “I met them on Craigslist. They won’t leave.”

Gojo gave the camera a peace sign with one hand while texting with the other. "She's lying. I was advertised as a limited-edition collectible. Fully poseable with infinite attachments. No refunds."

Nanami didn’t look up. “No perfume in the nursery. No microwave-heated formula. And under no circumstances is anyone allowed to call the pacifier a ‘binky.’ This is a Japanese household. Not a sitcom.”

CUT TO: Staff lineup; each stood like extras in a corporate thriller that got too real too fast. Their vibes screamed “LinkedIn Premium” with undertones of “We were not trained for this.”

Int. Staff Conference Room—Pre-Shoot Day (Camera: Silent, Judgmental)

STAFF ROLL CALL:

Cursed-Artifact Housekeeper (¥20M+)

Ex-Vatican restorationist. Has opinions about demons. Dusts while muttering “Dies irae.” Once threw bleach on a haunted Fenty gloss. Still invoices Nanami in Latin.

Pregnancy-Specific Chef (¥35M+):

Michelin-starred. Male. Korean-Mexican fusion. Wept when Gojo requested “a smoothie that tastes like unresolved childhood abandonment.” Currently sourcing artisanal wasabi for anti-nausea tea. May be possessed.

Cybersecurity Lead (¥40M+):

Ex-CIA. Latina trans woman. Tatted in binary. Regularly hacks into Gojo’s fanmail database to block “OnlyFans” proposals. Helped Madame leave the country overnight (husbands suspect her involvement but are too terrified of looking her in the eye). Quietly reroutes paparazzi drones and blocks fans mailing Gojo erotic origami and “used sanitary products.” (You had given then strict instructions to never Gojo be traumatized like that. And that was the most important rule.) She and Madame share silent eye contact whenever the men get unhinged now, which screams, “Let the men speak, but never trust their judgment.”

Smart-Home Engineer (¥38M+):

Filipino. Nonbinary. Built a Wi-Fi stabilizer that prevented the twins from toggling Doomsday Mode via uterus kicks. Also installed a voice-activated "Nanami Cooldown Mode." It just plays whale sounds. Doesn't work. They now live under the table during briefings, taping baby-proof foam strips to every sharp corner like it’s an active warzone.

Sommelier/Other Butler (¥20M+):

Ex-mistress handler. Moroccan. Mastered in tea ceremonies. Now curates Gojo’s obsession with bubblegum candy-flavored tequila with real sake. Hasn’t spoken to Nanami since the “your scotch lacks character” incident. Passive-aggressive tray clinks intensify weekly.

Family Assistant (¥80M+):

Ex-G7 UN Summit Logistics Head. Japanese Female. Ex-JSDF Special Forces. Trained in executive protection and electronic countermeasures.

Now manages three calendars:

—Wife’s Business affairs

—Nanami’s postnatal defense doctrine

—Gojo’s untraceable activities (e.g., “baby yoga raves” and “hibernation days”)

Never blinks. Might be legally dead inside. Files tax returns in combat boots.

Gojo Whisperer (¥25M+):

Ex-BTS manager from Busan. Korean, 22/Male. Fluent in TikTok, baby psychology, and tactical concealer.

Stops Gojo from buying entire candy factories "for the babies." Sometimes, a budget magician when Gojo needs to be distracted. Manages his spontaneous "daddy-dates" (he keeps trying to drag Madame to onsen trips).

Falsifies ¥10M+/week expense reports to keep Gojo’s sugar empire hidden from Nanami; wife continues to spoil him.

Has a licensed industrial-grade taser for when Gojo gets the zoomies. (Gojo is yet to figure out which one of his spouses gave him that.)

Authorized to use it when Gojo hits Mach 3 after fruit snacks.

They all stared at the camera with thousand-yard stares. One was sweating so hard his collar had fused to his neck. Another mouthed the word “help” while clutching a binky like a rosary.

Keji—the Head of Ops—looked up from the whiteboard of doom and met your eyes with bleak hope.

“Is it too late to transfer to the Shibuya branch?”

“No one survived the Shibuya branch,” Nanami said dryly.

Gojo added, “And they didn’t even have your beloved Madame to save you.”

Keji rolled his eyes and sighed; this was just the prep day.

Camera: Blinking like it wanted to quit.

Sound: Still muted.

Vibes: War.

You were half-asleep in a hoodie and pajama pants, laptop now balanced on your bump, chewing your fourth protein cookie with the same energy as a raccoon mid-heist. Your head rested on Gojo’s shoulder until you leaned the wrong way, and Nanami instinctively caught it against his neck without looking up. They knew it before you, that the third trimester had you either climbing the walls or falling asleep mid-walk.

Keji looked haunted, eyes hollow as he addressed the camera. "Last week, Nanami-san asked me if I could calculate the milk-to-curd ratio in breast milk. I said no. He said he was ‘disappointed but not surprised.’ I haven’t known peace since."

Across the room, Gojo glared at the entire staff with a sort of whimsical malice that made the power flicker. "If any of you so much as breathe weird around my wife," he said slowly, “I will erase your entire bloodline from history like Thanos, but hotter and funnier.”

You, mid-cookie, squinted. "Who laminated the poop log?"

Nanami, without even glancing up from the documents, replied simply, "For consistency."

The family assistant looked directly into the camera. Her voice was calm, but her eyes screamed war trauma. "I used to negotiate nuclear ceasefires. Now I track nipple balm expiration dates."

Nanami clicked his pen like it was a detonator. "Moving on: Emergency protocol in case of Gojo malfunction."

Keji, smiling at the camera, said, "I am the malfunction protocol."

Nanami had already moved on. "All visitors are now subject to background checks. That includes the lactation consultant and the diaper delivery guy. One of them may be a c-user."

The staff, in perfect sync, turned toward the camera and said as one, "We live in hell."

You, sipping matcha like it was a tranquilizer, gave a wistful smile. "I love them. I also want to strangle them both with my display cable."

Gojo, suddenly grave, spoke with the conviction of a cult leader. "Our babies are probably going to burp a 7.5 on the Richter scale. They're strong. Like me."

Keji, tapping the whiteboard with the air of someone losing grip on reality, muttered, "Next slide."

You addressed the camera, monotone. "I founded a trillion-plus-dollar gaming company. I hold three postgraduate degrees. My CHRO made Forbes under 25. And I’m in a mandatory tactical briefing about... pacifiers."

Nanami, flipping to the next chart, continued unfazed. "Section 4A. Microwave usage is strictly forbidden. All formula is to be temperature-verified manually. Twice."

Gojo mock-whispered, "He once used a laser thermometer on me when I had a fever. Told me I was ‘not up to code.’"

Your eyes met the cybersecurity lead’s across the room. No words were exchanged. Just silent recognition. Mutual war veterans.

Keji, meanwhile, tried to quietly staple two copies of the Emergency Latch Failure Flowchart, but the staple jammed. He stared at it like it just insulted his mother.

Gojo, now sideways in a chair chewing a Pocky stick like a cigarette, asked, "Hypothetical. What if the babies explode? Not in a ‘haha’ way—but like biblically."

Nanami didn’t even pause. "I’ve accounted for it."

Gojo tilted his head slowly towards you and slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose with a single finger. Smirked. Then leaned into your space with that familiar looseness in his spine and a dangerous glint behind his lashes and stole a quick kiss. “...Okay.”

Before you could stop it, your lips twitched. A smile slipped through. You tried to bury it in your matcha, but your eyes were already shining.

Gojo noticed. Of course he did.

His grin curled, already leaning in for another kiss—

—but Nanami, still reading, extended one arm with clinical practice and shoved Gojo back into his chair without so much as a glance. Then, in the same fluid motion, he pulled you to his side by the curve of your waist like it was procedure. Like you hadn’t already been sitting close enough to share body heat.

You inhaled. Subtle. His cologne—woodsmoke, vetiver, clean linen. Your eyes were half-lidded before you caught yourself.

Nanami was aware. Didn’t comment. He merely flipped a page.

Just then, the sommelier entered with a lacquered tray of wine samplers resting on pastel bunny-shaped coasters. Gojo perked up. Your eyes narrowed.

You turned to Nanami. Gaze sharp. Daring him. Try it. Challenging him to drink so you can fight him today. Right now infact. Your hormones were jumping up and down to square up.

The sommelier, reading the room perfectly, murmured, "Non-alcoholic. For scent pairing analysis."

You sipped one, internally deflated that you couldn’t fight Nanami, and deadpanned, "Tastes like passive aggression and unpaid emotional labor."

Nanami exhaled slowly and rubbed his temple with the pad of his thumb. “The twins’ feeding chart is now synced to the smart-home alert system. There is no excuse for missed warm-up times.”

Under the conference table, the smart-home engineer gave a thumbs-up, fully tangled in foam strips and headphone cables.

Gojo raised his hand. “Follow-up: Is warm subjective?”

Nanami didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You tried to keep a straight face. You failed. Again.

Then, you turned to the camera, whispering, "They built a failsafe so I wouldn’t scream when the doorbell rings. I haven’t turned it off in six weeks."

Gojo suddenly yelled, "Question! If I accidentally ordered ten pounds of mango mochi, does that violate the 'no sugar after 3PM' clause?"

Nanami replied instantly, "Yes."

Gojo grinned, leaping up from his chair, and ran outside. "Good. It’s here."

Moments later, a scream echoed from the front door. Gojo re-entered the room, triumphant, robe flapping on top of his bare chest, mochi bag in hand.

The Gojo Whisperer stormed in behind him. "Sir, please stop chasing couriers with your robe open."

Nanami, without blinking, stated, "This is why we have tasers."

Keji looked into the lens and grinned. "I’m considering faking my own death. Not out of fear. Just boredom."

The whiteboard cleared as a new slide clicked into place.

Emergency Infant Power Surge Protocol: Level Orange

An ominous illustration of a baby surrounded by flames. Possibly prophetic.

Nanami, completely unbothered, said, "Drills begin Monday."

Gojo, now lying flat on the floor with his legs perched on a chair, muttered, "If I die in this meeting, bury me in the nursery. Tell the babies I tried."

You, now chewing the mochi Gojo gave you, eyes glazed, said, "I told Business Insider I was on sabbatical. This is not a sabbatical. This is a hostage situation with burp cloths."

Keji, with full deadpan gravitas, yanked the lever labeled ‘Practice Fire Only.’ "Meeting adjourned."

[Camera: Still Rolling]

[Tension: Unresolved]

[Vibes: Maximum]

[End Pre-Shoot Briefing]

A/N: Thank you for surviving this HR-compliant fever dream masquerading as domestic fluff. If you’re wondering whether the weapons are metaphorical, I’m legally not allowed to confirm. This fic was brought to you by: * A passive-aggressive butler with unresolved scotch trauma * A cybersecurity goddess who blocked Gojo's unsolicited foot pic subscribers * A sommelier with a vendetta and an exorcist who beefs with haunted lip gloss * And one extremely tired wife who never asked for twins, two husbands, or Tuesday warfare Leave a comment or reblog with: Your favorite cursed staff member What you think Gojo’s sippy cup drink was made of Whether Nanami has ever smiled in this scene (answer: no, but lie to me) Reblog if you'd hire the Gojo Whisperer. Comment if you'd run. Bookmark if you're also third-wheeling your own relationship bcs he won't stop hanging with his homies. Tag yourself. I'm the smart-home engineer living under the table.

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