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applestorms · 7 hours ago

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@jessaerys ok shit this took a while but WHATEVER. wammy's lore collection here we go :3c less analysis this time, this is mostly just to archive the main known details we have in canon about the house, and also the people from there more generally. however much you wanna accept all this/take it at face value is up to You, Dear Reader (and tbh y'all should just read all these if ur curious since they're all pretty short + have Interesting narrators. i'll include links to free versions). do whatever you want forever etc. etc. also, SPOILERS. obviously.

LABB: (listen here)

no this book isn't written by ohba. yes i'm including it. shush. anyways, most of the lore in this comes from mello's vague comments about beyond's backstory, but there's a Lot of interesting things established in this, so. here's a bunch of notable quotes. if you're not already familiar, please keep in mind that the narrator of this novel is mello, writing at some point shortly before his death.

"L. The century's greatest detective. In light of his staggering mental abilities, L died an unjust and untimely death. In the public record alone he solved over 3,500 difficult crimes, and sent three times that number of degenerates to prison. He wielded incredible power, was able to mobilize every investigative bureau in the entire world, and was applauded generously for his efforts. And during it all, he never showed his face." (pg. 10)

"So, what you're reading now are my notes about L. It's a dying message, not from me, and not directed at the world. The person who will most likely read this first will probably be that big-headed twit Near. But if that's the case, I will not tell him to shred or burn these pages. If it causes him pain to discover that I knew things about L that he did not, then that's fine." (pg. 10-11)

"I am one of the few people who ever met L as L. When and how I met him...this is the single most valuable memory I have, and I will not write it here, but on that occasion L related to me three stories of his exploits, and the episode involving Beyond Birthday was one of these." (pg. 11)

"Obviously, it never came to light that L--and more importantly, Wammy's House, which raised me until I was fifteen--was deeply connected to the matter, but in fact, they were. L, on principle, never got involved in a case unless there were more than ten victims or a million dollars at stake, and this is the real reason why he belatedly, but aggressively, involved himself in this little case, which only ever had three or four victims. I will explain further in the pages that follow, but for this reason, the case of the Los Angeles BB murders is a watershed event for L, for me, and even for Kira. It was a monumental event for all of us. Why? Because this is the case where L first introduced himself as Ryuzaki." (pg. 11)

"For any one else but those two [Near and Kira], my identity may be of no interest, but I am the old world's runner-up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago. Good memories and nightmares." (pg. 12)

"She [Naomi Misora] briefly considered the idea that Raye Penber, or someone else, was playing a practical joke on her, but she found it hard to believe that anyone would be so bold to sign their name as such. L never revealed himself in public or in private, but Misora had heard several horror stories about what happened to detectives who tried passing themselves off as L. It was safe to say that no one would dare use his name, even in jest." (pg. 18)

"This was L, so he was undoubtedly solving several other difficult cases all at once. Cases all over the world. For him, this case was just one of many parallel investigations. How else could he maintain his reputation as the world's greatest detective? The century's greatest detective, L. The detective with no clients." (pg. 35)

"L had earned a certain degree of hostility from other detectives, and the jealous ones called him a hermit detective, or a computer detective, but neither of these is a particularly accurate representation of the truth. Naomi Misora had also tended to think of L as an armchair detective, but in fact, L was quite the opposite, a very active, aggressive individual. [swoon.] While he had absolutely no interest in social connections, he was certainly not the kind of detective to shut himself up in a dark room with the shades drawn and refuse to come out. It is now common knowledge that the three great post war detectives, L, Eraldo Coil and Danuve were all actually the same person. Certainly, anyone reading these notes is almost certain to know...though they may not know that L engaged in a war with the real Eraldo Coil, and the real Danuve, and emerged victorious, claiming their detective codes. The details of this detective war I will save for another occasion, but in addition to those three names, L possessed many other detective codes. I have no idea how many, but there were at least three digits' worth. And quite a number of those were fairly public detectives--just like, as anyone reading these notes must know, he appeared before Kira, calling himself Ryuzaki or Ryuga Hideki. Of course, Naomi Misora had no way of knowing this, but in my opinion, the name L was, for him, just one of many. He never had any direct connection to that identity, he never thought of himself as L--it was just the most famous and most powerful of the many detective codes he used during his life. The name had its uses, but lacked obscurity. L had a real name that nobody knew, and nobody will ever know, but a name which only he knew never defined him. I sometimes wonder if L himself ever knew exactly which name was written in the Death Note, which name it was that killed him. I wonder." (pg. 43-44)

"If we must discuss why L so adamantly refused to reveal himself, we can explain it very simply: doing so was dangerous. Very dangerous. While the world leaders should make efforts to ensure the safety of all the finest minds, not only for detectives, the fact is that the current societal systems do not allow for this, and L believed he had no choice but to protect his mind under his own power. By simple arithmetic, L's ability in 2002 was the equivalent of five ordinary investigative bureaus, and seven intelligence agencies (and by the time he faced off against Kira, those numbers had leapt upward several more notches). This is easy to think of as a reason to respect and admire someone, but let me say this as clearly as possible: that much ability in one human is extremely dangerous. Modern danger management techniques rely heavily on defusing risk, but his very existence was the exact opposite. In other words, if someone was planning to commit a crime, they would greatly increase their chances of getting away with it by simply killing L before they began. That was why L hid his identity. Not because he was shy, or because he never left the house. To ensure his own safety. For a detective of L's ability, self-preservation and the preservation of world peace were one and the same, and it would not be correct to describe his actions as cowardly or self-centered." (pg. 69 nice)

"So whenever L was working, he would usually have someone else as his public face--and in this particular case, the FBI agent Naomi Misora was filling that role." (pg. 70)

"Beyond Birthday had the eyes of a shinigami congenitally. It was not particularly difficult for him to track down people with the initials B.B. or find people who were fated to die on a certain day at a certain time." (pg. 94)

"Normally contact with a shinigami was a prerequisite for acquisition, but Beyond Birthday had traded nothing--he had seen through those eyes since before he could remember. He knew your name before you said it. He knew the time of death of every person he met." (pg. 94)

"You might think [the eyes] would hardly be useful without a Death Note, but that is simply not the case. The ability to see someone's remaining life is the ability to see death. Death, death, death. Beyond Birthday lived his life unceasingly reminded that all humans would eventually die. From the time he was born he knew the day his father would be attacked by a thug and die, knew the day his mother would die in a train crash. He had these eyes before he was born, which is why he called himself Beyond Birthday. Which is why a child as strange as he was taken in by our home, sweet home--Wammy's House. He was B. The second child in Wammy's House." (pg. 94-95)

"The competition between L and B. L and B's puzzle. 'If L's a genius, then B's an extreme genius. If L's a freak, then B's an extreme freak. Now it's time to get ready. There are things I must do before B can surpass L. Henh henh henh henh.' This thought was the only thing that made him laugh without needing to think about it. And those that know will recognize the laugh of the shinigami. Still grinning to himself, he faced the mirror, brushed his hair, and began applying his makeup. The reflection of himself in the mirror. Himself. As always, he could not see his own time of death. No more than he could see the death of the world." (pg. 96)

"We were raised at Wammy's House in England, in Winchester, as L's successors, as L's alternatives, but that does not mean we knew anything more about L than anyone else. Including myself, only a few of us ever met L as L, and even I knew nothing about L before he met Watari--Quillish Wammy, the genius inventor who founded Wammy's House. Nobody knows what's going on in L's head. But even so, I know how Watari felt. Looking at L's incredible talents from the perspective of an inventor--of course he wanted to make a copy, of course he wanted to create a backup. Anyone would feel the same. As I have already explained, L never appeared in public. L knew that his own death would increase the crime rate all over the world by a few dozen percentage points. But what if they could copy him? What if they could make a backup? That was us. L's children, gathered from all corners of the world.

"But even for a genius like Watari, creating a fake L was easier said than done. Even for Near and I, who were said to be the closest to L...the more we tried to be like him, the closer we got, the father away he was, like chasing a mirage. So I hardly need to tell you what it was like when Wammy's House was first founded, when he was still experimenting. The first child, A, was unable to handle the pressure of living up to L and took his own life, and the second child, Beyond Birthday, was brilliant and deviant. B stood for Backup.

"But B tried to surpass L, not become him...no, that might not be right. I have no way of knowing the inner workings of his mind. He...their generation was not like the fourth generation, with Near and I, all the children bound only to the code with the serial L. They were prototypes, never even given the L code, expected to fail. I prefer to refrain from idle speculation based on my own experiences, but, well, Beyond Birthday may have thought something like this: As long as there was L, B would never be L. As long as the original existed, the copy was always a copy." (pg. 104-105)

"The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. L.A.B.B.--L is After Beyond Birthday. This reading is why I think this name is so much closer to the killer's intentions than the Wara Ningyo Murders, or the Los Angeles Serial Locked Room Killings. I wasn't talking about the names on a purely stylistic basis. Whether Beyond Birthday had put that much thought into it I have no idea, but if he had a specific reason for choosing to commit his murders in L.A., then that is probably why. I am sure he had a much more personal obsession with L as an individual than Near or I ever did. I can understand why someone would become a criminal in order to fight against a detective, which is why I can write something like this, but even so. What did he hope to accomplish by killing unrelated people? Or perhaps B simply wanted to meet L. Then he could use the eyes of the shinigami he'd been born with and see L's real name, see when L would die. He would be able to figure out who L was. Beyond Birthday had never told anyone that he had the eyes of a shinigami, and it would not surprise me at all if he believed himself to be some kind of shinigami." (pg. 105-106)

"Beyond Birthday challenged L. And L accepted the challenge. To put it bluntly, the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases were nothing but an internal struggle, a civil war within our home, sweet home-- Wammy's House. Unfortunate for the victims that got mixed up in it, but even if Beyond Birthday had not killed them, all those victims were fated to die that day, at that time, for some other reason, so logically and morally, their deaths were unavoidable. So in the strictest sense of the word, the only one who really got mixed up in their war was Naomi Misora." (pg. 106)

"L was said to never move on a case unless there were more than ten victims or a million dollars at stake. The only exceptions to this were cases at difficulty level L (extremely fitting), or when L had personal reasons compelling him to get involved. The Los Angeles BB Murders were both of these. I hardly need to point out the difficulty by this stage of the story, and L was essentially fighting his own dead copy. [harsh, dude.] The current head of Wammy's House had told Quillish Wammy/Watari, who had told L about B's disappearance in May, and ever since L had been looking for him even as he solved other cases. Wammy's House only knew him as B--they did not know his real name, Beyond Birthday, so this search was near impossible, but L knew who the killer was. He had not been looking for a killer so much as he was looking for a case. L had been waiting, expecting Beyond Birthday to do something to challenge him. L could move any policeman in the world, but in this case, he could not ask anyone for help except Naomi Misora...more than likely, for this reason. I don't think L really put that much stock in honor, but everyone is embarrassed by their own sins, and nobody wants those missteps to become public knowledge. L was the goal of everyone in Wammy's House. Every one of us wanted to surpass him. To step over him. To step on him. M did, N did, and B did. M as a challenger, N as a successor. B as a criminal." (pg. 116-117)

"No matter what she did, she had no way of knowing. That this killer, Beyond Birthday, could tell someone's name and time of death just by looking at their face, that he had been born with the eyes of a shinigami--she had no way of knowing that fake names were useless with him, completely and utterly pointless. How could she have known? Even Beyond Birthday himself could not explain how he had been born with the eyes of the shinigami, how he could use them with no payment, with no arrangement. Neither Misora nor L knew why, and, obviously, neither do I. The closest thing to an explanation I can offer is that there are shinigami stupid enough to drop their notebooks in our world, so there might well be shinigami stupid enough to drop their eyes." (pg. 193-140)

"'So, Naomi Misora...' said L, wrapping up. But Misora hastily stammered, 'Um, er, L...' but then she hesitated, not sure if she should ask this or not. 'You...know the killer, right?' 'Yes, as I said. He is B.' 'I don't mean like that...I mean, he's someone you know personally?' On the 16th, L had said that he had known the killer was B, and she had sort of known ever since, but two days before, L had said something that changed her guess to conviction. Whatever you do, please catch the killer. The century's greatest detective, L, would never say that about some ordinary indiscriminate serial killer. And the way his letter was just one letter long... 'Yes,' the synthetic voice agreed." (pg. 144-145)

"'I have nothing to do with him,' L said. 'To be completely accurate, I do not even know B. He is simply someone I am aware of. But none of this affects my judgement. Certainly, I was interested in this case, and began to investigate it because I knew who the killer was. But that did not alter the way I investigated it, or the manner in which my investigation proceeded. Naomi Misora, I cannot overlook evil. I cannot forgive it. It does not matter if I know the person who commits evil or not. I am only interested in justice.'" (pg. 145)

"My great and respected predecessor, the man whose actions were a strong influence on me personally, B, B.B., Beyond Birthday--obviously, I need hardly explain again that the murders themselves were not his purpose. So what was he doing? Again, I hardly need to explain--he was challenging the man he copied, the century's greatest detective L. A matter of winning or losing. A contest." (pg. 159)

"Since L could solve every case no matter how challenging, if he created a case so difficult that L as unable to solve it, B would have defeated L." (pg. 159)

"He knew that the moment he took action Wammy's House and Watari would alert L, so he did not even bother trying to stop them. He could only guess at which stage of his plan L would start to come after him, so he prepared things carefully, ready for L's entrance at any point." (pg. 159)

"B approached Naomi Misora, calling himself Rue Ryuzaki. Rue Ryuzaki--L.L. For anyone from Wammy's House, there could be no higher goal than identifying yourself with that letter--and Beyond Birthday seized this case as his chance. even Naomi Misora knew what had happened to detectives falsely identifying themselves as L, and B was from Wammy's House, so he knew this better than anyone--so this choice suggests the strength of his decision. He never once intended to survive--had had made up his mind. He was ready." (pg. 160) [trans. note: the name "Rue" in Japanese, ルエ (ru-e), is an anagram of エル (e-ru), which is how L is pronounced.]

"Naturally, his face and fingerprints would burn as well--he had always disguised himself with heavy makeup while he was with Misora, and he never left a picture behind, so even if someone directly affiliated with Wammy's House inspected the body, they would have no idea that Rue Ryuzaki/Beyond Birthday was B from Wammy's House. He had left nothing to connect Beyond Birthday to B." (pg. 162)

"B was presenting the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases to L as a case that could never be solved. That L could never solve. In other words, he had never prepared any clear solution to it--since the killer had committed suicide, disguised as the fourth victim, there was no longer a killer to catch, and no clues left to catch him with." (pg. 163)

"My poor, poor predecessor. Not only was he utterly and completely defeated, but he survived, driving home his embarrassment...he must have longed for death. Accept my condolences, B." (pg. 169-170)

"If I had space left over I had intended to carry right on into the other two stories I heard from L: the story of the detective war between the three greatest detectives, all solving that infamous bio-terror case, with guest appearances by the last of the alphabet, the first X to the first Z from Wammy's House; and the story of how the world's greatest inventor, Quillish Wammy, aka Watari, had first met L, then about eight year's old--the case that gave birth to the century's greatest detective, the Winchester Mad Bombings that occurred just after the third World War. But however objectively I look at things, I do not have the space or the time. Oh well." (pg. 170)

"She had spoken to L only once after the killer was arrested. He thanked her for helping to solve the case, and told her just a little about the background of the case. That B had been a candidate to succeed L, and that the pressure of that had driven him off track." (pg. 171)

"And a few years after his arrest, on January 21st, 2004, serving a life sentence in a California prison, Beyond Birthday died of a mysterious heart attack." (pg. 173)

C-KIRA: (read here)

near grief :pensive: pretty sure this was animated in the anime movie thing?? tbh i still need to watch that. Very interesting as some of the most recent post-main story lore we get about wammy's imo. less quotes now + more summarizing since these are just comics

near has apparently only "talked" to L once (in quotes since he didn't actually say anything, just sat in the back of the room doing a puzzle the entire time. real asf girl)

during this "conversation," roger or one of the orphanage heads set up the usual L screen + a camera/mic so that L could see all the kids and answer their questions.

notably, mello & near didn't ask any questions, just lurked in the back watching L with a "nasty look in [their] eyes," which near assumes is what made him pick them to be his top successors, considering the fact that he didn't actually look at any of their data. (somewhat seems to imply that L didn't actually give a shit about grades or anything like that when picking his main successors?)

while answering questions, near is caught off guard by one of L's answers. to transcribe it all directly here--

NEAR (NARRATING): At the time, I didn't think L would put it so bluntly. L: It's not a sense of justice. L: Figuring out difficult cases is my hobby. If you measured good and evil deeds by current laws, I would be responsible for many crimes. L: The same way you all like to solve mysteries and riddles, or clear video games more quickly... For me too, its simply prolonging something I enjoy doing. L: That's why I only take on cases that pique my interest. It's not justice at all. And if it means being able to clear a case, I don't play fair, I'm a dishonest, cheating human being, who hates losing...

not quite the monster speech, but fascinating all the same. near seems to imply that this answer sent some kids into a despair spiral, but it actually caused him to like L more and more, feeling that he was, "exactly the kind of person who wanted to achieve his own goals." kinda goes against the HTR13 ohba comment? shrug

The Wammy's House/L's One Day: (read here)

honestly i interpret these comics as like. canon crack fic. but anyways, here's the established L lore included in these two.

L was taken into wammy's as a nameless orphan at an unknown but likely quite young age

very soon after arriving he beats up all the other kids he meets--

he is "utterly incompatible," with all the other kids and monopolizes all the things he likes simply cause he's stronger than them and presumably could fight them for it-- naturally, he ends up usually just playing by himself

notably, this all establishes that L isn't the first kid at wammy's, that there was already at least one generation of older kids living there before he got there (and could eventually turn it into an L successor creating machine)

once watari realizes that L has some outstanding mental abilities, he gives him his own private room and a computer. afterwards, L spends most of his time sitting in front of the puter by himself

L requests that watari buy 1 million pounds with Japanese yen and tells him which stocks to buy, causing his assets to reach "almost 20,000 times the original amount," in two years. visually this is depicted as happening when L is still quite young

several years later, L stumbles across a serial murder case in the news, which is the first he solves, starting his new career path

L can stay awake for 100+ hours and then gets over it by sleeping for like 17 hours. pictures also may imply that he doesn't actually sleep in a bed, but just lies down sideways in his chair. RIP yotsuba light's perfectly designed sleep schedule

L also shits/pisses in the same position he usually sits in (frog-pose), facing the tank south park style

he is a big fan of cleanliness!! human washing machine etc. etc. honestly i think this is just another way for him to hold that same crouched position

text says he always has, "ten or so identical sets of clothes prepared for him," since he's picky about it, but the art itself shows way more than ten. also rare shirtless L moment?? (watari helps)

L does in fact go outside!! he likes roller coasters/theme parks, swinging, art galleries, live music, etc. though most of the time he just sits in his room thinking thru shit n solving cases.

#death note #astronaut rambles #wammy's house #l lawliet #quillish wammy #mello death note #near death note #if my piracy links don't work don't come at me #you can google this shit real easy #probably shoulda included HTR13 too but that's more theoretical/controversial and also. i don't have my copy w/ me rn so.#fuck it #anyways. here is my end of year message to read/listen to LABB please god it's so fucking goooooooooood #mihael keehl #nate river #lotsa stuff i always forget in LABB glad i went thru that again #like beyond dying weeks after naomi i always thought his death was like. right at the start of KIRA. but no. sigh #also mello & near being like fourth generation wammy's?? wild #i'm kinda interpreting the generations thing as however many times they go through the alphabet now tbh #like there were three other N's before Near etc.#hmm. anyways

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38sr · 6 hours ago

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I know this is gonna be a strange one, but I do have an industry question;

I've been looking for a job for the last 4 years post-grad, I've tried every bit of advice I've gotten over my 6 years in school and 4 years out. Is it too late for me?? Or more so what advice would you have at this point?? I'm starting to feel really negatively about this venture, and getting a day job has been just as difficult;;

Hello Sky! Hope it's okay to call you that. Ah post-grad job hunting.....I don't miss that period of my life at all. Before I begin, just want to preface that what I say going forward is strictly from my perspective/experience. I am not the absolute of the animation industry so if what I say doesn't align with you, you do not have to follow it haha. Alright, advice for post grad job hunting.... Well, I think I want to start off giving a bit of context for the animation landscape these past 4 years that has been rough for everyone (trust me it'll come back around to your question): 1.) COVID Pandemic

This one might be a confusing for some people because when COVID hit in 2020, the only facet of entertainment that was able to keep going was animation. If you remember, during this time streaming numbers went up because people were stuck at home, every studio was launching their own streaming platform (HBO Max, Disney+, Peacock, etc.) and celebrities were given animated shows because live-action had stopped dead in its tracks. This period allowed artists outside of California state to get hired because what's the point of capping the talent to the local area when we're already working remotely? In short, it was a boom. But an exponential boom rather than a gradual boom. You never wanna grow too fast because you'll crash out quicker (and harder) which leads us to our second factor.... 2.) Netflix's first ever round of layoffs in summer 2022, streaming actually isn't profitable?????

In short, this year is when Netflix's growth finally stopped and was the beginning of The Great Animation Contraction. Other studios who were looking to Netflix as a the new model of distributing/creating entertainment had realized Netflix wasn't invincible. As well as their business model. So naturally, they got scared and and take action (aka layoffs). I was affected by these layoffs while working at Marvel Studios and many artists got laid off at studios to save face from the mistake that was streaming (though at this point studios were still double downing on it). Also, around this time live-action was slowly restarting thanks to vaccines and social distancing protocols. So those celebrity studded animated productions dwindled down (and also they caused so much havoc for us animation workers because most of those celebrities had no animation production experience). Which now leads us to...

3.) Mergers everywhere! Yeah, uh, mergers fucking suck. People kept losing their jobs because companies kept absorbing into each other and multiplying their debts to ungodly dollars amounts! Apparently no one took a math class and understood if you multiply any number by zero you will always get a zero. These merger also caused more shows to get shelved and canned, making the job market even slimmer. And by then we get to 2023 and the....

4.) WGA, SAG and TAG Contract Negotiations By now, studios have realized that streaming is losing them money because it costs a butt load of money to not only create a streaming site, but also maintain it, update it, create new media for it, acquire established franchises for it, and maintain the current library. Streaming shows aren't being advertised like they used to on cable so shows don't last beyond one or two seasons. Worker contracts are becoming shorter and shorter (I had a co-worker who had a 3 month contract! Isn't that insane?). And what happens in the midst of this streaming meltdown?

WGA, SAG and TAG are gearing up for their contract negotiations. And as we know SAG (actors) and WGA (writers) did strike which good for them! But now there are no live-action jobs and once again, animation (TAG) is the only one running because our negotiations don't officially start until 2024. At this point, so many animated productions have been cancelled left and right for the sake of "saving money and cutting costs". And the effects were very much being felt in the animation work force. Some animation workers were starting to leave the state of California to more affordable cities, some getting day jobs as baristas, hell some leaving the industry all together. It didn't help that studios were kind of withholding production greenlights 'cause 1) they're greedy corporations 2) these strikes were putting pressure on them. And when we did enter 2024 for our contract negotiations, that contraction was at the tightest. The job market for animation had become so bone dry that you have director-level talent taking entry level jobs to stay afloat. But because of that new, emerging artists are blocked out from breaking in. Anytime a job listing would go up people would go in a frenzy and try every thing they could to get the job. That's how little shows were in production this year specifically. Of course, by now it is public that TAG has ratified the contract (meaning we will not strike). But up until then, studios were quite literally waiting with baited breath for the duration of negotiations. A ton of stuff was in development but nothing was getting a greenlight in fear of a strike. So many animation workers at this point have been laid off for at least 2 years, got priced out of LA county, or got so burned by the industry that they left for a more sustainable paycheck. At this point of the post you're probably thinking, "Why is she talking about all of this and not answering my question?"

And the reason for that is because I what to highlight you didn't miss your chance. You unfortunately graduated at a time where the circumstances were not good for breaking in for the past 4 years.

I'm not saying this to deter you from animation either. I just want to be transparent and honest about the current state of animation because it really has been bleak for the past 4 years. So it's not your fault but rather the industry was just in a seriously bad drought. Both emerging and veteran artists have been struggling to find work and when they do it didn't even last for 6 months. Hopefully, with the renewed contract studios will start greenlighting productions again so everyone isn't fighting for one job opening. But I can't tell 'cause I am not Raven Baxter haha. But what advice can I give during this tough time? Start developing your own projects. Things may be pretty dry right now but now is the time when you can create and develop your own original stuff that can be used in your portfolio. Short or long form, showing progress videos, just create. Because once you start working it's gonna be hard to find that personal project time (trust me I'm going through that right now haha). Also, you'd be surprised how just doing your own thing can garner the attention of someone who does have the power to hire you. How do you think I got to work on the shows I have in the animation industry? Almost all of my jobs happened because I was just creating my own thing and it just happened to match the sensibilities of a show produced by a Hollywood studio. And if I had any additional advice... it would probably be don't think that Hollywood is the only way you can tell your stories.

This one is more of....a recent revelation I've had after going through a pretty bad work experience but Hollywood isn't the only way you can be a storyteller. Whether it's comics, games, streaming, animation, or film....the Hollywood system isn't the end all be all. And by Hollywood system I'm referring to breaking into a big studio like Disney, Nick or something and trying to get your own movie/tv show to win an award or something. That system often works for a certain group of people and fails other groups. That's why I say develop and create your own thing because you might find something that fits your creative voice more than Disney or any other Hollywood studio. Maybe that's inconsiderate of me to say as someone who's been incredibly lucky to work in the animation industry for almost 8 years now....but I still wanna be honest that there are other avenues that isn't the Hollywood way. All in all, please don't give up or beat yourself up. The current state of animation within America was out your control and resulted in many artists struggling to find a job. You aren't too late. In fact, I would say now is your time to do your thing in preparation for when that hiring boom comes again (or you can just take another route to tell your stories). I hope that answered your question!

#ask #animation industry #industryQs #txt

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mldrgrl · 1 day ago

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La La Land

by: mldrgrl Rating: Teen Pairing: Hanella Summary: Hank gets an offer he can't refuse and brings Stella along.

Never in Hank’s career had one of his novels been so sought after for a film deal. Charlie had been fielding calls on a daily basis from studio execs and some fairly prestigious producers trying to smooth talk their way into buying the rights. Some of the offers were so low it was offensive, but some had been worth listening to their pitch before Hank ultimately shot them down. Charlie just assumed Hank was trying to start a bidding war, but no amount of money could tempt Hank over this book. Maybe for the first time in his life, he felt extremely protective over this piece of work and he wasn’t going to let some studio bastardize his masterpiece, not for all the money in the world.

And then Netflix came calling and their offer to fly him out to LA and hear what they had to say happened to coincide with Stella’s spring break and well, why not take a free trip to the west coast, first class, for some wining and dining on someone else’s dime? Three days and two nights at The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, because what could be more Hollywood than Marilyn Monroe’s former residence? Sure.

Stella was whisked away almost as soon as they arrived. Per the check-in clerk, “your wife has been booked for a spa treatment, Sir, and the studio has sent a car for your meeting.” And with that, fingers were snapped, a bellhop appeared, and Hank went one way, Stella another. Charlie was waiting in the black Escalade that was apparently his ride to the studio.

“Runkle,” Hank said, putting his agent in a headlock to rub his knuckles back and forth over his smooth, bald head.

“Dammit, Hank,” Charlie complained, slapping at Hank’s arm.

“What? It’s not like I’m gonna mess up your hair.” Hank pressed his lips to the top of Charlie’s head before he released him.

“No, but you’ll wrinkle me.” Charlie pushed himself across the car seat, away from Hank, smoothing his tie down his chest.

“Same Runkle, still as tightly clenched as a nun’s twat.”

“This is a big deal, Hank. Netflix has more money than God and they want your book. Maybe they want a whole development deal. I could retire. I could spend the rest of my days sipping mai tais on a lanai in Florida.”

“Florida is where rich assholes go to die, Charlie.”

“Hank, I’m telling you, I think this is big. They fly you out here, they put you up at the Roosevelt, they’re sending private cars, they don’t just do that for a lowball offer.”

“I know how much dollar signs get you hard, Charlie, but try not to nut before we even get to the meeting. Besides, I’m probably not even going to say yes.”

“Ohhhhhh…” Charlie bent his head back and put a hand over his chest. “Hank, you say things like that and it triggers my agita.”

“They’re gonna want to change the ending, which is a nonstarter for me, and they’re gonna want to cast some…some America’s sweetheart like Reese fucking Witherspoon as Miranda, which tells me that they haven’t even read the book at all, they had some intern pass on a synopsis and they don’t give a fuck about the actual material, they just want content. They’re just a fucking content factory shitting out turdburgers that only like five percent of is even watchable.”

“What’s wrong with Reese Witherspoon?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Reese Witherspoon except you can’t cast Reese Witherspoon in a part that should go to…I don’t know who, but the opposite of Reese Witherspoon.”

“I think you’re really underestimating Reese Witherspoon here, Hank, she’s a fantastic actress, you know she’s an Academy Award winner.”

“Jesus, Runkle, you’re missing the point.”

“Okay, okay.” Charlie put his hands up in surrender. “No Reese Witherspoon.”

Hank closed his eyes. It’d been years since he smoked, but he wanted a cigarette. Every time he came back to LA it was more and more apparent what a hostile, toxic environment it was for him. He didn’t want to go to the meeting anymore, he just wanted to have the driver turn the car around and take him back to Stella. Take him back to New York. He never should have come. It would have been a lot less time consuming to just tell them to fuck off over Zoom.

After they arrived at the studio lot, Hank and Charlie were escorted to the production offices by a young PA whose voice had probably just cracked, but was eager to please. He brought them bottles of water and a tray of snacks which Hank refused and Charlie happily dug into and ripped open a bag of peanuts. The conference room they were left in had a long, sleek table made of solid oak and a view of Sunset Boulevard.

Minutes later, a young woman entered the room through a side door and an entourage of assistants, all women, filed in behind her, all sitting in chairs along one wall as she approached Hank and Charlie. She was tall and angular and looked as though she’d stepped off of the latest cover of Vogue. Her long dark hair was pulled into a slick ponytail and her heels were as sharp as her nails, painted black.

“Eloise Lambert,” she said, extending her hand to Hank. “We appreciate you coming down. Did Paul offer you tea or espresso or is there anything else we can get for you?”

“An espresso sounds nice,” Charlie said.

“You must be the agent,” Eloise said, shifting her handshake to Charlie. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Charles Runkle. Love the set up here. Great production house you’ve got.”

“Settle down, Charlie, they’re supposed to be kissing our asses here, not the other way around.”

Eloise smiled and moved away to take a seat across from the two of them at the short side of the table. One of the assistants slid an espresso in front of Charlie while another slid an ipad in front of Eloise.

“You know I was a PA on A Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” Eloise said, referring to the movie that had been made of Hank’s breakout best seller, God Hates Us All. “It was the first film set I was ever on.”

“Oh?” Hank said, keeping himself as relaxed as possible as visions of sexual harassment charges started dancing in his head.

“And it’s when I vowed that one day I would be an executive producer. It’s criminal how that was adapted. It makes sense to me why you’ve turned down all the other offers for this.”

“I may or may not have punched the director in the dick at a screening, but I got over it, eventually.”

“Todd Carr. Decent guy. Shit director.”

“I take it he’s not on the shortlist for this?”

“I think he’s working on industrials these days.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m going to have Sabrina here take over with the pitch.” Eloise pulled out the empty chair that was next to her and one of the women came over to sit beside her. She was almost a carbon copy of her boss with her dark, slick-backed hair and sharp heels, but she also resembled a child playing dress up.

“Mr. Moody,” Sabrina said, nodding at Hank. “Mr. Runkle. I’m sure the two of you know Reese Witherspoon.”

Hank pressed his lips together and shot his agent a look. Charlie’s eyes were wide, but he kept them forward. Hank felt like kicking him under the table, but refrained.

“Uh, yeah,” Hank said. “I’ve heard of her.”

“It’s not really a secret that her book club has been a major success and that most of her picks have then gone on to be developed from there.”

“Mmhm.”

“We’d like to do something similar, but we want to cultivate a selection that has a bit more…edge, let’s say.”

Hank relaxed a little. “So you’re not looking at Reese for…casting?”

“Casting?” It was Sabrina that tensed now. “That would be a very interesting choice. Is that…is that who you had in mind for Miranda?”

“God, no.”

“Okay, great.” Sabrina nodded and then gestured at someone over her shoulder. “We do have a few choices in mind, if you’d like to take a look.”

“Yeah, sure.”

One of the women gave some papers to Sabrina and then she slid them across the desk to Hank and Charlie. It was a standard breakdown of the characters and the first name on the list under Miranda was Catherine Keener. He could see that. He could even get behind that.

“Okay,” Hank said. “Back to the anti-Witherspoon book club.”

“Not anti, just…alt. Material that might have a bit more grit and that may not always have the neat little happy endings tied up in a bow.”

“So you’re okay with the ending?” Hank asked.

“We’re not trying to give this the A Crazy Little Thing Called Love treatment,” Eloise said. “There’s no reason to not be faithful to the material.”

“Which is why we’d like you to write the scripts,” Sabrina added. “Be the showrunner.”

“Wait, what? Showrunner?”

“Hank would make a great showrunner,” Charlie said. “I think this sounds like a fantastic idea.”

“Shut up, Charlie. What do you mean, showrunner?”

“We’d like to shoot this as a limited series,” Eloise answered. “Eight episodes, possibly ten.”

Hank managed not to fidget through the rest of the pitch as they explained what they wanted from him in terms of scripts, the responsibilities of casting, hiring directors, even the minutiae of costuming and set decoration would fall on his shoulders. The weight of it freaked him out, but the opportunity to maintain creative control over one of his works was enticing. He was suddenly taking this offer very seriously.

“And what about location?” he asked.

“What about it?” Eloise inquired.

“The novel’s set in New York. I’m in New York. I’m not spending eight months in Atlanta or wherever the fuck the tax break du jour is for filming these days.”

“We have relationships with the studios in Queens, not to mention a plethora of east coast based line managers and location scouts to choose from. That won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t know the first fucking thing about running a show.”

“Fortunately, we do.”

Hank felt backed into a corner. He had no good reason not to say no to such a deal. He looked to Charlie, who had the same panic written on his face as that time he’d stupidly thought he could handle a chili dog with sauerkraut from a street vendor on Melrose. His silence was loud.

“There is one other potential offer we’d like to make,” Sabrina said, cutting the tension that suddenly seemed to fill the room. “The daughter in the novel, Paige, she isn’t really part of the story, but she’s mentioned quite often.”

“Yeah.”

“We were thinking that, if this were to be successful, that maybe we could do a second series exploring her perspective.”

“I don’t know that I care to explore Paige’s POV.”

“Not you, necessarily. Isn’t your daughter also a writer?”

“I don’t know that Becca would be interested in Paige’s POV either. You’d have to ask her.”

“Just food for thought,” Eloise said. “A father-daughter created series might make for a potentially interesting gimmick from a marketing perspective.”

“And lucrative,” Charlie suddenly piped up.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Hank said, glaring at Charlie. “He’s got his sights set on a condo in a golf cart community in Florida.”

“Wouldn’t be a very good agent if he wasn’t interested in numbers,” Eloise answered, gesturing over her shoulder at another woman who passed her what Hank recognized as a set of contracts. “I’ll presume you’ll want your lawyer to look things over.”

Charlie immediately started flipping through the pages as soon as the contract was in his hands and Hank stepped on his toes under the table. He stood up, and Eloise stood as well, coming towards him with her hand outstretched.

“I think you’ll find our offer more than satisfactory,” she said, shaking Hank’s hand. “But, if there’s anything we’ve left off the table, I’m sure Mr. Runkle will be in touch to let us know.”

“I am a little disappointed you didn’t even try to hit on me. I thought that’s what all the big Hollywood executives did.”

“My wife probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I did.”

He shrugged. “Neither would mine.”

Hank left the offices in a cloud of quiet dread. Once upon a time he would’ve just signed the contract without giving it much thought as to how he would pull it off, but the older he’d gotten, the more contemplative he’d become, less impulsive. While his agent may have been ready to open a good bottle of champagne, he wasn’t quite there yet. There was only one person’s input that mattered to him.

Wanting to avoid what was sure to be his Charlie’s incessant babbling on the ride back to the hotel, Hank opted to walk. He thought his agent would put up a protest, but Charlie waved to him from the back seat, already on the phone with their lawyer. He watched the Escalade pull away and made his way west on Sunset. The too blue skies and palm trees lining the streets fed into Hank’s already contemplative mood by adding a dose of nostalgia and melancholy.

At Vine Street, Hank turned right, wanting to catch a glimpse of Capitol Records on the way up to Hollywood Boulevard. He casually browsed the walk of fame stars that lined the side street, tallying up how many were dead and gone and were largely forgotten. He had to pull out his phone to take a photo of the star of Richard Dix and set a reminder to himself to search for a wikipedia page later and find out if the man was a porn star or his real name was Dick Dix.

He crossed Hollywood to go stand in front of the famous recording studio building and daydream about what his life might look like if he’d went into music instead. Probably dead. He snapped a photo of the building and texted it to Fish. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he paused as his attention was drawn back to the sidewalk.

“I’m a writer,” he mumbled to himself as he crouched down over the star of Billy Wilder. “But then, nobody’s perfect.”

Hank had made it no secret that a lot of his career had been driven by money and he’d always found it to be a more honest, less vulgar motivator than fame, but secretly, deep down, he’d always admired the real storytellers of the world, the ones driven by passion and need to express. Even more, he’d always admired the ones that could make their art last. He had the soul of a tortured artist, all he was ever lacking was the brain brimming with stories. He took a photo of the star and made no other stops on the rest of the walk to the hotel.

The same check-in clerk from hours before nodded to him as he headed to the elevators. He double-checked the room number written on the keycard holder and punched the number three. A fully-stocked wet bar greeted him beside the door and he called out Stella’s name as he grabbed a glass and looked for the whiskey. His wife emerged from the bedroom door in a plush robe, looking more than freshly showered. Her hair was pulled back, but fluffed. Her face was dewy and her cheeks were pink.

“Netflix spring for the deluxe spa package?” he asked, pouring himself a drink.

“A lovely facial and a wonderful Swedish massage,” she answered.

“Happy ending included?”

“I was waiting for you for that.”

Hank grinned as he took a sip of whiskey and opened up one arm as Stella slipped her arms around his waist. “Good answer,” he murmured, and lowered his glass to kiss her. She licked a drop of whiskey off his bottom lip when he pulled away.

“How did it go?” she asked.

Hank grunted and took one of Stella’s hands, crossing his arm over her chest as he shuffled them out to the main area. He caught a glance of the pool over the balcony view from the wall to wall sliding glass doors as he pulled her down onto the black leather couch. He crossed both feet on the coffee table that looked like it had been carved from driftwood and she put her hand under the side of his jacket to run her hand across his chest.

“They want to give me everything I never knew I even wanted,” he said.

“How very unsatisfying for you.”

He grunted again and took another sip of whiskey before he handed her the glass to sit up and pull his jacket off. She tucked her feet up under her and balanced the glass on her knee as he leaned back and sighed, crossing his feet on the table again and lacing his fingers behind his head.

“They don’t want to change the ending?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Did they share their thoughts on casting?”

“I saw a list.”

“And there was no Reese Witherspoon, I take it?”

He chuckled and then turned his head towards her. “No, they seemed to be spot on with the breakdown. And, they were thinking a limited series format, not a movie.”

“For television?”

“More or less. Eight to ten episodes.”

“Is that preferable?”

“They want me to develop it. Be the showrunner.”

“What does that mean?”

“Write it, cast it, set decorate the fucking thing if I want to, basically be the czar of the show.”

“I see.” She hummed and then her expression turned pensive.

Hank took the glass of whiskey out of Stella’s hand for another drink and then offered it to her. She shook her head so he quickly downed the rest, coughed once from the sting of it and pounded a fist lightly against his sternum. Sometimes he forgot that he couldn’t drink the way he used to. She took the glass from him and put it on the table and then settled next to him again, her hand on his chest.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Is this something you want to do?”

“I’ve never had full creative control over a project before. It’s tempting.”

“Hm.”

She was quiet again. He slumped towards her to nuzzle his face against her neck and closed his eyes as he breathed her in. She smelled like coconut and her skin was warm and slick as he slipped his hand through the gap in her robe to caress her breast. “God, you smell good,” he mumbled. He dragged his bottom lip back and forth across her collarbone and she finally reached up and put her fingers in his hair, scratching her nails up the back of his head how he liked it, but didn’t say anything.

“Tell me what you think I should do, Sherlock.”

“I think it sounds as though you want to say yes, don’t you?”

“I want to know what you think,” he murmured, tipping his chin down and opening his eyes to gaze at her half-exposed breast. He circled his fingertip around her areola in the way he knew she liked, very lightly, counterclockwise. “Be my voice of reason. Talk me out of it, maybe.”

“I would never talk you out of something you want to do.”

“But?”

“What will the timeline of this be like? I have exams approaching and I don’t know how flexible I can be with the time I can take, not like previously when I was in London. If it meant weeks apart…months, even…”

“Mmm say flexible again, but let me get my dick in my hand first.” He pulled back with a smile to let her know he was teasing before she could develop a frown or chastise him for not taking her seriously. She frowned anyway and he began massaging her breast as penance. “Not to worry, Sherlock, I’ve already made it conditional that I wouldn’t even consider agreeing to their offer if they weren’t willing to shoot the show in New York.”

Stella shifted and pulled on Hank’s hair so that he had to tip his head back to look up at her. “Are you telling me they’ve offered to let you write your own show, cast it, direct it, shoot the ser-”

“Don’t forget set decorate the fucking thing if I wanted to,” he interrupted.

“Set decorate the fucking thing, and shoot the series in New York. You who has no experience with any of these things?”

“I thought I was going to have to pinch myself, but no one offered to blow me, so it was pretty obvious it wasn’t a dream.”

“You actually want to do all those things? Be responsible for all of it?”

Hank sobered and sighed as he pulled his hand free from Stella’s robe. “Take the hits if it’s a failure, you mean?”

“No, that isn’t what I meant at all, though it would be something to think about. Trust me, being in charge of a number of people can seem alluring, but it’s also a heavy burden.”

“You don’t think I can carry the load?” He put his hand up and scrunched his face. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

Stella wove her fingers through Hank’s and pressed her palm against his. All he had to do was give her a gentle pull and she lifted up onto her knees. He held onto her as she straddled his thighs and he slouched into the back of the couch. He took her other hand and for a few quiet moments, she stretched her fingers between his as he rubbed circles over the insides of her wrist with his thumbs. She finally twisted her hands free and then brought them to the back of his neck and laced her fingers together.

“This is a massive offer,” she said. “It will mean a lot of time and work and energy.”

“I know that,” he answered, unknotting her robe. Her breasts were bare, but she had plain white cotton panties on. Nothing fancy or lacy, but a view he could still appreciate for the dark shadow of pubic hair through the thin material and the wet spot that hinted at her arousal.

“It’s a huge commitment.”

He let his thumbs drift down and dip into the waistband of her panties. “I think I’m pretty good at commitment,” he murmured. “Don’t you?”

“Very, very good,” she whispered, thighs clenching against his legs.

He took a deep breath and moved his hands up her body, over her breasts to her shoulders and back down again. “Do you know who Billy Wilder is, Sherlock?”

“Should I?”

“Golden age of Hollywood filmmaker. Wrote and directed Sunset Boulevard, Some Like it Hot. On his tombstone, he had them put ‘I’m a writer, but then, nobody’s perfect.’”

“Ah, I see.”

Hank cocked his head at her.

“Some Like it Hot,” she said. “Paraphrasing the last line of his own film.”

“Your well of knowledge never ceases to impress.”

“It’s a rather shallow well, I’m afraid, but I do know that one.”

He hummed and ran the flat of his hand down the front of her chest to her navel. “I don’t know what they did to you in that spa, but I don’t think you’ve ever felt so soft.”

“All but the happy ending.”

“Oh yeah, let’s not forget about that.” He made a move to slip his hand back between her legs but she grabbed it and pushed it away.

“Finish your story,” she said.

“And I saw his star on the walk of fame today, the end.” He tried to touch her again, but she pushed him away again and raised her brow. He sighed. “And I saw his star on the walk of fame today and it made me think about how lucky he was to have been able to put his words out there and that we can sit here what, sixty years later, and remember what he wrote.”

“I’ve been snobbish about it in the past,” he continued, “and thought that people who could quote novels were somehow superior to people who could quote movies, but honestly, so what? Someone had to write it first for someone to say. And then someone out there thought it worthy of their grey matter. I have always wondered what it could be like to see something through from page to screen. Not have to complain when they inevitably get it so fucking wrong. So, if Netflix has faith in me, maybe I should have faith in myself and take the chance. No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I never know what the fuck I’m doing so it’ll just be another day ending in ‘y’.”

Stella’s eyes, dark blue and piercing, softened and lightened. She smiled and her mouth descended onto Hank’s in a firm kiss. He squeaked in surprise and then chuckled. He managed to grasp her hips again and pull her firmly down against his chest.

“My brief affair with an existential crisis turn you on, Sherlock?”

“No, but your commitment does.”

He grinned and then flipped her down to the couch. “Now, then,” he said. “I finished my story. I’d say it’s time for your happy ending.”

“About damn time.”

The End

#i wrote this #hanella #surprise bitches #someone had to miss them #merry christmas ya filthy animals

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onlinedolly · 9 hours ago

Text

THE NEIGHBOR

a/n my rly long erwin drabble/fic!! this was super self indulgent for me so i hope u like it sm!

cw: p in v, tiny bit pervy erwin, older erwin, age gap

there were two options when it came to college students: stay in a broken down dorm or stay in a slightly better, still pretty beaten up, apartment. you chose the latter, deciding eight hundred dollars was worth it for no curfews and a private bathroom. you were a freshman literature major, a full scholarship to a school eight hours outside of your home town, and you’d felt out of place in a dorm full of people you didn’t know. it took you a full day to move in and a full month to get it semi-furnished. it wasn’t big, a one bed one bath with a kitchen that was more of a glorified hallway, but it was enough space for you to be functionally comfortable in.

you’d been moving things into your bedroom when you heard it for the first time, the grunting. the walls were impossibly thin as is, but the grunting could be heard so clearly it echoed around the walls of your bedroom. you’d brushed it off at first, curious and slightly disgusted at what could be going on in room across from yours, yet you pretended it didn’t happen as you moved on with the rest of your day. when the grunting didn’t die down the next night, or the one after, or even the one after that, keeping you up with a pillow wrapped around your head, you’d started to grow angry.

what could possibly be going on that initiated groaning and every night? you’d contemplated banging on the wall, marching over there with harsh words and a “can’t a girl sleep in her own home” speech ready to go, but that wasn’t in your nature. you were pretty docile and non confrontational, taking the road of being quietly angry in your own apartment instead.

erwin wasn’t a creep. he could say that with confidence. he wasn’t a creep when he watched you move in through the peep hole of his front door, he was just curious, that’s all. his last neighbors were a family with unruly children, with a short asshole father, that beat on the walls and screamed until erwin’s head spinned, so really he was just seeing if he would be put in the same predicament. but when he saw you, in your short jean shorts and a tank top that kept rising up, he couldn’t help but be glued to his door for at least a couple hours, watching as you pulled box after box into the threshold of your apartment.

you were young, that much he could tell, with long silky hair and doe eyes that darted around as you made yourself familiar with the building. he was enamored by you, if he was completely honest with himself. but that didn’t make him a creep. and it didn’t make him a creep when he fisted himself to the thought of you that same night. it just made him a normal man with urges and you were the first pretty thing he’d seen in a while, that’s all.

when he’d pulled his cock out the night after, or the night after that, or the next nights to follow, imagining your face contorted in different forms of bliss he’d just chalked it up to the simple fact that he needed to get laid. he’d watched you a couple of times since then, a couple grocery runs and a few times watching you get back from what he assumed were classes. god you were young, a freshman maybe? erwin had to assume he was at least twenty years your senior and the thought lit a fire inside of him. erwin wasn’t a creep, but he couldn’t help how he felt everytime he looked at you.

you’d finally met your neighbor.

he was a tall blonde haired man, older, and albeit handsome. you were carrying groceries in as he was locking the door to his apartment. he was dressed in simple clothes, a pair of slacks and a button up shirt, a pair of readers hanging from his shirt pocket as he fumbled with the keys in his hands. you busied yourself with getting your groceries in, pushing heavier bag in with your foot until your startled by a deeper voice next to you.

“who are you?” he asks, watching you stoically.

you stumble back a bit at his words, taken a back by his words as you blink your big eyes at him, once, twice. “you’re new neighbor…” you drawl our like it was the most obvious thing in the world. but maybe he really didn’t know, the most of your interaction being screaming into your pillow as he grunts across the wall from you. so you smile at him, straightening yourself up holding your hand out and giving him your name.

“erwin.” he speaks back smoothly, slipping his larger calloused hand into your own. you follow your gaze from his hand to his muscular arm up to his face, before pulling your hand away from his tight grip.

“nice to meet you,” you smile at him, before nudging a bag with your foot, “i’ve gotta—“ you point towards your open apartment door and he nods in acknowledgement, “ice cream.” you sheepishly say before shuffling into your apartment, out of the corner of your eye you watch as erwin slips back into his apartment and your furrow your brows as you hear your own door slam behind you.

erwin knew it’d be today, when he saw you in a pretty summer dress with your hair curled back behind your face. he’d waited until you were almost done before slipping out and pretending to fumble with his keys as he watched you bend over to grab a bag with both hands. and like previously stated, erwin wasn’t a creep, but he couldn’t resist but looking when you bent over, your white lace catching his eye as he keeps from groaning.

“who are you?” he attempts to be as stoic as possible, back straightening up as he halts his fumbling movements.

he relished in the way your big doe eyes blinked at him, taking in what he’d said before speaking out matter of factly that you were his new neighbor. yeah, he knew that. not that you knew that he knew that. he’d done his best to keep his distance until he was ready.

he slipped his hand out to you and you accepted it with your smaller softer one and erwin almost groaned. the hand was smooth in his, manicured nails pressing into the back of his hand as he so slightly shudders, “erwin.” he speaks out.

when your hand leaves his it leaves an empty pit in his stomach, he watches as you shuffle away explaining something about ice cream and he stands there for a second before scrambling back into his apartment.

he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he leans against the door, his eyes wide as his heart beats within his chest. he didn’t know why he felt like this, a teenager in love, it’d only been a couple months and he felt himself becoming head over heels for you.

erwin wasn’t a creep, mind you.

the groaning never stopped, you almost felt like the sounds had gotten louder, now accompanied by the sound of skin slapping against skin roughly. when you’d met your neighbor, the older blonde gentleman, it was almost easy to forget how someone who looked so well put together was jerking themselves off in the next room every night that was until you were reminded with the groans and occasionally thump against the wall.

you kicked around in your bed, throwing a not so mild tantrum, as you whine out. “literally what the fuck.” you sigh, covering your hands over your ears and humming loudly to drown the sounds out. you swore next time you saw him you would say something.

you did in fact see him again, and soon. it was a week after your first meet, you were heading out to a college party you really weren’t all that excited to go to, dressed in a short black dress and heeled boots you ran into the man. literally almost ran into him as you sped out of your apartment and turned around to almost hit him chest to chest. “erwin— oh!” you yell out, stumbling back, almost tripping over your heels, but erwin was quick, grabbing your arm with a tight grip as he pulls you up right.

“you okay, sweet thing?” he looks at you over the readers he has perched on his nose. you fumble out an apology, nodding your head, and as you look at him you forget all over again why you were so mad at him in the first place. erwin was a handsome man, older and chiseled, and as you looked at him you felt your heart skip an unfamiliar beat. “hey? can you hear me?” he waves a hand causing you to blink up at him, was he speaking? you didn’t notice, you were to busy basically eye fucking him. god you needed to get laid.

“i’m sorry, what?” you hum out, looking up at him.

“where ya going dressed like that, hm?” he places a hand on his hip, and it makes you think of a father scolding their daughter.

“a college party.” you all but whine out, making erwin shift his weight from foot to foot. if he could tell you weren’t excited about it, he didn’t say anything.

“you look nice.” he says nonchalantly, pushing his readers down the bridge of his nose slightly, to give you a look up and down. you felt hot under his gaze, a pit deep inside of your stomach you couldn’t quite place.

“i have to—“ you’re running off again, just like last time, as erwin nods, just like last time, giving you space to squeeze by. and you do, scurrying along before turning around on your heel, “also—“ you take a breath, “i don’t mean to be rude but your groaning—“ you take another breath, “keeps me up. okay bye-bye!” you run off, embarrassed.

you knew. erwin wasn’t a creep but it made his cock shift in his pants at the thought that you could hear him jerk himself off every night.

and you, dressed in that short dress, with your tits spilling out the top, he had no inclinations in stopping anytime soon.

you stumbled through your front door, drunk and smudged makeup as you made it to your bedroom and sprawled out with a content sigh. “finally.” you groan, rolling over so your back was pressed against the plush.

the party was…a party. a place you never wanted to find yourself at and a place you never want to go again. eren drank too much and mikasa ditched you to coddle him leaving you to take shots alone and dodge jeans advances every chance he got for a couple hours. you were just glad to be back in your cold, dark, quiet— no. no. you scramble your body up as you place your ear against the wall, rolling your eyes as you hear the familiar grunting.

“i’m going to fucking kill him.” you grit out as you hear the usual skin on skin slapping. you think about to earlier, his strong grasp on your arm, the readers perched on the bridge of his nose and you shift a little as you press your ear closer to the wall. the anger shifted into something…different, and you blamed it on the alcohol as you listened to his no doubt jerk himself off. you thought back to his hooked nose and the way his blonde hair was styled to perfection, you wondered if it would be tousled and sweaty as he bent over himself with his cock in his hand. it made your legs clench together.

“shit. fuck.” you mumble out as you clumsily throw yourself onto your back, you felt so….horny. (to put it bluntly) and before you can really think straight you’re working your hand into the front of your dress. you ghost over your clit and mewl out as you listen to his grunting. you’re rubbing your clit and hushing your moans to listen to the way he groans from the other side of the wall, matching your movements with what you thought his were.

you’d came listening to him let out a strangled string of moans, clenching around nothing as you spasm around your fingers rubbing circles into your bud. when you calmed down you sighed, rubbing your eye hard with your free hand.

what the fuck had you just done?

maybe you had a crush on your neighbor.

it’d been a couple weeks since you’d drunkenly masturbated to your neighbors self pleasure. and since then it’s become a nightly occurrence for you to wind yourself down with your hands under your panties, listening to your neighbor get himself off. you felt an immense guilt for it, even though you’re not sure why you should. he was the one getting himself off first.

you sat on the ground, attempting to tighten a loose screw of a cabinet with a butter knife as you sigh. you knew you were going to have to bite the bullet and ask erwin if he had a screwdriver, but the thought left you uncomfortable, knowing what you had been doing every night to the sounds of him. yet you still drag yourself off the ground, taking a shaky breath as you walk into the hall. his door seemed daunting, like a world you didn’t know if you were ready to immerse yourself into. you took another deep breath before knocking, waiting a minute, and then another, almost turning around and giving up before the door swings open.

“hi sweetheart,” he hums out, looking down at you, “what can i do for you?”

you falter a bit, taking a step back to take him in fully. you look up at him, trying to find the words to say, but all you can remember are the sins you committed every night, hand between your legs as you mewl out. “i uh—“ you take a breath, recollecting your thoughts, “yeah— fo you have a screwdriver? i need screwed— i mean i have a cabinet it needs—“

“let me grab my stuff i’ll meet you over there.” he laughs, walking towards his hall closet.

“no you don’t have too i just need the to—“

erwin interrupts you with a wave of his hand, pulling the tools down, “nonsense it’ll take five minutes.”

he’s following you into your apartment, closing the door behind you as you shake like a dog. it felt so intimate, having him here in your space. he was close to you as you bent down to show him that the cabinet was in fact wobbly and he hummed in acknowledgement.

“you really didn’t have to.” you mumble out, crossing your arms over your chest.

“already here, doll.” he bends down, and who are you to not take a peak at the way his face concentrates as he tightens the screw, he was handsome. handsome but so much older. it wasn’t right, he had to at least be early forties and it was inappropriate to have a crush on a man so much older, to do someone of the things you’ve done. but still you felt that familiar feeling stir in your stomach.

it didn’t take him long at all in fact, he was done in no time, straightening himself up with a kind smile. “is that all you need?”

“…yea.” you hesitated, why did you hesitate? that is all you needed, and now he was free to go. he should go, back to his apartment, away from you. why didn’t you want him too?

“are you sure?” he asks, reading right through you, making you shift your weight. you wanted him to stay, wanted to find a way to get him to linger a little longer in your apartment.

“do you want coffee?” you ask abruptly, twisting a ring around your hand nervously.

“it’s nine o’clock at night, sweetheart.” he spoke, pointing towards the oven clock. “tryna keep me around?” he smirks, hand on his hip as your eyes widen. what were you to say to that, if it were a yes what would happen then? would he stay? would he be weirded out? if you were to say no you were sure to lose him.

“yeah.” you breathe out before you could overthink it.

“good.” he smiles, its wide and reassuring and it makes the panic inside of you settle. “who don’t i get some wine, hm? stay right here.”

as he scurries away into his apartment, you listen, staying in your spot as you bite down on your lip. he was coming over? you were to drink with him and he was coming over? was this too much? you barely knew him, you found yourself borderline creepy for having a crush on him when you’d met him twice before, the extent of your interaction after that behind getting off to his sounds through a wall. and now he was coming over here to what, drunk with you? before you could overthink he waltzes back into your apartment, sliding a wine glass into your hand and pouring something red and expensive looking.

“just getting to know the neighbor, relax.” he smiles, placing a hand on your head before walking to the couch. it eases you a bit as you follow him, sitting with enough distance away that another person could wedge themselves in if they wanted too. “are you in school?”

“yeah. literature.” you nod, taking a sip of your wine.

erwin’s eyes light up and before you know it you’re in a comfortable conversation about classic authors. erwin was insanely bright, but you suppose that comes with age. age. something he had on you by twenty years. it made your legs close together, it made you feel guilty.

after an hour you both were sufficiently drunk, your topics had jumped from classic authors to erwin’s job (an architect) to smaller bursts of random things. you’d both inched closer to each other until your knees crashed together, but at this point you didn’t mind. “you know—“ you say, a new confidence found, “i still hear you every night.”

erwin blinks, once, twice, before breaking out into a big smile. you didn’t know why he smiled, expecting a bashful embarrassed look, over the cocky one he has sprawled across his face right now. “i know.”

“you know?” you scoff, pushing his shoulder, “and you didn’t stop?”

“not when you were enjoying it so much.” oh. he knew. fuck, of course he knew. why wouldn’t he, the walls are thin, why didn’t you ever fucking think of that. if you could hear him then surely he could hear you. “don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart.” he places a comforting touch to your knee, smiles at you sweetly and you drunkenly lean into his touch, “really helped me get…there. if you know what i mean.”

“yeah.” you shudder, the though of him jerking off too much for you to imagine.

“don’t be shy now doll.” his smile turns into a cock smirk as he leans back into the couch, wrapping his arm around the back of the couch. it’s then you notice the tent in his pants and you dig your nails into the cushion of the couch.

“you’re hard.” you state, eyeing his hard cock through his sweats, face flushed.

“i am.” he smiles sweetly at you, rubbing his hand down his leg.

this was all happening too much, and honestly it was not okay in any sober standpoint, but you were drunk and hazy as all you could do was eye the tent in his sweats. “you’re older then me.” you slur out.

“okay?” he laughs, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“it’s inappropriate.”

“you’re an adult.” he cocks his head to the side, taking a sip of his wine as he looks you up and down hungrily.

“barely.” you squeak out, moving up to look at his face. his eyes were darkened in lust, he looked like he was ready to eat you whole.

“even better.” he quips out, splaying his knee out so it knocks with yours again.

everything was sending you into overdrive, the alcohol, the look in his eyes, his cock begging to burst out of his pants. you were past the point of just drunk, but you don’t think you can blame the alcohol as your core pulses. “do you want to fuck me, angel?” he laughs and it sounds borderline degrading as it leaves his mouth.

“no.” yes. you were a liar, a huge fucking liar, as the thought of fucking your neighbor made your head spin. and he saw right through it too, laughing out as he called you exactly what you were. a liar.

“c’mere.” he pats his lap and against your better judgement your scooting that way, basically crawling as you had set your wine glass down on the coffee table. you crawl over his body and you feel hot as tour one leg is placed on the floor and the other is pressed against the outer side of one of his. your hands are pressed against the back of the couch as you lean over him, face close to his as you let in a shaky breath.

erwin’s face was so close to yours, you could smell the mint and wine wafting off of his breath as he slowly looks up into your eyes. “tell me you want this. tell me you want me.” he speaks out and it makes you shudder.

“i….want you.” you breathe out and he’s leaning up and smushing his lips into yours roughly. he’s on you in a second, lips rough against your own and as his arms pull you close. your sitting on his lap and you can feel his hard cock pressing against your chest.

“erwin,” you whine against his lips, grabbing his shirt between your fists as he coos.

“patience, sweet thing.” he hums, readjusting you so you’re sitting fully in his lap as he places kisses down the corridor of your neck. you’re mewling above him, pushing back the panic of everything happening so quickly. he’s running his hands down the expanse of your back as you whine above him, begging for any sort of friction to satisfy the building tension between your legs. “i’ll take care of ya, don’t fret, angel.”

he brings a hand up and thumbs your nipple over your shirt making you gasp his name out. erwin is reveling in it, his hand hadn’t been doing it for him, not since day one. and you’re mewls from touching yourself got him by, barely. but this— this was going to make him immediately cum if he wasn’t careful. he ran his thumb over your clothed nipple again, then once more, making you whine out loudly. erwin runs a hand under your shirt, under your bra, until he makes contact your breast and it makes you nearly push yourself away.

he rolls your nipple between his fingers and you let out a broken moan from above him, rolling your hips as he tuts and stills your movement with his free hand. “you’ve gotta learn patience, i’m going to have to teach you that, needy thing.” the thought of teaching you anything makes your hips try to roll once again, met with resistance from erwin’s larger hand. he takes his time with you, tweaking each nipple, twirling them around between expert fingers and he’s close to working you to edge with just nipple stimulation.

you’re getting overwhelmed, big fat tears spilling from your eyes as you beg him for more, for anything.

“think you deserved it, pretty? deserve my cock?” you whine and nod, your head leaned into the crevice of his neck as you place shaky kisses against him. he pulls your shirt up suddenly, pushing your bra up with it, and your nipples become rock hard at the brisk air of your apartment.

“erwin please, please.” you cry out. erwin has this shit eating grin on his face, like he has you exactly where he wants you and you’re reminded of his age again. at how much more experienced he probably is, and it makes a shudder run down your spine.

“what’s got you shakin like that, babydoll?” he leans forward, attaching his lip to your nipple making your back arch, chest pressed against his swollen pink lips.

“y-you.” you whine out as he nips at your nipple, swirling his tongue around the bun and he hums in response. the hum only making you shudder more, the pleasure shooting right to your core.

“don’t you forget it.” he coos, moving to your other nipple doing the same — biting and swirling his tongue around. you were desperate for any kind of attention to your cunt, at this point. tears leaking from your flushed face as he moans against your breast. “i hear you baby, i hear you. here—“ he slips a hand in your sweats and moans when he comes in contact with your bare cunt. “no panties? filthy thing.” he laughs, thumbing at your clit making you almost cry out a thank you.

erwin rubs slow, teasing circles around your clit as he sucks your nipple and pulls back with a loud pop! you’re a mewling overwhelmed mess as you attempt to move his hand closer to your clenching hole. “don’t be a brat now. you’ll take what i give when i give it.” he scolds, pulling his hand away from you completely causing you to cry out. erwin’s lifting you up with one hand then, working you to the side as he uses his other hand to pull his sweats and underwear down. erwin’s large cock springs out and hits against his chest and you’re eyes go wide. erwin was big, more then a handful of inches and thick. his cock curved toward him and it made you shiver thinking of the spots he could reach.

“betcha wanna sit on it, hm? you’d like that wouldn’t you?” he says condescendingly, laughing a bit at the way you sniffle and nod your head. “gotta touch it first baby, get me ready to take you.” he says it like he’s the one who needs to be worked up, and you bite your lip thinking about how you were going to for all of him inside of you eventually. you reach out and stroke his cock, your face flushed and wet tears cover your cheeks as you begin to stroke him up and down. erwin lets out a loud groan, loud enough that you were sure any neighbor around could hear. but you learned a while ago he didn’t care about things like that. “god baby, i’ve been thinkin about you touchin’ me for months.” he speaks through gritted teeth as you stroke him at a steady pace.

he moans and wriggles underneath you as you stroke him and after a few minutes he pulls your hand away telling you to hover above him. you’re ecstatic, to say the least, as you line yourself up with his cock. he has a tight grip on your hips, helping you line yourself up, and when you try to sink down he stops you, keeping you stilled there above him. “beg for it.” he smirks, giving you a lust filled expression as he leans back against the couch lazily.

well…that’s embarrassing. beg for it? really? you wondered if you had too, if you just stayed silent for long enough he’d give in work his cock into you. but he doesn’t seem like the type. so you bite your lip before opening your mouth— “erwin,” you whine, gripping his shoulders as you look at him with a tearful expression, “need this so bad. need you so bad. please, please.” you cry out, trying to wiggle your hips down on his cock. “let me make you feel good.”

that was all he needed before he’s sinking you down on him and you gasp, sinking your nails into his shoulder blades. a wonton moan leaves your body as you throw your head back, the feeling of erwin filling you up almost being too much. “erwin!” you yelp as he has half of himself inside of you.

“shhh…not even close to bein done sweet thing,” he shushes you working you down even farther. eventually you’ve taken him fully, your cunt forming itself around him and you mewl babbling on about filling too full. “you wanted this, girl. not used to bein fucked by a man, huh?” he smirks, picking your hips up before dropping them down on his cock. the movement causing you to yell out, throwing your body against his as he does it once more.

“don’t—“ you whine into his neck, biting down on the flesh, “tease. just fuck me.” you cry.

erwin wastes no time, picking your hips up and slamming you on his cock roughly a few times. everytime he hits your g spot it makes you crane your spine back, head thrown back and he swears if he looks hard enough he could see stars in your eyes. he begins a steady pace of fucking you on his cock and in just a few short minutes you’re both panting and he’s groaning so animalistically it’s egging your own moans on.

his cock is big inside of you, hitting you in all the places it should plus a few you didn’t even realize were there and it makes you cry in pleasure. he’s got one hand on your hip and the other tangled in your hair keeping your eyes locked on his as he rolls his hips up to match the pace he’s got you bouncing. you’re overcome with pleasure, and you can feel that familiar coil in your stomach. “i’m gna—“ you whine out and you can feel how erwin’s hips falter.

“yeah? me too baby. let’s do it together.” he’s fucking up into you fast, sloppy thrusts as you bounce on him. before you know it your eyes glaze over and your body’s shaking. your cunt is convulsing around him, working him to his high until he’s cumming in you. you’re both cumming hard, erwin’s basically growling as you milk his cock and you’re crying out as you feel his seed work itself deep inside you. if you weren’t on birth control he sure would’ve got you pregnant.

once your highs die down erwin keeps you nestled on his softening cock, placing a kiss against your temple as he pumps a few more times to make sure his cum is deep inside of you. “thank god you moved in, hm?” he laughs.

#ೃ mars writes !#erwin smut #aot erwin #erwin x reader #erwin x you #aot smut #erwin x y/n #erwin #commander erwin #attack on titan #attack on titan erwin

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toastybugguy · 1 year ago

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why can’t gay people just be normal and say I love you, why’s there always gotta be some great dragon in the middle saying shit like “a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole” and “you’re like two sides of the same coin”

#smh… gay people #if I had a dollar for every time THIS happened #bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #merthur #bug live blogs #edit: since people are rbing this as an aside by gay i mean queer not just exclusively mlm. just so we’re on the same page.

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rayshippouuchiha · 5 months ago

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So there I was, finally reading a Naruto fic that I'd seen and passed over because, from the summary, I was worried it was going to emotionally destroy me.

I read it, loved it, commented, and as I was sitting there subscribing to and bookmarking this awesome fic, I looked at the author's name, and I was like: oh, I should've known! It's Ray again! ❤️

(It was A Fox And His Earth; it's beautiful and fantastic, and I'm in love with literally everything about it. Thank you so much for sharing this gorgeous piece of writing with us, Ray! ❤️😊❤️)

Love this song

#If i had a dollar for every time this happened #i could pay my bills #RayRambles

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evilkaeya · 9 months ago

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THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT KAITO AND SHINICHI ARE COUSINS??

#gosho you're evil 😭#if I had a dollar for every time a ship of a fandom i was in got revealed as cousins I'd have two dollars #which isn’t much but it's crazy that it happened twice #also not 20 but 30 years after the release btw. THIRTY. you cannot make this shit up #this ship is older than ME #and the most popular ship of dcmk too #I can only pray for the shippers I'm so sorry #that being said say fuck you to gosho by keep shipping them!#I've read and seen some absolute masterpieces of fics and arts. go wild. create more.#kaishin

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adobe-outdesign · 5 months ago

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Weird Pokemon card of the day: this Poké Dude promo card, which was available only in Japan by attending the "Poké Dude Trainer Exercise" event during Pokémon Festa 2004

The card allows you to ask your opponent a question and draw 2 cards if they can't answer it, except you have to ask it doing the same Poké Dude pose on the card. absolutely incredible

#pokemon #pkmn #pokemon cards #pokemon tcg #outdesign posts things #if I had a dollar for every pokemon card I know of with a real person on it I'd have three dollars #which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened three times

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amexicanidiot · 8 days ago

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The SLUGMAN HAS GAINED ONE YEAR MORE OF EXPERINCE AND MAY THEY GAIN MORE YEARS TO DELIGHT THE PEOPLE WITH THEIR DELICIOUS SLUGS

i think i exagerated there a little,

well, happy birthday @endomentendo , (sorry for being late)

hope you have a good day

#if i had a dollar for every time i have made a birthday drawing for an internet artist i like i would have 2 dollars #wich is not alot but is weird it it happened twice

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sp0o0kylights · 8 months ago

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Part Eight

A03

We left off: Eddie has an injured leg, Gareth is concussed, there’s a now injured manticore in Hawkins and possibly a moving gate in the walls of the lab, which is storing mysterious, glowing green goo. Prior to all that, Steve was having a breakdown about leaving Hawkins brought on by his parents returning home.

Gareth has noticed Steve’s “crush” on Eddie, *all* of Hellfire is painfully aware of Eddie’s crush on Steve, and Hopper just showed up to the Byers in Scooby Doo pajamas.

Cue the music.

One minute Hopper was shaking a finger at the pile of children on the couch, spittle flying from his mouth as he demanded everyone both talk and shut up--

(“They can’t do both, Jim.”

“I don’t care Joyce, I--”

“Well I care, and you’re in my house, so I suggest you shut up.”

“Fine, but--”

“Jim!”

“I was shutting up!”)

--and the next Steve had wrapped Gareth’s own hands around a warm mug, quietly leaning into his ear to ask if he was okay.

Gareth nodded jerkily, blinking back to the present, fighting off the panic attack that had dogged him all night.

“Yup. I’m great--good! I’m totally good.”

Steve snorted (a gross but common Steve sound) but otherwise left Gareth with a squeeze of his shoulder, before taking the other mug he had over to Eddie.

Who, Gareth realized, was staring at Hopper with the resigned air of a man glaring down his own executioner.

“What I don’t understand,” Lucas was saying as Steve tried to get Eddie to take a mug, “is what the manticore’s guarding.”

“You didn’t hear the green goo story?” Dustin said conversationally, like this was a Tuesday and not the middle of the night after a monster attack, head craning around to look at his friend.

Gareth had to give it to the kid, he had balls of fucking iron to ignore the look Hopper was shooting his way.

“Green goo?” Hopper butted in, needing an answer but clearly not eager to hear it

(Behind Gareth, Steve had resorted to physically taking Eddie’s hands, and wrapping them around the mug. He kept them there, fingers over Eddie’s as he leaned in, whispering something into the older teen’s ear, clearly trying to get his attention off Hopper.

It didn’t seem to be working until Steve said--or did--something, and then suddenly Eddie was taking in a shuddering, wobbly breath, eyes darting to look up into Steve’s. He took the mug much the same way Gareth had, though he blanked his face out a hell of a lot faster.)

“Glowing green goo. It’s--wait, where’d that guy go, he explained it really well.” Dustin leaned his entire body out from the couch, looking towards the wall of Hellfire members. “Hey, you! Stuck Stewart!”

Grant and Jeff slid away from Stewart immediately.

Who pointedly dumbly towards himself, squawking out a startled, “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Dustin said, like this was a fucking gameshow. “Tell Hop what you told me.”

As Hopper turned to face them with a startled expression, it became evident that he was just now realizing the teenagers in the kitchen weren't the ones he had expected to encounter.

His gaze swept over them in a clinical assessment, as if memorizing their faces so he could write them up later. Each of them let out a sigh of relief when he moved onto the next person, before his eyes landed on Eddie--and stayed.

“Munson?” He hissed, causing half of Hellfire to flinch.

To Eddie’s credit, he didn't react. Just reclined in the chair like he owned it, and raised the mug of chocolate Steve had just let go of.

“Nice jammies, Hop.” He said in lue of a greeting.

“Ignore him.” Dustin demanded, in a tone that had Jeff and Grant both side eyeing him. “The glowing goo is the important thing here.”

He gestured with his hand in a 'get on with it' motion, shooting an impatient look at Stewart.

Who audibly swallowed.

“So there uh, there was a rumor…” Stewart started, the story coming out in jerky, hesitant waves.

He kept looking at Hopper as if the man would interrupt him at any minute, and Gareth couldn’t tell if he was hoping to be cut off or happy to be allowed to talk.

He got it all out though--the rumors about the goo, the weird trucks and people loitering around town.

How a friend (omitting, Gareth noted with muted amusement, that Mikey was both an adult and the Hideout’s bartender) put it all together, spun it up into some crazy conspiracy theory and fed it to half the town’s best gossips.

The entire time Stewart spoke, Hopper was staring Eddie down.

Hellfire didn’t miss it.

Joyce didn’t either, and even Jonathan looked a bit fidgety.

(The kids looked perfectly fine, but then, they didn’t seem to realize Hopper wasn’t exactly focused on the whole goo thing.)

Stewart’s story ended, tailing off awkwardly when it became clear he had nothing else to add, and that everyone was waiting for Hopper to say something.

“Jim…” Joyce started, tone low in warning, which seemed to kickstart the chief back to life.

“Right. So we have one group of dumbass teenagers who went into the lab on a dare,” Hopper drawled, in that “don’t you bullshit me” tone cops just loved to use, “a second group of dumbass children who went in because they apparently, haven’t learned their lesson about meddling in government affairs, and Munson here—-”

Hopper flicked a hand at Eddie.

“—-was involved because his friends called him for help and not because the lab is the perfect spot to get high with a large number of people. Do I have that right?”

They all exchanged a nervous look with one another, but no one said a word.

Hellfire as a whole was used to getting their shit rocked by teachers, shop owners, and occasionally, the cops (usually an idiot who wanted to throw their weight around by busting up band practice or searching a car for drugs).

Pissing off the Chief of police though? That was an activity Eddie typically did solo.

And boy was Hopper pissed off, fury building waves as he leaned in like a predator opening its mouth right before it ate its prey.

“This shit? The Upside Down, monster shit? Isn’t something I screw around with. Especially not when my daughter’s involved. So we’re going to try this again, and this time, I want to hear the truth.”

He held up a hand to halt the explosion of protests from the kids section without bothering to even look in their direction.

“From Munson.” He finished, crossing his arms over his chest.

Eddie answered by taking a noisy slurp from his mug.

Gareth winced, but this sort of back and forth was par the course for a Munson-Hopper encounter, and he knew better than to get in the middle of it.

Steve, apparently, did not.

“Stewart just told you the truth.” He said flatly, giving Hopper a look that was just as stubborn as the chief’s own.

Who very much did not appreciate it.

“Harrington--”

“You said it yourself.” Steve interrupted, holding firm against the chief’s scowl. “The Upside Down isn’t something we screw around with.”

“Tell him, Steve!” Dustin crowed from the couch.

“Shut it.” Steve and Hopper responded in unison, and then did a remarkable job of pretending they hadn’t said a word.

(Gareth had the worst vision of Steve in an alternate life as a police officer. A deputy maybe, with shaved hair, constantly chewing on tobacco and fucking up poor people’s lives. He’d probably have an obnoxious nickname. Like Gator or some shit.

Thank God Hellfire had gotten there first.)

“I was there when they called Eddie.” Steve continued, before Hopper could growl something out. “If we were all doing drugs, we’d still be high, and Eddie wouldn’t have teeth marks in his thigh.”

There was yet another pause, in which Gareth was fairly sure the tension was going to give him a heart attack.

Within it, Hopper did a double take, noting Eddie’s injury for the first time--and how he only had one pant leg, the other replaced by a stark white bandage and pale skin.

“Fine.” He grit out, teeth clenched so tight Gareth thought they might shatter against each other. “Is there anything else I should know about the ‘goo story’ then?”

“You missed the part where El wouldn’t let us call you, because she felt you wouldn’t listen to her.” Mike snarked from El’s right.

“Wonder why.” Max added darkly, from her own spot on El’s left. “Don’t you have a walkie? Why didn’t you answer the code red?”

Apparently, they had decided Steve had won this entire exchange, and it was safe to dogpile on their own displeasure. Gareth was absolutely astounded that the glare Hopper turned their direction didn’t melt them all on the spot.

(Likely, given how this all seemed to be a normal encounter for everyone involved, they were used to it.

Gareth was very much not.)

Hopper whipped his head around to Mike, anger still simmering, “And I’m sure you, Michael Wheeler, didn’t have any qualms about not calling me.”

“He did not want me to go either.” El said bluntly. “I told him you would not listen, and if either of you stopped me, people would die.”

She nodded then, towards Stewart, as if to indicate he was one such person.

For the second time that night, Stewart pointed at his own chest, eyes saucer wide.

“No one else,” El finished grimly, “will die.”

The chief dragged his hands through his hair and then down his face.

“Alright.” He forced out. “I get your point-- but! We’re talking about how you went about this later. Not now!” He added, before the kids could erupt. “Later!”

“So what are we going to do about the Manticore?” Mike spat the question more so than he said it, but Gareth was happy someone was bringing that part up.

Because monster problem or not--what the fuck were they going to do about it?

Since the Chief of Police was here, did that mean the entire police force knew there were monsters in Hawkins? Was there some kind of--monster hunting squad that went around at night?

The more he thought about it the more questions he had, and in turn, the more Gareth’s anxiety threatened to mutiny once again, which was not helped by the concussion he was positive he’d acquired.

Hopper scoffed, “We are not doing anything. We are going back to bed after I call your parents and tell them you’ve been out all night!”

Groans filled the room, the sound of children facing a future grounding, en mass.

“Then,” he continued loudly, “I’ll call Owens.”

“And if Owens doesn’t do anything?” Dustin challenged. “‘Cause he clearly didn’t clean up well last time. Are we just going to let a manticore run around? What if more come through? What if--”

“Just because none of you trust me doesn’t mean I don’t do my job,” Hopper interrupted, “which includes knowing what to do if this shit came back. We adults did discuss that after last time, believe it or not.”

Gareth was old enough to school the doubt off his face, but the kids had no such qualms.

“What Hop means is that we need to have a little more faith in him.” Joyce soothed, and Gareth noticed that unlike a lot of adult men he’d been around, Hopper let her. “He’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

“This just means we’re waiting until he falls in a hole again.” Mike stage whispered to Will, who coughed hard to hide his laugh.

“There aren’t any holes this time!” Hopper screeched, voice rising in pitch.

“Okay, okay, enough.” Joyce pacified, moving to stand in the middle of the room (notably,between the harpy children and Hopper). “What’s important is that everyone lived, we know there’s a thing in the lab, and that no one is going back for it until it’s dead. Agreed?”

She paused, and when no such agreements came, hardened her voice in a way that had every person under eighteen snapping to attention. “Agreed!?”

“Yes.” Chorused the children (and at least three members of Hellfire.)

“Good.” Joyce nodded so hard her hair bounced. Putting her hands on her hips, she added; “Now we start the process of getting all of you home.”

“Someone get me the phone, we’re starting with you Wheeler.” Hopper tacked on.

Mike just flung himself back into the couch with a dramatic eye roll and a not so subtle raise of his middle finger.

“As for the rest of you, get out.” Hopper said, weaving past Steve to get to the phone in the kitchen.

A second later, when it was clear no one had moved, he poked his head around the corner.

“Do I need to call all your parents too?” He demanded, as Hellfire dumbly stood there. “Get!”

Hellfire got.

xXx

Hopper grabbed Steve right before he’d left, muttering something about needing to talk to him and Jonathan.

Alone.

Eddie chose to hang back, propping himself on the van's hood, and Gareth, not wanting to go home, opted to keep him company

“Hopper’s not going to eat him.” He whispered, when two minutes dragged into seven and the fidgeting got to be too much for him.

“True, but he's catching hell because Hopper's not buying his story." Eddie retorted, voice equally hushed.

As if raising their voices might summon Hopper and his fiery temper right to them.

"It's nothing we haven't heard before," Gareth remarked, resisting the urge to suggest once more that Eddie get off his leg and go sit in the car.

“There weren't monsters before.” Eddie countered, mouth around a hangnail.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It might.” Eddie muttered darkly. “If Hopper makes it matter, it fucking might.”

“How the hell is Hopper going to make it matter?" Gareth mused aloud, though deep down, he already knew.

Eddie was Hellfire's guardian, both within and beyond the school walls. Being with him meant having a shield to hide behind, protection against the casual cruelty the people of Hawkins were so fond of.

Sure, there were mean kids, nasty teachers, and even the occasional unpleasant gas station attendant, but they weren't the real issue—not by a long shot.

It was the ones who looked at Eddie and truly believed some of the bullshit.

Hopper didn’t act like the church folk. The ones who sent their pastors and youth leaders out on the warpath, knocking on doors and setting up outside of businesses.

Those individuals had attempted to drive away Eddie's friends before, thinking they could "rescue them" in the process—Gareth himself had once endured a week of being stalked by some idiot he had stood up to in Eddie's defense.

The man had made it his mission, and Gareth, too young at the time to know better, had felt helpless as every adult he turned to dismissed the blatant stalking.

All because that "nice" youth leader claimed he just wanted to help.

The asshole had practically hunted Gareth down-- always making himself known, always accompanied by a friend or two. A couple of little comments in his pocket, ready and waiting, and a grin that didn’t match his eyes.

The words he said weren’t threats, but the tone he said them in was.

Eddie got it worst of all of them though, when the church crowd started.

Their attention wasn’t always on him, and truthfully they hadn’t really put any real energy into their own bullshit for a few years now--but they always came back to him.

Like he was an old and favored chew toy, and if they just tried hard enough, they’d crack him in two.

Which meant this wasn’t about what Hopper said.

It’s what he could do.

Thankfully Steve appeared before Eddie could spiral further, looking surprised to see them still waiting.

“Oh.” He ran a hand through his hair as he came down the stairs. “You guys didn’t have to stay.”

Eddie shot him a flat look.

"And leave you alone with Hopper?"

"I wasn't exactly alone, but thanks."

Steve's smile was slight, tinged with relief, and Eddie fell right into him, leaning into Steve's space (and making a show of his limp as he did).

“We were going to ask if you’re coming back with us anyway. Figure you might not want to go back to your place after tonight.” He said, as if he and Gareth had discussed any such thing.

You waited outside just to tell me that?" Steve asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he gently pushed Eddie back. "Ed, you should be sitting in your car, off that leg."

(Not that Steve wanted Eddie to go far, Gareth noted with his own amusement, as Steve stepped to follow.)

"I tried telling him that, but he wouldn't listen!" He tattled to Steve, simply because he could.

He got a middle finger behind Eddie’s back in retaliation.

“I figured it’d piss Hopper right off if I offered you a place to crash right after he warned you away from me.” Eddie said, ignoring the both of them.

“He didn’t warn me away.” Steve said, beginning the process of herding the older teen into his van.

Eddie let out a snort. "Seriously? That wasn't a full-blown 'rethink your life choices, hanging out with trash like him' speech?”

“You’re not trash.”

Eddie snorted again, hasher this time before glancing away.

He was entirely unprepared for Steve to reach out, catching him by the arm much the same way Hopper had caught him.

“Eddie.” Steve said, abruptly serious. “You’re not trash.”

He said it like he meant it, voice low, eyes drilling into Eddie’s.

Gareth couldn't tear his own eyes away, even though that stare wasn't even intended for him.

“No one here is trash,” Steve declared firmly. “Hopper was just asking if Jonathan and I could babysit El for a couple of nights while he’s working. But even if he had tried to tell me I couldn't hang out with you, I would have told him to shove it. Like you said earlier today—we don’t abandon our friends, and we don’t leave them to deal with stuff alone.”

Gareth knew his best friend like the back of his hand and that level of honesty?

It was too much for Eddie, and normally, he’d run.

Was in fact, a little more than infamous for bolting when confronted about his own insecurities.

Maybe it was because Eddie's leg was in no shape for him to run, or maybe it was the reassuring grip of Steve's hand on his arm. It could even have been the intensity in Steve's gaze, as if he could convince Eddie of anything just by staring at him--but Eddie didn’t move.

He didn't even avert his gaze, although Gareth half expected him to.

“If you say so.” He tried to sing-song the words but they fell flat. “Let’s go, the Munson couch awaits us.”

Steve didn’t say anything about how Eddie pulled himself away, backing out of range.

He watched him though.

Even after Eddie had turned around, waving a hand at Gareth to get into the drivers seat.

Steve kept watching until Gareth nudged him out of it, murmuring a quiet “Come on, dude” to get him going too.

Saw the little frown line burrow its way into Steve’s forehead, like he’d figured out part of a puzzle that had long evaded him, and didn’t like the answer he’d come too.

(Gareth himself didn’t have time for any such revelations, given he faced the monstrous task of driving Eddie’s van.

His learners permit quaked in his wallet at the mere thought, but somehow, they made it back in one piece anyway.)

xXx

Steve had reassured them that feeling restless was normal after….

Well.

After.

(There wasn’t a word strong enough to capture the intensity of the last few hours.

Gareth eventually stopped trying, accepting it as a blur of horror, anxiety, and impending dread. It felt like a nightmare that others remembered vividly but faded for him, like a movie becoming less real once you left the theater.)

Their conversation centered around going through the last few years, Steve filling in holes that made life make a hell of a lot more sense compared to all the bullshit the government had come up with.

None of it sounded real, and several pieces had Eddie and Gareth both gawking, but after the lab?

Not a part of it could be easily discounted.

Gareth couldn’t pinpoint when he finally succumbed to sleep.

Hadn’t intended too, and knew immediately upon clawing back to reality that his back was in a world of hurt from the way he’d curled into Wayne’s ancient armchair.

It was still dark outside, the lights warm on the inside of the trailer, and he figured he couldn’t have been out for long.

The blurry red 5:05 from his watch confirmed his suspicions, and Gareth got two seconds to wonder if this is his life now--catching whatever sleep he can in weird little bursts-- before harsh whispering picked up to his left.

The Munson’s living room was small. Small enough for Eddie to know better about how the sound carries, even if he was whisper-fighting.

Or at least, whisper-arguing, anyway.

“I just wish you’d see yourself the way everyone else sees you.” Steve was saying, sounding both bitchy and confused. Like he couldn’t quite believe he was having such a stupid conversation, but was going to point out the obvious anyway.

Eddie wasn’t doing much better, his words as sharp as the knife he’d used to stab the manticore.

“What, as the town freak? The local satanist? The ugly queer who's out to steal the children?”

Gareth managed to sneak a peak in time to see Eddie’s face twisted in disgust.

“Not those assholes--the ones that know you. Everyone that matters.” Steve countered, easily and immediately. “The Hellfire Club, Wayne, Dustin.”

There was a pause, but he could have sworn he heard Steve follow up with a quiet but hopeful, “Me.”

Gareth twisted ever so slightly, giving himself an eyeful of the room.

Both his friends sat on the couch facing each other. They were close, like they’d been sharing snacks or body heat before things had gone south, Eddie’s hands nearly missing smacking into Steve’s face as he gestured.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Steve continued doggedly.

Eddie’s hands froze in air, before he could make whatever gesture he’d intended.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Steve repeated, that painful sincerity Gareth would have never guessed him capable of on full display. “For the part I played in calling you all that shit. You’re none of those things, Eddie. You’re the opposite of all of it.”

The hands dropped into Eddie’s lap, like twin birds shot out of the sky.

“I am, though.” He muttered.

Steve’s frown deepened, his reassurance quick. “No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, Steve. I am.”

“Okay, fine.” Angry, Steve leaned forward into Eddie’s space.

Backed into the side of the couch and wall as he was, it trapped Eddie quite nicely.

“I know the parents down at the church don’t know the difference between D&D and actual demons, but I do. So unless you suddenly learned how to be quiet about fucking ritual sacrifice of all things, then I refuse to buy that you’re a literal Satanist and not just engaging in the drama.”

Gareth saw the moment Eddie realized he was pinned, that he wasn’t getting out of his conversation without shoving Steve back.

Knew this was building into a blow up before Eddie’s mouth even opened.

“I’m not a Satanist, but I definitely am queer.” He shot back, eyes hard. “So you can shove whatever grand ideas you’re having about my character back up your ass.”

Gareth hadn’t moved much, years of living with his siblings making it possible to watch what’s happening without alerting anyone in the room that he was awake, but he almost ruined it with how quickly he sucked in his own breath.

Steve was a good guy.

Had been a good guy to them, but there have been plenty of other “good guys” Gareth knew who suddenly weren’t so great the second Eddie’s sexuality came up.

It’s why Gareth himself hadn’t often admitted to his own muddled sexuality, too afraid of getting the same bullshit aimed his way.

Why would anyone want to pursue men, after watching more than a few realize they liked Eddie and promptly lose their shit so hard they became a danger to any man who so much as looked at them the wrong way?

It was terrifying--and so was the realization that Gareth can’t kick Steve’s ass.

He doesn’t want to even try, but gets himself ready for emotional upheaval anyway--and whatever may come after.

Even if they’re all dead on their feet from fighting a literal monster.

‘Excellent fucking timing Eds.’ He thought sourly, despite the guilt of thinking it. It’s not Eddie’s fault--and Steve’s reaction, whatever it may be, isn’t either.

'God does it suck to be gay in a rural ass, small town.'

Thankfully, Steve doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t act like Eddie’s got a contagious disease like some of the basketball team does, or like it’s his God given duty to either rid the earth of him now that Eddie’s finally admitted to what half the town has accused him of being, or have some violent crisis over his own clearly repressed gay crush.

Is still very much in Eddie’s space, even if he’s being awfully quiet--for long enough that Gareth can see Eddie start to shut down.

“Okay.” Steve said finally, clearly knowing he needs to say something but seemingly struggling to figure out what, “But you’re not evil, and you’re definitely not stealing children, so you’re beating out the US government.”

“Oh boy, I beat out the government that’s kidnapping and torturing people! Such a high bar.”

Steve winced. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah? What did you mean then?” Eddie challenged. “We both know you’re not the kind to want to associate with the queers.”

“I didn't, I--” Steve took a breath, fumbling and knowing it. “I know I've been an asshole in the past, and I also know I was wrong."

He stared hard at Eddie. "I don’t care if you’re gay. That doesn’t, that shouldn’t--matter.”

Eddie met his gaze.

“I don’t believe you.”

Between them sat all the times Steve, or a former friend of his, decided a random victim was queer. The knowing smirks and taunts that followed after they spewed out various slurs.

How some of the rumors they started stuck around.

Steve had never really engaged with a lot of the bullying people often attributed to him as King of the Jockstraps, but he wasn't an innocent bystander either, and Gareth couldn't fault Eddie for challenging that change of heart.

Even now, after Steve had long vacated his throne.

“Well that sucks for you then, doesn’t it?” Steve snapped. “Because I’m not going anywhere, Munson. You can mack on some dude all you like, and I’m still going to be there to remind you you’re not evil for doing it. Or for being into nerdy shit and terrible music!”

“My music isn’t terrible!” Eddie screeched automatically.

Gareth anticipated Eddie calling out Steve on his obvious bait—seriously, that wouldn’t have worked in a game even with a nat 20—but found himself underestimating Steve's bantering skills as their ex-jock just plowed right ahead.

“It is! It’s just--screaming. Screaming with loud ass guitars!”

“Oh my God, I am going to sit you down and make you listen to so many albums. The screaming is a core part of the range of emotions in the songs--”

“Range? Eddie there isn’t any range, it’s just dudes who are angry--”

“Fuck you, it is not!” Eddie was howling, both of them too into their argument to remember they were trying to be quiet to begin with.

“I bet you five dollars! Five entire dollars, that you could not find me a singular song I like out of your entire metal collection.”

“Ten dollars! And the largest Pizza this shithole town has to offer!”

“Deal!” Steve shouted, chest heaving.

They breathed together for a moment, before the tension between them fizzled out, fading into something more uncertain.

Delicate, even though Gareth was fairly certain Steve had expertly maneuvered Eddie right where he wanted him.

Eddie seemed to realize it too, folding back into himself as he tugged a finger around his hair, pulling it in front of his face.

“You really wouldn't care if I kissed a guy in front of you?” Eddie's question isn't overtly vulnerable, but Gareth knows better.

He understands the significance of this.

Of Steve’s acceptance, more than anyone else's.

The jock had become so deeply bonded to them—all of them—that the rejection would wound Eddie in a way few could truly understand. Crack his otherwise impenetrable shield, the ricochet tearing through a substantial portion of his resilience.

“And I'd probably tell you to find a room, but hey, I said that to Tommy and Carol too,” Steve retorts, nudging Eddie's thigh.

Eddie rewards him with a small smile

Steve seems to know more is needed, and offers it up right alongside his heart. “I’m serious. I know I kinda butchered it but--the queer thing shouldn’t be a problem to begin with. It’s stupid that it is.”

"Steven Harrington, did I just witness personal growth?" Eddie teased, his smile widening. "What's next, admitting that college sports are ridiculous?"

“Don’t be a dick,” Steve scoffed, but his own smile mirrored Eddie’s as he looked away.

Despite his head still partly tucked into his arm, Gareth found himself grinning.

It was a welcome relief after an otherwise horrific night.

Sensing it was now or never, Gareth made a show of untangling himself, stretching upward with a moan that startled both Eddie and Steve.

“Be careful saying that shit, Steve,” He said, jerking a thumb towards his best friend. “He’ll take it as an invitation to make out with people in front of you.”

Eddie gasped, hand flying over his heart in mock offense.

“I would never!”

“He’s a real horndog, once he even tried to make out with a guy on stage on top of my drumset.” Gareth continued, sticking out his tongue.

He deserved the pillow thrown his way but Gareth took the hit with grace, laughing as Eddie huffed at him.

“For the last time I wasn’t making out with that guy, he was trying to punch me!”

“With his mouth?”

“With his head, which you damn well know." Eddie accused, clawing blindly for another pillow. "Gareth you are shameless, how long have you been listening in!?”

“As much as I enjoy the calming effects of mindless screaming, I'd wager it was when you guys conveniently forgot I was in the room."

“I take it you uh, know?” Steve injected hesitantly, eyes moving between Eddie and Gareth and oh--oh, he was being protective.

'That’s cute.' Gareth thinks.

Even if he’s rolling his eyes at the very idea that he posses any kind of threat.

“Dude, I clocked Eddie before he clocked me.” He said, just to take some heat from Eddie--and because it was one of the few opportunities where he could say it. “We’ve spent many a math period discussing if Sting was hotter than Axl Rose.”

If Eddie can be brave, Gareth could too.

“You did not.” Eddie spits back, the offense mounting. “You absolutely did not clock me first you lying liar--”

“Oh.” Steve blinked, finger flicking out between them as if he’s connected two dots and feels awfully stupid about not seeing it before. “I uh, I didn’t, are you guys--”

And oh, the horror that crashes into Gareth when he figured out what Steve was asking.

“No! God no.” Gareth shuddered, delighting in the way Eddie’s jaw crashed down at the sight. “And if I ever consider it, I need you to take me out back and shoot me, Steve. Right between the eyes, for the greater good.”

“Wow Gary, just stick a knife in my back why don’t you--”

“I’m gonna be real,” Steve cut in, before they could fake-argue their way into a real fight, “I never actually thought about liking both. Guys and girls, I mean.”

He blushed, as both Gareth and Eddie turned to look at him.

“Oh Stevie,” Eddie cooed, “there are so many more options than just "liking both.”

He made air quotes with his fingers, attention immediately diverted away from murdering Gareth with whatever objects he could grab.

Steve gave him a side eye that was more than well deserved.

“I feel like I don’t want to know.” He said flatly.

“Too late.” Gareth told him, resigned. “You get to hear the speech now.”

“There’s a speech?”

“Steve, it's me. Of course there’s a speech.” Eddie tutted, resettling himself on the couch so that he’s sitting cross legged. “It’s an hour long so strap yourself in big guy, we have a lot of ground to cover!”

Crisis firmly averted, Gareth curls back up in the chair, tired smile on his face as Steve and Eddie go right back to bantering, the tension having vanished from the room.

This is a rare outcome, given their life and the world they live in, but one Gareth’s incredibly thankful for.

Can’t quite believe it, but then, King Steve had surprised a lot of them ever since he’d hung up his crown.

Perhaps Hellfire was a good influence on people after all.

xXx

Bonus

Back at the Byers, outside on the front porch, Hopper and Joyce were arguing over a cigarette.

(They both believe they’re being very quiet about it, but the pillow Jonathan had jammed over his ears said otherwise.)

“Remind me to make you work on your approach with disciplining children.” Joyce was saying, as she snatched the cigarette out of Hopper’s hands.

“What?! I thought that went pretty well considering they broke back into the lab and almost killed themselves.” He responded, waiting until she’d taken a deep inhale before trying to get it back.

“And I’m sure taking potshots at the poorest kid in the room was a necessary part of that process. It’s probably written down in the police handbook, even.”

“I wasn’t taking potshots Joyce--”

“No, of course not, you were just throwing random criticism and assumptions around, willy nilly and--oh, wait, that’s the exact definition of a potshot--”

“He deals drugs! Look me in the eyes and tell me Munson doling out weed doesn’t make more sense then the lot of them chasing down some--some goo story!?”

There’s a weighty pause, in which one can only imagine Joyce Byers face says more words than her mouth ever could.

It was very impactful.

“I mean--okay, maybe not our kids, but the teenagers?” Hopper’s voice dives into a disbelieving kind of whine, reserved for those who are aware the point they’re arguing may in fact, be wrong, but are desperately defending it anyway. “Come on. Drugs is the clear answer!"��

“Even if that was what was happening, then you shouldn’t be discussing it in a room full of children who have survived what those kids have, Jim. It could have been a separate conversation, given in a much calmer and less threatening tone of voice.”

“Oh my God, Joyce--”

“Don’t you ‘oh my God!’ me, you asked for lessons on being a better parent and I am holding you to them!”

There’s a brief scuffle over the cigarette, as both seem to realize Joyce is letting it smoke out in her hand.

She does not stop talking however, even as their hands slap at each other.

“That includes parenting the teenagers in this town, because in case you haven’t noticed, you’re the Chief of police! So you signed up to see them all at their worst, and you get to deal with the fallout of that!”

“Fine! Fine. I’ll apologize to the goddamn high school drug dealer. Is that what you want!?”

“Yes!”

Another pause, this one filled with that awkward sort of tension when an argument has fizzled out, and neither party knows quite where they stand with each other yet.

“What voice am I supposed to use?” Hopper mused, finally winning the bid for the cigarette and jamming it into his mouth.

“Anyone except the grumbly bear voice.”

“The grumbly bear voice?”

“You know,” Joyce drops her own voice in a comical rendition of Hopper’s, “How dare you kids run off! You’ll be the death of me and this town!”

She laughs, and Hopper, shockingly, laughs along with her.

“I don’t sound like that.” He defends, bumping Joyce gently with his shoulder, and she in return, bumps him right back.

Both of them grinning, both of them blushing a little.

They keep talking, the cigarette eventually put aside and forgotten as they do.

Truth be told, they hadn’t needed it--but the excuse was nice.

(Inside, Jonathan rolled the pillow on top of his face in a suffocation attempt, unsure of what he’d done in life to deserve all this but desperately wishing he didn’t have to listen to his mother flirt.

Or worse--Hop flirting back.)