#Made up idiocy

[amerasdreams]

I never want to force myself into any ill-fitting made up trappings that are supposed to define a role but are really just culturally created

[ratatatastic]

finnish cats shenanigans are always my favourite but especially on sasha cup day with the cup involved the hijinks ramp up to 100 lmaooo

"wheres my- (realising sasha is in front of him and quickly stutters to change it to our so he doesnt get wacked over the head) wheres our names?"

(luosty proceeds to cackle in the bg like the shit stirrer he is realising lundys slip of the tongue and if he noticed sasha definitely noticed)

"wheres my name? wheres my name ☺️?" and it was at that moment lundy knew he fucked up

it never ceases to endlessly entertain me how much of a punk lundy can be and im so glad sasha is here to put him in his place because sheesh this kid sometimes XD

"and then luosty but i didnt want to give it to him but he took it" eh? is that so? who couldve guessed???

environmental storytelling, captain said haha okay mine now its mine let go ☺️💢

Sasha Cup Day | 7.31.24 (x)

[satanic-fruitcake]

[sp4ceboo]

ai rant in tags bc im so fucking tired

[eye-of-yelough]

objectively i know the most likely virtue that a spirit/demon/possessed rook would embody would be Determination because. well just listen to rook’s whole characterisation. (it also makes the dynamic with lucanis/spite (previously determination) really interesting) but womp womp i find Devotion a lot sexier.

and it kinda works? if you listen for it. i particularly like the “-and remind the gods that mortals don’t back down!” quote. obviously not including themself in the ‘mortal’ part but that’s what makes it so good. i’m saying this for my team, not me. i’m a being of pure devotion and i’m madly in love with the indomitable human spirit. leadership not as tyranny but as ‘i will lift you up and carry you’

[daydreaming-in-daisies]

it seems like getting a ticket to one of the shows for this tour is damn near impossible. i hope jack never pulls this obnoxious shit again like this process is so unnecessary lmao.

[itspileofgoodthings]

see i have all these spicy takes in the drafts that i don’t post out of self-restraint but then i see a spicy take that i hate SO MUCH and then i want to post mine out of revenge. it’s a terrible cycle tbh.

[jorvikzelda]

I finished the stripe B)

[freebooter4ever]

The nice thing about living five minutes away from work is that if i ever forget something its not the end of the world i just drive home during lunch and pick it up ^_^ i wish our public transport/cities in the US prioritized this over the strange suburban sprawl we seem dedicated to

[kashverse]

the first time it happens, sukuna doesn't even react.

your daughter, a tiny little thing with a head full of wild hair that looks just like his but with your color, storms up to him while he's adjusting his tie. she's got a determined look on her face, a plastic figurine clutched in her tiny hands—a sonny angel doll, of all things.

"papa, hold," she demands, her chubby fingers working to shove it into the breast pocket of his pristine, custom-made suit. he looks down at her, red eyes blinking slowly. then he looks at you, standing off to the side, barely holding back your laughter.

"what is this?" he asks flatly.

"sonny angel," your daughter says like it's obvious. "he's cute. for you."

you make a choked noise behind your hand, and sukuna exhales through his nose. his baby girl, his tiny menace, is standing there with all the confidence of someone who has never been told 'no' in her life. because, well. she hasn't. so what does he do? he lets her shove the damn thing in his pocket. adjusts it a little so it's sitting neatly, because if he's going to have a tiny cherub-faced baby figurine sticking out of his suit, it's at least going to look intentional.

"happy?" he asks.

his daughter beams at him, gives his pant leg a firm pat like he's done a good job, then scurries off to continue whatever other toddler nonsense she was up to before this. you’re wheezing in the corner.

"don't say a word," he warns, fixing his cuffs.

you grin. "i didn't say anything."

cut to his meeting later that day. sukuna walks in like he owns the place (because he does), radiating his usual aura of dominance and unrelenting authority. his executives are already seated, tense and ready, knowing full well that sukuna does not entertain idiocy. but today? today there is something new. today, nestled neatly in the breast pocket of his three-piece suit, is a tiny, plastic baby figurine wearing a duck hat.

the entire room freezes.

one poor soul, likely new and unaware of how the corporate hierarchy works under sukuna, makes the grave mistake of letting out the faintest, almost imperceptible snort.

sukuna turns his head very slowly.

"who the fuck just laughed?"

silence. absolute, suffocating silence. the man looks down at his notes as if they might save him from impending doom.

sukuna leans back in his chair, tapping a clawed finger against the conference table.

"anyone else got something to say about my sonny angel?"

no one breathes.

good.

he conducts the rest of the meeting as if nothing is out of place, occasionally adjusting the little doll in his pocket like it's just another part of his attire.

by the end of the week, rumors have spread. no one dares to question the sonny angel. entire powerpoint presentations are given with the utmost professionalism while a tiny, smiling cherub peeks out of sukuna’s suit.

by the end of the month, it becomes an unofficial rule of the office. mock the sonny angel? fired. make a comment? fired. even looking at it for too long earns you a pointed glare.

and by the end of the quarter, the entire upper management team has started discreetly wearing their own sonny angels in solidarity. your daughter, completely oblivious to the corporate chaos she has caused, simply continues her toddler life, happy and content in the knowledge that her papa always carries her gift with him.

and sukuna? well. if having a tiny plastic baby in his pocket means seeing his little girl’s delighted grin every morning, then so be it.

[grey-eyed-gemini]

Having anxiety over spending money is a painnnnnn

[borealopelta]

hmmm. i think if people are about to do stupid shit they should first make sure they know basic first aid for the injuries they're definitely going to sustain <3

[satanic-fruitcake]

11 SEASONS PLUS MOVIES????

[fandom-rants]

On jennlikespie's last comment (I will not be @-ing her because she clearly does not want to engage further):

When you said "Even with all those examples given a extremely large glaringly obvious detail OP douche canoe has failed to consider or realize is that Matoaka was a real person" it certainly looked like you were downplaying Peter Pan in your efforts to talk once again about how Matoaka is a real person, which we all already fucking know. And it appears you're the one with shitty-ass reading comprehension because not once did I say people should fucking ignore the racism in Pocahontas, what I said (if you would read) is, and I quote, "if you still say that [other Disney films] are still good, entertaining movies despite the misogynistic, morally dubious, or racist moments and viewpoints in them, then you need to shut the fuck up about Pocahontas." Which means, if you're struggling to understand, that all of them are racist and all of them should be lumped together as such instead of pretending one is worse than others. Which is what you did.

Yes! Duh! Matoaka was a real fucking person! Pocahontas in the movie Pocahontas is a character and should have been given a different fucking name because the bullshit that was written is so whitewashed it's insane! Hence why I refer to the character in the movie as Pocahontas, because it's not fucking Matoaka and shouldn't be lumped in with her. But her being a real person doesn't make it more racist than any other fucking film. They are all fucking racist.

This is why humanity fucking sucks ass. You and I are arguing the same basic concept, but you were too busy getting pissy to actually read and you ended up accidentally doing the thing others have done to you by blowing off Peter Pan to talk about Pocahontas, which was my fucking point.

[eye-of-yelough]

why have i seen two fanarts of peoples argonian ocs in the last 10 minutes. tumblr hates me tumblr wants me to miss my girl more and more ….

[pseudowho]

"Kento...can I...can I paint you?"

Kento glanced back over his shoulder, sleepy, to where you sat massaging knots out of his back. He didn't know why he'd bothered perusing his shelves beforehand; your hands had moulded and made him heavy, and he sunk, unbidden, his book forgotten and his eyelids made of lead, groaning in bliss.

Your eyes traced Kento's back...his arms...his hands. All ripped and reformed, broken and made stronger, the scars (both old and new), criss-crossing him, his life-story turned roadmap.

At some points, Kento's body seemed as though it would last centuries and end up in a museum somewhere, with futuristic admirers who did not know him as you did. At other points, he was just a porcelain man, full of cracks, to be handled with care lest he break.

Kento hummed; a cover-all rumble, unsure.

"...paint me?" He teased, a coy half-smile on the corner of his mouth. "Like one of your French girls?"

You laughed, kissing his shoulder blades, still stroking those seams of pink flesh with your fingertips. He shuddered, the hairs on the base of his undercut standing on end.

"Not quite...do you trust me?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

"Then just...close your eyes."

Kento huffed through his nose, leaning forwards on his elbows and clasped calloused hands. He heard you rattling around behind him, the tap running, the soft dompf of you resettling on the sofa. More rattling, and your quiet voice.

"Stay still..."

Kento jumped, shivering as the tip of a fine, wet brush licked at the skin on his shoulder blade. He hummed again, dubious.

"Oh...you meant paint me."

"Semantics."

"Bless you."

You laughed at his gentle idiocy. "Keep still."

In truth, as your brush traced idle patterns over his shoulder, his arm, and his hand, Kento didn't need to be told to keep his eyes closed even once. He meant it when he said he trusted you; and he meant it when your presence rocked him to sleep. Time lost meaning as he dozed, sat like The Thinker as you finally removed your brush from his hand.

"There. All done."

Kento opened his eyes...to art.

Patches of the back of his hand had been brushed matte with a soft jade green, fading out against peach flesh. Through the jade, where pink seams had once scored the skin, they now ran golden, liquid beauty joining the edges of his pain and history. And it was...lovely.

Kento swallowed thickly, laid bare beneath your eyes. He gently flexed his hand, seeing how the green and gold flexed with him, held together by your very own repairs. He tracked more and more patches up his forearm, his bicep, over his shoulder...

Kento was quiet, stoic, vulnerable. He whispered, as you took lamplit photos of your work. "I adore you."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Christmas had come and gone, and still, Kento did not allow you to touch him as he once did.

The air between you was as taut as the flesh of his left side. You washed the dishes, and he dried, kept company only by the hush of the taps and clink of the plates. Kento reached for a mug with his left hand, and, numb-fingered, dropped it with a spitting curse, to where it shattered beyond repair around your feet.

Barefoot, and pausing with an oh!, you lifted your foot as if to move, and Kento berated you, growling, snapping.

"Stay where you are."

"Kento, it's alright, I'll get it--"

"No. It's my mess. My fault. Sit down."

"Really, it's fine--" Your words cut off with a squeak, as one strong arm looped around your waist. Kento grunted as he lifted you out of the shards with ease, to his body, only to drop you to safety the moment your hands began to brush his bare chest.

"Sit down." Kento rumbled, dark and sullen, his one good eye glowering at you beside the patch. You prickled, rejected. You refused to sit. Watching Kento, as he finished vacuuming, your eyes drifted without thought between him, and your paint set in the chest beneath the kitchen cabinet.

On his way over to the sofa, Kento spotted you, and scoffed, hissing with pain as he dropped himself to sit. He sneered, nasty.

"Sorry, my love. Not enough gold in that box to repair me."

You gritted your teeth, your mouth twisted in disgust, tears in your eyes. You pushed your chair away in a tearful rage, and padded over to Kento, fast, determined.

The briefest flicker of alarm crossed his half-burned face as you straddled him, trapping him to the sofa with a hand on each cheek. You spat, forcing him to see you, gripping him down as he writhed to get away.

"Then I'll break into palaces. I'll rob museums. I'll be a thief in the night. Because they don't deserve it, not like you do."

Kento cursed at you, twisting like a rat in a trap, and you held on tighter, sick of being pushed away, and you forced the words out of you as tears spilled over to drop onto his chest.

"And if there's not enough gold there then I'll melt myself down, but you don't need gold because you're not broken--"

"--get off me-- let me go--"

"No." You cried, looping your arms around his neck, your core pressed to his. The air stilled, his rejection rejected.

You panted, your shoulders heaving, weeping into his neck. Kento and you sat this way in silence, the tap still running and forgotten, your sniffles muffled into his neck. You felt him soften, his hands coming to rest on your hips, stroking you.

Kento's voice was thick, agonised. "You...deserve someone whole."

"I don't want them. They're nothing to me. It's you, or no-one."

Kento's teeth bared, his face stinging as it crumpled, salty tears washing away the grief. He gripped onto you, the fracture not breaking under stress; the bond, golden.

And when you finally did paint him, how he shone.