#already liking how this ask will look out of context

[syoddeye]

cut me down, level me | ghoap x reader | 3.2k cw: alcohol, jealous reader, nasty+mean ghost, harassment, nonconsensual touching/manhandling, masturbation a/n: title from i wish i was you by creux lies.

it’s johnny’s birthday.

you grouse the entire time you get ready. mood utterly unsalvageable even with the right playlist. the emergency bottle of prosecco in your refrigerator can’t rescue you either—it’s turned sour and vinegary, probably like the evening ahead.

johnny texts, his message asking for your eta littered with typos. he’s sent it not in your private chat, but the one with his worse half. 

he promised, repeatedly, that simon, the principal pain in your ass that—“he’ll be on his best behavior. hand on heart, i swear.”

you’ve heard that one before.

it doesn’t matter what you do. by the time the rideshare pulls up outside their flat, you half-consider staying in the car and heading straight back home. cozying up in bed with your laptop feels infinitely better than the prospect of enduring lousy company.

because for all johnny’s reassurances, you know simon. he’s the thorn in your side. the wedge between you and your best friend.

you were practically raised together after your family moved in next door. you spent as many holidays at the mactavish house as your own. even after johnny enlisted, nothing changed—you were still the first person he’d call with news, and he was still the one you trusted to share things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. 

and then, two christmases ago, simon arrived. six-foot-something stupid, he muscled his way in, taking up more space than he had any right to, crowding into johnny’s life like he’d always been there. 

“simon? it’s good to finally meet you. johnny talks about you all the time.” you’d said, hand extended, trying to make a good impression. neck craned to the man filling the doorframe. simon smirked, something flat and condescending in his voice as he replied, hand already hinging possessively around johnny’s nape.

“i thought only i could call you ‘johnny’. not ‘ow you make a man feel special, is it.”

you remember how he shouldered around you without another word, greeting the rest of the mactavishes with bourbon and presents like some drab mancunian santa claus.

johnny found you seething later that evening and delivered the first of a thousand apologies. said he was embarrassed by simon’s cold shoulder, and you forgave him—not because you believed him, but because you felt sorry that his boyfriend was a territorial buffoon.

a mistake.

you know couples spend most of their time together. you’re not stupid or naive enough to think they’d be any different, but somehow it’s worse. you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve spent with johnny one-on-one since they got together. simon’s always there, lurking. there’s no sharing with him.

you’ve tried to bring it up with johnny quietly, mostly over text, since phone calls and video chats are never private, but it’s like he can’t see his velcro boyfriend at his side. he doesn’t question it, not really. he’ll admit simon’s a bit rough around the edges, that his jokes cross the line or that his comments make your skin crawl, but he brushes them off. there’s always an excuse, some reason to overlook it. you just hope it’s only a matter of time before johnny sees simon for what he really is and breaks it off.

a no-good interloper, pissing on everything–

when you knock, it’s simon who answers the door. music spills out around him, voices rising and falling in the glow of light behind his broad shoulders. he looks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes dragging from your shoes to your face, as if you’re a stranger. then he tilts his head in a silent well?

you’ve learned that it is you who must move around him, in all contexts. you are the invader. he doesn’t flinch when you cram under his thick arm braced against the door. he mutters a snide comment about the cut of your shirt—can see straight down that—breath fanning over your head. your face burns instantly, blistering hot. as you pass, the bottle of wine in your hand “accidentally” finds his ribs, and for a second, you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“oops!” 

you flee beeline for johnny.

he’s already tipsy, the lush, but he’s at least happy to see you. 

“there she is.” his face is flushed from drink, and he pulls you into a bear hug, pressing a few sloppy kisses against your cheek. “i was just tellin’ simon it’s no’ my birthday without ye.”

you lean into him, briefly nuzzling his chest, breathing in his grounding scent. asshole boyfriend or not, how could you consider abandoning your boy?

“shameless flirt.”

“dinnae i ken it.”

he pouts when you peel away and excuse yourself, promising to find him after making the rounds.

you count maybe two dozen people spread through the house, a mix of old classmates, distant acquaintances, and soldiers. more arrive in waves, and you’re glad for the buffer. enough bodies between you and simon to keep him at a comfortable distance.

time moves in fits and starts. you drink enough to feel a buzz and resolve, half-heartedly, to enjoy yourself and mingle. there’s no shortage of good-looking men in johnny’s circle, and you might as well flirt a little. it seems like the kind of thing you should be doing, though your heart isn’t really in it.

you meet another john, polite but pointed about the ring on his finger. then kyle, who seems interested until he asks your name and then suddenly isn’t. after a couple more dead ends, you give up entirely, feeling more lousy than when you arrived. but it’s johnny’s birthday, and it’s bad form to leave before midnight. so, instead, you decide to keep to yourself and wait it out.

problem is, you start bumping into simon.

wherever you go—the den, the kitchen, the front steps for air—simon appears. he doesn’t make a show of following you, but you feel it all the same. his gaze finds you like a searchlight, dissecting you piece by piece. just waiting to say shit. his expression doesn’t shift when you glance his way, no shame in being caught staring. it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but whatever it is, it doesn’t feel particularly benign. his presence settles like a weight on your back. 

he doesn’t let you find any refuge with johnny, either. of course not. birthday boy is blissfully unaware, wrapped up in his own celebration, probably thinking simon’s sudden surge of public affection and attention are gifts. from across the room, simon’s gaze is heavy on you, his arm draped possessively around johnny’s waist, hand settling unashamedly on his ass for a grope. you catch his eye once, and without missing a beat, he leans in, planting a kiss behind johnny’s ear, making him squirm mid-conversation. 

it pisses you off. curdles your bad mood into a rotten one.

with an hour left until midnight, you try to avoid simon as much as possible. it probably seems petty to slip away the moment he walks into a room or to retreat into silence when he lingers too close, but you don’t care. he’s stifling and unbearable—like he’s decided to babysit you to make sure you’re on your best behavior. and there’s no telling johnny. you won’t ruin the night for him by stirring up trouble.

at one point, you take too long at the makeshift bar in the kitchen, and he corners you mid-pour.

simon clicks his tongue, shifting his weight just enough to box you in with his chest and shoulders. “what’s that now, your fourth? fifth?” his voice is low, a rough-edged drawl, head dipping and chasing your ear when you try to duck away. “keep this up, sweet’eart, and you’ll be sleepin’ it off between us.” the grin that stretches his mouth feels too sharp, his eyes glinting as he leans in, the heat of him unnervingly close, his bulk a deliberate intrusion into your space.

the image his words conjure arrives unbidden, sending a disorienting jolt down your spine. you see yourself there, curled against johnny’s chest, while another, hulking body melding to your back, presence suffocating and unwanted. the thought lingers for a heartbeat before it vanishes in a rush of disgust, leaving you like a dog with its hackles raised, bristling with the instinct to flee.

you shove past, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim as you go, his rasping chuckle drifting after you.

another hour passes in a blur, but you salute yourself—only a quarter-hour to freedom. problem is, all that wine’s caught up, and the door to the downstairs toilet has been locked for a stretch. you cast a casual glance around, your eyes tracking the shape of your persistent shadow, and find him finally occupied with the other john, his back turned to you for the first time all evening. it’s a quick, maybe ill-advised decision to slip upstairs, but you really have no choice. you have to pee before you leave, and besides, it’s a teensy fuck you to the man who’s followed you all night.

the music from downstairs hums through the floor, covering your movements just enough that you don’t bother to tiptoe.

their bedroom is unfamiliar, but johnny’s presence clings to the space in bits and pieces. a framed photo of johnny in his first uniform, his mother leaning against his arm. an old rugby medal, propped against a stack of books, a few of which you gifted him. on the wall beside the bed, a collage of photos: summers at the mactavish cottage, christmas dinners with both your families, johnny mid-laugh with his arm slung casually around your shoulders in more than one.

you spot an old toy soldier from the same set johnny used to make elaborate battles with when you were kids. it sits next to a half-empty bottle of expensive bourbon you don’t recognize, probably something simon probably picked out. the mixture of old and new, of johnny and simon, is dizzying. jealousy wells up in your chest. you were there for all those moments. you knew him when he played soldier in the garden, when he rolled his eyes through family holidays and snuck you out at dessert. you were the constant, long before simon’s shadow overtook everything.

you slink into the bathroom, eyes stinging and chest tightening. it’s the wine.

washing your hands, your eyes land on a half-empty bottle of cologne you don’t recognize. while the rideshare app spins uselessly, you take a whiff and hum. it’s johnny’s. you rub a fingertip over the atomizer, too paranoid to take even a quarter-spray. the residual will have to do. instead, you press a fingertip to the atomizer, then smear a trace behind your ear just as the app pings. finally.

you pull the door open, eyes trained on the app’s countdown and mind tangling with how to say goodbye to johnny. you don’t notice the figure outside until you step straight into it, a solid wall of muscle. you stagger, caught off guard, but before you can register what’s happening, he presses forward, steering you back inside the bathroom. your phone drops to the counter with a clatter. a hand smelling of smoke and salt clamps over your mouth.

“stop fussin’,” simon mutters, clipped with irritation. his fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your jaw tight as he leans back just far enough to shut the door. you batter his chest with your fists, which he swiftly captures when he swivels back. “i said stop. need to chat.” 

your phone buzzes against the counter, the soft vibration loud against the marble. simon glances down, his expression darkening as he spots the car on the screen. with a tap of his thumb, he cancels the ride, lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “sneakin’ out already? night’s young.”

your words are lost under his palm, protests garbled into nothing. heat flushes your face, humiliation prickling your skin as you try to twist free. glaring, you tell him how creepy he’s being, how weird he is, voice rising even though it’s barely audible. for a moment, his expression doesn’t shift, then something flickers behind his eyes, like a shark finding chum in the water. he leans in, his hips pinning yours, and his nose drags over where you’d rubbed the scent.

“you little thief,” he murmurs, voice thick with disdain. his hand eases just enough to let you speak.

“i thought it was johnny’s.” you finally say, throat tight, pulse fluttering at its base.

“it’s ours,” he sneers. “we share. everything.”

you scoff, the sound bitter in the small space between you. “you? don’t make me laugh.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

for a second, you stare in disbelief, chest heaving in shallow breaths. he still has you held against the counter, and you realize you smell it on him, too. 

you can’t have just this one thing.

word vomit comes out in a rush, spliced with the fury and frustration that’s been building all night, no, for months, mixed with the tang of cheap pinot. “you fucking stole johnny from me. he was my best friend, my johnny, before you. i’ve called him that my whole life. and then you—you show up, sap up all of his attention, and now he never has time for me. it’s never just me and him, you’re always fucking there.” the confession hangs in the air. it is more honest than you meant, but there is no going back.

simon tilts his head, looking down at you like he’s trying to figure something out, his hand firm under your jaw. his fingers press in, not quite hard, just enough to keep you there, and then he leans in close, his forehead nearly touching yours. you try to look away, eyes darting to the side, but he won’t let you.

“’s that what you need? johnny’s attention?” his thumb drags over the curve of your cheek, pressing until it hooks inside your mouth. “my attention?”

“no-awh! no’ yoursth!” 

your tongue brushes the pad of his thumb, a shudder rolling through you before you remember your teeth. he remembers too, yanking his thumb away just as your bite snaps shut, catching your tongue instead. you yelp, the sting immediate and hot.

he coos, low and mocking, his hand sealing over your mouth again. his weight presses you against the counter, pinning you effortlessly in place. your hands, useless against the unyielding plane of his chest, clutch at his forearm instead, desperate to free your face. then his knee jabs forward, knocking a muffled cry from your throat. the impact drives you onto your toes, the cupboard beneath you taking the blow and holding his knee steady, leaving you no choice but to remain perched, precarious and trembling, to avoid putting your weight on him.

“this ‘as been my problem with you since day one. you’re a dishonest and jealous woman. can’t be ‘appy for johnny. can’t be polite to me–”

you hiss and spit at that, outrage starting and stalling. he’s done nothing—as if he’s—unbelievable—but you’re wasting your breath, not merely because his stupid, meaty paw’s lodged over your mouth, but because it’s simon. two years in, and you know better. arguing with him is like shouting into the void. useless, exhausting. your calves burn from holding yourself up, thighs trembling under the strain, but he doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease an inch.

“always whining, always makin’ our boy feel like shit with your desperate, depressing texts–” his knee slides and nudges between your legs, finding the seam of your jeans. “���always runnin’ away from us, not letting it happen, be easy...”

your face finally turns, but he only leans in further, his forehead skimming yours, settling heavily against your temple. chapped lips graze your cheek, words spilling straight into your skin, warm air puffing through his nostrils like a beast. “trying to sneak out, makin’ me keep an eye on you all night…” you squeeze your eyes shut, heat crawling up your neck and over your scalp. this is bad. very bad. it’s johnny’s birthday, and his boyfriend has you cornered in the bathroom. your thoughts snarl in panic and guilt. you hardly register simon’s voice anymore, his lecture breaking into shards your brain can’t piece together.

until he says something that pierces the fog. growls it into your ear, close enough his tongue needlessly flicks the shell.

“i’m not ‘aving it anymore. you understand? you ain’t leavin’ tonight.”

simon unhurriedly tilts your head back, then presses you down onto his knee. you swallow hard, a noise catching somewhere deep and undignified. if he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“i’m gonna let go, and you’re gonna keep quiet. you’re gonna be a good girl, come back downstairs, and not go makin’ a scene. or do i need to spell out what ‘appens if ya don’t, or are ya as sharp as ‘e’s always makin’ out?”

you don’t need him to say it. the threat is there, in between your legs, and if you looked down, you’d see it between his, too. it doesn’t matter what you want. 

it doesn’t matter what simon wants, either, you think. if it did, you’d probably still be in the bathroom with him. 

he’s been abundantly clear. the only thing that matters is what johnny wants.

from where he sat you on the end of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap, you glimpse movement through the cracked door. grunting. he told you to spit in his palm before he sent you out, and now you know why. his hand sounds slick and furious over his length. your stomach clenches, eyes watering from staring unblinkingly at the rug beneath your feet. you wonder if it’s not punishment but a prelude. or worse, his idea of a favor. a demonstration. as long as you’re good and quiet. as long as you stay.

when he comes, he’s nearly silent. a word or two gnashed between teeth in a whisper. a couple more pumps. then, the flush of the toilet and his zipper.

he doesn’t wash his hands. the animal.

simon lifts an eyebrow, and you scurry toward the door, though the snap of his tongue slows you. he stays a breath behind you as the warmth and noise of the party swallow you both whole, no one any wiser. instinctively, you angle left, toward the door, but his finger hooks through the back loop of your jeans, steering you elsewhere.

johnny’s in a merry state, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, caught somewhere between shock and delight at seeing both of you settle beside him. you’re wedged in the middle on the couch, their solid thighs pressing yours. across the coffee table, the men you met earlier nod in your direction, and you return a stiff smile, pretending nothing’s amiss. johnny’s hand lands on your knee with a familiar squeeze, his grin boyish and lopsided. behind you, a heavier arm stretches across the back of the couch, simon’s fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. the scent of the cologne mingles with simon’s musk, wrinkling your nose.

johnny leans in, his voice an exaggerated whisper slurred at the edges. his eyes, wide and glassy, flit between the two of you with an almost childlike excitement.

“nice to see ye gettin’ along. just for me?”

simon chuckles. “told ya i’d be good, didn’t i?” his fingers curl beneath your collar, resting there. an ultimatum. “it’s a joint gift. ain’t that right?”

your eyebrows lift in a wider, strained smile.

“yep. happy birthday, johnny.”

[reignpage]

Basketball Captain!Toji

Detroit Pistons: reaching for the ball

Warnings: 18+ minors and ageless blogs dni, bts of a modern au!smau (part 2 of Toji's series), can be read as a standalone but makes most sense with the context, cursing, mentions of blood and violence, general stupidity at a party, just one long foreplay really, not proofread

You really shouldn’t be here. 

Not a party full stop, not trying to enact petty revenge against your shitty ex, and certainly not with Toji Fushiguro, captain of the basketball team, and resident fuckboy. 

He’s taken you by surprise at every given turn. You hadn’t expected him to ask for your number from his friend, you hadn’t expected him to reach out just to complain about his placement on the List of the hottest men on campus, and especially did not expect him to let you into the gym just because it was raining, though he did shrug off your incredulous look with a nonchalantly delivered jab. 

“Y’ were ruining my view with y’r ugly crying face.”

And somehow, you had let him convince you to use him to make your ex jealous, to show him what he was missing out on. 

Now you, the girl who never drank, never wore short skirts, never stayed out too late, followed every rule to the letter, is now sitting firmly on Toji’s lap, slotting in perfectly like a puzzle piece, at a frat party. 

It’s like you’ve somehow ended up in an alternate universe or woke up in someone else’s body. Maybe you’re in a dream. Except the searing brand of a heavy hand on your bare thigh is disproving any of those theories. 

“You enjoying yourself?” His voice is low and gruff, you feel it vibrate against your body, lulling you into a sense of comfort. The rough denim of his jeans is warming your skin, his solid chest keeps you grounded, and his thick arms have you all wrapped up, balanced securely and protected from the night air.

You nod, head buried in the crook of his neck. Once in a while you inhale his musky aftershave, relishing in that freshly showered scent he always had. “My sources say Gojo throws a party at least once a week.”

“Guy likes to party,” is all he says.

There have been flashes of his white hair around the large house, disappearing among the crowds and into different rooms. He had greeted you when you first walked into the garden to make your way to Toji with a beer in hand like your partner in crime had instructed you. 

Gojo was nice, very friendly, a little loud, but you knew that already. As the writer for the gossip column, you know every thing there was to know about everyone worth knowing. Which is ironic since you’re nobody and you knew none of these people personally. But the frat president knew you. He had greeted you like you were long time friends and pulled you into a tight hug.

“Hey, look who it is! My favourite person in the world.” He slung an arm over your shoulders and cheered with everyone else, seemingly oblivious to the heat rising on your face. “Thanks again for putting me top of the List. Nice to know people have taste.”

And then Toji was grumbling and wrestling you out of the rowdy guy’s grip to a quieter part of the house. He told you to explore the place, get familiar, freshen up your makeup ‘or whatever else chicks need’, and to text him if you find your ex first. 

Now, here you are, making yourself comfortable on his thighs, goosebumps rising along your skin at the feel of his long fingers creeping up your leg and just teasing the hem of your ridiculously short skirt. 

Some people would come over, once in a while, to talk to Toji. They’d say hi to you but they were mostly interested in knowing how the captain feels about the upcoming games. A few girls would stumble over, giggling and twirling their hair but they leave pretty quickly once they see Toji’s eyes fixated on you. 

You have got to give him credit; he’s totally committed to the bit.

Perhaps a little too committed with how he’d frequently whisper right in your ear, warm breath trickling your neck. 

“You look damn good tonight, ma.”

The way he says it, the low groan that he teases you with, makes you press your thighs together. It’s a completely inappropriate reaction; you really should not be feeling tingly from his flirtations. He doesn’t mean them. Toji is just playing the part, trying to goad your ex into a fight so he can ‘ruin the vibe’ at Gojo’s party. 

Because, for whatever reason, Toji had beef with the man that seemed completely one-sided, if the hug the frat president tried to throw to the basketball captain was anything to go by. 

You stutter out a ‘thanks’ and ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. 

Toji huffs a laugh, tightening his hold on you before he leans back in the patio chair, taking you with him so you’re resting on him. Your skirt’s definitely ridden up your ass by now, but his large hand wraps around the flesh there like second nature. 

Despite the chill in the garden, you’re content in his arms. The man runs hot.

It’s easy to get lost in his body; the man is built like a Greek god, all muscle and strength, carved straight from marble. And it’s precisely because he’s so firm and hard beneath you, that you forget your ex is just a couple metres away, leaning against a brick wall with a red cup in hand, glaring at you two. 

“Dunno why Gojo let that guy into the frat when he’s so fucking ugly,” Toji grumbles. 

You laugh. 

Once upon a time, you thought you were lucky to be with him. That he was the catch and you were punching up; he certainly made you feel that way. Always reminding you that he could have any girl on campus, that the barista at your local coffee shop had given him her number with a smiley face, and that as a member of one of the most influential fraternities in the country, he could have any job he wanted. 

But as you throw a glance at him, you realise all of that was false bravado. A Napoleon Complex, most likely. 

And not once, since Toji picked you up, have you felt less than. He compliments you so frequently, so spontaneously, and so earnestly you can’t help but believe him. 

“Why do you hate Gojo, by the way?”

The captain glances down at you, a slow smirk emerging on his face and you gulp at the sight of that scar stretching. You want to know more about it, simply because you’re a journalist, it’s in your nature to be inquisitive, and definitely not because you want to trace the skin there whilst feeling his voice rumble through his body and into yours. 

With a shrug, he lifts his beer to his lips, and admits, “Don’t really hate the guy. Just wanna knock him down a peg or two.”

“I stalked Gojo for about two weeks just for a statement one time, y’know.” You stare at the people hooting and hollering over a table of beer pong, watching their jumping bodies, so light, so free like there isn’t a whole world of problems beyond the frat house’s territory. “When I finally cornered him after his lecture, he laughed and said I didn’t have to do all of that. I could have just texted him.”

Toji huffs an amused laugh. “That’s what’s annoying ‘bout the guy. He’s nice. Real fucking nice. But — and this is off the record, doll — guy’s got problems. And yet he’s always smiling. Just pisses me off, sometimes.”

And to that you just nod. You get it. There are some people out there who just seem to have it all, and you resent them for it, but they never hold it against you, and you resent them even more. 

“How did you become friends with him anyways?”

“Just kinda happened.”

If you have to hazard a guess, you’d probably say it happened through the fact that they all run in the same circle. Big personalities like him and Gojo and Sukuna, are hard to miss. They’re the kind of people want to be around. Everyone knows Sukuna and Toji have been roommates since first year, allocated on a random basis at first, and they hit it off instantly, opting to room together since then. 

With a sweep of the backyard, you enquire, “Where is Sukuna?”

“Somewhere, I’m sure. Guy doesn’t really like parties, actually.”

You gasp. “But my sources say he attends most of them.”

Toji places the bottle in your lap and you cradle it like it’s a treasure. He runs a hand through his hair and leans his head back with his eyes closed like he’s soaking up the moon’s rays. Earlier, you had told him you felt bad you were holding him back from enjoying his night, but he just patted your ass and said ‘it’s good to slow down, sometimes.’

“He does, but I think guy just likes to know all the drama. Likes to cause them too, the prick.”

You poke his chest. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He peeks at you with one eye, small grin on his lips.

“We’re a match made in heaven, doll.”

The conversation fades and you just rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart and desperately trying to ignore the shiver that threatens to wrack up your spine with the graze of his thumb against that sliver of skin between your skirt and top. 

Toji’s holding you like he’s been holding you since the dawn of time. There’s no awkwardness, no uncomfortable shuffles to accommodate your weight, and he doesn’t even look the least bit bothered that sometimes people will point and whisper at the star basketball player and some nobody cuddling up in the corner on a swinging bench. 

You sense movement in the corner of your eye and spot a girl cozying up to your ex. He looks at you with a smug face. 

“How did you know my ex would care?”

You stifle a gasp from the sudden clench of his hand over your waist. It was forceful but gentle, invoking flashing images of him towering over you, wrangling you into position. He could easily bend you over and take what he wanted. Toji is big and muscular, yes, but he’s also an athlete. There’s no doubt in your mind that he has the stamina and endurance to go all night and not break a sweat. 

Shaking your head slightly, you bring the beer to your lips absentmindedly, taking a swig that leaves you blanching. How anyone could drink this, you’d never know. 

“No guy wouldn’t care that his ex moved on pretty quickly. Plus, insecure little shits like him need to think that they got the better end of the deal. He needs to know you’re all sad and stupid over him so he feels important.”

Wise words. 

It surprises you slightly. 

Of course, most students at Eden are smart — being one of the top universities in the world means having high standards. But no one would ever go to a frat-party attending jock for advice, much less dating advice, and expect insightful revelations. You feel guilty for underestimating Toji. He’s actually pretty smart. 

“Look, he’s got a girl on his arm and yet he keeps looking at you.”

It’s true. 

You can feel his leery gaze sweeping up and down your body, and it makes you want to throw up. So you shuffle closer to Toji, impossibly closer, and he lets you. 

“You look hot, doll. Just gotta own it, yeah?” His breath fans over you and it sets your skin ablaze. One hand rubs at your thigh, relishing in the soft, smooth skin and the other is gripping your hip. And beneath you, there’s something you’ve been giving your best shot constantly to pretend isn’t there. 

Toji Fushiguro is hard. 

And big, by the feel of it. 

You already knew that, of course. You get lots of anonymous tips through your ‘Insider’s Line’, as you like to call it, voicing in exhilarated pants about recent escapades. It’s a hotline anyone could call. You’re the only person who has access to the voicemails that get left behind. And it’s never usually a tedious process to sift through the prank calls and the boring confessions to get to the juicy details about the ongoings on campus. 

Many of those voicemails are to do with Toji. Whether that was about how he ‘so hot’ they could just ‘die or, like, combust’ or variations of ‘oh my god, that dick is fire, for real.’

You are not a prude. 

You have too much exposure to much more graphic descriptions of people’s adventures to be shy about sex, not to mention, you’re an adult. A virgin, but still an adult with friends who are not shy about their sex lives, to put it mildly. In fact, you’ve got a certain art student friend who loves to rant all the ways she’d like a certain vandal to ‘paint’ her with his ‘artistic essence.’

Whatever that means. 

And yet, despite all your pieces on the wildest, most inappropriate topics like ‘the hottest sex position right now’ and ‘is six inches really enough?’, you find yourself blushing at the realisation that the captain of the basketball team is sporting a boner that he doesn’t care to hide. 

You clear your throat and with a whisper, you say, “I hope I’m not making you…uncomfortable.”

You wince at the awkward wording. What are you? A child?

Toji grunts. 

“You referring to my boner, ma?” When you nod embarrassed, he taps your thigh with two fingers. “It’s your fault so you gonna lend a hand or what?”

If he was anyone else, literally anyone else, you’d be outraged. No man should talk to a lady like that and insinuate that they have a responsibility over someone else’s bodily reactions. It’s backwards and uncouth!

But…

Toji Fushiguro is not anyone else. 

You know he’s joking; he doesn’t seem to have any qualms in making stupid jokes with you because he knows you write filthier things. He’s tested your boundary many times in the past couple days and you’ve grown accustomed to his humour. 

And even if he isn’t joking, you have no problems with taking the opportunity. 

You shouldn’t.

You just got broken up with the other day and it’s unwise to get personally involved with a person you write so frequently about. Bias must not be tolerated is your mantra. 

Yet, your thighs are pressed tightly together, your nipples are poking through your top and you know he can see them, and if you were to slide a hand between your legs, you’d likely find wetness that is unbecoming of a lady. 

Wait. 

Among hundreds of voicemails, didn’t you receive one about how a guys likes girls sitting on his lap so he could feel their pussy?

Can Toji feel your pussy clenching, moistening and fluttering on his thigh?

You tilt your head up with a panic and you’re aghast. He’s already looking down at you with a challenging raise of his brow and a smirk playing on his lip. He knows what you’re thinking and he sees the question in your eyes. 

Toji flexes his thigh in an answer, pressing it harder against you, and the friction is delectable. It leaves you reeling, hand clutching his chest for stability. His arms tighten around you, and he’s sitting up, no longer lazily lounging, but now drawing closer, muscles tense despite his calm expression. Green eyes flicker up and down your face, settling on your lips with a hunger you surely match. You’re entranced. He smells clean and fresh with a hint of something burnt, a maturity you want to explore. His scent is filling your head, washing away the smell of cheap liquor and weed. 

Then, a foghorn like whoop pierces the mist. 

Some guy had climbed the balcony and is threatening to jump into the empty pool. Everyone crowds around, laughing and cheering. 

The moment is lost between you and your new friend, but he doesn’t let you up. In fact, he isn’t even looking at the idiot — not like you are, thinking about piece you could write about party culture — but rather at his stupid roommate, who stands on the other balcony, leaning against the railing as he looks on at everyone in disgust. 

Perhaps it’s the sheer fact that they’ve been friends for a while, and so he knows Sukuna’s inclination for inciting violence and general nonsensical behaviour for his own sick satisfaction, that makes Toji so damn sure this is his doing. Or maybe it’s the fact that he knows his roommate has developed a fascination with pushing a certain someone’s buttons. 

And when his phone pings and he receives a text from his pink-haired teammate, he knows it’s both. 

If the fucker stains Gojo’s pool with his blood, you think he’ll complain to the Prez?

Toji doesn’t bother answering, he just pockets his phone again with a tsk. He’s totally gonna hide the guy’s car keys in retaliation later for ruining his moment. He was so close to getting a taste of a certain gossip columnist and the opportunity was gone and excusing herself to go inside for a blanket. 

When she disappears from sight, weaving through the crowd still egging the loser on, the captain groans into the sky, squeezing his throbbing cock to adjust it. It’s gonna be a long night, he thinks, but then smiles to himself when he notices your dumbass ex still glaring with as much hate as the little guy can muster, and he knows he saw the whole thing. 

Now, all he can think about is you returning as quickly as possible so he can pick up where he left off. He’s gonna push all three of you as far as possible tonight: the ex will know he’ll never be man enough for a woman like you and that’s why he couldn’t get you wet; you’ll learn to let go, trust the pleasure and embrace it; and Toji?

Well, Toji’s gonna learn that the quietest girls are usually the ones with the most to say. 

[lucky-santangelo]

I can admit that there is technically a selfishness in both protagonists, but Glinda’s outweighs Elphaba’s, hence the criticism of her character.

First, there’s a difference in why both women want to work with Madame Morrible (and, through her, the Wizard). Yes, both of their reasons are for personal gain: Glinda wants this for more fame and power than she already has. On the other hand, Elphaba wants to be de-greenfied so people can…you know…stop treating her like she’s trash solely based on the color of her skin. Elphaba’s initial deepest desire to change the way she looks is inherently superficial, BUT it’s in direct response to society’s (AND her family’s) horrible treatment of her because she is green. Glinda’s reasons are MORE selfish.

Now, I know that in “Defying Gravity,” Elphaba asks Glinda to come with her, but the movie (and this post—a sincere thank you, OP 🤗) helped me see a new interpretation of it. I don’t think that Elphaba asks Glinda to throw her life away for her, per se. That was going to be a consequence, for sure, but I think she was first and foremost asking Glinda to join her in standing up for what Glinda JUST said she believed in: Animals rights.

The context is important here. This moment is happening after their Goat professor is violently removed from their campus. Elphaba and Fiyero were genuinely distraught over what happened. Glinda, hating to be left out (selfish intentions!), formerly announces to their class that she’s changing her name to honor Doctor Dillamond as a show of solidarity with the Animals in Oz. Only a mere hours later, Glinda is willing (and asking Elphaba) to side with the people responsible for Animal oppression. Oh how quickly Glinda’s performative allyship crumbled!

In the beginning of the song, Glinda is like, “Hey! If you give this cause a rest, you could look Normal the way you’ve always wanted!” And Elphaba is like, “But I don’t want it—no, I CAN’T want it anymore.” And I never noticed until now that Elphaba corrects herself!! She still wants to be de-greenified, but she chooses to give up her seat at the table for something bigger than herself. The Animal race is being treated as subhuman and she decides to give up this opportunity to help them (or at the very least, not be a part of their oppression). Elphaba gave up her dream of looking (and being treated as) normal in order for a minority race to have their rights back. That is selfless. That is something that Glinda was unwilling to do.

And you’re saying that Elphaba knows full well how much Glinda values other’s opinions, but Glinda says the same thing about Elphaba! A lifetime of being Othered, doesn’t make societal rejection any less hurtful for Elphaba. She just got better at hiding how much it affects her behind “I don’t give a fuck” armor.

Also, Glinda had so much wealth and influence that she could have used to help Elphaba and the Animals, you know? She could have been a Dolly Parton philanthropist. Instead, she made the conscious decision to stay in the system that she continued to passively benefit from, and to be an active cog in the systemic machine.

This was an impossible situation, but there was definitely a right answer 🥴 And Elphaba asking Glinda to do the right thing doesn’t make her “equally” as wrong as Glinda was for choosing to go along with the Wizard, please 😭

TL;DR: Yes, there is nuance to Glinda’s decision and you could make an argument for both characters’ selfishness, but Glinda’s selfishness far outweighs Elphaba and she is justifiably criticized for it. Elphaba gave up what little privilege she had in order to help a marginalized group. Glinda was willing to step on minorities’ backs (or to stand idly by while others did so) in order to cling to her own.

I love how inherently selfish both Glinda AND Elphaba are as protagonists. But where one gets praised and admired for it, the other gets demonised and hated.

People always attack Glinda’s decision not to runaway with Elphaba, but no one acknowledges how overtly selfish it is to ask that of someone.

Elphaba is asking Glinda to throw her ENTIRE life away for her. To be ostracised and hated all throughout Oz when she knows full well how badly Glinda cares about what people think of her.

And while Elphaba is used to such ostracisation, Glinda is not.

It is an equally selfish decision refuse Elphaba request. To perpetuate corrupt beliefs you don’t believe; in order to be accepted and validated by people in power.

They’re BOTH in the wrong, for entirely different reasons. It was an impossible situation with no right answer. And I’m sick of people acting like Glinda made the “ wrong choice ”

[vanillablankcanvas]

Oh! How about 11yo Floyd with newborn baby Branch nestled in his hair?

The context is that the older brothers were out running some errands, Grandma Rosiepuff was busy with some chore, and the parents have already been out of the picture for a while when Branch hatched.

I like to think Floyd was the first troll Branch ever saw, and thus Branch imprinted on him. Although I imagine essentially being his baby brother's chosen "mama" would drive him crazy sometimes.

Old ask, my bad, I'm terrible. Forgive me 💖

Floyd is not used to holding a baby in his hair.

Baby instantly falls asleep in his 'mamas' hair.

Maybe this was the beginning of why Floyd likes his hair down like that? 🤔

Look at the little round squishy baby cheeks!

[frozenjokes]

mumbo jumbo jealousy arc

ao3 link

“Tell me everything.”

Etho was expecting to get cornered by Scar at the first opportunity, but honestly, he thought he might get more than 24 hours given that Scar had a job. According to Scar though, ‘what else are lunch breaks for?’ He cited a concern that Etho might forget everything if left for too long, which seemed dramatic, but it was true that Etho never had the best of memories. However, most of Etho’s memory problems were due to an issue of Chronic Spacing Out, and there was none of that happening at the beach yesterday.

“Mumbo didn’t understand what Grian did with his face. Mermaids also shave. I don’t know why he was so confused. I just don’t think he liked it. That was his biggest concern yesterday.”

Etho knew that would get him, Scar cackling so hard that Etho was truly shocked he could manage to dial Grian’s number at the same time.

///

‘And while I was away? What did you talk about then?’ Mumbo was dying to know, and while he had planned to leave Altas and Etho alone while he tended to the humans, he couldn’t help checking back in on their conversation, needing to know every tidbit of information and human knowledge shared between them. Mumbo was just so curious, and learning about the humans from his original sources was great, but there was a certain catharsis in learning directly, having Atlas ask the questions and receive clear, direct answers.

But Atlas had been cagey in the few days that had passed after Etho’s visit, and while Mumbo had been hoping they would gain enough confidence to interact with a real human face to face, Atlas only cringed away at the sound of Scar’s voice above the water, more touchy than they were in the first place. Mumbo didn’t understand why. Sure, getting Atlas to change their tune about humanity as a species was a grand notion of optimism that Mumbo was not naive enough to play into too much, but this change was almost more unexpected; pure aggression to more of a.. discomfort? Disgust, maybe, like the smell of rot or infection.

Despite this, whatever was bothering them was kept tightly sealed. Though perhaps underestimating the power of human eyesight, Atlas did surface a couple days later to watch Scar and Mumbo in the shallows. Scar was playing some kind of game where he chased Mumbo’s tail, grasping at the fins. Scar’s grand move was a hearty leap to grasp his quarry, but a miss left Scar momentarily immobilized as he inevitably face planted into the sand. A perfect opportunity for Mumbo to batter Scar’s head with the very tail fins he was chasing. It was a good game, Mumbo quite liked seeing Scar flail and scream a little. As much as human noise could be a headache, something about it in the context of play made everything much more satisfying. Though, without this context, it probably sounded like Mumbo was ripping off Scar’s scalp with his teeth. Was Atlas wondering if Mumbo finally snapped?

Scar must have had a secret sense for when mers who hated him were around, because despite his engagement in active warfare, he noticed almost immediately, breaking off their game to wave, then deflating when Atlas retreated in the next moment. Scar sat in the swallows after that, arms wrapped around his legs with his chin on his knees looking distinctly sad, and despite Scar’s obnoxiousness when it came to Atlas these days, Mumbo couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Humans were social and loud, and this one just really loved making connections, even if he didn’t always know how.

“I don’t mean to scare him off..” Scar mumbled, and while Mumbo didn’t know what he was saying, he got the sense the human was referring to Atlas, “I just want him to come around, right? To know it’s okay.”

Mumbo didn’t know how to help him. He couldn’t explain, though with how pushy and nosey both humans could be, Mumbo was sure they had already heard from Etho about Atlas’s distaste for their kind. However, Mumbo could sing, and that quiet comfort was the best that he could offer for a downcast heart. It brought Mumbo peace to see Scar relax under his song.

…

‘I just don’t understand how you can be so comfortable with it, let it so close,’ Atlas had started, the words coming out of nowhere, hours after Scar had left. This wasn’t the first time this sentiment had been expressed, but judgement was not at the forefront of Atlas’s concern tonight, the mer shrinking in their discomfort. ‘I don’t think it’s natural behavior for humans either, it should be afraid of you, not interested like it is, especially not in me.’

‘They’re curious things,’ Mumbo whistled simply in response, and while he was a little tired of this line of conversation, he really did want to be patient. This was deeply antithetical to everything Atlas had known back home, and honestly, without the harsh edge to their questioning, the repetivity of the matter bothered Mumbo far less. ‘Scars especially is a very curious thing. You won’t have the same problem with Red.’

‘I don’t like it. Your Scars. I don’t like the way it regards you.’ Atlas’s clicks carried an emotion Mumbo couldn’t quite parse. He communicated this with a small flick of his tail and fins, asking for elaboration. Atlas was quiet for some time, deliberating.

‘Ghost had a few things to say about that human’s interest in us.’

Mumbo’s curiosity was instantly piqued, though Atlas only looked discomforted when Mumbo goaded them on, like they were hoping Mumbo would pluck the answers right out of their mind. This was distinct in its oddness; Atlas was not the type of mer to talk in circles. Finally, Mumbo had to prompt them vocally.

‘Say what you mean?’

‘It has..’ the hairs on Atlas’s shoulders prickled, ‘Courting motivations.’

Mumbo imagined that if the humans heard this, they’d laugh so hard that their lungs would fail to support them. He himself let loose a delighted trill, much to Atlas’s alarm.

‘Did you know? Does it not disturb you? Why didn’t you warn me!’

Mumbo waved them off with his tail, ‘Scars is not interested in you, don’t be ridiculous. Their fascination with mermaids mirrors my own curiosity with humanity. Whatever Ghost told you, they exaggerated.’

Atlas was not to be persuaded. ‘They seemed certain.’

‘Human emotion is difficult enough to read on a human-born. Ghost is particularly difficult to decipher, and they do nothing to make it easier. If your intentions are to study the basics of human language once Ghost returns in their proper form, you’d benefit from spending a little time near the beach. They’re expressive creatures, Scars especially.’

Atlas didn’t need to say a word for Mumbo to know they hated the idea of that in any capacity. ‘That one worries me.’

Mumbo couldn’t help but snort. He hadn’t been intending on telling Atlas this as he knew he’d never hear the end of it, but Mumbo figured it would be worth it to quell this ridiculous anxiety.

‘If there were to be any courting between human and mer, it would be between Scars and I only. If Ghost was feeling snide, that’s what they were referencing.’

It looked like Atlas didn’t know if they wanted to snarl or flee. Mumbo got the message loud and clear, though a deep satisfaction turned his tail inward in a soft curl. He was pleased, even if the status of whatever relationship he and Scar had kindled was unclear. Mumbo didn’t particularly care! He quite liked the human casual, the relationship without commitments. He liked having Scar’s attention, far more than he’d ever cared for a mermaid’s. It was novel. Special. And honestly, human or mer, Mumbo had never known anyone else to hang off everything he did and said with such keen interest.

‘Surely you’re not serious,’ Atlas finally said, to which Mumbo purposely misconstrued the meaning.

‘We won't be trading scales any time soon, no, no.’

Atlas seemed to short circuit at the suggestion that this was even on the table, then clearly chose to ignore the sentiment, shaking themself off, ‘That human is not to be trusted. This- Practicality aside, this is deeply disturbing.’

‘If courting is all about practicality to you, I recommend you never find a lover.’

‘You can’t just exclude semantics from these discussions! What is it expecting of you? You of it? You can not mate, you can not occupy the same spaces comfortably- even besides the concept of interspecies courting being entirely antithetical, there is just no way something like this could work long term!’

Flippantly, Mumbo turned away, ‘I can do whatever I please.’ He could waste his time responding to all those questions, but what was the point when Atlas didn’t care for the answers. It wasn’t like Mumbo cared for the answers either, his interest solely in living freely and indulging in whatever was currently sparking joy. So what if he acted on fleeting whims, it’s not like he was hurting anyone.

‘I don’t trust it,’ Atlas said when they realized Mumbo would not be humoring them anymore, ‘Ghost spoke of an interest in the sea. Anything with fins, scales, and sharp teeth. They made it sound fickle.’

‘Ghost’s own disinterest in courting infects every word they speak about it, mermaid, human, or otherwise. Scars does not care for you; they will be too busy looking at me.’ Mumbo gave a pointed flick of his tail, all his fins now twitching in annoyance. Scar was outgoing, he went out of his way to put himself out there, but Mumbo would not consider him fickle. Whatever Scar and Grian got up to was none of his concern; as far as he knew humans were just like that, fighting over each other and mating with reckless abandon. There was still so much that Mumbo did not know about humans, but these weren’t the things that would keep him up at night. Mumbo was experimenting! He was having fun! As far as he could tell, so was Scar! It wasn’t- It wasn’t fickle! Fickle. Ridiculous.

Mumbo abandoned Atlas on the sandy floor, withdrawing in a huff to the burrow where he kept his things and slept.

His mind wandered. It took him down a path he hated to travel, though his thoughts lingered on the end of it all, defending Scar from the monster he seemed so eager to befriend. No one had been pleased about this, but Scar didn’t care at all, and while Mumbo had struggled to glean the meaning of everything he was doing and saying, Grian had admonished him for.. Scar had been chasing a monster whose scale had already been traded (metaphorically, at least. Mumbo had looked, and he saw none of Joel’s dark scales etched into theirs.)

Mumbo had been so startled by the question of mermaid monogamy that the implications hadn’t fully set in. Not that he was bothered if humans took multiple partners, honestly, that surprised him very little, but..

What if Scar really was only interested in fins and scales? It didn’t matter who they were attached to or the things they'd done to hurt someone.. Mumbo’s gut coiled. Was it so simple? If Etho had said it, insisted that’s really all Scar cared about- once Scar learned of Etho’s condition, had he pursued them as well?

Maybe Mumbo was the novelty.

///

“-one hundred years, Mumbo, one hundred years! The whole team got cursed by that goat, that’s why the Cubs never won a World Series for that long, but they pulled through! The curse is broken! Well, that specific curse at least. Apparently the Cubs have a lot of curses, like, a lot, Bdubs and I were looking that stuff up for a while last night, just all sorts of baseball stuff- sports fans are very superstitious it turns out! Who knew? One hundred years. Pretty cool!”

“Your ice is gonna melt, bud,” Grian called from where he was fiddling with his fishing gear; Mumbo was thrilled to see him back at his hobbies! Scar jumped to attention, looking mildly sheepish before babbling on.

“Well, I just wanted you to know where the name came from. Cub. Cubby Cub Cub. Cubby Wubby Cub Dub. Bdubs and I couldn’t stop with that last night, just Cubby Cubbing for like an hour, Etho just about killed us. But I was thinking about it, and I was like, huh! If this mermaid is sticking around for the foreseeable future, he needs a name! He- it- they- ohh, I don’t know what to call Cub actually! I wish you could ask them what they’d prefer..”

“I doubt it cares, Scar,” Grian said again, answering a question Scar did not ask. “People pronouns probably don’t mean anything to mermaids. Etho said gender was different for him, right? Probably the only reason he calls himself ‘he’ is because that’s what Joel started calling him.”

“Well I don’t want to call them it.”

“Then don’t.”

Whatever Grian had said must have made perfect sense, Scar shooting up like he’d had some great epiphany. “Great point! Anyway, I’ve been a little down because I know your friend doesn’t like Grian and I and that’s okay, but selfishly it's also extremely not okay to me and I need them to like me. I need it. But clearly my current methods aren’t working, so I was like, what else can I do? And then I didn’t come up with anything. So I called Grian! And Grian suggested delivering a gift through you, which was a great idea, but I was stumped on what to give them, y’know? I figured no human stuff, you like the humans stuff but- oh! That reminds me, I’ve got a trinket for you, don’t let me forget it- Anyway, I asked Etho, and Etho told me to stop calling him, but then after I called five more times he told me that Cub would never like me which was rude and also sad. After that though, he told me it’s really hot on the surface compared to the deep water, and that you guys have to travel a little ways out to actually hunt, and I thought well, why not give you a frozen treat! At first I was just gonna bring some still frozen fish in a cooler, but Grian, genius Grian, suggested I let you have the ice too! I got you a biodegradable bag for it and everything, but I hope you don’t try to eat that too. Do you like to eat ice? I do. Dentist said it was bad for my teeth and I had to stop, but sometimes I just can’t resist. Whatever kind of ice they put in your drinks at restaurants, that’s the good shit. Can’t let it go to waste.”

Scar retreated back to his and Grian’s bags, where he heaved a new container up off the sand, waddling back with it in his arms. Must’ve been quite heavy; Scar had never brought something like this to the beach before. Mumbo’s interest was piqued, though Scar never left the box’s side, making it frustrating to investigate. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to pull it off the beach and right into the water, then he could have his way. Scar seemed to anticipate this though (it’s not like Mumbo had a history of stealing! This was blasphemy!), using his body as a shield from Mumbo’s grabby hands and positioning his weight strategically so that he could fall on top of the box if Mumbo made a break for it anyway. Foul human, Scar never had any fun.

“Now, most of this is for Cub, but I have some for you too of course. Not even portions- I’m just trying to make a good impression here, I hope you understand.” Carefully, without turning his back on Mumbo, Scar opened the box, pulling out a- fish. Oh. Well, Mumbo was a little underwhelmed, he wouldn’t lie. It was quite stiff too, and almost shiny? Actually, now that he was seeing all this together, he recognized this box. Scar used to bring it often when Mumbo’s tail was busted; did he think he needed to provide food again? With all due respect, Mumbo hoped not. He wasn’t trying to be rude though, Scar must have hunted very hard for this fish! He took it, but nearly dropped it at the revelation that it was cold.

Now, this wasn’t entirely new, and fish given by the humans had always been a little cold, but never to this degree. The fish was nearly frozen solid- no wonder it was so stiff! Mumbo was utterly perplexed, but he didn’t want to give Scar the impression he was ungrateful, so he proceeded to devour the whole thing. It wasn’t unpleasant, not by any means, but seeing Scar’s delighted smile made all the strangeness worth it.

“Gift.” Scar started, and Mumbo perked up, paying closer attention now that Scar was actively trying to communicate with him. “For Cub. Gift for Cub.” Scar pointed across the lake, which was rippling in the light breeze. “For Cub.”

Was.. he trying to give something to Atlas?

“Gift for Mumbo.” Scar produced one bag from the box, handing it over gingerly. It was tied tight at the top, and cold. Holding from the bottom, Mumbo felt a lot of loose pieces inside. Scar pulled another, larger bag up as well, struggling to point over the weight of it. “Gift for Cub. Cub.”

Cub. Mumbo had never heard that word before, but Scar had been saying it quite a lot today. Is that what he’d decided to call Atlas? Mumbo gave him a thumbs up, relatively sure he understood Scar’s intentions, and briefly set down his own gift so that his and Scar’s hands would not have to touch in the exchange. He couldn’t help but notice that Atlas’s package was bigger than his own, but it was possible this was on the account that Scar had given Mumbo part of his gift early, showing off what was inside.

“Go now,” Scar said, almost shooing Mumbo back. He got the idea, though was a little confused why Scar wanted him to leave so abruptly.. it’s not like the fish were fresh. Regardless, Mumbo dutifully delivered the parcels, waking a sleepy Atlas on the lake floor.

Immediate suspicion was a given. ‘What is this.’ However, Atlas sensed the cold, sparking interest as they drifted closer.

‘I think Scars has realized they can’t reach you on the surface. This is a new method it seems.’

‘Scars..’ Atlas repeated the name, distaste prickling across the hairs on their shoulder. Whatever intrigue they previously possessed seemed to die, repeating themself. ‘What is it.’

‘Fish, I think. Can’t say I know why, but it’s not poison.’

Atlas’s tentacles twitched in their suspicion. Mumbo couldn’t blame them, clicking, ‘You don’t have to eat them. They’re odd, frozen. Not inedible, just different.’

Mumbo couldn’t tell if the gesture Atlas lent him was amused or mildly incredulous, ‘You’re crazy.’

‘Not the first or last time a mer will call me that.’ Mumbo made to undo the ties on his own bag, only to be frightened as tiny shards of ice floated up and out in every direction, along with one or two fish. Even Atlas looked surprised, though Mumbo was silently delighted at the little trill that left their throat.

‘Stupid, stupid animals.’

‘Effective at least!’ Mumbo tried, all in good humor.

‘I’ll just sit on mine in that case.’ Atlas curled around their own gift, melting over the cold with closed eyes. Mumbo hadn’t planned on speaking, but Atlas intercepted before he could have anyway. ‘Not a word. And don’t let that human trash float away, they’re always shitting up the water.’

And with that, Mumbo was quite pleased for a while. He didn’t care either way for the ice, though he did enjoy chasing and eating the floating pieces. However, Atlas really seemed to be enjoying the cold, which was great! Mumbo was quite pleased Scar had found a way to get through to them, even if the human didn’t know it yet. When the two mers first arrived here, Mumbo had really been getting fed up with Atlas’s whining, but this was the hottest place Atlas had ever visited by far, and Mumbo felt for them when Atlas was still suffering in the heat after Mumbo had long since adjusted. Mumbo was very glad he happened to bring them here at the start of the cold months.

Mumbo left them like that, returning to his humans. Despite the fact that Atlas would rather be skinned alive than tell any human they liked their little offering, Mumbo couldn’t help but give Scar a thumbs up. Scar’s expression of unbridled delight was worth the wrath of Atlas if they ever found out. Mumbo had to hand it to him, it was thoughtful, even if the ice wasn’t supposed to be the main event.

Mumbo felt less good the moment he realized how much bigger Atlas’s gift was than his. Atlas didn’t notice; at least Mumbo was pretty sure they didn’t, they weren’t even interested in the fish, but they certainly noticed the next day, and the day after that. It was absurd, honestly! And maybe it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, this was such a stupid thing to get caught up on. Scar was working harder to befriend Atlas because they were the one he needed to prove himself to, it made perfect sense! Atlas benefitted far more from the ice anyway, Mumbo was glad they got more of it- he gave all his to Atlas anyway! Atlas wouldn’t even eat the fish, but- he didn’t know! It was about the principle!

He tried not to let Atlas see he was bothered. This was impossible, every itch of irritation painted clearly in the picture of his constantly flicking fins, but Mumbo did try. Atlas might’ve been nearly as uncomfortable with this as Mumbo was; the last thing they wanted was Scar’s attention, and they wanted even less to get between them, especially if this was courting behavior. Honestly- Mumbo really didn’t know!

It didn’t matter.

At first, Mumbo attempted to remedy his own insecurity by bothering Scar incessantly for the next few days. When this didn’t work, Mumbo ghosted him. But then Scar got sad, just wailing at the beach for hours (minutes), and Mumbo caved to a day of typical activities. Scar did not take well to being ignored, and not in the way Mumbo wanted either; he was just persistent, deterred by nothing but straight up aggression, and Mumbo wasn’t trying to be aggressive! Scar just needed a healthy dose of his own medicine, to have his feelings minorly hurt or feel like some kind of replaceable commodity or- whatever. Mumbo only wanted to stop feeling like Scar would be perfectly content with any other- No!

This was so stupid!

Mumbo would show him. Humans could be expendable too- Mumbo could love just about anyone as long as they had legs!

Wait a minute. Grian had legs. Yes. Yes! Grian had legs! And he would be back soon- oohhh this would be perfect. Sure, after shaving Grian had gone down a couple pegs in terms of attractiveness- not that this mattered, but come on! He looked like an infant! Something about the death of that mustache which sparked Mumbo’s original inspiration was so deeply tragic, but he would persevere for the cause!

Mumbo would break Scar, he would regret ever- ever- Scar would surely regret!

[cctinsleybaxter]

if you want negative songs about flying just google songs about plane crashes

First result was a tim minchin song that's one of the worst things i've ever heard

[the-meme-monarch]

ok sorry i didn’t go insane over emesis blue like i thought I would but it is making me scared irl now. i can’t turn over in bed bc what if there’s a severed head positioned like it’s peaking around the doorframe. what if i look over and The Butcher is there

[hella1975]

hiiii haha. hello. exceptionally awkward introduction bc idrk how to start something like this so let's just jump right in. im taking a break from this account for a bit. i know i said i wanted taob out before halloween and currently im fine sticking with that deadline, but if i decide i need longer away then i will take longer away. every time ive reassured people that id never abandon a fic and updates will always come eventually i never once considered that my writing and ability to feel safe and comfortable on this site would be actively taken from me, so im not even going to apologise. i dont want this either and more importantly i dont fucking deserve it. i dont know what it is in the past year, if ive hit a certain amount of followers or 'popularity' that's made it so the natural ratio of positive to negative interactions must in turn go up, but there's been a serious uptick in weird asks for me. the annoying part is that a very small amount of them are actually objectively mean and hateful, the rest are just weird and invasive from people who seemingly dont realise that's what they're being. ive reached a point where i dont care if the intentions are good. it's not my job as a 20 year old tumblr user of all things to defend the morality of someone who couldnt even bother to come off anon. unfortunately, after blocking only one or two anons, the weird asks have decreased substantially, which says all you need to know about the fascinating and exhilarating lives led by these people, but ive also gone on to turn anon asks off entirely. this is something i actively fought against doing and had to be pushed into by my mutuals (who have been the coolest people on planet earth during this entire thing). turning off anon was a big deal to me even if it sounds silly. i felt betrayed and like id been backed into a corner because it was so vehmently something i DIDNT WANT that to feel like i had to do it anyway for my own mental health??? that sucks. so even though ive 'fixed' the problem, im still kind of reeling and uncomfortable every time i come on tumblr. i hope it's just something i need time to ease because i'll truly be devastated if this becomes 'ruined' for me. tumblr exists as the only place in the world where i am honestly every facet of myself without shame or hesitation; losing that would be insanely harmful to me. and to the people who cant appeal to the actual human behind the post, let me put that in words you can understand: we wouldn't get any more writing 😦😦😦 riots and fires and sirens, i know. so yeah. to anyone who has sent me an anon ask and you're now wondering if you were part of the problem, im firmly of the belief that you'll know if you are. when i say 'weird asks' i dont mean 'you sent me a para about your personal life just to vent or ask for advice' or 'you sent me a really deep emotional compliment about the impact me and/or my writing has had on you' - i love asks like that, so much that i put off taking a break and turning off anon solely for the joy they bring me. im sorry that it might feel like you're being punished too bc of the actions of what in reality is a HANDFUL of weird people, but this is what i feel like i have to do to feel safe and not go insane every time i log in. love you guys, hopefully ill see you soon x

[mcrtalstrike]

We could have learned more about Vol'jin in the heritage questline. Like the entire part about the rush'kah mask.

You know, like one Vol'jin wears thats on the banner and tabard to represent the Darkspear. Maybe Rokhan reminiscing when Vol'jin made his own to emphasize the meaning behind them.

[munch-mumbles]

ive been a little upset about it all night so i need to write out all the things that happened at work today and are bugging me so i can TRY to get it out of my head and actually RELAX bc i just keep pacing in circles around it instead of just accepting it and moving on

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Staropramen: drink up

Content: context to part 1 of Modern au!Gojo's smau, just the first picture, wanted to write a little so I thought I'd do this one, not proofread

You pace back and forth in your room. The sky outside is darkening, dulling into dark orange hues, setting your room alight. You sweat, palms growing clammy. Part of your hair is tied up, arranged into some silly, convoluted up-do and your makeup contrasts with the soft curls framing your face. The maids twisted and pulled and plucked until you’re as presentable as possible, but you insisted, practically fought them, to let you do the rest.

So your piercings stay on, eyeliner as thick as ever, and lips painted a dark shade. And the dress hanging on the door? Well, it’s just as black as everything else in your wardrobe. 

This dinner’s important. You know that, as do the maids; your parents had been emphasising how every dinner, every engagement, every invite from the Gojos were important, so important, in fact, that preparations had begun hours ago, well before the clock could strike 7pm. 

But there’s one person who doesn’t seem to get the memo. Any of them.

One person who has evaded every meeting, every phone call, every email, letter, hell, every fax from your family. And he gets away with it. Every. Time. 

“It’s not fair,” you mumble, fidgeting with your lip ring, “I missed one dinner because I was literally sick and no one spoke to me for weeks. But he gets to miss every single one and we can’t say shit?”

A glance at the Sattler table clock by your bed says it’s nearing showtime. The chauffeur must already be running the car, awaiting your family. You’d have to put on that stupid dress and those stupid heels and plaster on a stupid smile, and shake stupid hands and eat stupid food and stupidly wait for someone who’s never going to show up. 

And it’ll be your fault. 

That’s what the looks they’ll give you will say. Somehow, you’ve messed up this engagement before it could even really begin, because, of course, it’s the girl’s fault that the guy is an irresponsible idiot. 

You didn’t want to have to do this. Didn’t want to have to cave first. But you must. So you pick up your phone and send a message to a number you hoped you never would have to contact. 

A girl had given it to you earlier in the week. 

She seemed familiar, perhaps she’s one of the more popular students, not that you interact with them. God, just the thought sends shivers down your spine. But when you had seen her parting ways with Gojo, your feet took you to her faster than you could even process and she was smiling at you with a look of surprise. 

It’d be great to say the surprise was just because she hadn’t expected you to approach her but that would be a lie. She probably wasn’t expecting someone dressed like you to stand before her in broad daylight and not ask for a drop of her blood to offer up to your gods, or whatever else people tend to think about you. 

When you asked if you could get Gojo’s number for ‘something important’, she didn’t fight you, she simply smiled more softly and eagerly typed his number into your phone, flashing you a wink before saying she has a lecture on fluid dynamics that she can’t miss. You assumed she was a physics student, not that she really gave you that vibe, but who are you to say anything?

You frown at his replies.

What a dick.

A honk breaks you out of your sudden violent desires to strangle and offer a certain frat president up for sacrifice, and you rush to put the dress on, already feeling the phantom ache in your feet at the thought of wearing insanely tall heels. 

You take one last look of your phone and sigh. 

This is going to be a long night.

On the other side of the city, however, lays a boy on a king sized bed. He’s shirtless, joggers hanging low on his hips as he glares at his ceiling, willing it to cave in and kill him right there and then. 

“Why did you give her my number?” 

A girl giggles on the other side of the bed. She’s wearing nothing but his shirt, typing frantically on her phone, most likely texting a certain blond tutor. Then with a sideways glance at the pouting child thumping his fist on the mattress to get her attention, she flicks his forehead with manicured nails. 

“Because,” she drags out, “she looked fun. I like her.”

Gojo groans. “You can’t like her. She’s the enemy!”

The girl rolls her eyes with a grin, half entertained by his theatrics and half excitedly waiting for Nanami’s reply. She had just sent a text asking him if he listens to music whilst having his ‘special alone time’, and the three dots dancing on the screen is making her heart skip a beat. 

A pillow gets smacked in her face and when it falls down, her view is obstructed by a pointed look. Focus on me and my dilemma or die, is what it says. 

What are they talking about again? Oh right. 

“She’s not the enemy, Satoru. She’s just like you.”

The white-haired man pouts even harder. He doesn’t want to admit that the thought had already crossed his mind; she’s a pawn in the game just as he is. But he can’t accept her existence. Because to do so would be like accepting his parents plans, accepting that he has so little say in anything that goes on in his life, and ultimately submitting to the terrible fate of being a Gojo. 

His friend has returned to her phone, squealing in a way that makes Satoru wince, and he doesn’t want to ask what she’s blushing over. He’d kill her and himself if she shows him a dick pic again. 

Then, as if his mood has somehow lightened, he pokes the girl on her shoulder, ignoring the scowl she gives in return, and asks, almost absentmindedly, “Is she pretty? My….fiancée, I mean?”

Gojo doesn’t know her name. 

He’s sure someone had told him but anything to do with the word ‘engagement’ makes him blank out, static playing in his head. 

A devious smirk creeps up on her face, eyes dazzling with mischief as she looks over at her friend, lying on his stomach now, bright blue eyes twinkling with curiosity. It occurred to her, when he mumbled his question, that he has no idea what she looks like. Satoru is in for one hell of a shock when he finds out that the girl he had been envisioning as the most prissy little future housewife is actually someone he totally would do a double take over. 

It’s gonna be so fun to watch this whole thing play out, she thought. But she can’t make it easy for her stupid friend. Never. 

So, she returns her focus on her screen, biting her lip at Nanami’s stern ‘behave’ message and dangles the answer in Satoru’s face. 

“You know Choso, right? Sukuna’s younger cousin?”

He nods hurriedly, patience running very thin. 

But that’s all she’s willing to give. 

And Satoru groans, nose crinkling in irritation. Quick as lightning, he snatches her phone from her hands, and sends the most recent picture on her camera roll to the guy he’s been hearing too much about. 

“You didn’t…” 

Her tone is disbelieving, a horrified expression pulling her features down before she lunges for her phone and shrieks at the picture of her lying on the floor after slipping on olive oil in Gojo’s kitchen. Her face was distorted in a blur and her dress had ridden up to reveal a hot pink g-string. 

Nanami’s going to block her. 

He’s going to complain to Professor Yaga and it’ll all be over. 

Satoru shrugs and heads to his bathroom, using the excuse of needing a shower to cover up the fact that he has every intention of searching up what a certain art student looks like through socials. 

Sure, he could search for his fiancee directly, ask one of his assistants to gather a detailed file, but where’s the fun in that?

Through the door, he hears his friend’s panicked voice, desperately trying to rationalise that the reason why her tutor isn’t answering is because he’s busy and not because he’s calling the police on her for sexual harassment. 

She really is the dumb to his dumber because if she knew anything about men, then she’d know he’s totally jerking off to that picture. Nerds are more repressed than anyone else, so she’s gonna have to wait a little longer for him to regain sanity. 

Under the hot stream, Gojo’s thoughts shift to a different focus, a girl resembling Choso, the brooding artist cousin of Sukuna, the devil spawn. 

There’s simply no way he’d ever like someone like that. 

It’s impossible. 

Right? 

[billygoat26]

Just waiting to see if my mom breaks another promise :D

[advancedscurvy]

i hate when you know youre being unreasonable to be so upset and nobody meant anything by a remark from a complete stranger but it has snowballed into an afternoon-long downturn of mood completely and you want to cry

[pinkfey]

messed up at work again bc no one left me instructions. feel like ending it all 😩

[binnie]

i!!! hate!!!!!!! being borderline!!!!!!!!!!

[arkangelo-7]

I’m sure someone’s already headcannoned this, but Bruce having pet names for the Batkids? Man, those are his babies—you can bet your ass he has pet names for them. He might not be the type of man to show much affection beyond a shoulder pat or the occasional forehead kiss, but he’s determined to parent the crap outta these orphans, and pet names are an easier medium to show that he cares.

Dick is both “chum” and “sweetheart” depending on the context. When Bruce is feeling playful and comfortable (the easy, “your mine and I’m just happy to be here with you” kind of love), he’ll stick with “chum” and Dick absolutely loves it. But when Dick’s sick or has a nightmare or got injured during patrol? It’s sweetheart. It’s default mode for Bruce, because seeing Dick in pain brings up so many raw, intense emotions (Bruce gets scared, goddamit) that it’s easier for him to say “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay, just keep your eyes on mine,” then it is to say “I’m so terrified that I’m going to loose you, I love you, you’re my everything.”

Jason is“Jaylad.” But it’s less of the name that’s important and more of the story behind it that is. For the first few months that Jason was in Bruce’s care, Bruce didn’t dare call him anything other then his name, in fear that he’d scare him away (he was already so distrusting, so hesitant, so fearful whenever Bruce talked to loud or moved to fast or got upset), but at the same time, he’d seen how pleased Dick had been at being called “chum” and wanted to bestow a similar endearment on Jason. But—he didn’t want to go to far. So instead of calling him “lad” like his own father had once called him, Bruce calls him “Jaylad.” It’s a little more impersonal, but it makes Jason more comfortable. (But when Bruce cradled his son’s broken body he said “no, darling, not you, don’t leave me—” because just how Dick is “sweetheart,” Jason has also always been “darling.”)

For Tim… it’s more complicated. He shoved his way into Bruce’s life and he’s forever grateful, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Jason and Dick. He sees Tim as his son, of course, but their relationship was built on the darkest, most despairing part of Bruce’s life. But even in that terrible season, Bruce would look over at Tim working on a case or cleaning his suit and say, “Good job, sport.” It doesn’t happen often, but Tim is “sport.”

Cassandra is “love.” Bruce has never said it to her, aloud, but he knows Cass can read him well enough to hear the unspoken endearment, to see how much he longs to protect her, bring her joy, fill her heart with all the love she’s filled his with.

Steph is “duck.” And not necessarily because Bruce decided that it was, but because 9 times out of 10 he finds himself screaming, “Robin, get down!” because Stephanie will not for the love of God follow his orders, and end up right in the line of fire. To save time he eventually just started saying “Duck!” It keeps Steph from getting whacked to high heavens and saves Bruce (another) heart attack, but over the years it’s also become somewhat of a ritual to say “duck” whenever Steph walks in the room. Bruce secretly wants to call her “ducky” (which is what his mother called Kate), but he’s never worked up the nerve.

Duke is “kid.” By the time he’s in the family, Bruce has loosened up and lightened up, especially with everyday affection (which is to say, he’s not avoiding it like the plague). He’s quick to say “Good job, kid” whenever Duke had an accomplishment or ask “how are you today, kiddo?” when they see each other in passing in the Batcave.

Damian, lastly, would never allow Bruce to call him anything other then his name. But every once in a while, Bruce can get away with saying “son.” And it’s the best thing in the world.