#i'm fucking up so much less than last time

[curtins]

MAMA, A DIVA BEHIND YOU! — toji fushiguro sfw!

prologue. → toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall.

or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings. megumi is his own warning. mild age gap implied. non sorcerer au, toji is raising megumi on his own. reader has she/her pronouns. nothing else, just shenanigans :) toji gets knocked down a few pegs by his son 😭 mildly ooc toji <3

word count. song inspiration. paper rings — taylor swift

a/n. this is sooo silly and for fun lol 😭 i feel like you can tell this just isn't my genre or writing style 😭

mp3. i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings <3

TOJI FUSHIGURO didn't have a lot of treasures in life. he just wasn't that type of guy. treasures were for people with their lives together — the kind who budgeted for organic vegetables and owned matching socks. toji's list of prized possessions was short: a semi-reliable pay check, a fridge that kept his beer cold on a good day, and the one channel that aired late-night baseball games.

oh, and his kid. megumi fushiguro.

the little brat was the one thing in toji's life he could call a blessing without choking on the word. but lately? toji was seriously considering the logistics of international shipping. could you send a five year old punk to siberia? where was the paperwork for that?

everything had been fine. hell, downright manageable. until you moved in down the hall.

at first, toji didn't give a fuck. neighbours were usually either noisy or nosy, and sometimes the tragic combination of both. the last guy had banged on his door at least once a week, yelling about toji's late-night weightlifting sessions and muttering something about 'quiet hours.'

toji had pegged you for the same. maybe with a yoga met and too many scented candles.

but then, you showed up on his doorstep with a kind smile that could probably light up half the districts in the city. and a polite, sweet, "excuse me, but could you help me with my bed frame?"

and that was it.

the universe must've been real bored, because that was the moment it decided that toji fushiguro — self proclaimed expert on not giving a damn, was going to lose his damn mind like cupid has struck him with the painful arrows of a crush. and he was a goner.

take #1 — my neck, my back

spring in tokyo had come into full bloom, the kind of day where the air smelled faintly of sunshine, and the cherry blossoms drifted around like lazy, little freeloaders. below the apartment complex, the park wasn't much to write home about — a scrappy patch of grass, a couple of benches that looked like they'd seen some shit, and a swing set that squeaked like it had a vendetta against joy.

but for toji? it was good enough.

he'd figured this 'let me show you around because i'm so friendly' outing would be low effort. easy. casual and neighbourly, even. except now, he was leaning against a tree which was far harder than it sounded when his lower back was screaming at him louder than megumi had this morning about brushing his teeth.

but you stood nearby, smiling that damn warm and disarming smile of yours, gently plucking a stray blossom from megumi's messy hair. the kid, for his part, was pointedly ignoring you both, kicking rocks with the type of dedication usually reserved for a brat trying to avoid his homework.

toji cleared his throat, "so, uh, the area's not bad. quiet most of the time. that convenience store over there's open late. great for snacks. or milk. y'know, the owner's a bit of a bitc —"

"why are you standing like that?"

megumi's voice cut through his rehearsed tour like a rusty knife.

toji shot him a sharp glance. a look that screamed: keep your mouth shut, kid.

megumi just tilted his head, all faux innocence, and then delivered the killing blow with those sea-green eyes gleaming in what toji was certain was pure maliciousness, "dad, your back hurts again, doesn’t it?"

toji froze, scrambling for damage control, but you were already pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh. trying. but he could see the corners of your mouth twitching.

"back's fine," toji huffed, straightening up too fast. something in his spine must have popped loud enough to startle a crow off a branch, "solid a rock, hah! good as new."

megumi glanced at his scuffed sneakers, and then back up, "you said it was hard getting off the couch this morning. didn't you say you're old now and falling apart?"

toji's entire soul left his body. the punk was a traitor to a family name. he should have just sent megumi back to the clan long ago.

"don't you have a rock to kick?" he hissed.

"already did all that."

and that was it. your laugh finally burst out, bright and loud, ringing through the little patch of a park. toji found himself staring at you like some idiot in a rom-com who’d just realised he was completely doomed.

"kids, huh?" he muttered, throwing megumi a glare that promised revenge.

"kids," you agreed, eyes still sparkling as you excused yourself, something about leaving a pot on the stove. you gave toji one last look as you turned to go, warm and soft with that lingering amusement.

toji leaned back against the tree once you were gone, letting out a long sigh. megumi was still standing there, kicking the same patch of dirt, as though he were trying to discover unseen archaeological wonders underneath the earth.

"you're lucky i don’t sell you to a circus," toji grumbled under his breath.

megumi didn’t even look up, "you wouldn’t get that much for me."

smart-ass kid.

take #2 — the liar's pants are blazing on fire

walking someone home shouldn't have felt like scaling mount fuji, but toji fushiguro was now sweating bullet. the evening was crisp, the air cool enough to keep him from outright drowning in these stupid nerves, but it helped little.

the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a faint yellow glow over the neighbourhood. nothing fancy — just rows of small apartments with laundry dangling off balconies and the occasional stray cat darting under parked car. it wasn't exactly romantic, but in the soft glow of the spring, it didn't look that bad.

you walked besides him, laughing at some half-assed joke he'd cracked earlier. and damn, toji liked that sound. more than he should've. more than he'd admit to anyone, including himself. now though, the silence had crept back in, and he was left psyching himself up for the move.

just hold her hand, his brain hissed, it's not rocket science. come on, man. no! wait, give her a compliment, call her hot. ugh, idiot. don't say that yet -

his thick fingers flexed awkwardly at this side as he tried to look natural. a valiant losing battle when every nerve in his body screamed, you have one job, fushiguro. don't ruin this.

"dad!"

toji's head snapped up like a startled animal, and there he was. megumi. his kid. his little shadow. gasping, clutching his throat, and staggering toward them like a samurai dying in glorious battle.

"dad! i — i can't breathe!" megumi wheezed, voice raspy as he doubled over in dramatic agony.

toji blinked. what the —

"i think i'm dying!" megumi croaked, collapsing onto the sidewalk with all the subtlety of a boulder tumbling down a hill.

toji sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose. should’ve known. thid kid had been hanging around that white-haired freak downstairs too much. what had that gojo satoru been teaching him? shakespearean death monologues?

"what is it this time?" toji asked flatly, his voice like gravel.

"maybe, maybe it's the peanuts!" megumi sputtered, clutching his chest now, because why not? "the ones i ate at home! i think i'm allergic!"

toji stared at him, unimpressed. this was the same kid who could inhale salted peanuts by the handful, barely pausing for air, like he was training for some bizarre snack-eating championship.

"you're not allergic," toji deadpanned.

"i think i am!" megumi wheezed, dropping to his knees, his little hands shaking dramatically.

"oh my god!" you gasped, wide-eyed. "should we — i mean, do we need to take him to the hospital? i can drive —"

toji waved a rough hand, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, "nah, kid’s fine. just go on home. i'll handle this."

"but —"

"it's fine," toji insisted, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even as megumi collapsed onto the pavement like he’d been struck by lightning.

you had hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually nodded, "okay… but call me if you need anything, okay?"

toji nodded, biting back the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. "yeah, yeah. go on."

the second you turned the corner, toji crouched next to his "dying" son, who immediately cracked one eye open and coughed weakly for good measure.

"what the hell was that?" toji grunted, "what did i say about huffing gasoline in the laundry?"

"don't do it."

toji flicked the punk's forehead, "mhm, so?"

megumi shrugged, sitting up and dusting off his pants. "thought i was allergic."

"to peanuts? that shit you eat everyday?"

"better safe than sorry, dad."

toji huffed, ruffling a hand through his choppy black hair. he glanced in the direction you’d gone, muttering under his breath, "you're lucky you’re cute, kid."

the next morning, toji opened his door to find a basket sitting on the mat. a pristine, gingham-lined basket packed with golden, buttery pastries and muffins that smelled like heaven. attached was a note:

for megumi! i hope he’s feeling better!

karmic justice demanded that toji sit down, scarf it entirely, and leave nothing but crumbs for the little brat. he'd earned that much.

take #3 — they didn't get my nose right!

toji fushiguro didn’t get flustered easily. fights? He could eat a punch for breakfast. bills? well, avoidance was a valid financial strategy. but you, sitting on his couch, smiling at him like you’d never met a red flag you didn’t want to rehabilitate, while unpacking groceries for him and megumi? that was uncharted territory.

terrifying.

the apartment was...presentable. which was more than he could say ten minutes before you arrived, when he'd barked at megumi like a drill sergeant to hide every suspicious stain and questionable stack of dishes. now, the faint sting of cleaning spray lingered in the air, and the tiny place almost looked cozy. not that toji would admit it.

"you didn’t have to bring anything," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"oh, it's no trouble!" you chirped, beaming like some kind of saint. "i thought you and megumi might like some fresh vegetables. and i couldn’t resist grabbing some sweets for him."

from the corner of the room, megumi's ears perked up at sweets. he dropped the crayon he’d been chewing (toji pretended not to see it) and padded over, all innocent wide eyes and suspiciously good behaviour.

"dad," megumi started, his tone way too angelic for a kid who regularly schemed like a demonic manga villain, “can i show her my drawing?"

toji utterly froze.

megumi never asked to show off his drawings. usually, he just thrust them into unsuspecting hands like a nosy salesman who couldn't take no for an answer. this? this was premeditated.

"uh," toji grunted, squinting at the kid. "maybe later. she’s busy."

but you, bless your overly trusting heart, smiled and said, "oh, i'd love to see it! i'm sure it's adorable."

toji didn’t even have time to stop him. megumi whipped out a crumpled paper from his pocket like he was smuggling state secrets and handed it to you with an air of triumph.

you unfolded it carefully, and toji wanted to crawl into the walls.

there it was: a chaotic, technicolor mess of lines and smudges.

and centre stage?

a terrifyingly accurate caricature of him labeled "dad," locked in what could only be described as a life-or-death struggle with a rabid raccoon twice his size. above his head, a speech bubble screamed, "no!" while the raccoon yelled back, "mine!"

toji groaned so loud it could’ve registered on the richter scale, "kid. seriously?"

your laughter was instant and loud, the kind that made you clutch your sides and tear up. "this — oh my god, this is amazing!" you wheezed, doubling over.

"it’s not even accurate," toji muttered, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt like they were trying to leave this embarrassing moment behind. "i won."

"dad didn’t win," megumi piped up, as smug as a kid who’d just blown up his old man’s spot in front of a pretty lady, "the raccoon stole the chips."

"megumi," toji growled, pinning him with a glare that would’ve made lesser beings tremble. the kid just shrugged, popping another crayon into his mouth like this was all part of his five-year master plan.

later, after you’d left, still giggling and promising to "treasure" the drawing, toji leaned over the kitchen table where megumi was innocently snacking on his candy.

'kid," toji said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you ever pull something like that again, i’ll eat your crayons. one by one. and i'll make you watch."

megumi didn’t even flinch, cool as a cucumber, "good luck. i hid all the good ones."

take #4 — take your broke ass home!

the neighborhood festival was the kind of event that came together with duct tape and misplaced enthusiasm. a few janky game booths, a cotton candy machine that looked like it ran on prayers, and a ferris wheel that creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie. but toji didn’t mind. he had a plan.

this was going to be his moment.

he invited you under the pretense of "fun time" for megumi, but really, it was to show you what a catch he was. buff, capable, ruggedly charming — he was ready to prove it all. what better way than with a little festival bravado? he’d win you a giant stuffed panda or one of those oversized bears that could double as a couch. easy.

you and megumi stood by a booth plastered with painted bullseyes, rows of rubber balls stacked neatly on the counter. toji rolled up his sleeves, flexing his arms just enough to catch your attention. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled cash like he was buying the entire festival, "watch this."

from beside him, megumi crossed his arms. his eyes squinted with the kind of judgment only an six-year-old could muster. then, like a sniper, he fired off the line that would ruin toji's day.

"careful, dad," megumi said, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. "that’s our grocery money for the week."

toji froze mid-reach for the first ball and his jaw clenched. slowly, painfully, he turned to face megumi, who was standing there with a look of angelic smugness.

"megumi," toji growled through gritted teeth, "let's remember who brought you here."

megumi didn’t miss a beat, "oh, right. i'm just worried that dinner tomorrow is soy sauce soup."

"kid’s got jokes," toji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky energy now entirely replaced by something closer to "please make this stop."

"oh, i don’t think he’s joking," you teased, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

"yeah, definitely not joking," megumi deadpanned, "dad’s gonna start eating protein powder straight from the jar."

"megumi," toji barked, praying for divine intervention that would include his son being carried off by a stork, "you’re grounded."

"for what? telling the truth?"

before toji could escalate into full-on dad-mode, the game attendant — clearly desperate to avoid whatever domestic drama was brewing, handed toji a stuffed panda.

"here, sir, on the house," he said with a strained smile, like he was hoping toji wouldn’t throw a ball through the booth.

toji grabbed the panda and shoved it into your hands with all the grace of a man trying to save face, "here. told you i'd win ya something."

you had just hugged the panda, still grinning ear to ear, "who knew you had a sweet spot? i'll cherish it forever, especially after hearing how hard you worked for it."

megumi, the little bastard, had already wandered off to scope out the cotton candy stand.

toji watched him go, then glanced at you, feeling oddly resigned, "i’m never bringing him to one of these again."

"oh, come on," you said, nudging him playfully, "i'm glad we came. this was fun. besides, he's a sweet kid."

he wondered if you were half-blind, but held his tongue. instead toji groaned, rubbing his temples, 'kid’s not eating for a week."

take #5 — brought the heat back!

it was a quiet thursday evening, the kind of night that lured people into thinking life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. the sky was fading into a smug sort of pink, and a light breeze was making it just nice enough to forget toji's apartment was a little too warm because he’d cheaped out on air conditioning.

you’d accepted his invitation for dinner, and now here he was, a grown man trying to pretend he wasn’t about to impress the hell out of you with his cooking.

see, toji wasn’t just some dude who could barely boil water. nah, this man knew his way around the kitchen — specifically around a bowl of spicy curry that could win hearts. but he couldn’t let you know that.

toji liked to think that he had a reputation to uphold: rough around the edges, dangerously hot, and way too casual about everything.

so when you walked in, he scratched the back of his head like he’d just thrown the recipe together from a vague memory, muttering, "i dunno, figured i'd try somethin’ new. if it’s bad, there’s takeout."

except this wasn’t new. toji knew exactly what he was doing. his curry was legendary in very specific circles — namely, his own ego.

meanwhile, megumi was hanging around the kitchen like a suspicious little gargoyle, all quiet and sneaky-eyed. that should’ve been the first warning sign.

and when dinner was served, toji had to admit it, it looked perfect. rich, golden curry with just the right balance of spice, heat curling off the plates like a victory lap. hah, an easy win.

you had taken a polite bite, smiling at first. until your face suddenly froze like you'd just been slapped by a fire demon.

"what, it's too spicy?" toji asked, as he watched you struggle to smile. your lips twitching like they were trying to run away.

"no, no!" you wheezed, "it's — it's really good. just got a lil' kick to it, that's all!"

kick? toji blinked. you looked as though you had been delivering a roundhouse to the face.

suspicious now, he scooped up a big bite himself. the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly choked. his sinuses exploded, his tongue went numb, and he could feel sweat instantly forming on his brow.

"what the fuck," he sputtered, slamming down his fork and lunging for his water. toji guzzled it like a man who’d just escaped a desert, while you valiantly kept nibbling as though your dignity depended on it.

megumi, sitting way too calmly at the table, didn’t even flinch. he was eating like the curry was perfectly fine, which made it even worse. this little freak.

toji squinted at his only child, "megumi. what did you do?"

"nothing," the kid said, wide-eyed and dripping with fake innocence. too fake, tsk, toji knew that look. "just...helped with the seasoning."

toji’s stomach dropped, as his blood pressure rose, "how much seasoning?"

megumi shrugged, stabbing at his rice like he wasn’t actively committing a felony, "i dunno. a lot. jus' wanted to be helpful, dad."

"y'trying to kill me? her? yourself?!"

you laughed nervously through the pain, "ah, toji. it’s really not that bad —"

"don’t lie, doll" toji snapped, shooting you a look, "sweatin' like you ran a marathon."

"so are you!" you shot back, snickering. and you weren’t wrong. toji's forehead looked like he’d just finished a full-body workout.

megumi leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly, and said with an infuriating amount of smugness, "i like spicy food."

toji pointed at him, wondering if it would be easier to pick up the kid and launch him out the window, "you better start liking ramen, ‘cause that’s all you’re eating for the next week."

"fine with that," megumi said, clearly unbothered, "isn't that what i eat all the time anyway?”

toji groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair, which now stuck to his forehead in sweaty, choppy strands.hHe turned to you, desperate for some kind of redemption. "this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. it’s normally amazing. i swear."

"it’s fine," you laughed, even as you sipped water like your life depended on it. "honestly, i think it’s kinda cute."

that threw him for a loop. "cute? what’s cute about this? i just served you a bowl of liquid hell."

you grinned, a little too amused for his liking. "it’s the effort."

toji, for once in his life, had no comeback. he just sighed, defeated, and grabbed his phone to order takeout. megumi, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, even lifting the bowl to his lips to smack away the remnants of the soup that he slurped.

interlude: the peace talks

you’re standing outside toji's dingy apartment building, where even the cracks in the walls look like they’ve seen some things. you’re not entirely sure why you’re here. okay, that’s a lie. you’re absolutely sure— it’s because of him. that rough-edged, broad-shouldered man who can bench press your common sense into oblivion. but of course, you’re telling yourself it’s "just to check in."

totally innocent.

you knock. a few beats of silence, then the door creaks open just wide enough for a face to peek out. it's megumi fushiguro, toji's odd kid, and his expression already screams ugh. the kind of look that says, "what does this clown want?"

"uh, hi," you say, suddenly unsure if you’re allowed to be nervous around a first grader, "is toji here?"

megumi stares at you like you just asked if the sky was plaid, "nope," he says flatly, but doesn’t move. he keeps the door partially open, like he’s either waiting for you to leave or deciding if you’re even worth his time.

"oh. okay, that's fine, i'll just —" you motion vaguely toward the stairs, already regretting this whole situation. but then the kid speaks up.

"why do you wanna see him?" his tone is casual, but his eyes? sharp like sea-glass. too sharp for someone so young. he’s leaning on the doorframe now.

you blink, mind going blank.

"i don’t...i mean, i was just dropping by to say hi. that’s all."

megumi tilts his head, scrutinising you like you’re a suspect in a crime only he knows about, "do you like my dad?"

you choke on what must be your last breath on this earth, "what?! no! i mean, what are you even saying, he's..."

you’re spiralling, and megumi's smug little smirk says he knows it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"sure," he says with a shrug, stepping back into the apartment. he leaves the door wide open like it’s an invitation — or maybe a saw trap. against your better judgment, you follow him in.

megumi plops down on the couch, picking up a laptop like you’re not even there, "you’re not the first," he mutters without looking up.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

he shrugs again, still not meeting your gaze, "just saying, dad’s got... fans." he says it with the kind of disdain only a kid can muster when talking about their parent, "but you’re, like... different."

"different how?" you ask, instantly regretting it. you shouldn’t engage. this is toji's kid, not your personal gossip columnist.

megumi finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, "you don’t seem as dumb as the other ones."

wow. compliment of the century. "that's way harsh. but thanks," you say dryly, crossing your arms. "and here i thought we were bonding."

there’s a flicker of something else in the child's eyes. a glimmer of protectiveness, maybe, "look, i'm just saying...don’t get your hopes up, okay? i don't think my dad's that type of guy."

you frown, perplexed at having this conversation with a child who barely comes up past your waist, "what makes you say that?"

megumi looks like he’s about to launch into a powerpoint presentation on why toji fushiguro Is a walking red flag, but then he stops. his petulant expression shifts, softens, just a little, "i don't anyone to be sad."

and there it is. the kid act drops for a split second, and you see it. he’s not just being a little punk — he's protecting himself. maybe he’s seen toji screw up one too many times, or maybe he’s tired of people coming and going from their lives. either way, you feel a pang of sympathy.

you sit down on the edge of the couch, careful not to invade his space, "i get it,” you say gently, "and i appreciate you looking out for me, and for your father. but...maybe your dad’s not as bad as you think."

megumi snorts, "yeah, right. i think he's a mess."

"well, sometimes messy people need someone to believe in them," you say, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at the laptop screen like it holds the answers to life. finally, he sighs, closing it with a decisive snap.

"fine. you can...hang out with him. or whatever. i won't pull any dumb shit,” megumi suddenly pauses at the slip of his tongue, “wait, don't tell him i said that word. but if this screws up, i'm saying ‘I told you so."

he sounds like he’s just agreed to let you borrow his favourite video game.

you smile, relieved, "deal."

just then, the front door opens, and in walks toji, all feathery raven hair, sweat-slicked muscles, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just conquered a small country. he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising in surprise. "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, voice rough but warm.

before you can respond, megumi pipes up from the couch, "we had important business."

megumi watches you leave, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. you turn back once, smiling at toji like he’s just said something funny — or maybe like he’s not completely hopeless. his dad stands in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, a satisfied smirk on his face that makes megumi's stomach churn.

how disgusting.

the second the door clicks shut, toji sighs like some kind of romantic hero from the bad drama his dad loves to secretly watch, running a hand through his choppy black hair and scratching at the back of his neck.

"isn't she cute?" coming from a guy who once tried to flirt with a waitress by asking her how many push-ups she thought he could do.

toji disappears into his room, leaving young, burdened megumi stranded on the couch with his thoughts. his dad — the six-foot-four slab of muscle and bad decisions who calls protein shakes "wizard juice" — is clearly falling for you. and honestly? megumi doesn’t hate the idea. you’re nice. you don’t talk down to him like other adults, and you don’t smell like motor oil and regret like toji's usual crowd.

but toji? his dad couldn’t woo a cactus. if this is going to happen, megumi's going to have to step in. it's the responsible thing to do.

he grabs his laptop again, boots it up, and clicks on the email icon with all the gravitas of a general preparing for war.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: hey gojo i need help message: hey gojo i need help.

he hits send, satisfied. within ten minutes, there’s a reply. gojo's always on his computer nowadays, swamped by senior finals.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: hey gojo i need help message: why are u emailing me. i feel weird emailing a six year old.

megumi rolls his eyes. he’s six, not stupid. he definitely thinks he's smarter than gojo satoru.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: i think my dad has a crush.

there’s a pause. megumi imagines goji sitting in his weirdly pristine apartment downstairs, wearing those stupid sunglasses he insists are cool, trying to process what he just read.

the reply comes in two words.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: come downstairs.

then another one.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: let’s debrief. i got cookies.

megumi shuts his laptop, slides off the couch, and heads for the door. it's time someone with real intelligence got involved.

megumi fushiguro sits at the kitchen table, eating rainbow cereal and trying to ignore the way his dad is pacing the room like a stressed-out gorilla. toji fushiguro, a walking, grunting tank of a man, is mumbling under his breath about "women" and "bad timing" and something about his shirt being "too tight." not that his dad has any normal shirts — just those stupid gym shirts.

megumi, as the only person in this house with half a brain cell, knows exactly what’s going on. his dad's got it bad for you.

not that he thinks that his dad would admit it. no, his dad's strategy for dealing with his obvious feelings is to act like a complete idiot whenever you’re around. last time, he dropped a dumbbell on himself while trying to show off. the time before that, he laughed so hard at one of your jokes he spat coffee everywhere. megumi had to clean it up.

so yeah, his dad was hopeless, and apparently, it’s megumi's job to fix it.

but megumi doesn’t think of himself as a matchmaker. he thinks of himself as a tortured genius, forced to live among lesser idiots. and frankly, he doesn’t even like the idea of his dad dating. because that's gross.

but the truth is, megumi's tired of toji stomping around the apartment like a lovesick rhino, and if getting you and his dad together means toji might finally stop asking megumi if his hair looks "cool," then so be it.

he starts small. when you knock on the door that afternoon, megumi answers and blocks the entrance like a bouncer, just like gojo told him to.

"oh, dad's not here again," he says, casual.

your face falls, and megumi immediately clocks it. bingo.

"you're in luck today, lady. wait here," he interrupts, darting inside, "i'll grab him."

except his dad is in there, muttering something about a broken pipe in the kitchen, while tapping furiously on his phone. megumi marches in, hands on his hips.

"i let her in," he announces, like a town crier.

his dad looks up, like a deer caught in the headlights of his own stupidity, "what? why didn’t you tell me? damn punk," he scrambles for a shirt.

"i'm telling you now, dad," megumi says, dully, "also, you’re acting like a weirdo. just go talk to her. ask her out."

toji freezes, halfway into his shirt, "what's gotten into you, kid? gonna drop a knife on me, huh? what am i supposed to say?"

megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head, "i don't know. say hi to her. maybe don't mention the gym."

his dad frowns, "you're six, punk. what do you know? people like hearing about that shit."

"not normal people."

once toji is finally presentable — or as presentable as a man with permanent bedhead and a scar on his lip can be — megumi ushers him out of the room. then, like the misunderstood mastermind he is, megumi follows quietly, lurking behind the door to eavesdrop.

toji opens the door to find you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. his usual dumb smirk creeps onto his face, "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, leaning on the doorframe like he thinks he’s starring in a cologne commercial.

"yeah, i was just...in the neighborhood," you say, sounding way too nervous for someone who claims this is a casual visit.

megumi winces. they’re hopeless. this is your neighbourhood, too.

toji scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick Megumi’s only seen when he’s trying not to embarrass himself, "well, uh, you wanna come in? i was just... doing some cleaning. we can...talk, or some shit like that."

megumi knows for a fact that there's a lie in toji's words. the only cleaning his dad's ever done is shoving everything into the closet and calling it "organised."

but somehow, it works. you step inside, smiling at him like he just offered you free ice cream. now, that would be a decent offer.

from his spot behind the door, megumi mentally pats himself on the back. phase one: complete. he decides to clock out, flopping back on his rumpled bed to pull his laptop back out, immediately logging back onto his game.

but by the time you leave an hour later, toji looks like he just won the lottery. you’re smiling too, waving awkwardly before heading down the stairs. and ugh, gross! you lean in and press a soft kiss to toji's cheek before you turn.

as soon as the door shuts, toji leans against it and lets out the most ridiculous sigh megumi has ever heard.

"hah, kid. she likes me," his dad says, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

megumi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, crosses his arms, "that's foul. but no thanks to you."

his dad opens one sharp green eye at him, and scowls. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means," megumi says, feeling a lifetime of bribery for ice-cream excite him, "you owe me. big time."

toji’s standing in the doorway, looking at megumi like he just asked him to join some cult. he scratches the back of his head, giving megumi that look — like he’s trying to figure out what the hell his kid is up to now.

"eh, you look weird today," toji mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. he reaches down and ruffles megumi’s hair like it’s no big deal, making it stick up even more. his hair gets all spiky and untamable, and megumi scowls, smoothing it down, trying (and failing) to get his dark spikes to behave.

"yeah, whatever, dad," megumi mutters under his breath as toji turns and saunters off into his room. toji’s probably about to do a hundred push-ups and gloat to himself. megumi can already hear the dumb grunting from the other room.

as soon as toji’s gone, megumi sits back down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

for once, the apartment is quiet. no random phone calls, no weird people showing up, no random training sessions that sound more like a one-man wrecking crew than “exercise.” just peace.

it’s bliss.

he takes another bite of cereal, enjoying the calm and the fact that someone else is going to have to deal with toji’s nonsense for once. it’s about time.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: mission accomplished message: it worked. my dad's in love.

a few seconds later, gojo’s reply pops up.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: mission accomplished message: that's great! wanna help me with the guy i like?

megumi squints at the screen, blinking twice. he closes his laptop with all the gravity of someone who has just solved world peace.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: mission accomplished message: no.

[dreamwatch]

Part 1 Part 3

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Black Friday pop-up event.

Prompts: Black, Friday, "I'm not standing in line for that", Leftovers, Trampled, One Day Only, "I am giving thanks."

Yeah... all of them, and you're right, it was a stupid idea.

Word Count: Pt2 - 3670 | Rating: M | CW: Past suicidal ideation (very subtle, blink and you'll miss, I'm just being cautious) | POV: Mixed - Pt1 Eddie, Pt2 Steve, Pt3 Eddie | Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson | Tags: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Gareth CC, Jeff CC, Matt CC, Wayne Munson, disabled Eddie Munson, pining, protective Gareth, protective Steve, kissing, guitars, reference to canon typical injuries, references to blood and injury- please let me know if you think I've missed any.

I'm posting in 3 parts, because this is nearly 12k in total, which is a lot. Mods - hope that's ok! I'll link them all together. :)

Part 2

Steve’s learned a lot about himself this past year.

He’s a good friend, for one, an excellent wing man, even if Robin continues to do her best to get in her own way. 

He’s painfully patient with Dustin and the rest of the little assholes that have literally haunted his every waking moment for the last three years. He loves them, and they know it and they abuse that love on a near daily basis. Sadly, he wouldn’t change them for the world.

He doesn’t love Nancy anymore. He doesn’t want to think on that too much.

He’s done with dating. He’s done with the peacocking that comes with it, the effort of it when the person you’re with is just… okay. Nice enough. Inoffensive. He’s at that point in his life where he just needs something real, someone real, someone full of life, who makes him laugh, who wants to share everything with him. He’s done with quick fucks, the empty feeling of grabbing your clothes and sneaking out of bedrooms, of trying to get your pants on in the back of the bimmer. He wants love, and he’s not afraid to go after it now.

Oh, yeah, and he likes guys.

That’s probably not that much of a revelation, to him at least, Robin had been more intense about it.

“Now you tell me? Not when I was covered in piss and puke on the floor of a public bathroom, Steve, when I was sharing my deepest secrets with you, you tell me now, months later, you’ve had literally months, and it’s at this point in time, randomly while I am trying to re-shelve a weekend’s worth of returns, that you choose to drop this bombshell, this life changing moment, that you’ve been carrying around with you for, how long?”

“A few months.”

“A few months. A few months, he says like it’s no big deal. What is wrong with you?”

What was wrong with him was Eddie Munson. He’s still kind of getting his head around it all to be honest.

The guy thing was there for years, a low level thrum of attraction, of slightly too long looks, of grab-assing and horseplay in locker rooms and showers. Easy to pass off as nothing because they were all doing it, to one degree or another. Some, like Tommy Hagan, were less than subtle about it. 

But the Eddie thing hit him like a bolt of lightning. Never saw it coming. One minute he’s a suspected murderer holding a broken bottle against Steve’s throat and the next Steve’s holding his hand while he’s cuffed to a hospital bed scared out of his mind. 

There’s something to be said for seeing someone at their worst, there’s a pride from watching them climb back and knowing you had a part in that, being able to pat yourself on the back for it. But this isn’t the shared trauma that Robin talks of. This is pretty brown eyes and long lashes, this is dimples you want to sink your fingers into. This is hair you want to touch and hands you want to hold, and lips you want to kiss. 

He’s spent so much time with Eddie over the last seven or eight months, and it’s snowballed; as the months roll on, the number of days they spend together has increased. At first it was to be helpful, for as much as the pair of them loved each other there was no way Eddie would feel comfortable with Dustin taking him to and from the bathroom to take a piss, or to hold his hair back when he puked, or to help him get dressed, or a multitude of other easy things that just became hard for him over night. 

Steve could do those things for him. He wanted to do those things for him.

Eddie has other friends, sure, but Steve was there. He still has nights where all he can see imprinted on the back of his eyelids is Eddie’s corpse, can smell the penny scent of blood. His fingers twitch when he remembers how Eddie’s skin felt slippery, the sudden release of his chest as a rib breaks. 

Those are things Eddie’s friends can’t know, and Steve is happy for them. He truly wishes he didn’t know, either.

They know things Steve doesn’t, however, and he needs their help.

Say what you want about Steve, but when he wants something he goes all out.

So dinner didn’t go well, but there’s not much he can do about that now. But just being there and seeing Eddie’s obvious pleasure at the effort at least did something to lift his spirits. And they had a nice evening, watching TV and talking late into the night until Eddie started to fall asleep on the couch and Steve took that as his cue to say goodnight, as much as he wanted to stay.

He nearly fucked up when he asked if Eddie wanted to hang with him and Robin for the day. He was like, ninety seven per cent sure Eddie would say no, the guy barely leaves the house these days, but just for a second he looked as if he was going to say yes. And that would have put a real crimp on Steve’s plans, because they had nothing to do with ferrying Robin around on a joy ride, and everything to do with Eddie.

He wakes early the day after Thanksgiving, despite the late night, which is not unusual for him; he still runs most days, he enjoys the feel of it, running through choice rather than because he’s trying to stay alive. It’s a decision he gets to make for himself, something he can own, and there hasn’t been an awful lot of that over the last few years.

But today he has a mission, and it starts with Dustin.

When he rolls up to the Henderson house it’s barely eight A.M., and there’s a good chance Dustin will still be in bed. So he does what the little shit heads would do. He bangs on Dustin’s bedroom window.

He peers through just in time to see a bundle of blankets tumble to the floor, Dustin smack in the middle of them. Dustin squints back at him before opening the window.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, what the fuck?”

“Your language is shocking, you know that? Is that Eddie? I need to keep you two apart, seriously.”

“I think my language it perfectly reasonable given it’s a holiday and it’s—“ he glances at his watch, “eight! Jesus—“

“—Christ, yeah, yeah I got it. I need help. Where does Gareth live?”

Dustin frowns at him, bleary eyed.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Uh, how about none of your business?” 

“Uh, okay, how about I’m going back to bed now?”

Dustin moves to close the window, Steve reaching to stop him.

“Alright, alright. Jesus,” and for a second Steve thinks he might know where that language is actually coming from. “I’m running an errand for Eddie.”

“What kind of errand?”

This fucking kid.

“The private kind.”

“Why didn’t Eddie give you his address then?”

So, Steve’s tenacious, but maybe he doesn’t always think things through completely.

“Look, I’m trying to do something nice for Eddie, okay? The surprise type of nice, and no offence, but you’re just not that great at keeping your mouth shut.”

Dustin nearly chokes on his indignation. Steve just raises an eyebrow in challenge. The kid hasn’t got a leg to stand on, and he knows it.

“Fine!” Dustin huffs, then wanders into his room to find a pen and some paper. He’s back a second later, thrusting the yellow note paper at Steve.

“Thank you. Now was that so hard?”

Dustin flips him the bird in response.

“Okay, go back to bed you little shit. Call you tomorrow.”

“Make sure you do.”

And with that the window slams shut and Steve can’t help the fond smile as the curtains close.

As it turns out, Gareth doesn’t live all that far from the Hendersons. There’s something off about turning up outside someone’s house that early in the morning when you don’t really know them, and he can’t imagine Gareth is going to appreciate a knock on the door from him at anytime of the day honestly, so he sits in his car a few spots further up the street. He should have got a coffee and a donut, go the full Chief Hopper route.

Steve waits patiently for a little action inside the house, trying to gauge if people are up, had their breakfast, that kind of thing, when there’s a rumble from the opposite end of the street. He checks his rear view mirror and watches as a blue AMC Pacer struggles to climb the hill. He knows that car from the the Hawkins High parking lot, though it usually has music blaring from it. This morning it seems to be respectfully peaceful. He doesn’t get a chance to ponder it much further. It parks up outside Gareth’s place and Jeff climbs out, Matt pouring out behind him. 

Steve waits patiently for them to go in the house, door opened by a bleary eyed Gareth with a nest for hair and blue check boxers fully on display. It takes twenty minutes for them to leave, this time everyone looking a little more awake. He pulls his keys from the ignition and opens the door.

“Hey.”

The three of them turn to face him all at once, glaring at him once they recognise him.

“Can we help you?” asks Gareth with a sneer. 

Steve’s well aware these guys don’t like him, though he has no fucking clue why other than ‘you jock, me nerd’ which is total bullshit. He’s had a lot to work through this last few years, and part of that has been to stop apologising for who he was. Because firstly, he wasn’t that bad. A low key douche, but he wasn’t mean with it (Jonathan Byers being the exception, and he has apologised profusely). So you know, fuck these guys, honestly. 

However, he also kind of needs them today.

“Uh, Henderson mentioned you were headed into Indy today? Shopping?”

“What’s it to you?” asks Matt.

“I need a favour. I have a— cousin? My cousin, yeah, so he’s staying with me at the moment and the guy’s had a tough year and I want to like, get him something nice, but I have no idea what.”

Jeff shakes his head. “We’re not personal shoppers, dude, how the fuck—”

“He’s one of you. He’s like a—” Steve gestures broadly at them, “Like, a metalhead, you know. And he plays guitar.”

“Oh my God,” laughs Matt, “There’s a cool Harrington? This is I have to see.”

And he and Jeff yuck it up, but Gareth isn’t. Gareth is looking at him, really looking and Steve thinks this was a fucking mistake. He feels a little naked out on this street, his insides on the outsides for this one person to scrutinise. 

“Yeah, okay,” says Gareth, eventually. “So what do you want from us?”

He pulls a crumpled up page from the back pocket of his jeans. “This guitar store is having a sale, one day only. Store opens at ten, but like, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Matt grabs the paper from him. “Holy shit, you want to buy him a guitar? Can I be your cousin?”

“He— uh, lost his. And like, it was a big deal to him, you know? I can’t stretch to much, but I thought, maybe with the sale…” He shrugs.

While Jeff and Matt look at the ad, Gareth doesn’t take his eyes off him.

“Why didn’t you ask Eddie?”

It makes the other two pause and makes a little piece of Steve’s stomach drop.

“I was going to but, uh, he mentioned he was staying home. And you know, you guys know just as much about this shit as he does.”

He’s not above a bit of flattery to get what he wants.

“I need new strings, actually,” says Matt, staring at the crumpled paper.

“Shit, theres like fifty per cent off some of this stuff,” Jeff says, snatching the ad. “Time to get a new pedal.”

Gareth continues to try and bore holes through him with his eyes, so he decides to up the ante, offers to drive so they don’t all have to pile into Matt’s piece of shit Pacer, and he’ll buy them lunch, and sure, he’ll take them wherever they want to go in the city, and he’s starting to regret this, until Gareth says the magic word:

“Sure.”

It’s laced with suspicion and confusion, but fuck it, Steve will take it. He only needs them for a few hours.

The drive is uneventful. Jeff and Matt share college stories, telling Gareth about the parties they’re going to, the clubs they’ve joined, and in Matt’s case the pussy he’s getting. Steve nearly chokes on a Twizzler.

“Dude? ‘Pussy’? Really?”

“What? Since when have you been so puritanical? I can’t help it if the ladies flock to me.”

 He’s desperately trying to not upset this particular apple cart, but Jesus they don’t make it easy.

Matt reaches through the back seats, looking to change radio stations, until Gareth slaps his hand and tells him to sit the fuck down.

“What about you, Harrington?” asks Matt.

Steve shoots him a look in the rearview mirror. “What about me?”

“Got any college plans?”

They have to know he doesn’t, and his skin itches with annoyance. He’s trying to be really nice for lot’s of reasons; right now because he needs them, but also their Eddie’s friends, Dustin and Mike and Lucas’s friends as well come to think of it. Jeff and Matt might not be around, but Gareth very much is. They weren’t around much to begin with, and Steve didn’t ask about that, not really his place and he kind of had bigger problems at the time, what with two friends in the hospital, El in hiding from the army and half the town crumbled to ash. But things seem to be better between them all now; Eddie has letters from them in a sweet little box he made on his desk, and a pennant from Loyola on his wall. Gareth comes over a couple of times a week to hang out with him. So it’s all on the up. But they still piss Steve off, and he’s entitled to that.

“Nope, just living the dream at Family Video.”

It’s a conversation killer, and he’s just pissed off enough not to care. Instead he cranks up the radio, Peter Cetera crooning The Glory of Love blasts from the speakers, though not loud enough to cover the groaning and Matt pretending to be sick.

They make it to Indy just before ten A.M. The store is much bigger than he expected. It also has a queue snaking down the block.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Gareth smirks at him. “It’s a black Friday sale, man. Fifty percent off this stuff is no joke. You thought you could just wander in like it’s a fricking Kroger? Jesus.”

“I want my pedal,” says Jeff as he wanders to the back of the queue.

Matt shakes his head. “Well, I’m not waiting in line for that.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes to cross the street. “I’m going to Tower. I’ll meet you back at the King-mobile in an hour. Enjoy getting trampled!”

“King-mobile?” Steve mutters under his breath. “Asshole can walk home.”

He spends an awkward thirty minutes in line, listening to Jeff and Gareth arguing about music and games and a load of other shit Steve doesn’t know anything about, before Jeff tries to include him in the conversation, seemingly to Gareth’s annoyance. Eventually they’re in, and goddamn there are a lot of guitars; floor to ceiling, brand after brand, every colour and finish you can imagine. It’s oddly exciting, despite the fact he can’t play and has no idea what any of this stuff is. He gets a flash of the odd price ticket and his heart sinks. He’s not short of money, sure, but some of these would make an impressive hole in his savings account.

Jeff and Gareth desert him almost immediately, off playing with the toys, so Steve wanders through the store on his own, knocking shoulders occasionally with actual musicians trying out guitars. There’s a hum of activity, snippets of solos and songs he mostly doesn’t recognise filling the space around them. He’s out of his depth, but all the assistants are busy, and he hasn’t got a clue what he’s asking for anyway. So he does laps around the store looking at each guitar trying to size it up.

He stops when he gets to a rainbow wall of B.C. Rich guitars. He knows which one is Eddie’s, a red and black Warlock that was lost to the netherworld when Eddie’s trailer fell into the the void. They don’t have the same one, and his heart sinks a little until he spots a glossy black version He reaches out tentatively.

“Not that one.”

Steve spins, and comes face to face with Gareth. 

“What?”

Gareth looks conflicted, looks around as if he thinks he’s going to be overheard. The hustle and bustle of shoppers continues, the solos and music continue to cycle from song to song. 

“Not the Warlock.”

Steve finds himself mirroring Gareth, eyes fluttering around the store, falling on Jeff as he tries out a pedal.

“I don’t—”

“I don’t know what he went through back in March, but I know it was bad enough for him to sell his guitar. So—”

“Wait,” Steve starts, raising his hand. “He sold it? I thought he lost it in the earthquake?”

Gareth shakes his head. “I was with him, dude. He was so desperate to offload it he let it go for a hundred bucks. So if you’re looking to get him a new one, which I think is a bad idea by the way, then maybe don’t replace the one he just got rid of with the exact same model. I’m guessing there was a reason he didn’t want it anymore.”

“Why are we talking about Eddie? I told you, this is for my—”

“—you’re cousin, right. Well, my advice is don’t buy your cousin a Warlock. He won’t thank you for it.”

And with that he slinks off into the store, joining up with Jeff as he tests out a pedal, leaving Steve standing in front of a wall of guitars with no fucking clue what he’s doing, and feeling horribly seen in a way he doesn’t have the fortitude to unravel in the middle of a guitar store in Indianapolis. 

He goes back to the car, radio playing Duran Duran while he can enjoy it before the three ungrateful shit heads pile in and abuse his good will by mocking literally everything about him. Eddie getting rid of the guitar makes no sense to him, but the more he thinks the more it dawns on him that he’s never heard Eddie play. Like, not ever. Even without the BC Rich there are two other guitars in his room, and Steve has spent a lot of time with Eddie over the last few months, and he’s never touched them once that he knows of. It doesn’t make any sense.

Except… his left hand shakes. A lot. And he rarely uses a knife, just uses a fork in his right hand, which Steve only notices because he notices everything about Eddie. Or he thought he had. He missed the biggest part of him. Eddie lost his music and Steve didn’t even notice. 

Jeff and Gareth are back at the car on time, Matt only twenty minutes late, a record according to Jeff. True to his word Steve takes them to lunch, a diner called Sandy’s they all seem overly excited about. They’re talking among themselves and he finds himself content to listen as they talk about things they got up to with Eddie. Hearing about his escapades from before, back when Eddie was still just the school freak and high school super super senior, makes his chest ache. He wants to know that Eddie, wishes he’d had a chance to meet him and hang out before all the Upside Down crap stole their youth from them. But it hits him all at once that he could have had that, if his head hadn’t been stuck so far up Tommy Hagan’s ass. 

He bites into his hot dog and keeps it to himself.

It’s late afternoon when they get back to Hawkins, and he drops everyone back at Gareth’s where they started this monumental waste of a day. Jeff and Matt thank him as they get out of the car, but Gareth hesitates before putting his hand on the door handle. 

“Blue,” Gareth says, like he doesn’t want to, like Steve grabbed him by the throat and threatened him for it. “He likes blue. He doesn’t tell anyone, says it’s not metal.”

“Uh, okay…” 

“And he gets the chilli dog, with extra onions at Sandy’s. With the cheese fries. And a large peanut butter malt. That’s his order.”

And like, what the fuck? Steve’s head spins with it, with the fact that Gareth knows something, he has seen something in Steve, and just how far does that go? How transparent is he that this kid who he barely knows has managed to just lift the lid on him and take out all his hidden parts? 

“People haven’t been good to him. He likes you for some reason, so just, don’t fuck him up. That’s all I’m asking, man.”

And with that he gets out of the car, leaving Steve in a whirlwind of panic, and with problems still unsolved.

He needs to talk to Wayne.

[avoicebehindthestars]

Why 90 minutes are not enough

As a hyperfixated fan, I will never believe 90 minutes will do Good Omens 3 justice.

The Second Coming storyline was intended as something of similar complexity to the Armageddon - and that took 5 hour-long episodes to tell. People who claim that many good films only take 90 minutes should consider that those production were always intended to last 90 minutes - that's the way they were plotted. Frankly, I can't think of a single satisfactory book-to-screen adaptation that would fit into this time restriction. Other STP books adaptations (Colour of Magic, Hogfather, Going Postal) are over 3hr long each. Stardust is over 2hr, and has a much simpler plot.

Added to that is the entire Aziracrow storyline that - let's be fair - is the main thing we all want to see done well. I'm afraid I'm not in the "just kiss and fuck off to South Downs" camp. That ending never held much meaning for me, because we all know how it ends. What I cared for was the path there - healing the heartbreak, becoming an "us". A simple apology dance, or "whatever let's just stop the world from ending" won't cut it. They're lovestory has so far been told through the fluffy, casual, seemingly unimportant details. The kiss isn't evidence of their love. It's the "don't go unscrewing the cap", "three tones of voice", "our car/our bookshop", it's the way Aziraphale's hand remains upright when Crowley's almost wraps over it, or how Crowley gives up the whole argument the moment he learns Aziraphale might be in danger. And through the flashbacks and minisodes now almost certainly lost.

And then there's the whole intellectual side of Good Omens. The show is often praised for being a wonderful queer representation, but not enough is said about it being autistic representation. Most ethereal and occult characters on GO are autistic-coded, but contrary to such productions as House MD, Sherlock, or Atypical, the plot doesn't revolve around them being ND. Instead, we, the neurodivergent recognise ourselves in tiny details - when Shax suddenly asks about hot water, when Muriel doesn't realise the Metatron has just offended them. But that isn't all. We, the ND people are drawn to the whole meta side of the show. The tarot card parallels, the mirror structure, the bloody camera filters! We are treated while being represented - this show is about us and for us. Have you read any of the mindblowing metas on tumblr…? Many people say that Good Omens is full of fillers that are easily omitted, but those parts are simply the ones whose significance the less invested audience didn't recognise.

Nothing of that will be left in 90 minutes. It can be a pleasant experience, an entertaining narrative of stopping the end of the world with, hopefully, a few sweet moments stolen away by Aziraphale and Crowley. And that's all. No nuance or riddles to be tracked over the next years, no grandeur of an epic story told with patience and no compromise. No narrative legacy to leave a mark in contemporary storytelling, the way season 1 did. No satisfying return on everything season 2 discreetly hinted (and how ridiculous that what was basically a backdoor prologue to the final arc will now be 3 times longer than the story itself!). And, above all, no carefully planned and slowly delivered healing.

Just. A 1.5h fantasy comedy to consume on a winter evening before moving on when they're gone forever.

[chaoticbooklesbian]

In BG3 news, not only did I deal with the bullshit that is reuniting Oliver and Thaniel, I also rescued all the tieflings and gnomes in Moonrise AND stopped Rolan from getting his dumb ass killed! Yay!

[itz-pandora]

Huh. If my life was a quote, it'd be "one of those sad ones with a deceptively happy tune"

[tinystepsforward]

algerian trans women arent able to compete in women sports at all, but yeah its makes no sense to call khelif tme. youre so fucking smart.

i see you don't believe that i'm quoting one of the trans women in my life about that, which is your prerogative. it's also your right to miss my point entirely both about the ways this alienates intersex people and about the rigidity of a binary that comes down to the same shrinking circles terfs draw when they try to quantify what a woman is (speak up for women, the most organised nz group, have now submitted on the human rights act suggesting that all babies be karyotyped at birth and the results be public, bc they can't establish any other definition they agree on. absolutely fucking nobody, not even their christian or conspiracist allies, agrees with them on this one.)

but you don't have to take my word for it! when i was at that consultation with the nz law commission, i was in a room with many other intersex and trans people, including trans athletes and trans women like lexie matheson who consult on trans inclusion in sports at a high national level. i don't think there's a single person in that room who did not name what was happening to khelif as we spoke as transmisogyny, who did not speak of her as part of a group with whom we all shared something.

at the end of the day, prison abolition informs all of my politics. i believe that we must look clearly and carefully at harm and distinguish it from discomfort or disagreement, and identify its structural sources and true perpetrators. i believe that to build a better future we must be capable of imagining one. i believe that we can build a world where suffering is not the metric by which we determine value or punishment or righteousness. i believe that we can build a world where we centre and uplift those who are most hurt, in every arena — black and brown trans women, here; in some of my other work, it's incarcerated intellectually disabled people, or asian migrant sex workers affected by section 19, the list goes on — without then pitting them against other people who share some of the same story and will benefit from the same deconstruction of the systems that hold them down. i believe we can build a world in which asab doesn't affect so much of your life by beginning that work now.

there's a politics of scarcity — you have it better than me, so we have nothing in common. i saw it all the time in brothels, the idea that the new girl is taking money out of your kids' mouths. the viciousness with which people who are struggling are so ready to abandon solidarity. is it so hard to demand better for everyone? to think less about the ways we're alone and more about the ways we're together?

maybe it is. i know that well enough as a prison abolitionist. people get scared. they swing at shadows, they swing at anyone who seems to be suffering less, they — we, i should say, i am certainly not immune — get blindingly jealous of people who seem to have it easier. that's grief! that's grief for the easier life that we deserve. and we get to mourn, and take that time to feel it, and then we can choose if we want to keep working hand in hand with each other toward a world where that grief is dwarfed by the promise of the future.

[deeisace]

..

[sanguineshade]

Just saw a BDSM educational post and it reminded me of how I had to bring up the topic to my mother the last time I was complaining about my ex.

Basically, what happened was, I have no good things to say about my ex. She's asked a couple times over the course of these months "what I learned from this relationship" (which was my first) and my only response was "I learned I deserved better and that I need to look for someone who will care for me how I care for them".

On our last talk, she proceeded to reply that this was "too narrowing", to which I gently explained it was not, and all the ways I cared for my ex that he didn't return even when I desperately, verbally asked. I ended this by concluding it was a matter of emotional maturity (not saying he wasn't mature, just that we were at different points, with different needs, and he could not meet mine), and that in hindsight, I should've not started that kind of relationship with him, since he never even filled out his document.

And then I had to explain the Document.

You see, I put it shortly to her, I made a document detailing the kind of things I was interested in, sexually. I described what places I felt I'd like to be touched, the things I'd like to do, the things I was open to try and the ones I would decline. I made it readable, with separated topics, and had a blank version for my then-partner to simply fill out. I knew he didn't like to write much so I made it easy to check options, with minimal writing. I gave that to him, and he never filled it up.

She was flabbergasted that I'd do such an un-romantic thing, describing it as "detached" and "like work" and "who would want to sign a document before having a relationship, where did you get this idea from?"

I paused for a moment. "Do you know BDSM?" She did not. I explained what the acronym meant. She was not happy as she asked what that had to do with anything, and where I heard of such things. "Well," I started from the beginning. "You know about 50 Shades of Grey, right?"

I explained to her how, in the boom of the book's popularity, the most important aspect every critic brought up was how the story was, in fact, not displaying BDSM as it advertised, but instead abuse. I proceeded to relate how that got me to read about BDSM, and how consent and guidelines and communication were such an important part of it, how "scenes" need a lot of prep work and how people deeply care for each other.

There was nothing quite like the joy I felt as her expression mellowed, especially as I reminded her that it was my first relationship, and I came up with the document as a guideline, as a safety, as a way of communicating my needs and to hear back from my partner. "But he didn't fill it" she replied, now fully supportive of the document. "Why did you still date him?"

It cut a little deeper than I expected, even now, reminiscing of those words. "It was my first time," I remember shrugging, "and I trusted him."

That was the end of it. I'd love to have a happy ending to add, about how I moved on and found a wonderful person who filled their Document and I am now in a loving relationship with, but there's none of that. Maybe I'll never find anyone who'd do this for me. Maybe my level of maturity doesn't have a match, and my needs are too much for any partner to deal with. Honestly, the only thing I need as I'm typing this is a job, so I could have at least a semblance of financial security. I couldn't care less about intimate relationships right now.

But, all that said, I really wanna thank the BDSM community for all their teachings on consent, and trust, and on how to make things good for all parties involved. I could see the understanding in my mom's eyes with my (honestly probably mediocre) explanations. Of course she knew the difference between a relationship where you feel safe and one where you're just going with the flow, but I could tell she became aware of it while I was talking. I'm sure we both came out of that conversation with a little more knowledge in our minds.

[hepbaestus]

:|

TW: covid mention/illness/coughing (nothing graphic or major)

[pyrothecary]

hey gamers if you're here from tgp holy SHIT i'm so sorry. i have actually a negative amount of updates i'm currently in the process of replotting it because the story i had before got so unnecessarily complex, there were like 10 subplots and i'll be honest it just sucked ass. so i'm simplifying and starting from scratch

[stereax]

saw you post 'listen before you go', thought you'd enjoy this:

oh...

[thedreadvampy]

oh boy the depression hole is deep and it is muddy

hahaha I fell into the classic trap! overidentify with your job and considering leaving it will trigger an existential crisis!!!!

[kittlyns]

I had yet another long, strenuous day yesterday and didn't finish work until super late and then I couldn't fall asleep until well past 2am cuz I was in so much pain from standing literally all day

[dreamlogic]

oooh hey. job offer get. 🌝

[meliohy]

ok ok I talked to a colleague and now all's good. I'm motivated af for the interview this afternoon. I'm getting that fucking job. Everyone wants me to get that job anyway. I'm done being nice now I'm letting them know they better give me that job and sign the papers in the next month else I'm quitting. Good luck with finding yet another engineer to work in the middle of nowhere when you're already struggling to hire 💅

[irawhiti]

man there is really no way out of poverty huh. like for real.