The "00" in my user are actually eggs

oozey mess
YOU ARE THE REASON

blake kathryn

tannertan36
we're not kids anymore.

@theartofmadeline
Today's Document
Jules of Nature
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
RMH

pixel skylines
Sweet Seals For You, Always

Origami Around
Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day

Kaledo Art

titsay
KIROKAZE

No title available
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

seen from United States
seen from South Africa

seen from Malaysia

seen from Ireland
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Türkiye

seen from Singapore
seen from South Africa

seen from Singapore
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from South Africa
@aikk00
The "00" in my user are actually eggs
flowers in the drawer
megumi is too shy to give you flowers to your face, so he hides them in your room instead.
roommate wanted
quiet, non-smoker.
2-bed apartment, central location. rent: ¥50,000/month (split).
no parties, no guests, no drama. pets negotiable.
contact: fushiguro m. (include why you're a good fit).
no frills, no photos of the place. just a phone number scribbled at the bottom.
you were juggling textbooks, half-eating a granola bar, when you saw that ad on the crumpled flyer on the community board at your university's student center. there was this persistent looming dread of your rent doubling if you didn't find a cheaper place soon, so thank heavens you got such a life-saving sign.
you texted that afternoon, keeping it professional. fushiguro responded within the hour: interview tomorrow, 6 pm. address attached. bring id.
the apartment was on the third floor of a modest building in a quiet tokyo neighborhood –close enough to the subway for your commute, far enough from the bustle to feel peaceful. you knocked, and the door opened to reveal a guy about your age, tall and lean with dark, spiky hair that looked like it defied gravity on purpose. he wore a plain black t-shirt and jeans, his expression neutral bordering on wary. sapphire eyes flicked over you quickly, assessing.
"come in." he said, voice low and even. no handshake, just a step aside to let you in.
the place was spotless: hardwood floors swept clean, a small kitchen with appliances that gleamed, a living room with a worn couch and a bookshelf crammed with astronomy books and philosophy texts. your potential room was smaller but pleasant: a bed, a dresser with drawers that stuck a bit, a desk by the window overlooking a tiny park.
the tour was brief: kitchen (coffee maker functional, use it), bathroom (hot water lasts ten minutes), living room (no tv after 9 pm).
"girls are usually more organized. cleaner. that's why." it sounded like a fact, not a compliment. he paused, then: "rent due on the 1st. keys tomorrow if you want it."
you moved in that weekend with two suitcases and a box of books. megumi helped carry the heavy one without a word, setting it down in your new room. "use whatever. no speakers."
and that was that. no welcome dinner, no awkward icebreakers. just two strangers sharing space, orbiting each other like polite planets.
-
the first few weeks were all adjustment. you woke at 6 am for your literature lectures, tiptoeing around to avoid waking him. he'd emerge around 7:30, hair even messier from sleep, heading out for what you assumed were his astronomy sessions or part-time work. he never specified. you learned his habits by osmosis: he liked his showers scalding hot (the bathroom mirror always fogged), read late into the night with a single lamp on, and avoided eye contact during rare shared meals.
but you made the coffee. every morning, before slipping out the door, you'd grind fresh beans (you'd bought a cheap grinder on sale), set the timer for 7:15, and leave a mug out. black, no sugar –you'd noticed him drink it that way once when you both grabbed breakfast cereal at the same time.
the first time he acknowledged it was subtle. you came home to find the mug washed and drying on the rack, a sticky note beside it: thanks. no name, but his handwriting –neat, precise kanji.
you smiled to yourself, tucking the note into your journal. he wasn't chatty, but he was considerate. he never left lights on, always took out the trash on his days, and once fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom without you asking.
from his side, megumi noticed you more than he let on. you weren't just clean, you were methodical. shoes aligned by the door, laundry folded in perfect squares, notes color-coded on your desk. you hummed old jazz tunes while cooking simple dinners (yakimeshi or stir-fry, nothing fancy), and your laugh was rare but genuine, like when you watched slice-of-life anime on low volume in the living room.
months blurred under perpetual cloud cover. winter brought shorter days; the apartment felt smaller, the walls closer. conversations were sparse.
“rain again tomorrow.”
“yeah.”
“you need the umbrella?”
“i’ll manage.”
he told himself it was a relief. good roommate. practical choice. but then came that morning in early spring.
you'd overslept your alarm by five minutes, rushing around in pajamas –his old black hoodie, actually, the one you'd ‘borrowed’ from the dryer when yours was in the wash. (he'd noticed it missing but said nothing.) the kitchen light hit you just right: hair tousled, eyes soft with sleep, pouring his coffee first even in your hurry. steam curled up, and you smiled at the mug like it was a huge victory.
something in megumi's chest tightened. beautiful, he thought, unbidden. not in a flashy way, but like the first light of dawn. he ducked back into his room before you saw him, heart pounding stupidly.
that evening, after you’d left for a late library shift, he stopped at a corner flower shop on his way home from class. the old lady behind the counter raised an eyebrow at his request for ‘something simple’. he left with one white orchid –symbol of elegance, he'd read once in a book. delicate petals, pure and unassuming.
he slipped into your room (door unlocked, as always). the bottom drawer of your dresser stuck, as he'd mentioned once in passing. perfect. unused. he placed the orchid inside, flat and careful, with a folded note:
you make mornings quieter. in a good way. thank you.
no signature, no need. he closed the drawer softly, heart racing like he'd committed a crime.
-
what started as a one-off became a habit as frequent as brushing teeth. megumi wasn't impulsive; every flower was chosen with care, after days of silent observation. he researched meanings late at night on his phone, scrolling through flower dictionaries while pretending to read murakami. notes were drafted in his head during runs, rewritten until they were honest but restrained. serious. respectful. nothing that could be misinterpreted as creepy.
a week after the orchid: one red tulip, vibrant against the drawer's wood. he'd seen you reading a poetry book on the couch, lost in thought. the tulip meant declaration of love, but he downplayed it. note:
you're more thoughtful than most. it shows in the details.
you'd reorganized the kitchen cabinets that day, grouping spices alphabetically. he noticed.
two weeks later: three pink carnations, bundled loosely with a ribbon from the shop. carnations for fascination. you'd stayed up late helping him study for an exam he mentioned offhand (he was minoring in history, surprisingly), quizzing him over instant ramen. note:
your presence is steady. reliable. i appreciate it.
he placed them while you were at a study group, drawer creaking faintly.
then two white roses –purity, new beginnings. it was after a rainy day when you'd left an umbrella by his shoes, knowing he'd forget his. the petals were soft, thorns were carefully removed. note:
i don't say it enough, but you're kind. genuinely.
a small bouquet of gardenias followed, their creamy white blooms filling the drawer with a faint, sweet scent that lingered even as they dried. secret love, joy. he'd caught you dancing subtly in the kitchen while making tea, headphones in, oblivious to him watching from the hallway. note:
you're beautiful. not just on the surface. all of your little things.
more came over the months. a single lily for purity after you mediated a minor argument he had with a friend over the phone (you'd offered cocoa and silence). note: you bring calm.
daisies (a handful) for innocence when you shared your favorite childhood book with him during a power outage, reading by flashlight. note: your stories make the dark less empty.
violets for faithfulness after he realized you'd been adjusting the thermostat to his preferred cooler temp without complaint. note: loyalty in small things matters.
hydrangeas for heartfelt emotions when you surprised him with takeout on a bad day (he'd come home bruised after a fight with a senior who dared to spit on his sister’s memory). note: you see more than you let on.
he'd slip in during your absences –classes, part-time cafe job, library runs. always the same drawer, accumulating like a hidden garden. petals dried, colors fading into sepia, notes unread. he checked once or twice, seeing them untouched. the flowers decayed in secret, like feelings left too long in the dark. a grave of his affection.
she doesn't care, he thought, and his stomach sank each time. or doesn't notice. but he couldn't stop. it was his way of saying what his voice couldn't.
from your perspective, life was good. megumi was the ideal roommate –introverted, respectful, occasionally sharing a meal where conversations were short but meaningful. "how was your day?" you'd ask, and he'd mumble "fine" before asking about yours. you noticed him softening: leaving fruit for you in the fridge, fixing your wobbly chair.
but then he started leaving before you set the timer. you’d wake to an empty pot, the machine silent, the kitchen still dark. when your schedules overlapped he’d mutter a clipped “hey” and disappear into his room faster than before. no more lingering in the living room with his book. no more accidental brushes of shoulders in the narrow hallway. no more glances over the rim of mugs.
at night you heard him come home late –keys, shoes by the door, soft footsteps past your room. sometimes he paused outside your door for a second, long enough that you held your breath, waiting for a knock that never came. then the creak of his own door closing. the apartment settled back into its familiar gloom, but now it felt personal.
the silence grew heavier, thicker than the fog that rolled in every morning from the sewers. you stopped setting the coffee timer. what was the point if he wouldn’t drink it?
you started avoiding the kitchen during his usual hours. ate cereal standing at the sink, headphones in, pretending the music drowned out the emptiness. you studied in your room with the door closed, even though the lamp there flickered and the chair was less comfortable. anything to not sit at the table where you used to share a space.
you kept replaying every word you said to him, every detail you had with him. maybe you crossed a line, but didn’t know which one.
you cried once into the sleeve of his hoodie you still wore. then you folded it neatly and placed it on the chair in your room. you wouldn’t wear it again until the ache dulled.
megumi sat in the dark of his own room, back against the door, staring at the single dried white camellia he never dared to tuck among the rest: eternal union. he’d kept it hidden in his nightstand drawer –the one place you never looked.
-
you had to move out, you decided one mid-summer afternoon. in fact, you had already scouted your options and found a place that fit your budget. the plan was flawless: go to the interview that evening, sever the ties you thought you had with the stranger who offered you a roof, and then head to europe for a literature research trip. the perfect plan.
you got home to pack your bags, fuming at yourself for not confronting him, only to find yourself locked in a sudden struggle with that sticky bottom drawer, forgotten amid junk.
you yanked it open with force. twice. thrice. four times.
petals exploded out like confetti from a forgotten party –dried orchids, tulips crumbling at the edges, carnations flaking pink, roses curled inward, gardenias browned but fragrant. lilies, daisies, violets, hydrangeas –a secret florist wilted in time. notes fluttered to the floor, dozens of them, all in that familiar neat script.
you sank to the carpet, surrounded. read them one by one, breath catching. quiet mornings. thoughtful. steady. kind. beautiful. calm. stories. loyalty. see more.
tears pricked your eyes. it was him. all him. how long? why hide? shyness? careful distance?
you felt so foolish for believing the smell belonged to the park outside, convinced it was just the bushes budding. but it was the apartment itself. his scent.
-
when megumi came home, the key turned slowly. rain dripped from his hood. he stepped inside and froze.
the scent hit first–alive, familiarly overwhelming, cutting through the usual mustiness. then the sight: flowers. everywhere. every surface softened by petals and stems. low candlelight dancing on glass. flowers mirroring every secret he’d buried. on the shelf where he kept his books. by the window he'd stare out during insomnia. on the counter next to the coffee maker. spilling over the couch.
a city apartment transformed into a private meadow.
you spent the afternoon at flower shops gathering freesias and peonies (tenderness); chrysanthemums and magnolias (sacred solemnity); hibiscus and poppies (warmth intertwined with solace); geraniums and petunias (true companionship and comforting presence); sunflowers and daffodils (hidden hope and a new beginning). in summary, a blend of pure trust, timid devotion, and unwavering loyalty.
you stood in the center, in his hoodie again, hands clasped nervously. petals dusted the floor around you.
“i found the drawer.” you said, voice barely above the rain. “everything was there. all of it.”
megumi’s bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a muted thump. his face drained and then flushed crimson.
“i thought you weren't interested.” he stared at the floorboards. “since you never said anything.”
“i didn’t know.” a small, broken laugh. “i was so stupid. i thought you were always blunt with me. i had no idea."
he rubbed his neck, avoiding your eyes. "didn't want to make it weird. you like the quiet. i like the quiet with you. if you didn't feel the same..." he trailed off, vulnerable.
"you didn't ruin anything, megumi." your voice cracked a little. "this is the sweetest thing anyone's ever done. all those months..."
silence stretched, filled with floral whispers.
then you smiled, that soft one he loved. "hope i didn't get it too late? to say i feel the same. have for a while."
his head snapped up, pacific-ocean eyes wide. "not too late."
relief flooded your features, and your shoulders relaxed.
"maybe next time," you mumbled. "just hand them to me?"
he nodded, a real smile breaking through. "yeah. i can do that." with deliberate parsimony, he crouched down toward his backpack, pulling the zipper with a mysterious slowness until he pulled out a white camellia. it wasn't withered or dead, but fresh –newly acquired and ready to be given. “let’s start now.” he said.
and from then on, the drawer stayed empty.
just saw the sweetest Dad!Gojo x Megumi tt edit and im in tears🥹😭 my heart
Beautiful Boy
pairing: megumi fushiguro x f!reader
content: highschool au, dad!gojo, megumi is adopted, emo!megumi.
gojo’s been gone for three days.
some regional curriculum restructuring summit, something about new county-wide testing guidelines and cross-district math standards that sounded important enough to merit a hotel and a suitcase and a “don’t burn the house down” text sent with four emojis and a blurry selfie from a waffle bar.
megumi didn’t ask when he’d be back. he never does.
and the thing is, he loves gojo, he really does. in his own closed-lipped, tired-eyed way, megumi knows he lucked out.
because the other kids from where he came from; group homes with mildew in the vents, families that never quite made it to court dates, kids who folded themselves small just to survive—they didn’t get adopted by someone who remembered their birthday or left dumb sticky notes on the fridge that said “you’re not allowed to have a favorite parent if i’m the only one. love, gojo.”
and even when he’s loud and ridiculous and entirely too invested in whatever music megumi’s into this week—singing along to bands he doesn’t know the lyrics to, nodding like he gets it when he absolutely doesn’t—gojo tries. and megumi notices.
like how he never complains about the playlists in the car, even when it’s heavy or screaming or sad in that way megumi won’t say out loud. how he still listens all the way through, eyes soft behind his sunglasses, and sometimes glances sideways like he’s trying to see past the static.
you okay, kid?
what’s this one called again?
megumi always shrugs. sometimes he mumbles the band name. other times he turns it up instead of answering.
because he’s not like the other kids. not really. he’s not crazy or anything—not a psychopath or a burnout or someone school security keeps tabs on—but he’s quieter, moodier.
the kind of person who doesn't raise his hand in class even when he knows the answer, who walks the long way home just to avoid crowds, who listens to music no one else plays out loud and wears black hoodies even in the summer.
and gojo knows that. he doesn’t push. never has, really.
but megumi also knows—if gojo ever found out who you were, if he ever found out you were the reason he’s been smiling like an idiot when he thinks no one’s looking—
it’d be the end of it.
not because gojo would be mad, of course. megumi’s only seen him truly mad once—some woman at a grocery store had the nerve to insist megumi couldn’t possibly be his son because he didn’t look anything like him, and gojo’s smile hadn’t reached his eyes for the rest of the week.
hell, even when megumi snuck out sophomore year to catch an underground show across the city and ended up stranded after the cops broke it up—gojo still wasn’t mad. just showed up at 3:17 a.m. in pajama pants and a parka, hair a disaster, sunglasses still on, grumbling about how he had a trig quiz to proctor in five hours.
so no, gojo wouldn’t be mad, which made it worse.
he’d just never shut up about it.
never shut up about you.
you, who used to sit in the front row of gojo’s ninth period algebra II class, raising your hand before he even finished the question, always two steps ahead and annoyingly self-aware about it.
you, who challenged his dumb metaphors about slope and velocity, who called him mr. six-eyes to his face and somehow got away with it because you were his favorite. always had been. the kind of favorite he bragged about in the teacher’s lounge and roped into decorating the classroom before winter break.
you were a model student—helpful, on time, unnecessarily prepared. the kind of kid teachers loved and other students quietly resented. you volunteered to grade papers. reminded gojo when he forgot to collect homework. helped tutor the kid who failed the last quiz and smiled like it didn’t weigh on you when they rolled their eyes behind your back.
but beneath all that, you were sharper than anyone gave you credit for. you carried your loneliness like it wasn’t a burden, pretended you didn’t hear the whispers in the hallway, acted like being too smart and too eager never isolated you from the rest of them.
and you were angry, too—in that quiet, tightly-held way megumi recognized immediately.
you laughed at his deadpan jokes like he was a stand-up comic. knew the same bands. always had an opinion about the lyrics. and you looked at him, not through him. never like he was a project or a punchline or some gloomy background character that belonged to someone else.
you sat next to him in the library before he ever said a word to you. always brought an extra pen. never asked questions when he left school late or disappeared for a few days around the anniversary of his mom’s death.
and he wasn’t sure when it happened, when you and him started slipping into something else. all he knew was that one day, it felt natural, easy. like maybe this was the one part of his life that didn’t need overthinking. like maybe being understood wasn’t supposed to feel like a threat.
and everything about you was perfect—except for the fact that you were also helping out in gojo’s precalc class as an assistant. some glorified student aide thing to fill your schedule, since you’d already tested out of the other math electives.
and megumi had to hear about it. constantly.
"did you see her today? she’s already smarter than half the staff."
"i should make her my assistant year-round. no offense, megumi, but she actually smiles at me."
so no nosy teacher. no stupid dramatic grins. no “megumiiii, is that a smile? wow, should i call the press?”
you were his secret. the only thing in his life that didn’t belong to gojo or school or his past.
and for three months, the two of you had kept it that way. megumi sneaking you over whenever gojo was away at some conference or seminar—sent across the state by an overworked district and an underpaid school board that didn’t deserve him.
megumi keeps it quiet. keeps it safe. keeps you tucked away from the chaos, from the questions, from the way gojo would absolutely, irreparably ruin it just by opening his mouth.
and then—the front door opens. keys jingle. floor creaks.
and everything goes to hell.
you’re still half-asleep when it happens. soft morning light, your legs tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but his black t-shirt—oversized, wrinkled, stretched loose at the collar where he tugged it over your head last night with more impatience than coordination.
your hair’s a mess from the way he kissed you into the mattress sometime around midnight, hands shaky, mouth reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he’d get to have you like that again. (he probably will, but god, it won’t be soon enough.)
he’s going to have dreams about it. scratch that—already has. the memory is singed into him, all warm skin and muffled sighs and the way you’d laughed against his throat after, breathless and half-drunk on him.
if this is the only play he ever gets for the rest of his life—which, honestly, he doesn’t think anyone could top you anyway—he figures he’d be fine with that.
you’re laid out on his bed like you belong there. like this is your room, your weekend, your morning. like you don’t know what kind of crisis is about to unfold.
because the door downstairs just opened, and gojo’s voice follows. bright, familiar, far too awake for this hour.
“megumiiiiii~ guess who’s home early!”
megumi’s blood stops moving. “no,” he whispers, already shoving off the blanket. “no no no—”
you blink, groggy. “what—?”
he’s at your side instantly, grabbing your arm, pulling you up with the desperation of a man about to be ruined. “get up. closet. now.”
“closet?” you echo, bleary and confused, letting him drag you across the room.
“don’t ask questions, please,” he hisses, already yanking the closet door open and practically lifting you inside like a rolled-up yoga mat. you stumble over his boots, hit your elbow on a crooked coat hanger, and feel your phone slip from your fingers and skitter across the hardwood like a hockey puck. “stay quiet. five minutes tops.”
“megumi, what the—”
“shh.” the door shuts fast, the click a little too loud in the dark.
your heart pounds against your ribs as your brain finally catches up. your eyes are still crusty from sleep, your legs sore in the good way, and your t-shirt—the one you definitely didn’t come here wearing—is sliding too far up your thighs. the absurdity of it all would be funny if not for the immediate threat of your eleventh grade precalc teacher being literally on the other side of the door.
outside, the bedroom door rattles open just as megumi throws himself back into bed, doing his best impression of someone who is absolutely not hiding his father’s former favorite student in his closet half-naked and still warm from sleep.
knock knock.
“go away,” megumi calls, instantly.
the door opens anyway.
“awww, don’t be like that,” gojo says, already stepping in with a grocery bag and an obnoxiously wide grin. “i brought you strawberry milk. and chocolate pies. and look!” he waves something. “a little cactus for your desk. his name is steve.”
megumi sits up slowly, dragging a hand down his face, looking like he hasn’t slept in twelve days even though he slept just fine until two minutes ago. “you can put it on the dresser and leave,” he says, voice dry and low, as if sheer nonchalance might make the whole thing go away.
gojo waves him off with a laugh, already opening his mouth to make some retort about attitude, but he stops mid‑step. the grin sharpens into something far more interested, and his head tilts just enough for the sunglasses to catch the light.
“…what’s that on your neck?” he asks, the question all sugar and hook.
megumi freezes, his entire body going still, suddenly very aware of the evidence of last night blooming on his skin and of how if the collar of his shirt slips down any further it will reveal more than just his throat.
in the mirror on the back of his door he can see the flush crawling up his face, redder with every second, and he tries not to notice it even as it gives him away.
“i—fell,” megumi mutters, words flat but his ears bright with heat.
“fell?” gojo echoes, one eyebrow creeping above the rim of his glasses.
“yup.” megumi blinks slowly, like he’s rebooting. “onto my binder.”
gojo raises his other eyebrow now, smile spreading. “your binder gave you a hickey?”
“it’s not a hickey,” megumi says, voice clipped and almost petulant, as though the words themselves taste sour. “and it’s, uh… a weird binder.”
“uh‑huh.” gojo lets the sound drag out as he surveys the room, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “soooo…” he trails off, stepping toward the desk with exaggerated curiosity. “whose bag is that?” he asks, finger extended.
megumi doesn’t answer.
in fact, he already knows what gojo is pointing at; he’s been mentally circling it like a bomb since the moment the door opened. bright and unmistakable, your bag sits propped against his desk leg—the same bag you’ve carried to school for four years.
he holds his breath and thinks, fleetingly, that if he does it long enough maybe he can pass out and die on the spot. (he really hopes this will be the case)
“that,” gojo continues, undeterred, “is a pink bag. i don’t recall my emotionally‑repressed, all‑black‑wearing son owning anything pink.”
megumi exhales a sharp sigh, eyes narrowing. “please leave.”
“megumi, but i missed you,” gojo says instead, flopping onto the bed and knocking half the covers off like he owns the place. “been thinking about our quality bonding time. like when i taught you how to ride a bike. or how to cook ramen. or—”
your phone buzzes.
both of them turn toward the closet just as you let out a quiet, panicked “shit!” and fumble to kill the ringer. the sound of you dropping something muffled against the floorboards makes megumi want to crawl under the bed and never emerge.
“what was that?” gojo asks lightly, though the edge of amusement in his voice is unmistakable.
megumi blinks once, hard. “nothing.”
gojo hums, slow and playful. “weird. sounded like a notification. do ghosts text now?”
megumi clenches his jaw until it aches. “it’s nothing.”
gojo grins, all teeth now. “is ‘nothing’ short for ‘a girl is hiding in your closet and probably freezing because i have the AC set to antarctica’?”
megumi stares at him, unmoving, wishing he could will the man out of existence.
“come on,” gojo says, stretching like a cat, arms over his head, “you’re not in trouble. i’ve snuck more people into this house than i care to admit. i just want to know who.”
and though that would sound comforting if it came from any other parent, megumi already knows gojo knows exactly who it is—from the bag brighter than the sun to your muffled curses, it’s obvious. gojo isn’t an idiot, and the only reason he’s still playing dumb is because he wants megumi to say it out loud. because, apparently, tormenting him is a hobby now.
they stare at each other. megumi prays silently that he’ll drop it, but gojo just keeps smiling, shark‑bright.
“i think you, um… know who it is,” he grumbles finally, looking away.
gojo makes a fake shocked face, hand to his heart. “oh, so there is someone in the closet!” he tuts loudly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “tsk, tsk, son, i can’t believe you lied to me.” his voice is all fake scandal, but his eyes are gleaming with amusement.
megumi groans and drops his head into his hands, muttering through his fingers, “is that all?”
“yeah, kid,” gojo says, rising from the bed and straightening his shirt. “just, uh… make sure to cover that up for school on monday.” he points at the mark on megumi’s neck with an exaggerated wag of his finger, then ambles toward the door. “oh, and i brought home some really good food from the conference. it’s downstairs on the counter.”
he’s a foot out of the doorway when he pauses and glances back over his shoulder, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “feel free to help yourself too, y/n.”
you jump out of your skin a little at the sound of your name. muffled through the closet door, you manage an awkward, “uh… thank you, mr. gojo.”
the door shuts behind him with a lazy click, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
megumi stays seated on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands still covering most of his face like he could hide from the morning if he just stayed still long enough. his pulse is still racing, and the embarrassment is very much alive and well, churning somewhere in his chest alongside the last scraps of adrenaline and the desire to relocate to a different dimension.
but beneath all of that—humiliation, disbelief, the horrifying memory of gojo’s “tsk tsk, son” echoing in his skull—there’s something warmer. something stubbornly steady, even in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a quiet morning.
because for as unbearable as gojo is, for all his noise and theatrics and sunglasses indoors at seven a.m., he still showed up. always has. always will.
and you, curled up in his closet, wrapped in one of his hoodies, hiding out with bedhead and no pants and a laugh that always makes him feel like the smartest person in the world—you’re here too.
you’re ridiculous, and he’s completely, pathetically yours.
and even in this chaos, in this absurd house with this absurd life, he knows he’s lucky.
and then, muffled and small, your voice cuts through the silence:
“um… meg? is it safe to come out now?”
he exhales slowly, and despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“you’re not allowed to have a favorite parent if I’m the only one. love, gojo”
Oh. u think this is fair?
from my “little star” to my “little starfish”?
are you still active on any accounts ? ^^
HIYYAAA, I am very much active on my sideblog, here...not so much, but, I have been trying to draw--lots of drafts atp but couldnt bring myself to post em :< i dont wanna spoil u guys. IM JK SKHAKDHAKJS
Got caught swapping his cards, I thought he was asleep😾
“when megumi fushiguro laughs, he resembles gojo satoru more.” hey what if i died
edit: from this fic
oh wow okay lol.
Hii!! Couple yrs back I was literally obsessed with ur haikyuu art and was wondering how long have u been drawing for? 'N how long it took for u to get better at drawing/rendering?
HI! omg thank you🥺🤍 my shayla ur still here😩🤍🫶🏻
I’ve always liked art since I was a kid 😭 but I started digital art aroundddd 2020!
regarding getting somewhat good at rendering, I struggle with it up until now.
though if you keep trying to draw or color, your work can change even in just days! (⚠️Warning, old art alert)
Learning how to render took me since 2020 to present and still learning!
But I don’t think u have to take years to learn how to render, I think it took me awhile because I got lazy, but you will definitely improve in a matter of days if you keep drawing and trying new things! YT and TikTok tutorials helped me too,
if you need help with anything you can always send me a dm! 🥺 thank you for your support since back then, my younger self would be very excited hearing abt it🫶🏻💗
Missed drawing him 😭
😣🤍🤍🤍
💌 HAPPY HEARTS DAY you freaks
Xavier girlies always seem so soft, until you find out how much they wanted to Outdom Xavier.
watch me whip….
watch me disappear for another 3 years..
NO BC WHY IS DR. ZAYNE SO FREAKY ON NIGHT RENDEZVOUS
lord have mercy
SPOILERS FOR: Xavier's Myths and Anecdotes
Okay, but like, Xavier has to be OLD old. He's, AT THE VERY LEAST, over 400 years old. But he's probably wayyyy older than that, even.
He's spent 214 years on Earth as of 2048. And in his *Shooting Stars* Myth, he vanishes for 200 years after the King dies. So that's at least 414 years.
But he also lived on Philos before there was a Royal Family at all. In *When Shooting Stars Fall*, actually, it's mentioned specifically that life on Philos looks a lot like life on Earth used to, since it's only been 214 years since Earth's demise. But by the time his Myth occurs Philos seems unrecognizable compared to the anecdote. There's a history of Grandis Knights and ancient folktales and legends–that stuff doesn't happen overnight.
Also, MC even points out that the star tassel she gave him in *When Shooting Stars Fall* (that she doesn't remember giving him, of course) is "a living fossil."
Like... Xavier could easily be over 1000 years old, and that wouldn't surprise me tbh. Shit he could be THOUSANDS of years old, plural.
the age gap I deserve tbh sigh
I’ve been infatuated with Xavier lately.
Here’s a lil sketch with mc! :3
See u in another 3 years. Wihwishaishav
It's my 3 year anniversary on Tumblr 🤍