#born with a pack of Marlboros...

[faaun]

i was born w a lot of whimsy + no self discipline + great music taste + eternal love for girls + her voice in my ears + mild caffeine addiction + mastery of nothing + probably a blood curse + autism

[bublinko]

UPDATE: Only Lana Del Rey stickers available, others are sold out

The Rolling Stones, Depeche Mode and Lana Del Rey stcikers are still available. Message if you wanna buy some of them

[rosiebbydoll]

The Right Time - Sukuna x Reader- Chp. 2

Chp. 1 - Chp. 2 - Chp. 3

summary: Your life was blissfully chaotic. Being a single mom and raising a daughter with a bigger attitude than yours was a challenge, but you love every second of it. You decided to move to the city to be closer to work. You’ve been at your new apartment for about three weeks now and everything has been great. Until, your annoyingly hot neighbor decided to open his mouth.

cw: female reader, modern au (no curses), 18+, enemies to friends to lovers, mechanic!sukuna x librarian!reader, slow burn, fluff, smut, crack, angst, toxicity, Sukuna is emotionally constipated, Nobora is readers daughter, Choso and Yuji are Sukuna’s nephews, Toji is a present father in this, LOTS of family fluff, (more tags will be added)

wc: 10k (woops)

chp warning: Toji & Sukuna pov, fluff, tension, angst, crack, sexual content, toxic traits (from reader & Sukuna), mentions of violence

a/n: we are starting this chapter off on the same day, just a different pov! there is also some lovely backstory and some more tension from our fav enemies (who are so in love).

Toji was one of the last parents to walk out of the school. He had lingered behind to discuss pickup arrangements with Nanami, and of course, to indulge in his usual flirting with the single moms – a habit that never failed to make you roll your eyes.

As he sauntered toward the exit, he caught sight of your car spinning out of the parking lot, the tires squealing against asphalt. His head cocked to the side, that familiar crease appearing between his brows. Literal seconds later, Sukuna's car tore out of the lot too, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Toji's shoulders tensed, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

"Well shit," he muttered, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the sunlight. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the growing unease as he made his way to his car.

With practiced movements born from years of habit, he pulled out a pack of Marlboros, giving it two sharp taps against his wrist before extracting a cigarette. The familiar click of his butane lighter offered a moment of comfort as he lit up, taking a long drag that filled his lungs with familiar warmth.

Toji had always been meticulous about keeping his different social circles separate – not because he was hiding anything, especially not from you, but because he understood that some personalities were like oil and water.

He decided to pretend that your hasty exits were mere coincidence, though his gut told him otherwise. His instincts, honed from years of reading people and situations, were rarely wrong, and right now, they were screaming that something had gone sideways.

Before she passed, his wife had made him promise to look out for you, her eyes fierce even in her final days, and it was a promise he took as seriously as breathing. You'd been his ride-or-die since high school, his A1 through everything. You were the kind of person who saw the best in everyone, sometimes to your own detriment.

Sukuna, on the other hand... well, he was an asshole, plain and simple. The kind of man who wore his reputation like armor, each sharp word and cold glare another layer of protection. He had a way of letting whatever the hell came to mind spill from his lips without filter or remorse. Cold and usually preferring solitude, he was also an extremely cocky bastard.

Sukuna blames it on his success- definitely not his good looks. His car shop downtown wasn't just a business – it was his legacy, built from the ground up with calloused hands and stubborn determination. The place practically breathed with his personality: organized chaos, raw talent, and an undercurrent of barely contained intensity. The air always smelled of motor oil, metal, and ambition, the walls lined with tools that gleamed like soldiers standing at attention.

He started working at the shop when he was 19, just another grease monkey with too much attitude and raw talent burning beneath his skin. The turning point came when his brother passed away. That was a loss that reshaped his entire world. His brother left behind not just two wide-eyed kids who looked too much like him, but a decent chunk of change from a life insurance policy.

Most guys that age would've blown it all on fast cars and faster women, but Sukuna had always been cut from different cloth. Without hesitation, he put most of it into savings accounts for the boys – his nephews were his brother's last gift to the world, and he'd be damned if they went without. The rest? Well, that went into buying the run-down shop from the old man he worked for, a crusty bastard who'd taught him everything he knew about cars and nothing about people.

Seven years later, and the place is barely recognizable. What was once a dying garage with more rust than customers is now one of the most respected shops in the city. The walls that used to leak now house state-of-the-art equipment, and the floors that were once stained with decades of oil now gleam under LED lights.

He's got some loyal employees who understand his moods better than he does. They can read his grunts and scowls like a second language. His customer base keeps growing despite (or maybe because of) his abrasive personality. Toji being one of his most frequent visitors, though that has more to do with how often he destroys his cars than actual loyalty.

His father still hovers on the periphery of their lives, a silent presence that's neither fully there nor completely gone. Like a ghost that refuses to fade away completely. The old man watches the boys when Sukuna needs it, their relationship better with the buffer of distance between them. It's not perfect – nothing in Sukuna's life ever is – but it works, held together with the same stubborn determination that keeps his vintage motorcycle running.

Now when Toji moved to the city after his wife passed, he didn't know many people. He left you in the town you both grew up in, and surprisingly, you didn't hold it against him. He needed a change, and you supported him effortlessly. Besides, the city wasn't too far, only about a thirty-minute drive. You had to drive there for work anyway. You believe it was fate that he lived in the city because that's where you met Nobora's dad. And no, it wasn't fate for you and him, but fate because now you have Nobora. You only visited on rare occasions though, the library and being a mom kept you pretty busy.

Lucky for Toji , fate was on his side too. Because he met Sukuna at the most inconvenient time.

A couple years ago now- on a random Tuesday night, he decided to go to the bar. Being a newly single dad was a lot for him, so he paid his fifteen year old neighbor to watch Megumi for the night.

He was going out to do... something. He didn't exactly know what yet. The weight of grief and responsibility had been crushing him, making every day feel like he was walking through quicksand. You knew he wasn't doing well. You tried to call as often as possible, checking in with that gentle persistence that had always been your way. But even with the frequent calls and check-ins, Toji was still lost, drowning in the silence of his empty house.

So, that's why he found himself sitting at a bar, drinking his little heart out. The bourbon burned going down, but it was better than feeling nothing at all. To his surprise, women started flocking to him. They circled like vultures, rubbing his shoulders, playing with his hair, whispering lewd suggestions in his ears. The attention was suffocating, making his skin crawl with discomfort.

This was weird. He hadn't flirted with another woman since his wife. His nerves were shot, body stiff as a board as he laughed awkwardly at their advances, feeling like he was under interrogation.

It wasn't their fault – these women with their practiced smiles and careful touches. He was just extremely rusty, trying desperately to avoid getting turned on since he hadn't been laid in a while. Not that he came here for that. Did he? No. He definitely wasn't ready for that. His wife had only been gone for six months, and the thought of being with someone else made his stomach churn.

Women kept approaching him throughout the night, each one blending into the next in a haze of perfume and bad pickup lines. Then suddenly, there was one who stood out – long dark brown hair, so dark it was almost black, with short eyebrows and dark brown eyes. For a split second, his heart stopped. But no, she could never be her. This woman's smile was too practiced, too sultry as she greeted him.

"You all by yourself, handsome?" she hummed, sipping something fruity and too sweet. Toji gave her a quick smirk, glancing around at his unwanted admirers.

"Wouldn't call this being alone," he muttered, already tired of the game.

"Oh, I see, so you brought them all here with you?" she giggles, leaning closer. Her perfume is too sweet, making his head spin or maybe that's the bourbon.

Toji gives her a smirk back, but his heart isn't in it. She's trouble walking in stilettos, the kind of beautiful that usually comes with a price tag. Sure, she's hot – all long legs and practiced seduction – but he doesn't need this right now. Not with Megumi waiting at home, not with his wife's photo still on his nightstand, not with the wedding ring still leaving a phantom weight on his finger.

He's not trying to be rude, but subtlety isn't working. Even with his coldest shoulder, she's persistent, determined to break through his defenses. She lays her head on his shoulder, manicured nails trailing across his chest in a way that should be arousing but just makes him feel hollow. The bourbon isn't buzzing the way he wants anymore, and now all he can think about is his wife.

Fuck.

"Listen, doll—" he starts, but she presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. The gesture is meant to be sexy, but it just pissed Toji off.

"Shhh, how about we go somewhere else, huh?" Her words slur together, her eyes heavy-lidded in a way that suggests she's had way too much to drink. The seductive act is slipping, revealing something desperate underneath.

Alright, I need to leave.

Toji pushes himself up from the barstool, carefully extracting himself from the drunk woman's grasp. She sways dangerously as he moves, and he has to steady her before she falls. "Don't go," she whines, clinging to his arm with surprising strength.

Christ. He's never wanted to hit a woman, but this is testing his patience. All he wants is to go home to Megumi, to the quiet of his apartment where he doesn't have to pretend to be okay.

"Yarozu." A deep voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts. The woman rolls her eyes and huffs, ignoring the man who called her name.

Toji's stomach twists. Great. This is probably her boyfriend or husband, coming to kick his ass for letting his girl drape herself all over him. He'd be pissed too in their position—

Oh fuck.

He definitely didn't come here to fight. Sure, he could probably win – he's handled worse – but he's too old to be throwing hands over some woman he doesn't even want. Hell, he doesn't even want to be here anymore.

Toji lets out an annoyed sigh, ready to explain himself before this turns ugly. But before he can speak, Yarozu is being pulled away from him. The guy is covered in tattoos, looking more annoyed than angry as he pries her off. "He isn't interested, Yarozu. Leave him alone."

Toji turns to leave, eager to escape this increasingly awkward situation, but the tattooed man calls out, "Hey, wait." His voice is gruff but carries no hostility. Toji stops, shoulders tensing. He really isn't in the mood for any petty relationship bullshit.

"Listen man, whatever this is—" Toji starts, but the guy cuts him off with a dismissive wave, his tattooed fingers catching the dim bar light.

"You’re not the first guy she's tried this shit with." He's still holding Yarozu back with one arm as she continues her drunken tirade, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his forearm. Despite her best efforts, he seems unfazed, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

A smirk plays at his lips as he holds out his free hand. "I'm Sukuna." Yarozu keeps grunting and grabbing at him, but he ignores her with practiced ease.

Toji raises a brow, studying the man before him. After a moment's hesitation, he shakes the offered hand, noting the firm grip and the calluses. Toji studies that tattooed man in front of him. He looks tired, even sad almost. Kinda like him. Toji’s sighs, “Fushiguro”.

Yarozu frowns at their interaction. "Sukuna, baby, why are you being like this?" She whines, her attention suddenly shifting as she tries to reach for him instead of Toji. Her mood swings from seductive to needy in an instant. "We were having fun..."

"No, you were having fun. This guy clearly wants nothing to do with your bullshit." Sukuna's tone is harsh but carries an undertone of practiced patience, like someone who's had this exact conversation too many times before.

He turns to Toji, and there's something like understanding in his eyes. "Let me get her home before she makes another scene. You wanna grab a drink after?"

Yarozu gasps dramatically, her perfectly lined lips forming an 'O' of indignation. "You're such an asshole!"

"C'mon, you need to get home." Sukuna rolls his eyes, already steering her toward the door with the expertise of someone who's done this too many times.

Twenty minutes later, Toji and Sukuna are sitting at a quieter bar down the street, the kind of place where the wood is actually aged and the whiskey doesn't taste like lighter fluid. The tension from earlier has dissolved into something more comfortable, both men recognizing a familiar kind of pain in each other's eyes.

"I can’t apologize for Yarozu," Sukuna says, sliding a whiskey toward Toji. His voice is gruff but sincere. "She gets like this when she drinks, tries to make me jealous or some shit. Usually ends up making some poor bastard uncomfortable instead." He traces the rim of his glass with a tattooed finger, the gesture almost nervous.

Toji appreciates the straightforward explanation. No bullshit, no drama – just facts. It's refreshing after months of people tiptoeing around him, treating him like he might break. "Sounds complicated."

"Nah. We fuck sometimes, that's it. The complicated part is when she forgets that's all it is." Sukuna takes a long sip of his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim bar light. "Anyway, what brings a guy like you out alone on a Tuesday night? You don't strike me as the type looking for whatever the hell Yarozu was offering."

Something about Sukuna's blunt honesty makes Toji decide to return the favor. The words come easier than expected, maybe because this stranger doesn't look at him with pity. "Lost my wife six months ago. Got a kid at home. Thought maybe I needed to..." he pauses, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Hell, I don't even know what I needed."

Sukuna nods slowly, understanding flickering across his features. There's no sympathy in his eyes, just recognition. "Yeah, lost my brother last year. Left behind two boys. Been trying to figure that shit out myself." The admission hangs between them, heavy with shared understanding.

They spend the next few hours talking about everything and nothing – cars, work, the general mess that is life. The conversation flows naturally, neither man feeling the need to fill silences with empty words.

The next morning, when Yarozu texts Sukuna her usual post-drama apology, he just sends back a quick 'whatever' and saves Toji's number in his phone.

Toji chuckles at the memory and finally pulls his Camaro into his reserved spot at the front of the complex. The familiar rumble of the engine dies as he shifts into park, his mind still replaying both the past and this morning's events. He's got a stack of maintenance requests to handle today. He lets out another sigh. Just another day of being a landlord. But it’s better than what he use to do.

The stack of maintenance requests on his desk seems to multiply every time he looks away. Being a landlord isn't exactly what he'd pictured for himself, but there's something satisfying about fixing things, about making people's lives a little better one repair at a time. The flexible schedule works well with his life, letting him balance work with being there for Megumi and the other responsibilities that come with single parenthood.

And now for Nobora and you too. He promised to pick up both kids at five to give you some extra time at work. Though if he's being honest, he thinks you're pushing yourself too hard lately. But telling you to slow down is like talking to a brick wall.

Toji settles into his office chair, the leather creaking familiarly beneath him. The morning sun streams through the blinds, casting striped shadows across his desk. He pulls up his maintenance scheduling app, trying to organize his day efficiently. Between the AC unit, the washing machine, and whatever new crisis Yamamoto's faucet presents, it's going to be a full day. Toji likes it that way. He likes to focus and work, helps the time go by and doesn’t let his mind wander.

He goes on about his day trying to finish every request he scheduled. Of course, tenants stop and talk to him, some even flirt. It’s nice to feel a since of pride to help others. He thinks his wife would be proud of him. He’s pretty lost without her. And without you? He might’ve been dead by now.

He starts to walk back to his office with his last job of the day finished. His phone buzzes – a text from you. It’s a voice memo. He raises a brow because usually when you do that you’re ranting. You claim it’s easier than texting fifty paragraphs. Toji presses play and he immediately lets out a sigh.

You start off with yelling at him for being “a piss poor land-lord” and continue with how he has some tenants who he should have never let move in here. You finally get to the point and explain why all happened with Sukuna. And you don’t miss a beat, you explain everything. From the porno you heard last night all the way up to you calling him “limp dick” and flipping him off.

Well fuck. Toji was right. He would love to revel in the satisfaction of it all, but he just knew that something bad would happen if you two ever met. You’re polar fucking opposites. And now you’re neighbors. Which is his own fault because he should have payed attention to that. How the hell did he miss that? Either way it’s done and over with now, but man is he proud of you. In high school you were picked on a lot (by Toji mostly) but you developed a thick skin and don’t take peoples shit. He’s damn proud. And Sukuna deserves every bit of it.

Toji quickly sends back a message apologizing and saying, “We can talk about it later”.

He leans back in his chair and lets his body stretch for a moment before checking the time again. He had about an hour left before he had to get the kids. He was finished with his work for the day and was bored.

So, he grabs his keys, deciding to head out early. He could swing by Sukuna's shop, maybe give him shit about this morning's encounter. Besides you, Sukuna is his closest friend, though neither of them would ever admit how much they actually enjoy each other's company. Some things are better left unspoken.

The familiar rumble of Toji's Camaro engine dies as he pulls into Sukuna's shop. The place is busy as usual – the sound of power tools and classic rock music spilling out from the open garage doors. He spots Sukuna's distinctive figure bent over the engine of a sleek black Mercedes, tattoos visible under his rolled-up sleeves.

"Yo," Toji calls out, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Heard you got your ass handed to you this morning."

Sukuna doesn't even look up from the engine. "Fuck off."

"No, no, please – tell me more about how my 'type' threatened to get you evicted." Toji leans against a nearby workbench, thoroughly enjoying this moment. "Actually, what was it she called you? Limp-dick?"

That gets Sukuna's attention. He straightens up, wiping his hands on a shop rag. "She made sure to tell ya, huh?” He chuckles.

"Course she did. We're fucking, remember?" Toji's voice drips with sarcasm. "You’re real good at talkn’ to women ya know?”

Sukuna throws the rag at him, but there's no real heat behind it. "Get outta my shop, Fushiguro"

"What? Ya mad?." Toji catches the rag easily. “You know, for someone who deals with Yarozu's drama, you sure are quick to judge other people's relationships."

Sukuna's jaw tightens at the mention of Yarozu. "Speaking of – she stopped by earlier." He stares at the ground intensely with his brows furrowed.

"Oh?" Toji raises an eyebrow, recognizing that tone. "How'd that go?"

"About as well as everything else today." Sukuna moves to the mini-fridge in the corner, pulling out two beers. He tosses one to Toji. "She wants more. I don't. Same shit, different day."

"Maybe if you stopped sleeping with her..." Toji suggests, cracking open his beer.

"Maybe if you minded your own business..." Sukuna mimics his tone, taking a long drink.

“I know you aint talking” Toji huffs and starts to down his beer, but immediately remembers he has to pick up the kids and sits the beer down. You would kill him if you knew he sipped on a beer before he picked up your daughter.

They fall into a comfortable silence, the garage's ambient noise filling the space between them. Sukuna fidgets with his beer label, peeling it back methodically, clearly wrestling with something behind those crimson eyes.

"So, she’s the ‘good’ friend you always talk about," he finally says, not meeting Toji's gaze, his voice unusually hesitant. "Why’d ya keep her hidden all these years?”

Toji snorts, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Look what the fuck happened when you did meet, dumbass.”

Sukuna tries to hold in a laugh and shakes his head. “Never been the best at talking with women.”

Toji rolls his eyes, “Bullshit. You’re just an asshole.” Sukuna can’t argue with that. He also knows he fucked up. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you all day, it’s been pissing him off.

He takes another drink, his expression thoughtful, almost distant. "She's something else."

"Don't," Toji warns, his tone shifting from playful to serious. "She's not another Yarozu."

"Wasn't gonna do anything, fuck head," Sukuna says too quickly

"Yeah, okay." Toji stands, checking his watch. The afternoon light catches on its scratched face. "Gotta go pick up the kids. Try not to piss off any more single moms today."

"Fuck you," Sukuna calls after him, but there's a hint of a smile in his voice.

As Toji heads back to his car, he can't help but wonder if he should be worried. He knows that look in Sukuna's eyes – it's the same one he gets before doing something incredibly stupid or incredibly bold. He decides to ignore it. Sukuna is a stubborn asshole, so he probably isn’t going to listen to Toji (not a surprise at all). He bites the inside of his cheek and starts his car to head over to pick up the kids.

His phone buzzes (again) as he's pulling into the school parking lot, the screen lighting up with your name. The text reads: "Hey, since you're picking up the kids, just take them to my place. I left snacks in the pantry. I'll be home around 7."

Toji sends back a quick "Got it" before parking under the sprawling oak tree, its leaves casting dappled shadows across his windshield. The late afternoon sun bathes the playground in golden light, where a handful of kids are still running around, their laughter carrying across the empty lot.

His phone buzzes (again) with another text from you: "I ordered pizza for dinner. Should be there around 6:30. And please make sure they do their homework before the movie."

"Yes ma'am," he texts back, unable to suppress his amused smile. You always think of everything, planning three steps ahead.

"Don't 'yes ma'am' me, you ass", comes your quick reply, making him chuckle.

The school bell rings, its sharp peal cutting through the afternoon quiet. Kids pour out of the building like water from a broken dam, their excited voices filling the air.

Toji spots Megumi and Nobora immediately – they're impossible to miss, always gravitating toward each other like magnets. Megumi wears his usual serious expression, the one that makes him look too old for his years, while Nobora bounces alongside him, talking a mile a minute with wild hand gestures that paint stories in the air.

"Dad!" Megumi calls out, his face lighting up like a sunrise as he spots Toji. The rare smile transforms his entire face.

"Uncle Toji! Uncle Toji!" Nobora shouts, her backpack bouncing with each excited jump. "Look what I made today!" She's already digging through her bag, pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper covered in vibrant colors and imagination.

Toji kneels down to their level, accepting the artwork. "Wow, is that a... butterfly?" He truly doesn’t know what the fuck he is looking at. He has several drawings in his office and at home designed by the artist Nobora, but he cannot tell you what any of them are.

"No silly!" Nobora puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes because it should be obvious of what she created. "It's me and Megumi and you and Mommy at the park!"

"And there's the swings," Megumi adds seriously, pointing to some wobbly lines in the corner with the precision of a museum curator. "Mr. Nanami said we did good coloring in the lines today."

"Yeah? That's awesome," Toji says, helping them both into their car seats with practiced ease. Toji and you both have two in your cars now because it’s easier than transporting the heavy fucking things every other day.

As they all get settled in the car Toji turns on the radio and the kids start humming to the songs. They don’t really know the words, but they are trying their best. This is when Toji feels at peace. Megumi will never know how much he means to Toji, and Nobora is a pretty good bonus daughter.

"We're heading to your place today, Nobora,” Toji says as he turns onto the exit.

"Really?" Nobora claps her hands, her excitement infectious. "Megumi! We can play with my new stuffed animals! We can have a tea party!” It seems she had already forgotten about the Gameboy disaster.

Megumi nods quietly, a small smile playing on his lips like a secret.

"Uncle Toji, you have to play too!" Nobora shouts as she kicks her feet in excitement.

"Oh yeah?" Toji chuckles, turning into the parking garage. “Am I the special guest?” Toji smirks back at them. The kids look at eachother and then frown. "No!" both kids shout in unison, dissolving into giggles that fill the car with pure joy. He gives a fake pout and holds onto his heart like the kids just shot him. They start to giggle and say he can sit by them. He chuckles and turns the car off and begins to unbuckle himself.

The kids are still yapping and Toji shakes his head, grinning as he helps them out of their car seats. They do not shut up as the walk up the stairs. Discussing on which stuff animals are invited to the tea party and who would be sitting by who. It is obviously very important. Nobora is sure to tell Toji he has a spot right next to her.

While the kids and Toji settle in at the apartment, you were still busy at work. You made it your mission to distract yourself. After that stupid fucking asshole- no we are not gonna think about him right now. You got caught up on returns and organizing many books, as well as cataloging. It was a pretty productive day. Except Ino noticed you were off from the moment you stepped in.

You both usually chat about anything and everything, but today you were barely ever seen. He overthinks the entire thing and thought you were mad at him. So, around seven, right before you left he decided to be brave and see what the hell was wrong with you.

“Do you hate me?” Ino asks as he slowly leans over your desk.

You stop typing and look up at him, “What are you talking about?”

Ino immediately leans over on your shoulder and pretends to cry, “Oh! Finally she speaks to me! I thought you decided to hate me forever since you have barely spoken to me.”

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. “Ino you’re being dramatic. I just had some stuff to do today.”

He frowns, “You eat lunch with me everyday.” He leans in even closer to you, “I don’t even think you at lunch today.”

You dead pan at him and shove him away. “I was busy. I’m fine.” You watch as Ino pouts and he literally looks like he is about to cry.

With an exaggerated sigh you give him a soft smile and hold out your arms to hug him. He immediately accepts and bear hugs you- almost making your chair fall over.

“Look, I’m tired and I wanna go be with my kid, but I’ll explain everything later, okay?” You smile at him and he gives you a nod.

You both walk to exit, making sure every light is turned off and every door is locked. “I’m expecting a full debrief over coffee,” Ino states as you walk to your car.

You give him a wave goodbye, “It’s a date.”

You had a silent drive home. It was actually pretty relaxing. You didn’t even think of he who shall not be named. All you wanted to do was go home and see Nobora. You made sure to have a career, you didn’t want motherhood to stop you from that. But now you feel like you’re missing out. Nobora is getting at the age where she realizes you’re gone. You sigh at the thought and slowly pull into your parking spot.

The apartment stairs have never felt longer, each step a small mountain to climb after your exhausting day. Your feet drag slightly against the worn tile as you make your way up, already imagining the cheerful chaos that awaits in your apartment – Nobora and Megumi probably turned your living room into their latest pretend restaurant, with Toji enabling their every whim like the softie he pretends not to be.

You hear voices before you reach your floor, and your stomach drops when you recognize one of them. Of course. Because this day just needs one more encounter with your hot annoying dickhead of a neighbor. Stop thinking about him.

As you round the corner, you see them – Sukuna's holding a sleeping Yuji, the boy's pink hair tousled against his father's shoulder. Behind him, Choso struggles with several grocery bags, trying to act grown up by carrying more than he probably should, his small face scrunched with determination.

Your steps falter for just a moment, but you quickly steel yourself. No. You're not doing this again. Not today. Without missing a beat, you continue up the stairs, eyes fixed straight ahead as if they're invisible, as if the air they occupy is just empty space. You can feel Sukuna's gaze on you like a physical touch, but you don't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

Yuji makes a small snuffling noise and burrows deeper into Sukuna's shoulder. Despite your resolve not to look, you catch a glimpse of his peaceful face, pink lashes fluttering against round cheeks. The sight tugs at something in your chest – damn kids, making it hard to maintain your righteous anger.

"Miss—" Choso starts to say in his child-like voice, innocent and sweet, but Sukuna cuts him off with a sharp look that could slice steel.

You're already unlocking your door, pretending you didn't hear anything, the keys jingling in your slightly trembling hands. The last thing you catch before slipping inside is Choso's confused whisper, "I thought you said she was mean and loud?"

You pause in your tracks and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt. Do not give him the time of day. Do not let him see he's gotten under your skin. The keys jingle as you open the door and it clicks shut behind you with finality, cutting off whatever Sukuna's response might have been. You lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs.

The apartment is surprisingly quiet when you walk in. No chaos, no pretend restaurant, just the soft glow of the TV playing some cartoon on mute, its colors dancing across the walls. You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and slip off your shoes, padding quietly into the living room in sock-covered feet.

The sight that greets you makes your heart melt. Toji's sprawled on your couch, his long legs hanging off the end because he's too tall for normal furniture. Nobora and Megumi are curled up against him, both fast asleep in the way only children can manage. Your daughter's got her favorite unicorn plushie clutched to her chest like a lifeline, while Megumi's using Toji's arm as a pillow.

Their homework is spread across the coffee table, completed and ready for tomorrow, pencils and erasers scattered like evidence of their diligence. The sight makes your heart swell. Never in your life would you imagine Toji of all people being such a good dad. You know his wife is so proud and so are you.

Toji slowly looks up and nods his head. "They crashed about twenty minutes ago," Toji whispers, his voice barely a breath in the quiet room, careful not to wake them. "Pizza's in the kitchen. They insisted on waiting for you, but..." he gestures to their sleeping forms with his free arm, a soft smile playing at his lips.

You smile, taking in the peaceful scene before you. Empty juice boxes and half-eaten pizza crusts litter the coffee table, evidence of their earlier feast. There's a stack of drawings too – probably their latest masterpieces they'll want to show you in the morning, full of bright colors and impossible stories.

"Thanks for watching her," you whisper back, grabbing the throw blanket from the armchair and gently draping it over the kids. The soft fabric settles around them like a protective cloud.

Toji just nods, that soft look in his eyes he only gets around the children. It's moments like these that remind you why he's your best friend, why you trust him with everything. He's grown so much from the troublemaker you knew in high school, transformed by love and loss into someone steady and true.

You carefully scoop Nobora up, her little arms automatically wrapping around your neck even in sleep, muscle memory stronger than dreams. Her plushie dangles precariously from her hand as you balance her weight against your chest.

"I got it," Toji whispers, gently taking the plushie before it can fall. He shifts Megumi onto the couch with the care of someone handling precious china, making sure not to wake him as he gets up to follow you.

You carry Nobora to her room, her warm breath steady against your neck. The glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling cast a soft light as Toji helps pull back her covers. You lay her down gently, and she immediately curls onto her side. Toji tucks the unicorn plushie into her arms, and you both watch as she hugs it close, lost in whatever sweet dreams fill her mind.

Back in the living room, Toji's already gathering his and Megumi's things, movements quiet and practiced. "I should get him home," he whispers, carefully lifting his sleeping son. "You good?"

You nod, following them to the door. "Thanks again for today. Sorry about the whole... neighbor situation." The words taste bitter in your mouth.

Toji shifts Megumi in his arms, a knowing look in his eyes that sees right through you. "Don't apologize. Man needed to be knocked down a peg."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Night, Toji."

"Night," he replies softly, and you watch as he carries Megumi down the hall, disappearing around the corner. Their footsteps fade away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the quiet of your apartment.

You're too exhausted to even think about the cold pizza waiting in the kitchen. After a quick change into your favorite oversized t-shirt, you collapse onto your bed, not bothering to pull back the covers. The events of the day weigh heavy on your limbs, and your last coherent thought before drifting off is hoping tomorrow brings less drama than today.

Just on the other side of your walls is Sukuna pacing in his living room, wearing tracks in the carpet as he moves like a caged tiger. He's unable to shake the image of you deliberately ignoring him in the hallway, the way you looked right through him as if he were made of glass.

Your complete dismissal burns more than your earlier insults, and he can't figure out why it bothers him so much. He's used to people either fearing him or wanting something from him - this blatant disregard is new territory, and it's getting under his skin like an itch he can't scratch.

"Uncle Sukuna?" Choso's voice breaks through his brooding. The boy sits cross-legged on the floor, homework spread around him like a paper nest. "Is that lady really mean?"

Sukuna stops pacing, looking at his nephew. Yuji's already asleep in his room, worn out from their grocery run, but Choso's still up, his innocent question hanging in the air. "No, kid. She's not mean." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Your uncle's just a fu—" he catches himself mid-word, eyes widening as he realizes what he almost said.

"You almost said a bad word," Choso points out seriously, his face stern in a way that makes him look like a miniature teacher. "That's fifty yen in the swear jar."

Sukuna snorts but dutifully pulls out his wallet. He stares at the jar for a moment, irritated at himself more than anything else. What the hell is wrong with him? One encounter with some mouthy woman and he's acting like... he doesn't even know what.

The reflection in the window shows a man who looks pissed off, unsettled, and – worst of all – intrigued. No. Absolutely not. He's not doing this. He's got enough complications in his life without adding another one, especially not one that lives next door and has already made it clear she thinks he's trash.

“Shit.” He mutters and is already aggressively shoving another fifty yen into the jar.

Your encounter with Sukuna on Monday sets the tone for the rest of the week. You make it your mission to avoid him while making sure he knows exactly what you're doing – a delicate balance of deliberate ignorance and pointed awareness.

You'd purposely talk to the boys, your voice warm and kind, and then make sure to not make any eye contact with him, as if he's nothing more than a shadow on the wall. The first day didn't seem to bother him. But by Thursday, you can practically feel the frustration radiating off him in waves.

Toji did manage to make him feel bad - which is a rare feat indeed. So, Sukuna tells himself he wants to apologize because you're neighbors after all. He didn't know how long he planned to stay at this apartment, and he didn't want to have to deal with you blatantly ignoring him. Well, that was the excuse he was giving himself for why he wanted to apologize. Or he could say Toji made him. Neither excuse feels quite true, but he's not ready to examine why.

He couldn't stop thinking about you. And that pissed him off even more. He’d rather have you call him “limp divk” for the rest of his days, as long as you were acknowledging his fucking presence. But no, you wanted to play your petty games. That's fine, he decides. If you wanted to play, he would play. The game is on, even if he's not sure what the prize is supposed to be.

Ignoring him made you feel powerful, a small victory in each deliberate non-acknowledgment. Hell, you wanted to cuss him out every time you laid eyes on him. It infuriated you how much his presence annoyed you. It annoyed you even more that his mere existence caused unwanted butterflies in your stomach. So, ignoring him and being deliberately cold was the only option that made sense.

The week drags on, your strategy of avoidance complicated by the fact that Choso and Yuji have become instant best friends with Nobora. You'd figured after the gameboy incident she'd be hesitant about being their friends. But to your disbelief, she's more than friendly and has been begging for them to come over all week. The kids' innocent friendship makes your cold war with their uncle even more complicated.

Now it's Friday. Nobora's with her dad, giving you a rare evening to yourself. Work was fine, though Ino spent most of the day talking about this new girl he's obsessed with. You're actually very happy for him. You hired him about two years ago and have watched him grow into his role. He's basically your little brother at this point. But it's hard not to feel a twinge of something as everyone around you seems to be finding connection.

Jealous wouldn’t be the right answer. You want to see the people you care about fall in love and be happy. It’s just been awhile. So, here you are sitting in the middle of your bed reading the directions to the shiny new vibrator you bought after work. It was kinda risky going into a sex shop, but like we already addressed. You’re desperate. It’s time to release some tension.

You’re now kneeling in the middle of your bed as you are reading the directions on how to charge the new toy. You have a draw full of them , but you wanted to treat yourself. This week was awful and spending a little bit of cash so you could have a mind blowing orgasm was exactly the right move. One point for retail therapy.

You treated this moment like a sacred ritual. The everything shower - exfoliating, shaving, moisturizing. Your baby blue pajama top buttoned just so, with cheeky underwear that wouldn't stay on for long. Chinese food waited in the microwave, a reward for later. Everything was perfectly planned for a night of self-care and release.

Settling onto the bed, you scrolled through your phone, finding a particularly steamy chapter in your latest book. Your underwear slipped off, forgotten in the blankets. The bright red toy buzzed to life, its vibration sending a tingle through your hand.

As you pressed it against your sensitive clit, your back arched immediately. Sensitive as hell. It had been so long since you'd truly enjoyed a moment like this. Your mind began to drift, seeking escape, seeking pleasure.

Your breath became heavy, eyes rolling back as you let yourself slip into complete bliss. The slick slowly dripped down, each sensation a reminder of how long it had been. Oh, how you needed this. Especially after that stupid fucking asshole who ruined your week.

That stupid fucking asshole who is your neighbor. That hot fucking asshole who smells amazing and looks like a god. That stupid fucking neighbor who you heard last night fucking the shit out of god knows who. Only you can imagine how he fucks. How he’d rut into your into you so good making you scream his name-

"Mph! Suku- fuck,"

You freeze as you hear the similar noise that kept you awake a few nights ago.

Oh fuck no.

While you were trying to pleasure yourself. Sukuna decided to answer Yarozus message and gave no time to get down to business once she got here. She was here for one reason tonight and that was to piss you off. Yeah you were fucking hot as you told him off, but you’re not gonna fucking ignore him and threaten to kick him out.

So here he is, slamming his hips into Yarozu as hard as he can while her face is pushed deep down into the mattress. He made sure he positioned his bed right against the wall too. He slaps and pulls on yarozu to get every little noise out of her. And she loves it.

Although, Sukuna isn’t really thinking about her. He never really does. But he is thinking about you. The fucking random ass woman who he just so happened to piss off. The random ass woman who is actually stunning and he can’t get her out of his head. But this woman pissed him off to no end, so here he is trying to piss you off.

You lie there in shock for a moment and listen. You can hear everything. Every slap, every breath, and squelch. And just like the color of your new toy, you see red. This motherfucker. Normally, you’d ignore it. But this is a declaration of war.

You sit up and pull your underwear back up. The toy gets placed on your night stand and you roll off the bed. With a huff and a deep swallow you walk over to the wall. Without even placing your ear next to it you can hear what’s happening as clear as day. So, without any hesitation you start banging on the wall. Not only that, you start moaning as loud as you could.

Yes, this is childish. You know it is, you would never want your daughter to act this way. However, you simply have forgotten to give a shit when it comes to this man. Within the past five days of knowing him he has awoken a beast inside of you that you have tried to keep tame for some time. And you are letting it run free.

Sukuna thinks he’s hallucinating. There’s no fucking way she’s doing this, right? At first he ignores it, well tried to. The banging on the wall gets louder and the moans coming from your mouth sound angelic, almost real. It’s hard to focus.

Yarozu finally lifts her head and looks back at Sukuna in confusion. The banging continues and your moans get louder. Suddenly a framed picture on the wall falls and barely misses yarozus head.

Yarozu gasps and Sukuna holds back a laugh. he pulls out of her and sighs, quickly puts on his grey sweats and heads right toward the door. You’re too busy banging on the walls to realize they have stopped and you suddenly hear a knock on the door.

The smirk on your face is devilish. You trot towards your door and open it. There is your asshole neighbor in only grey sweats and he’s glistening with sweat. If you didn’t hate him so much you’d ask him to come inside and finish the job.

“Can I help you?” You say sweetly and bat your eyelashes at him.

Sukuna holds a groan in his throat has he checks you out. You’re only in some underwear and a pajama top, which shows everything. He can see every beautiful curve you were blessed with. He can’t help but notice the way your hair drapes perfectly framing your face. The way your brow furrows and nose crinkles as you look at him in disgust-

Focus Ryomen.

He lets out a sigh and leans down, “What the fuck Is your problem?”

He’s so close as he speaks. You raise a brow and step closer to him. “What the fuck is your problem?” Suddenly a girl steps out behind him wearing a shirt that is way too big for her

“Sukuna, baby who’s that?” She purrs and reaches for his shoulder and he swats her hand. She just rolls her eyes and stands to the side.

Your blood boils as you stare daggers into him. His look is just as bad. His red ruby eyes melts into yours. You swallow thickly and clench your fists. “Keep it down or I’m calling Toji”

Sukuna scoffs and rolls his eyes. “He ain’t gonna do shit, baby,” he says in a mocking tone. Your eye twitches as you hear that stupid pet name.

As you glare into his crimson eyes, you feel a shadow creeping behind you and turn. Toji appears up the stairs with a pack of beers. His eyes immediately dart to you and shock covers his face.

Fuck, he definitely came here to drink with Sukuna didn’t he?

You’re starting to put two and two together. They for sure know eachother. There is no doubt about that. You didn’t think that they were that good of friends. Hell, he never really talked about him. You then feel helpless. Toji isn’t going to kick him out. You don’t even want him kicked out, he has two kids to raise. Just like you.

The tears swell up in your eyes as Toji walks closer and tries to brush the tears out of your face. “Hey pretty what’s-“ you swat his hand away and turn to the door, pulling your shirt down with one hand and cover your tits with the other arm.

“Fuck off toji.” You say coldly and hurry to shut the door. You make sure to lock every lock and dart to the bathroom, tears streaming down your face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Sukuna watches with a blank face and Yarozu stands behind him, twirling her hair. “Hey Toji,” she smirks.

Toji quickly nods his head and heads into Sukuna’s place. Sukuna lets out a sigh and follows him.

Yarozu begins to step but Sukuna stops, “Go home Yarozu.” She pouts, but he doesn’t turn around to see her. She simply sighs, grabs her purse and heads back out. In only his shirt and her underwear.

Sukuna shuts his door and locks it. Just like you did. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “She left her clothes.” Toji says and his eyes dart toward the clothes thrown around the living room.

Sukuna huffs and walks over to the clothes, picks them up and tosses them off the balcony. Toji watches, his eyes widen a bit, but that’s honestly not surprising when it comes to those two.

He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head, “You don’t even like her, why the fuck do you-“. Sukuna cuts him off by grabbing a beer from him and flipping him off. Toji flips him off right back and smirks.

It’s gets silent for a long moment and Toji watches Sukuna as he twiddles his thumbs and sips his beer.

"Want to tell me what the fuck that was?" Toji asks, his voice low.

Sukuna drops onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. "Not really," he mutters.

Toji raises an eyebrow. "She's my best friend," he says, a warning implicit in his tone.

"I know," Sukuna responds, taking a long drink. "Believe me, I know."

"She's not just some random woman," Toji says, his voice carrying a protective edge. "She's been through enough."

Sukuna says nothing, which speaks volumes.

"I'm serious," Toji continues. "Whatever game you're playing, stop."

“Who says I'm playing a game?" Sukuna responds, but there's no conviction in his voice.

They both let out a sigh and stare up at the ceiling. Letting the silence consume them.

In your bathroom, you lie on the floor, tears streaming down your face. The cool tile against your back provides little comfort. Your mind races - everything blends into a chaotic emotional storm.

You're not crying from sadness. No, these are tears of pure frustration. Anger at Sukuna, at the situation, at yourself for being so affected by this stranger who seems determined to get under your skin.

You glance over to the vibrator as it lies forgotten on the nightstand, your evening of planned relaxation completely derailed. It truly feels like nothing ever goes to plan. And this fucking asshole is making sure of it.

With a defeated sigh you slowly sit up a wipe the tears from your face. You’re about to reach for your face wash when you feel a vibration on the bathroom counter. It’s Ino?

The call came unexpectedly. Ino's excited voice filled the phone, talking a mile a minute about a group night out. "Come on!" he insisted. "Me, my girlfriend, Nanami, and his fiancée. We need you there!"

You were hesitant. Group outings typically meant navigating potential awkwardness - endless small talk and the looming possibility of feeling like the perpetual single friend. But Ino's enthusiasm was infectious, his excitement bleeding through the phone in a way that made resistance futile.

Your outfit came together quickly. A black mini skirt that hit a little above the knee, paired with a tight white t-shirt that hinted at confidence without trying too hard. You added black tights underneath, chunky lace-up boots that could handle a night of dancing, topped with a well-worn jean jacket.

You took extra care removing the day's remnants - brushing out your hair, ensuring any trace of earlier tears was completely erased. This wasn't about looking perfect. This was about survival, about drinking away the stress that had been building for weeks.

The evening passed in a beautiful blur of music, laughter, and strategically consumed alcohol. Nanami's fiancé was stunning - the kind of gorgeous that made you simultaneously admire and slightly resent her effortless beauty. Ino's girlfriend, was a revelation - hilarious, the type of person who made friendship feel instantaneous.

You danced with strangers, laughed without reservation, drank far more than any responsible adult should. Karaoke became an adventure - you were pretty sure you sang something, though the exact song had dissolved into the night's liquid memories. The music, the drinks, the company - everything blended into a perfect escape.

The guys could tell something was wrong. You never go out. Ino told Nanami he’s been worried about you all week. You still have yet to tell him what the hell is going on. But they are happy to see you having fun. You deserve it.

Around 1 A.M., Nanami - ever the responsible one - called you an Uber, his quiet concern a counterpoint to the night's wild energy.

You said goodbye with dramatic kisses on cheeks and tight hugs. Ino has you on his Life 360 (he’s nosey and you didn’t say no when he asked) so he plans to watch it to make sure you get home. The ride home was a blur of streetlights and half-remembered conversations, the city sliding past your window like a watercolor painting.

You slowly stumble up the stairs, making sure you don't trip. The hallway seems to sway slightly as you try to keep your eyes open. You keep humming whatever song they were playing at karaoke - something pop, maybe? The memory is fuzzy, blurred by alcohol and laughter.

Finally reaching your door, you thimble around your handbag for your keys. They slip from your fingers, clattering to the ground. "Shit," you mumble, giggling as you bend to retrieve them. The lock seems particularly challenging tonight, your coordination reduced to a comedic struggle.

Unbeknownst to you, Toji and Sukuna are watching your entire performance. Toji was just about to leave, and Sukuna was seeing him out when your drunken arrival caught their attention.

In your current state, you might normally be mortified. Instead, you look up and see them staring. Your response? A defiant middle finger.

Toji frowns and sighs, a mixture of concern and exasperation. Sukuna, however, can't help but chuckle. "Hey there, drunky," he calls out, his voice a low rumble that makes you shiver despite your irritation.

The door finally opens with a triumphant "Ha!" from you.

"Need any help?" Toji asks, stepping forward.

You look up, still fumbling through your bag for your phone, and raise a challenging eyebrow. "Oh, now you're asking if I need help?" The sass is sharp, cutting through your alcohol-induced haze.

"Pretty calm-" Toji begins.

"Don't call me that," you interrupt, folding your arms and shooting a glare that could freeze fire.

Sukuna can't resist adding fuel to the fire. "Don't piss drunky off, Toji!" he shouts, his laughter echoing in the hallway.

Toji tries again, reaching to fix your disheveled hair. "Pretty, c'mon now-"

"No, Toji," you cut him off, your words slightly slurred but no less venomous. "Go suck his dick or something. I'm mad at you."

Toji rolls his eyes. You were pissed. He hasn’t seen you this mad since you found out you were pregnant (a story for another day).

Sukuna, never one to miss an opportunity, smirks. "Not really interested in him, but you can come over if ya want."

You glare back, and he winks. In his mind, you're beautiful, especially when you're fired up. Every encounter he's had with you - when you’re not ignoring him - has been a hurricane of emotion, and he loves every moment of it.

"Oh, I'm sure I'd be on a long waiting list," you retort, laying your head against the doorframe. The alcohol is catching up with you, making it hard to stand.

Toji huffs and steps closer to you, “Pretty, let me help.”

Before you can fully process it, you're nodding yes to Toji's offer of help. He swiftly picks you up, and you wrap your legs around his torso, your body going pliant with exhaustion.

Toji carries you into the apartment, with Sukuna following close behind. His eyes scan the space - moving boxes still needing to be unpacked, the signs of a recent move scattered everywhere.

Yet, it still felt like a home. Framed family photos and vintage art prints hung over the cream-colored walls, arranged in those trendy asymmetrical clusters you'd probably seen on Pinterest.

Nobora's toys were neatly corralled in a woven basket in the corner, a halfhearted attempt at containing the chaos of childhood.

It looked like every piece of furniture had been meticulously picked by you. The mid-century modern coffee table with its gentle curves, the overstuffed armchair in soft leather that practically begged to be curled up in, even the delicate ceramic vases arranged on floating shelves.

You had good taste. He was almost too distracted until he noticed Toji struggling to help your drunk ass.

"Need any help?" Sukuna asks, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Toji doesn’t look at Sukuna, too focused on your care. He simply gives a nod and asks, “Can you get a shirt for her? I'm gonna help her change."

Sukuna rolls his eyes but complies, moving to your dresser. He opens several drawers, careful not to disturb too much. Realizing he might upset you further by rummaging, he opts instead to take off his own shirt and bring it to the bathroom.

Toji helps you undress, completely un phased . When Sukuna raises an eyebrow, Toji scoffs, "What? I watched her give birth. This isn't the first time I've seen her naked."

You giggle, raising your arms for the shirt like a child. Sukuna watches as Toji pulls the shirt over you, noting how the fabric falls loosely on your frame.

"Need to wash my face and brush my hair," you mumble, your words slightly slurred.

Toji helps you to the sink, supporting you as you carefully remove your makeup. Sukuna can't help but chuckle at the sight - you're a mix of determination and drunken clumsiness.

You use Sukuna's shirt to pat your face dry, then turn to Toji with a mischievous grin. "Mhmm, this smells like the asshole," you giggle.

Toji starts to laugh, the tension from earlier melting away.

"That's because it is the asshole's," Sukuna's voice cuts through, momentarily sobering you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him shirtless, and he winks. You glare back - still angry, still defiant.

Toji helps you into bed, and you crawl to the center, wrapping yourself in soft sheets. As he goes to get water and medicine, Sukuna explores your room, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A bright red toy on the bedside table catches his eye. For a moment, his face heats up with thoughts he quickly tries to dismiss.

When Toji returns, he leaves water and medicine, then leans down to kiss your temple. "I'll be back in the morning to check on ya."

You wave lazily. "Bye, asshole," you call to Sukuna, who sighs and responds, "Go to sleep, drunky.

After closing your bedroom door, Toji pauses in the living room. A photograph catches his eye - a memory from his wedding day. You, him, and his late wife at the courthouse, where you served as their witness. The image pulls at his heart, a bittersweet reminder of love, loss, and enduring friendship.

Sukuna watches silently as Toji studies the photo, recognizing the depth of emotion playing across his friend's face.

"I'm actually gonna crash on her couch," Toji explains, breaking the silence. "Make sure she's okay. I'll call her baby daddy in the morning to keep Nobora for the day." Thank god Megumi was at the sitters.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow and nods, a simple acknowledgment of Toji's protective nature.

As Sukuna walks out, he can't shake the thoughts of you. It's unprecedented - he's known Yarozu for almost a decade, and she barely crosses his mind. But you? In less than a week, you've occupied more mental space than anyone has in years.

There's something about you - your fire, your refusal to back down, the way you move through the world with such unapologetic intensity. You're not afraid to show your emotions, to be loud, to take up space. It's intriguing in a way he can't quite define.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The thought echoes in the empty hallway, a whispered confession to no one but himself. With a final sigh, he returns to his own apartment, your presence clawing at his mind like a persistent memory that refuses to be forgotten.

Each step feels weighted, charged with an energy he can't explain. He's realizing something, a truth that both irritates and intrigues him.

You were going to consume him entirely.

A slow, inevitable destruction he would welcome with open arms.

summary/notes: sorry this was another chaotic one! we will slowly but surely see those two warm up to eachother (maybe) lmao! I had a blast writing Toji and Sukuna’s pov. I also realize their backstory could’ve been the beginning to their love story. ah well, maybe in another universe. they are just besties, trust.

I am also still figuring out the mechanics of tumblr so I will have links and everything updated as soon as I can! my asks are open, so if you have any questions I will be so so happy to answer! I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I love you all so much! mwah! <3

taglist is open: please comment and let me know if you want to be on it!! (:

@sukubusss @poopooindamouf @tojiswifeforlife @777pluto @emochosoluvr @bookfreakk

@withtanxp @pandabiene5115 @fava-boi

[lluc1ll3]

nettles | joel miller

summary: your last ride home with joel in his truck on a hot summer evening.

wc: 1.1k

tags: Angst, Breakup, Joel cannot express emotion, Smoking, Coquette reader, Ethel Cain inspired, Implied age gap, Hints of toxicity, Joel is sad and insecure

note: listened to the new ethel song and this was born. stream nettles by ethel cain!!!

-

To love Joel is to suffer him.

And God, you loved Joel. Everything about him, even the worst parts. His temper. His unwillingness to express his feelings. His troubled past.

You thought at first that it was how much you loved Joel that was making your heart hurt.

It wasn’t that.

It was just Joel.

You loved him, and you suffered for it.

“This ain’t workin’.”

Joel sat in the driver’s seat of his truck. One hand ran over his unshaved face. His eyes did not meet yours as he said it.

You stared over at him. You had been expecting this. He had been distant - more than usual. Quiet, and not in the characteristic Joel way. In a way that stamped a furrow into his brow and a clear conflict into his eyes.

You finally tore your eyes away from Joel, smoothing out the white sundress you were wearing. The one he bought for you.

“What isn’t?” you asked.

His jaw twitched. “This. Us. Whatever this is.”

You reached towards the pack of Marlboros you had stashed in his glovebox a few weeks ago, bringing a cigarette to your lips.

Joel still had your lighter in his pocket.

“I don’t know what this is, Joel. You tell me.”

Joel reached into the pocket of his washed out blue jeans, pulling out your silver lighter. You leaned forward, allowing Joel to flick on the lighter, the small flame dancing between you both.

As he lit your cigarette for you, he finally met your eyes.

When he did. you had never seen brown eyes look so blue.

You took a drag, exhaling a puff of smoke. Joel wound down your window.

You held out the cigarette between your fingers, offering it to Joel. A bit of your red lipstick was smeared on the cigarette. Joel took it regardless.

“You know I like bein’ with you. You know I think you’re beautiful.”

He handed your cigarette back to you. His fingers brushed yours. His hand was colder than you’d ever felt it.

“But this ain’t right.”

“What’s not right about this, Joel?” you demanded. “What’s not right about how we make each other feel?”

“It ain’t about how we make each other feel.”

Joel busied himself putting the car in drive, reversing out of his parking space in an old ‘50s style diner he had taken you to for the evening.

“Then what is it about?”

His knuckles were white against the steering wheel. He ran his tongue against his bottom lip. He could feel you staring at him, your eyes burning a hole into the side of his face.

He had always told you he loved your eyes.

The light was already leaving them.

“Is it about me?”

Joel clutched the steering wheel even harder at that. His jaw flexed. “That’s the last thing it’s about.”

“Then what, Joel?” You hated how your voice shook when you said it.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “It’s me.”

Your heart cracked a little. “What about you? I love you, Joel. You make me feel like there’s fireworks inside my heart. You make me feel warm, even when it rains.”

“You don’t love me,” Joel insisted. “There ain’t no lovin’ someone like me.”

The crack in your heart split a little more.

All you did was love him.

It filled your heart from the moment you woke up to the moment you slept. It was what you dreamt of every night. Your heart was stained by the oil and the sweat on his hands after he came home from work. Your skin was marked and scented like him.

It was all for him.

And here he sat, with you in the passenger seat of his truck, where you had sat and laughed with him, held his hand, countless times. Telling you that he was unloveable.

That he would not let you love him anymore.

You brushed away tears impatiently, putting your cowgirl boot clad feet up on his dashboard. You held your cigarette between your fingers, hand dangling out of the open window.

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend this was just another summer night with Joel Miller.

His words ripped you from your imagination. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for breaking up with me or sorry for telling me how I feel?”

“I ain’t tryin’ to tell you how to feel.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you laughed bitterly, taking another drag of your cigarette. “I told you I love you and you said I don’t. You don’t speak for me, Joel. And you might not wanna fight for this, but I do, okay? Because I know how I feel. And you don’t get to take it out on me because you don’t.”

Joel finally turned his head to look at you. “You want me to say it?” he asked. His voice cracked. His eyes were filled with tears. “I love you. I just wanna keep you safe. Keep you happy. But I can’t. I can’t make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, Joel.”

“I don’t. You think I do, but I don’t. I make you hurt. I see it in your eyes, darlin’. And I can’t be the one that hurts you no more.”

The third crack in your heart was what tore it apart.

You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. His beautiful, chocolate eyes clouded by tears as they gazed between you and the road.

You turned to look out at the Texas scenery rushing past you as Joel’s truck rumbled along the highway. The gothic western farms, fences and power lines that you had driven past so many times looked different now. Colourless.

You did not allow Joel to see your tears, but he knew anyway. He could tell by the way your shoulders tensed, and your hands unclenched and clenched into fists in your lap after you discarded your fizzled out cigarette.

Joel dared to reach a hand over towards your lap. Slowly, very slowly, his fingers skated across the back of your hand, to then intertwine with your own.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull your hand away.

You let him hold your hand all the way home.

After what felt like years of the stifling Texas heat in the passenger seat of Joel’s truck, it ground to a halt outside your house. Even your street looked considerably less inviting now.

Now Joel had torn your heart in two and taken one half as a keepsake.

You shot out of the truck as though the seat had bitten you. Joel did not say a word. He did not even look at you.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

The words stung in your throat like nettles.

-

[sawdustandstardust]

Missing you in Appalachia!

mel/frank for @kingdonmicrofic day 01 (pool) | 489 words

additional tags: appalachian frank langdon; unplanned pregnancy; canon divergence; implied infidelity; post-season 01; angst

Frank Langdon learned to swim by survival.

Tossed into the cool New River waters at five years old by his beer-drunk Uncle Francis (his namesake; both Gemini men born under a strawberry moon. He died when Frank was seven. At the funeral, he hid behind his mama’s skirts, disturbed by the waxy visage of Uncle Francis’ skin, like the porcelain dolls his grandma displayed around the crown molding shelves of her parlor room). He struggled against the placid current, lucky for the still waters that he wasn’t completely swept away. Instead, his skinny arms found purchase around a gnarled tree branch rooted deep in the river soil. Stayed put until his mama waded out in her bikini top and cut-off jean shorts; wrapped him up in a frayed beach towel he wore like his own personal coat of many colors until they made it back home.

He has two boys of his own now. Tanner and Noah, with the former just having wrapped up guppy swim lessons at the Y of Greater Pittsburgh the night Frank’s life fell apart. He already missed the way chlorine twined with his rapidly fading baby smell he wished every day he could preserve forever. Thought about even getting a family membership for the fall just so he could live in the summer-lit memory of pool floatees, tiny lifevests, and how his chubby cheeks ballooned as he showed Frank how to hold your breath underwater.

Maybe that’s why when Frank spots Mel all alone—walking out of PTMC after PittFest over to overflow staff parking—he morphs into every sleazy guy you’re warned about in D.A.R.E presentations. The dealer who rolled down windows to offer rides or candy or drugs disguised as candy.

“You want to get out of here?”

Frank hated himself when Mel’s face lit up at the offer and the hatred transformed to greed when he drove her out to the abandoned Rolling Hills community pool lot across the street from the hospital. Spread a blanket out in the cab of his truck like he was in high school again, pulling off a gravely backroad into the woods all to stick his hands down someone’s pants. But Mel isn’t just someone. No, she’s his mentee and so smart and when she softly murmured out how she wanted to forget, get lost for a little while, how could he ever not give in?

After: when he pulled into a truckstop just beyond the West Virginia stateline, he spun the counter stand filled with state-centric postcards. Missing you in Appalachia! one read. He threw it toward the cashier alongside a pack of Marlboros.

(It took him over three months to send Mel the postcard. It’s another seven until he laid eyes on her. It’s also Mel’s first day back, Robby says. Maternity leave with a little girl. Cute kid.)

Frank learned to swim by survival. He knows he can do it again.

[crazyfor-toby]

Always Forever

[Chapter 1]

———————

Your shift was just about over, fatigue clung to you like some kind of shadow, the consequence of a sleepless night. The day had been just as uneventful as every other day, only the occasional appearance of people stopping in for gas or a quick snack.

You were so lost in your thoughts, completely ignoring the man in front of you as if he didn't exist—Not registering his presence at all until he was standing directly in front of you, clearing his throat to draw your attention away from whatever you had been preoccupied with. Startled, you looked up and met his gaze, giving him an apologetic smile as he sat down a bag of chips and a bottle of Pepsi.

The man appeared to be in his late forties, with a neatly trimmed gray beard and a demeanor as serious as his stern expression. You quickly scanned his items, the familiar beeps of the register breaking the silence. Before you could tell him the total, you were interrupted.

"Can I get a pack of Marlboro?" His voice low and gravelly, carrying a kind of rough authority.

You nodded, grabbing the red pack of cigarettes and setting them on the counter. "These?" You asked to confirm.

He nodded and handed his ID over. Samuel Gardiner, born 1976. Looked about right. After double-checking you passed the ID back to him.

Just as you did, the chime of the door signaled someone else entering. You caught a glimpse of a blue hoodie heading toward the drinks coolers but didn't pay much attention. You were focused finishing up with Samuel.

"Have a good day," he said, gathering his items—Pepsi and chips in one hand, cigarettes in the other as he trudged out the door.

The door swung shut with a soft thud, leaving you alone with the new customer. He approached the counter softly, placing a can of Red Bull down with deliberate movements. He was slightly taller than average, with messy dark brown hair that hung over his forehead, though grooming wasn't a priority.

There was something about the way he moved—unhurried, almost purposeful—that caught your attention. When his eyes met yours, dark and nearly black, they seemed to linger for just a moment too long, studying you. The intensity unsettled you, and for a moment, you wondered if you imagined it.

You picked up the Red Bull and scanned it, offering him a polite smile. "Three dollars," you said, keeping your tone light. He didn't speak, merely nodded as he fished a few crumpled bills from his pocket and handed it to you in silence.

"Would you like a receipt?" You asked, opening the cash register. He shook his head, his silence stretching on. Something felt... off. Maybe he wasn't the talkative type. Or perhaps he simply didn't like engaging with strangers. For a moment, you even considered the possibility that he might be mute.

"Alright then, have a good day!" You said automatically, the words tumbling out before you realized how ridiculous they sounded. It wasn't day anymore—it was nearly midnight. Smooth Y/n. Real smooth.

He took the Red Bull, his steps almost soundless as he moved toward the door. Just as he reached it, he hesitated, and you caught the faintest murmur, almost a whisper come from him. "Y-you too."

So, he wasn't mute after all.

[juliussilver25]

The Spark Inside

The Marlboro Bar pulsed like a hidden ember in the heart of the city. Dimly lit, thick with scent of smoke and worn leather, it was a shrine to a brotherhood born of grit, heat, and rebellion. A glowing red neon sign overhead whispered only one word: Marlboro.

The door opened. A young man stepped in, clad in a pristine silver leather uniform. It shimmered under the low light, the jacket zipped halfway down to show a smooth, nervous chest. His eyes darted—curious, hopeful, but clearly unsure. He wanted to belong. But in this place, belonging wasn’t worn. It was earned.

At the bar stood Roark.

Towering. Commanding. Clad in black and red leather, custom-fitted like armor. Thick gloves gripped the counter. His beard was frost-white, but his eyes—deep, glowing red—were alive with fire. His jacket with Marlboro stitched boldly across it, announced him as more than just the bartender. He was the gatekeeper. The alpha.

The young man approached and offered a shaky smile.

“Whiskey,” he said.

Roark didn’t move.

He studied the newcomer with slow intensity, then reached for a glass.

Roark poured the amber liquid smooth and neat. No ice. No words.

He handed the glass to the young man.

His hand trembled just slightly as he took it and brought it up to his lips—but paused. Roark's gaze held him frozen in place.

“Not yet,” Roark said. “First, you earn the right.”

From beneath the bar, he pulled out a red-and-white pack. Marlboro. Worn like a relic. With reverence, he pulled a single cigarette from within and held it out.

“This… is your welcome.”

The young man hesitated. The drink in one hand, the cigarette now in the other. The warmth from the glass. The weight of the unlit smoke.

Roark struck the match.

Flame. Contact. Inhale.

The transformation began.

Muscles surged across the boy’s frame, tightening the uniform until it creaked. The silver jacket dulled, shifting, fusing into a tougher, deeper black reinforced with scarlet. Patches formed: Marlboro, Red Man, Built for It. His cheeks grew sharper, a shadow of beard sprouting. A cigarette dangled naturally from his lips now—not an accessory, but a part of who he was.

He blinked, and when he looked back at Roark, the fear was gone. In its place: fire.

Later, the two of them leaned against the bar like sentinels. Smoke curled upward, warm and confident. The young man was no longer trying to belong—he did. He was. His body, now hard and cut, bore the same symbols Roark did. They were bonded by more than style—by smoke, ritual, and transformation.

And already, his eyes were scanning the door again.

Not with uncertainty.

But hunger.

He knew now what he was. A Marlboro Man reborn. Strong, seductive, and utterly sure. And soon, another curious soul would enter. Another man searching for something deeper than cool or rebellion. And this time, he would be the one to offer the cigarette.

Because this life wasn’t passed on through words.

It was lit.

And once you took that first drag— you never went back.

[absolutebl]

47 BLs Announced for 2024

Here are the BLs I have logged on the Spreadsheet of Doom (TM) as announced for 2024 (with supporting evidence, so not just options or acquisitions) as of the beginning of the year. Bold are the ones I'm most intrigued by .

JAPAN

Although I Love You and You AKA Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yaro ka

From YTV releasing 1/11 about Soga, who, after a divorce and relocation to Osaka, seeks solace in dining at 26-year-old Sakae's restaurant. Unbeknownst to Soga, Sakae sees him as more than just a regular customer.

Ossan's Love Season 2

Five years later, will anything have changed? This is Japan, so probubly not. More here.

Perfect Propose

Fuji TV (the Pornographer series) adapting Mayo Tsurakame’s manga, production team includes Tadaaki Horai (My Love Mix-Up!) and Takeshi Miyamoto (scriptwriter for “Old Fashion Cupcake”). Hiro’s so stressed at work he barely has time to eat so he passes out on the sidewalk. An unfamiliar face saves him and insists that they once promised to marry each other.

KOREA

Love For Love's Sake

Based on the Manhwa Love Supremacy Zone by Hwacha, this will star actors Lee Tae Vin, Cha Jun Wan, Oh Min Su and Cha Woon Ki. The plot of the drama is based on Tae Myung Ha, a young man who is dropped into a game based off of a novel that he knows. His mission is to make another player, Cha Yeo Woon happy. Cha Yeo Woon is Myung-Has favourite character in the novel. But then the game starts going completely different from the novel.

Love in the Big City

Movie adaptation of Booker nominated famous coming of age novel ‘Love in The Big City’ by Park Sang-Young. A cynical yet fun loving student writer name Young pinballs from home, to class, to Tinder matches. He and Jaehee, his female best friend and roommate, frequent nearby bars where they push away their worries about life, love, and money with soju and Marlboros. But as time passes Jaehee settles down and leaves Young to face his problems on his own, finding comfort in the arms of the series of men, including one whose handsomeness is matched by his coldness and another who might be the great love of his life. Not really BL. To star Kim Go-eun (The King: Eternal Monarch), Noh Sang-hyun (aka Steve Sanghyun as Young) and Nam Yoon Su (The King’s Affection). More here.

TAIWAN

Anti Reset AKA Anti-Reset AKA Antireset

From Vidol to air on 2/2/2024 about a human and robot find love.

THAILAND

1000 Years Old

From Feel Good Bangkok this is one of many gay vampire BLs coming in 2024. Stars Shane (My Engineer) and fresh face Opal, directed by Champ (2gether). More here.

A Secretly Love

Khonprot, a third-year head hazer of the engineering faculty, has a secret crush on Pluem, a tsundere fourth-year head hazer. Over the years, he's seen Pluem cycle through many girlfriends. Recently, after a public breakup, however, Khonprot thinks things may be different.

Addicted Heroin (Thai version)

From the producers of Love Stage!!

Bad Guy My Boss

Assistant to a player boss who is in love with his boss decides to quit to save himself. The boos then makes a move. (A gay "What's up with Secretary Kim"?)

Born to be Y

announced 9/23

City of Stars AKA Fueangnakorn

Star Hunter started filming this 12/23 about an actor falls in love with a programmer and the narrative intends to “explore the ramifications of being public figure in the social network era who must endure critics, bullying, and defamation.” Looks like another Lovely Writer, Call It What You Want sort of thing.

Four Ever You Project AKA Fourever You Project

Sampler pack BL series from Wabi Sabi stars Bas (Gen Y), Earth (UWMA, 12%). Four stories, four couples, all adapted under the Fourever You Project.

I Saw You in My Dream

DeeHupHouse for WeTV based on the novel of the same name by Afterday. The story portrays Aya, a young man who has prophetic dreams. Everything he dreams always comes true. He doesn’t have a problem with it until he starts to dream of dating the guy next door. But the guy next door is in a serious relationship with a girl he’s known since high school.

Iridescent Love

Got nothing.

Harikarn Solution (the Chains of Heart people - boo) stars Gun (Khom in Unforgotten Night) opposite fresh face but cast includes familiar faces from other pulps. Ordinary office worker kinda recluse dork but who at night however, has an only fans account. Then he meets the guy next door.

Jack & Joker (YinWar)

DeHup brings us be gay, do crimes. Yin, War, Mark and a few other familiar faces doing Leverage but gayer. Yes, thank you, I will have that.

Kidnap

GMMTV Ohm Pawat is back but there is some question over whether this is BL or not.

Knock-Knock Boys

Kongthup for WeTV airing 4/2024 Four college friends who conspire to help their friend lose his virginity. stars Seng Wichai, Best Vittswin, Nokia Chinnawat and Jaonine Jiraphat.

Lost On The River

Another Sammon story

Love Sea (FortPeat)

MAME warning, stars same couple as LITA2, but new characters to the Mameverse. While travelling a writer has a one night stand with a very irritating man.

Love Sick AKA Lovesick remake

Remake of the original. No thank you.

Love Upon a Time (NetJames)

Domundi announced for 6/7/2023 then delayed to 2024. NetJames in a historical BL! Also feat Tonnam(Dr Sing from Triage).

Lovely Addict

9NAA brings us a hotel set, high heat, features same pair as Venus In Sky.

Lover Merman

Fantasy BL about a man who falls in love with a merman.

Me and Who

Domundi for WeTV brings this adaptation of Wickedwish’s novel of the same name. it depicts a young man who dies and is reborn into the body of a billionaire heir. The heir happens to be engaged to a handsome man.

Monster Next Door

WeTV Adapted from the novel Godzilla Next Door by Jiwinil. It portrays an introvert who lives mostly in his room, until an extrovert moves in next door. He is loud, frantic and annoying. Do opposites really attract? Will they find a way to get along?

My Golden Blood

GMMTV. Okay, I do find Joss very watchable but this looks very bad and also very like Kissable Lips. But at least land is finally giving us the trashy gay vampires we richly deserve?

My Love Mix-Up Thai Remake (GemniForth)

GMMTV. Hum, well I do love this pair and I did like the original and maybe this time these characters will actually kiss? I'm actually fine with this pick-up. I kind of enjoy seeing different countries remake the same IP. Especially if it's IP I'm mostly unfazed by.

My Stand-In AKA My Stand In

Chinese IP ALERT! Adapted from the novel Professional Body Double (职业替身) by Shui Qiang Cheng (水千丞) stars Up (Lovely Writer) and Poom (Bake Me Please).

OMG Vampire AKA OMG! Vampire (LeeFrank)

Frank and Lee Long Shi are back only vampires now. So many vampires.

Only Boo!

New main pair in an idol romance about a boy who dances good and a food stand vendor. Other side of the tracks, grumpy/sunshine pair who fall deeply in love but, of course, to become an idol baby boy can't date. Boyband but from GMMTV? Control your singing and I'm game.

Ossan‘s Love Thai Remake (EarthMix

Ugh, why?!?!

Red Peafowl

More Thai mafia stuffs.

Spare Me Your Mercy

Increased rates of deaths in terminal patients has a police captain investigating the palliative care doctor with whom he's fallen in love. Their relationship deepens but the mystery persists, driven by mistrust. Adapted from the novel Euthanasia by Sammon (Triage, Manner of Death) stars some old guard BL actors: Tor Thanapob from Hormones as the doctor and (fuck me YES) Jaylerr from Great Men Academy and goddamn Grean Fictions as the captain!

Spirit Reborn AKA Kemjira Will Survive

Star Hunter (of all studios) adapting supposedly the scariest BL. Khem is born cursed. A daughter would be safe but a son dies at 20 so Khem’s mother cleverly gives him a girl’s name, Khemjira “forever safe.” But Knem is baout to turn 20 and he doesn't think it's working so he seeks the help of a cursebreaker, turns out to be his great love from a prvious life.

Star Scope

Wabi Sabi trailer here. Looks sad, one of them is terminally ill, abandons his bf in high school them meet again in uni.

The Boy Next World (BossNoeul)

Same couple as LITA, this is the backstory of Cirrus & Phugun from TharnType 2 played by different actors.

The Hell Guards AKA Hey Don't Mess With My Heart

Boy wakes up from a coma and becomes a messenger between grim reapers and the underworld. Oh will it be... bureaucratic? I think it WILL.

The Hidden Moon

Casting happened 9/23. This is a supernatural romance (my ghost boyfriend trope) ‘เดือนพราง’ by Violet Rain. A Bangkok writer is hired to write an article about an old mansion in Chiang Mai which is being converted into a café. He gets into an accident and nearly dies on his way there. After that, he sees the ghosts of people who died at the mansion, one boy catches his attention. Stars Benjamin Brasier (2 Moons 2) and Folk Touch Inthirat from Brothers. Trailer here.

The Next Prince (ZeeNew)

Domundi brings us more ZeeNew in a fantasy/historical set in a palace where Zee plays a knight and Nu a prince - FUCK YES PLEASE. I did not expect this pair to stick so I really hope this happens. Trailer here.

The Rebound (MeenPing)

VIU Basketball based romance staring Meen (a national basketball player, so yay for that).

The Trainee (OffGun)

GMMTV Office set, may not be BL. Trailer here.

Time the series

MFlow Entertainment for Gaga, WeTV, Channel 3 trailer here. Airs 1/9 After witnessing the death of his beloved Chris from a gunshot wound, the heartbroken actor Foam is given a pocket watch that allows him to go back in time and discover the truth… Can Foam take the chance to set things right and bring Chris back from the brink of death? Only time will tell…

To Be Continued

High school sweethearts who had a bad break up reunite when both of them have full times jobs but coming out is still a problem. Trailer here.

Vampire Project (BounPrem)

Wabi Sabi's My Broccoli only now... vampires.

Wandee Godday

GMMTV and AllThis Entertainment producing a very pulp offering for GMMTV with new pair GreatInn doing high heat Boxer meets surgeon. It features a one night stand, fake relationship, and all the cheesiest of tropes. Also features Drake, Podd, and Thor+ pretty boy (be still my heart). This is totally my kind of BL even if it actually isn't GMMTV's style of BL, so I'm intrigued. Trailer here.

We Are (PondPhuwin)

GMMTV's university friendship Bl featuring PondPhuwin, WinnySatang, AouBoom, MarcPawin - basically ALL in the good kind of messy friendship group (so more My Engineer and less Only Friends). Looks a bit like the Kiss series but everyone is gay. I'm IN! Trailer here.

A reminder we had c. 136 BLs release in 2023 but c. 55 that did not get made.

That seems about right.

Of those announced we seem to get about 2/3 actually released for the year we are told they'll release in.

(source)

[777-wailerchive]

Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

[magicalwitchbread]

Some talk on Barca vs Benfica specifically because I watched both legs and I'm sick, so I have nothing better to do.

Okay, I lied. I only watched the second half of the first leg. I had practice during the first half, and we were all going insane because our phones started going off with notifications for Cubarsi's red card 😭 All I have to say is that I got fucking war flash backs. But to be fair, it was a tactical foul of denying a clear goal scoring opportunity and no one was hurt, so that's something.

Raphiñha pulled throughout as always. When everyone and their mother is watching, he always fucking does it. 4 g/a across two legs? And 3 of them were non penalty goals. Just give him the Ballond'or, I'm tired. Also, he has broken then all time UCL scoring record for a Brazilian player with 11 goals in a single campaign, and he is still in the quarterfinals. I'm just putting it out there, the all time record is 17 by Cristiano fucking Ronaldo.

Ramadan Yamal unlocked his shooting. It's over for you bitches. Youngest player to score and assist in a UCL game. He can not be stopped. Also, both the goal and the assist were pure class. He finessed a top right corner from outside the box. Trubin had no chance. Not to mention, it was his goal that gave Barca the lead. And a defense splitting assist to Raphiñha. He can't be 17.

Szczęsny had an absolute masterclass in the first leg. The Benfica crowd obviously couldn't predict that the smoke from their pyrotechnics would bring out prime Szczęsny. 8 saves is actually insane. Just give this man a pack of Marlboro Reds and never doubt him ever again. Thinking back, he probably told Cubarsi to get the red to buy him a pack and that he's got it or someone like that.

Pedro González López... What is there to say about this man. He got motm in both legs, without any g/a. That speaks for itself honestly, but he gave the first one to Szczęsny and said to the media that the second one should have gone to either Raphiñha or Lamine. Both the best midfielder in the world and also humble and understanding that he is part of a team. Real talk though, fully fit Pedri is scary to go up against. Xavi's vision, Iñesta's creativity and Busquets' ball keeping ability in one man and he is still only 22. Barca and Spain have a really bright future.

An underrated hero that needs to be talked about more, in my opinion, Alejandro fucking Balde. The speed in that boy. He sprinted the entire length of the field and assisted Raphiñha. As a left back, his offensive plays are just ridiculous. The way he comes up and basically becomes a winger when Raphiñha cuts to the center shows just how much he has improved offensively. And of course, he would not start at left back if his defense was not elite. So we are casually witnessing an extremely well-rounded player being born. Mind you, he is 21.

Frenkie and Olmo also deserve their flowers. The triangle in the midfield is absolutely deadly. They dictate the tempo of the game. They could just pass the ball between themselves and the other team would have virtually no chance of scoring.

And as always, thank you, Hansi Flick, for whatever it is you did to this team because they look Treble ready.

[nekrosdolly]

what kind of cigarettes do y'all think Albert would smoke be honest...

let's factor in his age- when he died in 2009 he was 49 years old, so he was born in 1960 (HELP HE'S AS OLD AS MY DAD) and grew up in the 70's and 80's. like most people during that time period, he probably started young (if the umbrella researchers allowed it like imagine teen albert wesker being a rebel and smoking inside???) and got what was available ( probably swiped some from unsuspecting scientists)

the most popular brand in the 80's was marlboro- if you've never smoked a cigarette, marlboro reds have a kick to them, but they're a good beginner cigarette (golds are my favorites, they're the easiest to smoke imo but also kinda spendy... they taste better than reds, iykyk). when i think of albert i think of blues and blue-adjacent things i.e. a pack of blue menthol or the r.p.d. uniform (can you tell which iteration i like best?). not to mention he's probably been smoking for a while (he's a gilf) so he's upgraded from the normal size cigarettes to 100's or 120's- most likely 100's

tldr; albert smokes marlboro blue menthol 100's.

i just think he's neat...

[bublinko]

BACK IN OUR SHOP:

Lana Del Rey 2 stickers pack cigarette inspired

[grote5querie]

the  mouth  of  the  bottle  kisses  against  his  lips   —   one  of  many  he’s  tipped  back  tonight.    he  could  blame  the  booze  for  the  way  he  freezes  her  out,     but  they  both  know  better.    enzo  laikos  was  just  born  this  way.  one  moment,    a  fire   —   a  roaring  blaze  ready  to  consume  anything  or  anyone  in  his  path.     the  next,    cold  enough  to  rival  the  sharpest  arctic  wind.     his  eyes  are  empty  as  he  sets  his  beer  down,     casting  camilla  a  look  devoid  of  even  a  flicker  of  warmth.    

‘ how can you say that so easily? ’  / @nitetehrr .

   "one  of  us  got  to."         his  hand  dips  into  the  pocket  of  his  denim  jacket,      fishing  out  a  pack  of  marlboro  reds.     he  slaps  the  underside  of  the  pack  against  his  palm,      gaze  fixed  past  her,      through  her.         "we  gon'  have  a  starin’  contest  now  or  what?"         a  pause.     a  slow  drag  of  air  as  he  lifts  a  cigarette  to  his  lips,           "i  said  get  out."

[jasonmacavoy]

(FINN COLE, CIS MALE, HE/HIM) Oh, is that JASON MACAVOY I heard the TWENTY SEVEN year old is LOYAL. But don’t let that pretty face fool you, they are also HOT HEADED. Makes sense seeing how they are an ENFORCER in the GHOST RIDERS MC gang. penned by ally.

stats.

full name:  jason thomas macavoy  nicknames: jay, jayjay birthday: april 5th age: twenty- seven birthplace: bronx, nyc star sign: ares gender: cis male pronouns: he/him sexuality: heterosexual gang: ghost riders rank: enforcer sargent at arms cover: strip club bouncer and occasional street fighter theme song: habits by mgk

appearance. 

face claim: finn cole hair color: dirty blonde eye color: blue height:  6ft 2in weight: 185lbs build: big, burly, and muscular tattoos: yes, very tom hardy in the warrior scars: many, more scar than skin, each with a story. most notable a stab wound on his left side from the Halloscream event.

family.

mother: Heidi Macavoy, estranged stepfather: Tommy fowler, deceased father: Johnny Brooks, but doesn’t know it siblings: Asher Brooks (33), Vincent Brooks (25, deceased), Maddie Brooks (5) also doesn't know it pets: none

personality. 

positives (+): determined, dauntless, loyal, strong negatives (-): reckless, hot headed, stubborn, uncouth   MBTI: ISTP fears: psssh none dancing & losing the people closest to him element: fire hogwarts house: gryffindor drugs/ alcohol/ smoking: rarely, thinks it throw off his fighting game/ yes/ yes aesthetics: a string of purpling bruises fresh from a fight, a pack of marlboro reds to take the edge off, raw knuckles, broken beer bottles, cigarette smoke, gaping holes in the wall, more scar than skin, & a thick layer of sweat sheathing toned muscles character inpso: tom conlon (warrior), ryan atwood (the oc), will turner (pirates), rip wheeler (yellowstone), billy hope (southpaw), j cody (animal kingdom), johnny lawrence (cobra kai), frank farmer (the bodyguard), jon snow (GoT)

biography.

TW: fighting, death, toxic masculinity

Jason Macavoy came into the world fighting, and he had been fighting ever since. His mother, a struggling fashion designer, had just stepped on set for an athleisure shoot she designed when her first born son barreled into the world with clenched fists and a battle cry that would make his father proud. Not the washed up middleweight champ who couldn’t make it to the hospital on such short notice —the one Jason would grow up calling father— but the one night stand who knocked up Heidi Macavoy all those years ago Growing up in the Bronx Jason was a handful: rambunctious, brimming with unbridled energy, and a temper that would only grow with time. He had trouble learning how to read and was easily set off by a poor test score or an off-handed taunt made by a classmate, landing him in several schoolyard scuffles. By the time Jason was seven, his mother fled to pursue the career and the life she had always dreamed of, leaving Jason in the care of his wayward step-father.  His step-father wasn’t good for much anymore except for drinking and coaching, but Tommy was there and he was the only one who recognized Jason’s potential. He saw that for what his step-son lacked in brains, he made up for in athletics. Young Jason was a natural talent when it came to sports, and Tommy helped channel all his energy and anger into UFC in particular. He bloomed into a wrestling prodigy at the local public school. His determination was feral, and the boy wanted nothing more than to prove himself worthy of his mother’s love, one victory he’d never be able to manage. As Jason’s athletic abilities continued to grow, so did his competitive edge and hot temper that continued to get him into trouble on and off the mat. During a championship tournament of his professional career, Jason had made a spectacle allowing a foul to the boy’s side to ignite a wrath in him he didn’t even know he had. He went wild, shouting and swearing at the referee for the unfair call before striking him and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. He was disqualified from competition and barred from the league.  Not long after Jason was banned from competition, his step-father succumbed to the bottle while his mother still wanted nothing to do with him. More lost than ever Jason turned to underground street fighting to get his fix. It was then Jason found the Ghost Riders or rather they found him smack in the middle of a bar brawl at the tender age of seventeen. Young and hungry for a place that could appreciate and refine his raw potential, Jason pledged his loyalty to the Ghost Riders in exchange for covering up a bar fight gone wrong. More info HERE He now works as a bouncer at a strip club and has spent the last ten years with Ghost Riders, becoming one of their most loyal enforcers and fighters, growing more and more accustomed to the gritty underground lifestyle, the brawls, the arguments, the booze. His step-father’s voice in his head had never been more clear to him: fight.

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[scarsrcmain]

(FINN COLE, CIS MAN, HE/HIM) They say the city never forgets a name and JASON MACAVOY is no testament to that. The TWENTY-EIGHT-year-old has carved out their place in NYC’s underbelly. On the surface, they’re all LOYAL, smooth moves and sharp eyes. But dig a little deeper and you’ll find something far more dangerous, HOT-HEADED, with no hesitation and even less remorse. They move through the streets like they own them, wearing the colors of the GHOST RIDERS and running the game as an ENFORCER. Some say they’ve always been here. Others swear something changed. Either way, they’re not just part of the story. They’re rewriting it.

stats.

full name:  jason thomas macavoy  nicknames: jay, jayjay, mac birthday: april 5th age: twenty- eight  birthplace: bronx, new york (south side) star sign: ares gender: cis male pronouns: he/him sexuality: heterosexual gang affiliation: ghost riders mc rank: enforcer cover:  bouncer at peach pit & an occasional street fighter when the money gets tight, one day he will open his own fighting gym I swear.  theme song: warrior by bonez

physical. 

face claim: finn cole hair color: dirty blonde eye color: icy blue height:  6ft 2in weight: 200lbs build: big, burly, and muscular, very tom hardy in the warrior  tattoos: yes, similar to my tommy boy above plus a greek mythology one I need to think about further, probably achilles (he's a secret little mythology nerd). scars: very many, more scar than skin, each with a story. most notable a large, thick stab wound on his left side, got into it with a tbd gang member. hair style: typically keeps it short 

family.

mother: heidi macavoy, estranged stepfather: tommy fowler, deceased father: ma never mentioned him  siblings: tba pets: none

personality. 

positives (+): determined, dauntless, loyal, strong negatives (-): reckless, hot headed, stubborn, uncouth   MBTI: ISTP fears: psssh none dancing & losing the people closest to him element: fire hogwarts house: gryffindor drugs/ alcohol/ smoking: rarely, thinks it throw off his fighting game, fighting is his high / yes/ yes aesthetics: a string of purpling bruises fresh from a fight, a pack of marlboro reds to take the edge off, raw knuckles, broken beer bottles, cigarette smoke clouding a room, gaping holes in the wall, more scar than skin, thick layer of sweat sheathing toned muscles & the ol’ 1, 2 straight to the dome. character inpso: tom conlon (warrior), ryan atwood (the oc), will turner (pirates), rip wheeler (yellowstone), j cody (animal kingdom), johnny lawrence (cobra kai), frank farmer (the bodyguard), jon snow (GoT)

biography.

TW: fighting, death, alcohol toxic masculinity Jason Macavoy came into the world fighting, and he had been fighting ever since. His mother, an aspiring model, had just stepped foot on set when her first born son barreled into the world with clenched fists and a battle cry that would make his father proud. Not the washed up middleweight champ who rushed over to the hospital on such short notice —the one Jason would grow up calling father— but the one night stand who knocked up Heidi Macavoy all those years ago.  Growing up in the Bronx Jason was a handful: rambunctious, brimming with unbridled energy, and a temper that would only grow with time. He had trouble learning how to read and was easily set off by a poor test score or an off-handed taunt made by a classmate, landing him in several schoolyard scuffles. By the time Jason was five, his mother fled to pursue the career and the life she had always dreamed of, leaving Jason in the care of his wayward step-father.  His step-father wasn’t good for much anymore except for drinking and coaching, but Tommy was there and he was the only one who recognized Jason’s potential. He saw that for what his step-son lacked in brains, he made up for in athletic prowess. Young Jason was a natural talent when it came to fighting, and Tommy helped channel all his energy and anger into MMA in particular. He bloomed into a fighting prodigy and Tommy helped him get into all the right fights. His determination was feral, and the boy wanted nothing more than to prove himself worthy of his mother’s love, one victory he’d never be able to manage.  By the time Jason was 16, he became the youngest fighter in MMA history to secure a UFC contract. He was said to have the best left hook since Connor McGregor and was called a “child prodigy” by many in the fighting world. But as Jason’s athletic abilities continued to grow, so did his competitive edge and hot temper that continued to get him into trouble in and out of the cage. During a championship tournament of his short lived professional career, Jason had made a spectacle, allowing a foul to the boy’s side to ignite a wrath in him he didn’t even know he had. He went wild, shouting and swearing at the referee for the unfair call before striking him and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. He was disqualified from competition and barred from the league before he turned eighteen.   Not long after Jason was banned from competition, his step-father succumbed to the bottle and his mother still wanted nothing to do with him. More lost than ever, Jason turned to underground street fighting to get his fix. It was then Jason found the the Ghost Riders or rather they found him smack in the middle of a bar brawl at the tender age of seventeen. Young and hungry for a place that could appreciate and refine his raw potential, Jason was recruited by the crew in exchange for covering up the aftermath of the fight, a member of a now rival gang (tbd) dying by his hand.  He now works as a bouncer at Peach Pit and has spent the last eleven years with Ghost Riders, becoming one of their most loyal enforcers and fighters, growing more and more accustomed to the gritty underground lifestyle, the brawls, the arguments, the booze. His step-father’s voice in his head had never been more clear to him: fight.

headcanons.

Jason is a simple guy with simple needs, especially when it comes to technology. He currently uses a refurbished Nokia 3310 phone with a T9 keypad, hence why he texts like a 12 year old. That said, Jay would much rather call someone than text and rarely uses social media. He does have an instagram account that was made for him against his will by his ex girlfriend, and he pops on to like the occasional photo every now and again. Basically, he’s an old soul at heart and if he has to talk to someone he’d rather do it in person not behind a screen. Would have thrived in the 90s.

Jason rarely ever talks about his short professional career in the MMA and denies that he misses it, but the excitement in his voice when he watches a match on TV betrays him every. damn. time. So naturally hand to hand combat and brute force is his preferred method of taking care of business. His fighting style in the field is to defend and disarm first but isn’t afraid take someone out if it’s necessary. Knows all the pressure points and how to put someone to sleep and his left hook is in fact deadly.

He’s not a complete moron and knows you can’t bring fists to a gun fight and is very capable with a weapon should he need it. His Glock 17 is always tucked beneath his waist ban wherever he goes.

He has absolutely no love for traitors and snitches, and he sure as all hell believes they get deserve whatever the hell is coming to them. To him, it’s a crime far worse than murder and nothing pisses him off more than deceit on that level. Go against his pack, and you better run.

Jason is a pool shark. His step-father taught him when he was a kid. Every Wednesday night they’d go to Foley’s Bar to play and Tommy would used Jason to hustle customers. Sure, he had essentially taken a kid to the bar with him and it was to keep him distracted while the man drank, but those are some of Jay’s most cherished memories with him.

Rare, but when Jason is drunk enough he can low-key rap along to the best of ‘em. Get Rich or Die Tryin was the first CD he ever bought nicked from the corner store and for better or for worse, he knows every single word of that album by heart.

Christina Aguilera stan. The Dirrty music video did something to his pre-teen brain chemistry & he wasn’t the same since. He totally had her poster hanging in his bedroom growing up, even took it with him when he moved out.

Jason owns a Ducati and a 1990 Camaro IROC Z. Both in his favorite color, red. The Camaro was his step-father’s before he died which he inherited and fixed it up himself. He’s super handy. The Ducati was his first big boy purchase after making some extra cash. They are both his prized possessions. Will call the Camaro his baby and no one is allowed to drive it other than himself. 

Always has a pack of Marlboro’s Reds in his back pocket and turns one upside down whenever he opens a fresh pack because someone once told him that if you made it to the last cigarette in your pack it meant you lived another day. Whether he shares or not, remains to be seen.

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[chuuyaposting]

The government is putting chemicals in the cigarettes to make me crave them!!!!! The batteries in my bop it died as soon as I turned gay. The year was 1998, my grandma said Christ is king my mama said Nuh-Uh, so she became a stripper and thats where she met my dad. And then when I was born, my bop it fell out the womb with me along with a pack of Marlboro Red 100's. My mom was a smoker and I inherited the gene is all. The Bop It was my God given gift. So are these Massive Honkers... just kidding! I inherited the need to get a boob job gene from my mama. So anyway, the beer money... yeah, my mama took that too. Hate that bitch hashtag hate that bitch #HateThatBitch