#and now that so much for stardust is out...

[softforsukuna]

Chrome & Curses

I am sleep deprived, used all my brain power on college assignments and this rn is the best i can do. i present biker! sukuna x fae(?) reader. no one knows if shes human, even i dont. fluff/crack fic.

tw: a corpse i think(is this even a tw)

word count: at least 3

• ──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──── •

Sukuna had seen things. Cursed spirits, bloodied battlegrounds, the inside of a man’s skull (twice). Nothing shocked him anymore.

Until you.

He spotted you while speeding down the winding road outside the city, the scent of smoke and iron in his nose. You were in the middle of the lane, squinting at a squirrel like it was revealing the secrets of the universe. Your dress looked like it was made from tablecloths and stardust. Your hair was tangled in wildflowers. And your socks had clouds on them. Clouds.

He swerved hard, tire screaming against asphalt, stopping inches away from you. Helmet off, eyes blazing, tattoos writhing slightly with leftover rage — he was ready to unleash hell.

You tilted your head. “Oh. Are you a fire spirit?”

“…What?”

“Because you’ve got the vibe.”

He didn’t reply. Mostly because he was silently recalibrating his entire reality.

You introduced yourself like you were at a garden tea party, not nearly roadkill. And then you reached out and gently touched one of his tattoos like it was a butterfly, gasping in delight. “Ooooh, this one’s angry. Do they all have names?”

He didn’t punch you. That was the first clue he was in trouble.

Within a week, he’s picked you up from a “moss gathering” expedition, where you accidentally wandered into a biker bar and asked a man twice your size if he was a tree. Sukuna had to break a pool cue in half and growl something vaguely demonic to get you out of there.

You thanked him by putting stickers on his gas tank. (They're still there.)

You baked him cookies you swore were from a family recipe, but he’s 80% sure they were just mushrooms, glitter, and hope. He ate three.

He’s convinced you’re a fae. Not metaphorically. Genuinely. There is no way a human could survive the modern world with the amount of bewildered whimsy you exude. You don’t know what a QR code is. You think gas stations are “tiny spell shops.” Once, you offered a cop a pinecone “in trade.”

And yet…

He’s smitten. Not the slow, creeping kind. The crash-into-you-at-100-km/h kind.

Sukuna now:

* Teaches you how crosswalks work like a grumpy jungle guide.

* Hangs crystal charms from his handlebars because “they keep your aura clear.”

* Absolutely murders anyone who so much as looks at you sideways, then scowls as you hand the corpse a flower crown “for their next life.”

* Rides out to weird groves and forgotten shrines because you said the “trees there whisper funny.”

You, in turn, believe in him. Entirely. Without hesitation. You pat his terrifying tattoos like they're shy kittens. You call his curses “his little friends.” You talk to his bike like it’s alive (he’s starting to suspect… maybe it is, now).

One night, as you both sit by a campfire in the woods — you humming to the stars, him sharpening a blade for “reasons” — you curl up in his lap, tiny and warm, and murmur sleepily:

“You’re not so scary. I think you’re just… a thundercloud who forgot how to rain.”

And that’s the moment Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, Toppled God of Wrath and Leather, realizes:

He’s doomed.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[wzrd-wheezes]

Bless the Telephone - Remus Lupin x Reader

AN - I had so much fun writing this and would be so down for writing a part 2 if anyone is interested. I know this is a bit of a slow burn haha. Also can you tell I love making up fictional british places lol

Warnings: None so far. Just cute, slightly awkward fluff. 1.8k words

Remus had torn his room apart. The drawers on his dresser hung open, one hanging off of its track. His wardrobe was half-emptied, jumpers and jackets flung over the armchair haphazardly. Records were everywhere, strewn around the floor like casualties in his increasingly desperate search. Remus stood in the middle of it all with his hands on his hips and his jaw clenched. 

“That bastard.” He muttered under his breath, “The absolute liberties he takes. Of all the records he could’ve taken...”  

He used his foot to shift a discarded T-Rex album to the side and marched over to the phone. Snatched up from its holder, Remus held the receiver to his ear after quickly dialing Sirius’s number. He tapped his foot impatiently as it rang and as soon as the call connected, he launched into his accusation. 

“You absolute git! I’m not your personal record shop you know? You’re actually supposed to ask before you borrow something. Let alone steal my Zeppelin album that I got last week-”  

“Hello?” A voice interrupted, soft, unfamiliar and definitely not Sirius. 

Remus stopped mid rant, “Er - hello? Sirius?” 

“Nope. Sorry. Think you’ve got the wrong number.” 

“Oh.” he glanced down at the phone in his hands and frowned. There was a short pause and the girl at the end of the line laughed. 

“Zeppelin, though? That’s criminal. You ought to get better friends.” 

He let out a sheepish chuckle, “Yeah. Friends, eh? Who’d have ‘em?” 

“I know the feeling,” She replied, “My friend borrowed my Bowie album a few weeks ago and swears she doesn’t know where it is. I can’t decide if it’s too dramatic to file a police report.” She laughed. 

“Really?” Remus sat up slightly, interest piqued, “Which album?” 

“Hunky Dory. I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive her actually – it's my favourite one.” 

“You prefer Hunky Dory over Ziggy Stardust?” 

“Of course. You don’t?” 

“Nah. I’m Ziggy through and through.” 

“Blasphemy.” she said, mock-serious. The laugh that followed was even better the second time round. It lingered and so did the silence afterwards. 

Remus hesitated for a moment, “Er-right. Sorry for the accidental yelling. Didn’t mean for you to get caught in the crossfire.” 

“Oh.” she sounded almost disappointed, “Don’t apologise – it was nice actually. I don’t often get to talk music.” 

“Really?” Remus sat up a little, holding the receiver between his ear and his shoulder. 

“Yeah. None of my mates are into good music really. That’s why I lent my friend that Bowie album. Regretted it immediately.” 

“Still ‘looking for it?’” Remus teased. 

“Apparently.” she said dryly, “Clearly we need to choose our friends more carefully.” 

“Tell me about it.” he smiled. 

“I’m Y/N by the way.” 

“Remus. Nice to meet you – even if it was fueled by Zeppelin related rage.” 

“Honesty,” she said, “it’s the most exciting phone call I’ve had all week.” 

He chuckled, “That’s a bit tragic, isn’t it?” 

“Only slightly,” she said, and he could tell that she was grinning, “You’re not calling from too far are you?” 

“Crowhurst estate.” Remus answered, “You?” 

“Ouch. Rough.” she scoffed teasingly. 

“You’re not far away then?” 

“Mossway.” 

“Oh, and you’re calling Crowhurst rough? My mate got mugged in Mossway at 11 in the morning.” 

“Someone’s got to keep the local crime statistics interesting.” 

“Good to know that you lot are doing your bit.” he laughed, “God, I still can’t believe you prefer Hunky Dory over Ziggy Stardust.” 

“Get over it.” 

“I should hang up right now!”  

“But you haven’t.” she said bluntly. 

Remus leaned back against his pillow and smiled at the ceiling, “Nah, I haven’t.” 

“If this was a film you’d be telling me that it was fate that you called me instead of your mate. Or maybe, it would cut to a montage of us writing letters back and forth.” 

“I hope not. I’ve got terrible handwriting. I don’t even have stamps.” He could feel the blush spreading to his cheeks and he didn’t know why. 

“Scrap that for an idea then.” 

“Why would we write letters? That’s the reason they invented phones isn’t it?” 

“Probably.” she said, “You can call me again, if you like.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Only if you promise not to yell at me again.” 

“Only will if you tell me about any more of your controversial music opinions.” 

“I suppose I can live with that.” 

She gave him her number shortly after. Remus wrote it down on the corner of an old envelope, the pen barely working, leaving half formed loops and indentations in the paper. It was only two digits different to Sirius’s.  

When he hung up, he tucked the scrap of paper into his wallet and just sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, surrounded by the wreckage of his earlier tantrum. However, the frustration had gone out of him now. 

Sirius returned the album in the end. Two days later and with a pack of cigarettes on top as an apology. He could have kept it for all Remus cared.

Remus didn’t call her right away. He thought about it. Between his breaks at work. At the pub. Standing in the queue at the chippy. He would find himself thinking about her. Imagining what she looked like or what her other favourite albums were. 

He wondered if she’d expect him to call or if she regretted giving him her number. Or if she gave it out often. He wasn’t sure why he cared. 

On Friday night, he told Sirius and James that he wasn’t feeling well and stayed at home while they went to the pub. It was a lie, of course. He sat on the floor by his bed, back against the mattress and his wallet laying open in his lap. His thumb traced the edge of the envelope where her phone number was. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he dialed.  

She answered on the third ring. 

“Hello?” 

Remus didn’t answer right away, his fingers shook a little as he held the receiver to his ear. 

“It’s me.” he said finally. Uselessly. 

“It’s about time.” she said lightly. He let out a breath that he had been holding for too long and rested his head against the edge of his bed. 

The second phone call didn’t have the same underlying awkwardness as their first. It unfolded slowly. The talked music again, naturally. Trading favourite songs and obscure b-sides.  

He found out more about her that time. She told him that her dad used to work in the factory nearby but got laid off recently. That she had her own flat above a shop and the windows didn’t shut properly. That she kept her records stored under her bed so that they were close to her. 

She asked him if Crowhurst was really as rough as people said. Remus told her that it had its charm and that the off license stayed open late and that the old lady next door to him leaves biscuits out for the birds even though the local kids always nick them. He told her about the quiet parts with the rusted swings that hadn’t been fixed in years and how he drank his tea with way too much sugar. 

None of it was important, but it meant something. Remus didn’t want the phone call to ever end. 

When they finally said goodnight, long past midnight, he stayed sitting there with the receiver still in hand as the dial tone hummed softly. 

He called her again on Sunday just to ask what she thought about the new Pink Floyd single. She picked up on the second ring and told him that she liked it. They talked about more than music that time. Y/N liked to read just as he did and she told him about her favourite books with the promise that he could borrow them one day. 

More calls followed. Not every day, but most. Almost always late at night and came with the cruel consequence of Remus being tired at work the next day. It was all worth it though, for the shared laughs and the soft murmur of her voice at the other end of the line. 

It was a grey Saturday. Overcast, cold and damp in a way that felt like it crept under your skin. The pavement was still wet from the morning’s rain t and Remus’s boots splashed in the puddles as he wandered.  

He ended up at the record shop. His usual haunt for when he had nothing else to do and some spare cash that burned a hole in his pocket. The bell above the door gave its usual tired jingle as he stepped inside. 

Routinely, he headed straight to the back to a crate of half-filled discounted LPs. If he was lucky, he would sometimes find a decent album for just over a quid with the only issue being a damaged sleeve. Today, a couple were water-damaged and looked warped beyond salvation. Still, he flicked through them without urgency.  

He had just picked up a battered Fleetwood Mac album when he heard her voice. He jumped so harshly that the record slipped from his fingers and fell back into the box. 

“Oh, come on! If you’re going to charge full price for an album I’d expect it not to skip half way through Lady Stardust.” 

It came from across the shop, easy, dry and unmistakably hers.  

Remus spun around to get a better look at her. She was standing at the front of the shop, shoulders hunched against the cold as she thrust the Bowie album towards the owner behind the till. Eventually, she huffed and turned around walking towards the shelves to the left of her and caught Remus looking at her in the process. 

“That’s karma,” Remus said, before he could stop himself, “For saying you prefer Hunky Dory over Ziggy Stardust.” 

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before her mouth dropped open in surprise.  

“Someone kept going on about how good it was so I thought I’d give it another listen,” She grinned, “You’re not going to yell at me again, are you?” 

Remus shook his head, suddenly shy, “Nah, not this time.” 

“I imagined this differently. You know, meeting you properly.” 

“You didn’t imagine meeting me while standing next to a box of discounted Bee Gees records?” he tugged down the sleeves of his jumper nervously. 

“Can’t say I did.” 

“Well, colour me surprised.” 

“I didn’t think you would actually call that second time.” She added softly. 

“Didn’t think you would pick up to be honest.” 

Another moment passed and people moved around them, flicking through records with the soft hiss of vinyl shifting in crates. 

“I’m glad you called.” 

Remus felt the heat rise to his cheeks as she smiled at him.  

“I’m glad you picked up.”  

[adrianmasri]

The mood seemed to shift for whatever reason — or maybe she just wanted to toy with him. He watched her then. No, she certainly was, full stop. Perhaps she had caught scent of his rather justified attraction towards her. In this bar, after all? It was the kind of bar where she could crouch and groan and shuffle her way through the shift, and she'd still appear to be flitting around like an angel with stardust at the tips of her fingers for most. He knew then, as she dragged her gaze across his front and leaned in, he knew that she knew that he found her to be one of the best things he'd laid his eyes on since he'd arrived, and for that, she was toying with him. He stayed still, his eyes remaining on her own, as they didn't dare look anywhere else. He could smell her scent, something of perfume, clean laundry, and top-shelf booze. Was that her discernment too? His cologne and the fresh rum on his lips. It made it hard to swallow, having her this close to him — a stranger, but a sight for sore eyes, nonetheless, and this close, he could see that her eyes weren't brown, but rather slow, dripping amber. She was right. Her remark about being in-between, but even so, it was a broad catch-all in his mind, and he smirked, "Isn't that just life?" He mused, blinking, finding himself finally with the courage to look down at her lips briefly, "Aren't we all just somewhere in-between? You, me," He looked around, "Them." And then he looked back at her, realizing she'd moved back to her bottle and her shot glass, "To exist is to innately be halfway." He shrugged, "... But even that might be a little too existential for just a drink at a bar."

Much to his surprise, the shot glass was slung his way, filled to just the amount where not a drop spilled loose. Ever so contained. He picked it up and lifted it in her direction briefly, before downing it. A grimace briefly crossed his countenance, as he'd never been one for shots. Guess he was now. Or at the very least, in this moment. 'If you make it to Supernova and survive the bass drop, then I’ll give you something you can cry about'. The remark made him smirk, amused by the banter she seemed to crave giving out, at least in his direction tonight. It occurred to him that rather than him opening up, she had done so instead. The melodramatic 'ache'. He wasn't sure what she meant. It could've been several things, none of it his business. Not yet. He figured he'd see her again after this encounter, something told him at least that was true. "And what happens when you get sick of the noise? Or when it stops suddenly?" he quiered, trying to make sense of it. There were always moments of quiet. In bed at night, waking up in the morning, the corner of the busy party, the walk from your car to the door. Quiet. All quiet.

He shook his head, his tone matching hers, "Neither. I'm just here. And soon I'll be there, and so on." He told her, pulling his wallet out to leave a twenty-dollar bill in his place, "I'll go ahead and close my tab, Bex." Her name. "And maybe I'll see you at Supernova."

Her smile curled slow and wicked, like cigarette smoke over a flame — not quite a threat, not quite a welcome, but something in between. She didn’t blink when he called a timeout, just tilted her head and let him talk, the edge of amusement tugging at her mouth. That smirk stayed, even as her eyes swept over him again, slower this time — not flirtation, not yet, just curiosity sharpened into something deliberate. “You don’t have to choose,” she said finally, voice low and dry like the air right before a storm. “Insulted or flattered — both can be true. That’s kind of my specialty, actually. Hitting that sweet spot between charm and chaos.” She leaned forward just a little, close enough for him to catch the scent of bourbon and something faintly smoky — maybe her perfume, maybe just Shooters itself clinging to her skin. Her forearms rested on the bar, a bar towel clenched loosely in one hand like she’d forgotten it was even there. “And no,” she added, “I don’t do this with everyone. Most of the regulars? I barely do more than grunt in their direction. No offense to the guy passed out in the corner over there, but he peaked in '98 and hasn't shut up about it since.” Her gaze flicked toward the back of the bar, toward the aging regulars who practically lived in those stools, before cutting back to Adrian with pointed clarity. “But you? You walked in like you were waiting for someone to notice you weren’t from around here. Sat like you’re not sure if this is a beginning or a stopover. That kind of in-between? I know it when I see it.” She didn’t apologize for the observation. Just let it hang in the air, like the hum of a jukebox between songs. Then came his comment — I doubt you’d ever look like hell — and something in her eyes softened, but didn’t lose its edge. “Flattery,” she said, almost to herself. “Dangerous game, stranger. I might start thinking you’ve got good taste.” She pulled the bottle back toward her and poured another shot, this time sliding it across the bar to him. Her fingers tapped the rim of the glass before letting go. “You’re right, though. I’m not from here either. Still figuring it out. This bar barely knows my name, and I work here.” She shrugged one shoulder, casual, but it was the kind of casual that had been practiced into muscle memory. “But I’m not in a rush. I’ve got time. A little chaos. Some noise.” Her gaze lingered on him when he mentioned the flyer — his tease about backhanded compliments — and that grin returned, this time warmer. “Backhanded? Please. That was a kindness,” she deadpanned. “If you make it to Supernova and survive the bass drop, then I’ll give you something you can cry about.” Then, softer — not tender, but true. “You said it yourself. I talk like I know the noise. That’s ‘cause I do. Spent years trying to drown out my own head with it. And somewhere along the way, I realized it wasn’t about escape. It was about resonance. Finding something that hit the same frequency as the ache.” She took another shot, slower this time, like the burn was familiar — a grounding ritual more than a relief. “So no, I haven’t found peace or whatever shit people chase. But I found sound. I found volume. That’ll hold me for now.” Then she cocked her head again, watching him. Really watching. “So what about you? You just passing through? Or are you the kind of lost that’s looking for something to get lost in?” Her voice held no judgment — just challenge. And under the hum of Shooters, the question settled between them like a match waiting to be struck.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

S, as a fellow fall out boy enjoyer, i gotta admit I started tearing up at work today bc "sunshine riptide" came on my playlist and i started thinking about stucky and got sad

Idk why i just thought you might relate

Eyyy, good to know, lol 🤙🏻 because you are not the only one! Stucky and Fall Out Boy hit a spot in me that is pure weakness.

I don't even have my own attention You say, "Please don't ever change," but you Don't like me the way I am, the sign says "Don't you tap the glass," but I read it in reverse: "eht pat uoy t'nod syas ngis ehT" The world tried to burn all the mercy out of me, but you know I wouldn't let it, it tried to teach me the hard way, I can't forget it Driving down the coast again The pills are kicking in, the pills are kicking in She said, "I love you 'til I don't" I am just playing house, no idea what I'm doing now There are no atheists in foxholes The pressure's getting to me, it's time to throw in the towel 'Cause I'm stuck in the sunshine riptide Dancing all alone in the morning light The sunshine riptide You came back like a wave when I was feeling alright, the sunshine Call me Oluwaburna, I fell in love, but I didn't fall down Them say me nah normal, drink Hennessy, me nah drink water Make me stumble pon me Air Jordan Ain't no slowing down, know I keep it rolling now Smoking in my fuckin' brain, passing through my fuckin' mind Feel like I'm bulletproof, bulletproof, baby With the sun shining through, got the blunt and the juice, cruise Ridin' through the The sunshine riptide Dancing all alone in the morning light The sunshine riptide You came back like a wave when I was feeling alright Sun, sun, sun Sun, sun, sun (I-I'm stuck in...) Sun, sun, sun Sun, sun You are my truest feeling yet I love you so much, it's just like oxygen And it's going to my head A public meltdown, petulant, but irreverent Take all your possibilities then take away the limits Take your ideas and throw away all the gimmicks I do the best with what I have The pills are kicking in, the pills are kicking in 'Cause I'm stuck in the sunshine riptide Dancing all alone in the morning light The sunshine riptide (The sunshine) You came back like a wave when I was feeling al- (-right) I'm stuck in the sunshine riptide Dancing all alone in the morning light The sunshine riptide (The sunshine) You came back like a wave when I was feeling al- (-right) Sun, sun, sun Sun, sun, sun (I-I'm stuck in...) Sun, sun, sun Sun, sun (I-I'm stuck in...)

I mean... come on. Yeah. Just, YEAH.

Don't like me the way I am, the sign says "Don't you tap the glass," but I read it in reverse: "eht pat uoy t'nod syas ngis ehT"

That part is just Bucky. Being imprisoned like a zoo animal in a cage behind a glass barrier, reading the sigh from the inside out so it seems to be reversed and everything is backward and confusing and you don't understand.

The world tried to burn all the mercy out of me, but you know I wouldn't let it, it tried to teach me the hard way, I can't forget it

That part screams Steve to me. It is definitely Bucky, too. But Steve. Being bullied growing up, continually knocked down, but always standing up. He always sees the good in people, no matter what. (Bucky, too, he's been tortured and beaten and made into a machine, but he's a hero. He doesn't want to hurt people.)

You are my truest feeling yet, I love you so much, it's just like oxygen And it's going to my head

S-T-U-C-K-Y

Sunshine riptide

The overarching sun and ocean theme, of course! I can see either of them, Bucky or Steve, as either in the titular pairing, depending on how you look at it. Come with me:

You would obviously expect Steve to be the sunshine with his blonde hair and golden persona as Captain America, God's righteous man, with Bucky following as the riptide. Bucky's churning blue-grey eyes like ocean depths, his body and morals pulled on by HYDRA like the moon tugs the seas, unrelenting, so deeply ingrained it feels inevitable at times. But... Steve's resolve can be like white water surf, unexpectedly strong, a current that comes back again and again no matter how many times it bashes against hard rock at the shore, waiting forever for the seemingly unchangeable to change and doing just that. Bucky can be like the sun with his tanned skin, the way the summer light warms his hair to more of a honey brown than dark chocolate. His smiles when he's happy. His charm, and how welcoming and easy people can find him.

It comes down to the age-old debate I suppose, lol, which, between Steve and Bucky, is the grumpy one and which one is the sunshiny one? Depends on the era and flavor of stucky, I suppose.

There's so much more I could pick out of this song, but that's where I'll stop for now before I completely talk your ear off, haha.

P.S. Sunshine Riptide isn't the only Mania song that guts me by reminding me of stucky, Bishops Knife Trick also makes me lose it.

(Me and @into-a-ship-or-2)

[ohplasticheart]

I got love in my heart, so let's sneak in from the cheap seats, honey And we'll drive until the engine just gives up

[thekidsarentalright]

‼️ attention all fall out boy fans ‼️

the time has come again for the fourth annual fob census! please feel free to fill out this form before january 14th to have your opinions counted, and consider reblogging this post to spread the word about it! thank you! <3

‼️ EDIT: the census is now closed!! thank you so much to everyone who responded, the results will be posted in a week (january 21st)!!

[roscoe-me-and-this-fuckin-kid]

patrick stump is so funny he literally said that his main regret around mania was that they didn't go farther with it because if people were gonna be bitches about it, might as well give 'em something to bitch about

[sleevesareforlosers]

[ID. Three pictures of a square Fall Out Boy-themed quilt hung on a fence. The front is the smiley/frowny face logo from So Much (For) Stardust, with a black half that is frowning and the white half smiling. The background is also a black/white split, inverted from the logo. It is quilted with a black and white variegated thread in a spiral around the logo, and hand quilting within the logo reads "What would you trade the pain for?" in black or white thread to blend in. The back of the quilt is made up of different shades and prints of purple fabric in a gemlike quarter square triangle pattern. The quilt is bound in alternating black and white. In order, the photos show the quilt's front, back, and a close up of the front with a corner folded up to show the back. End ID.]

[robertaaron]

LUNATIC OF A GOD OR A GOD OF A LUNATIC

[cake-chad]

Me, enjoying the return of my favourite campaign, knowing something like season one couldn't have kept going on in the same way, pleased that they found a way to pivot away from the heavy grief filled topics that it was heading towards, and that the entire cast is happy about the changes they've made

[amaliatheartist]

What is there between us, if not a little annihilation?

[marblerose-rue]

attack for @/pi_peeppeep_pi (art fight) !!!

[qoldenskies]

im gonna give it like 2 months for caged lungs to sit before i start rambling about the motifs/metaphors/foreshadowing i put there if nobody else ends up doing it. ive been like holding myself back and i went as hard as i could on some of the little details... itll be a christmas present to myself

[ohplasticheart]

Tell me when the party ends Will you still love who I am?

[thekidsarentalright]

TO WHATEVER YOU NEED ME

[roscoe-me-and-this-fuckin-kid]

driftin' from the start i ripped myself apart i'll be whatever you need me to be you need me to be i cut myself down cut myself down to whatever you need me to be, you need me to be driftin' from the start, i ripped myself apart i'll be whatever you need me to be, you need me to be i cut myself down, cut myself down to whatever you need me-