#Chuck Platinum

[mrjellybeanz]

Multi Award-Winning Mega Producer Chuck Platinum Releases 'Beats In The Attic Volume Two'

Chuck Platinum, a multi-award-winning producer, DJ, Hip Hop artist, audio engineer, and radio personality, presents his latest project, Beats In The Attic Volume Two.’ Presented by Ayanna Records/Empire, the 10-track album hits heavy with boom-bap headnodders (without sounding dated), contemporary melodies and tones, and trendy tropes. No two tracks are the same as this ear-pleasing kaleidoscope…

[zombie-the-derg]

i much prefer JJBA's writing style of battles of intelligence rather than battles of power that most animes seem to use. but sometimes. it gets a little silly Joseph: "Jotaro quick there's a blind guy using his water stand to attack us, he detects us via sound and can detect us if we walk on the sand! We need to do something!" Jotaro for no fucking reason at all: "fuck this stupid dog"

[mjfs-heat-seeker]

“I’m the best wrestler alive, I’d freaking kill you”

🤝

“nobody kicks out of the falcon arrow!”

[textpostmemespksp]

Meme #700 Happy day 700! :D 👯‍♀️🎉

(Image description in ALT text, original images below the cut!) 

[servicpop]

flowers for a little someone ♡ valentines special callahan ( detective oc ) x bttm m reader

NSFW⠀ⓘ⠀you're on house arrest but in his house , alastair (oc) mention , choking , degradation , phone call interruption , i wanted to make this freaky for valentines . . . so slightly cringey

Walking into his office on Valentines day was like if a mortuary celebrated Halloween; completely out of place for what they did. Red banners were haphazardly thrown over the walls and windows. The decorations had little to no cohesion, just oddly placed in the hopes it represented Valentines enough for people to notice and move on.

Callahan pushed through and ducked underneath ribbons and lace dangling from the ceiling to get to his office. It was a reserved space just for him—previously a small library room—in an attempt to persuade him to stay with the agency.

Sinking down on his slightly worn office chair, Callahan sighed, circling his temples with his index finger as he tried to soothe the oncoming headache. Seeing all the hearts and blindingly vibrant decorations made his head reel more than it already was. Red was a harsh, headache-inducing color, though he didn't particularly mind the soft pink elements of the cupid posters and occasional lace.

Before he could get up to brew himself a morning cup of black coffee, three sharp knocks were delivered to the door of his office. Callahan didn't even move and the man was already walking inside.

“Flowers for you sir,” A man with platinum dyed hair with a dark undercut and silver rimmed glasses chimed in with a bundle of roses in his right arm. He pushed his glasses up his nose bridge before striding over to Callahan's table and placing them down on the wood.

“From who...?” Callahan eyed the officer with a narrowed look.

“Not sure. A blonde lady if I saw correctly,” Alastair shrugged, reaching over to flip the card attached to the bouquet towards Callahan's prying eyes. It had a woman he's never heard the name of before neatly scribbled on it.

“Right,” Callahan curtly nodded, glaring down at the bunch of roses carefully placed together by a commissioned florist. The petals had a sultry red color, encased with black paper to deepen the natural tint of the flower. Tulips would've been better, or perhaps peonies in a gentle pastel.

“It's fitting,” Alastair smiles, “It's all dark and brooding—just like you.” He's waving his hands around like he's physically picturing and comparing Callahan with the roses. When he doesn't reply, Alastair flashes a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck as he speaks up for the silence, “No? Too much? Okay.” He backs up to the door and slips out without further conversation.

Callahan stares back down at the flowers; he had no use for it, though one thought stopped him from chucking the roses out into the trash.

Walking out of his office, he spotted Alastair again, casually chatting with a co-worker of his with a cup of milky coffee in his palms. With everyone in the building, Alastair was the one man who would drop his work in a futile attempt to impress his superior. And Callahan planned to use that.

“I'm taking my break early today, if anyone needs me, don't call; I won't pick up.”

Callahan had to brace himself for a second, pushing the door of his home open before scanning the open area for any signs of the little thief he had locked down in house arrest. He found you calmly nestled within the fortress of the pillows and blankets you'd pulled from his closets, on the couch with a cheesy 2000's Valentines movie playing.

He had to suppress the urge to call out 'I'm home,' since it was instinct to do so when someone else was home. You weren't meant to be his roommate let alone a friend. You were a criminal he'd swore to keep his eyes on.

His footsteps were heavy—a sign that he had come home if you couldn't hear the door unlock—as he loomed over the back of the couch, staring down at the crown of your head.

“Enjoy.” He tossed the bouquet of roses onto your blanketed lap carelessly, watching as you bring it up into your hands to get a better look at it. There's a strange feeling in his gut seeing you appreciate something he's brought home, like a cat hauling a dead rat onto its owner's porch. He'd only play it off as accomplishment to giving something a better use. Nothing more than that.

“It's pretty.” He can hear the smile in your voice and it pushes him to roll his eyes. “Thought you didn't like red roses though.” You tilt your head back to look at him, but you're met with narrowed eyes and a slight scowl to his face.

“I don't. That's why I gave them to you,” he scoffed, circling the couch before taking a seat a few pillows away from you.

“Why'd you come home so early?” You turn your attention away from the movie to him, gauging his reaction.

The question struck him like lightning, and his whole body tensed up. There was no other reason why he came home early than to give you the flowers, to see your facial expression change from the most insignificant gesture—in his eyes.

“You ask too many questions, brat,” He sighed, relaxing his body into the comfort of the couch as he spread his arms across the back, just shy of reaching you. His gaze is fixed straight before a slight rustling catches his attention.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see you look up at him, then back down to the roses, then back up again to flutter your eyelashes. His eyebrows knit together as he tries to decipher your looks before it dawns on him.

“Fuck, fine, I'll let it slide just 'cause its Valentines day.” He groans as he snatches the bouquet from your hands and treads toward his bedroom door, expecting you to follow him.

Callahan's got you laying flat on your stomach while he's standing on the edge of the bed between your parted legs. Both of your clothes discarded onto the floor, rumpled from the rough handling. He leans over your body to reach over the neglected bouquet to the side of you on his bed.

Callahan's fingers hook under the perfectly tied ribbon, undoing it with a simple movement. The flowers fall apart on his bed, scattering as the ribbon holding them together comes undone.

His palm slides under your chin, lifting your head up as he folds the red satin over your nape and around to the front column of your throat. His hands are surprisingly experienced with tying a bow, securing it just above your Adam's apple.

“This romantic enough for you?” He bites out, fingers curling along the ribbon at the back of your neck before he tugs at it. It strains against your neck, forcing your head to tilt back.

“You've got rose petals, a nice house to stay in, a pretty ribbon around your neck, and a fucking great guy to take care of you.” It's a sarcastic jab at himself, knowing how he's defying all his moral codes just for you—and it doesn't feel wrong at all.

He holds you there, observing how you just take it with no complaints, and that scarily turns him on more than he'd want to admit.

Callahan finally releases you, letting you catch your breath for about one good second before he's stuffing himself into you, sliding his thick ridge past that tight ring of muscle. He groans like he's restraining himself from liking it as his hand instinctively grips the ribbon—not pulling it yet.

He's holding you like he's gripping a saddle, and he plans to ride out his high for tonight.

He leans over your back just slightly to drag himself—even if just a centimetre more—deeper as he pushes until his own body slaps against yours. Callahan can feel you fluttering around him, stretching and adapting to his girth as he gently rocks himself forward to speed up the process.

When he assumes you've adapted enough, Callahan pulls out just enough that his tip is still keeping your hole stretched and open for him. He leans back to get a good view of your body connecting with his, gripping and groping the plush flesh of the back of your thighs before he spits on his dick and shoves it back into you.

The sudden intrusion has you yelping into the pillow, nails clawing at his pure white sheets, threatening to rake scratch marks all over them.

He pounds into you, the slick sound of lube and his spit mixing together while he's fucking an imprint into your walls. You feel every thick vein pulsing with need and it makes your legs tremble with each thrust.

“Don't act like you haven't been sleeping around like this before I caught you,” he grunted, giving you a sharp tug to the band around your neck. “But shit if those bastards aren't lucky,” you can't pick up what he's muttering under his breath from the obscene sound of wet slapping and creaking.

You'd protest if you're teeth weren't clamped down around the fluff of Callahan's pillow. The constant slide of his girth dragging along your walls makes you squirm like its ticklish.

Your neck is lightly throbbing from the pressure of the ribbon, but it's in a way that's sickly enjoyable. Not to mention your own cock is rubbing against Callahan's sheets, adding to the mind-numbing stimulation.

“You're quiet today. Where's that mouthy boy I know?” He says it as if he's gently cooing to a dog or a pet, but to you, its a sardonic mock. Callahan grips the satin like a rein, jerking your head up to let all those filthy noises spill from your lips.

His balls draw heavy with the burden of pleasure seeing you arched so much alike to a cat. One hand grips the spot where your waist meets you hips, and he digs his fingers deep enough for crescents to form. With the way you're whining out in esctasy, it tells him that he's found your prostate, and he's actively bumping it every time he thrusts.

There's a sharp vibrating sound that comes from Callahan's phone on the night stand and his screen lights up blue with the words 'Glasses police officer' on it. Callahan mentally curses out that son of a bitch, especially since he was explicit when asking him not to call.

“What?” He growls out into the phone, slotting it between his ear and a hiked up shoulder as he continues to roll his hips back and forth into you. He hears your whine and how you're turning your head to look back at him but he just pushes your face back down, not wanting to deal with your dejected look because he's diverting the tiniest bit of attention away from you.

“When are you coming back to work? You've got a few important paperwork you need to fill out,” Alastair's voice was like nails on a chalkboard right now, especially when that static sound coming from his phone was drowning out your cute moans.

“Do you think doing this will make me want to come back?”

“No... But sir I—”

Callahan's mind is pulled away from the phone call for a minute as he discries the small trembling of your torso, and how eagerly you're pushing back against him like you're trying to encourage him deeper.

“He's about to cum,” He voices his thoughts shamelessly to the officer on the other line, “I'm not coming back 'till tomorrow.”

There's an air of silence from Alastair's part before he speaks up with a flustered and almost out of breath voice, “He's– Who? What—?”

Before anymore questions were thrown at Callahan, he hangs up and tosses his phone to a random corner of the bed, turning his full attention to you. More so to the slight jolting movements you're doing and the breathless and elonged moan you're sobbing into the pillow.

“Jesus christ,” He draws out; the sharp shock of his orgasm comes without warning from watching you lose yourself, and he's overbrimming you with his pleasure. No matter how hard you're squirming or twitching, Callahan holds you down with his hands, pushing down at your neck and the base of your spine, keeping you still as he pumps his generation into you.

Callahan pushes his hair back as he lets out a content sigh—as content as he could physically make himself sound.

“Who was that?” Your voice was so small and hoarse it almost made Callahan feel bad for making you scream your lungs out. Almost.

“Just go to sleep, I don't need your jealous whining,” he huffed, carefully taking off the ribbon from your neck and absent-mindedly rubbing your neck to soothe the pain he inflicted out of instinct.

You held your tongue just so he wouldn't notice he was doing it.

a / n ; hopefully this wasn't too freaky . . . m'not good at hard-core stuff T T , divider credits ��> @/roseraris

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Nelly - Hot in Herre 2002

"Hot in Herre" is a song by American rapper Nelly, released as the lead single from his second album Nellyville (2002). It was written by Nelly, Charles Brown, and the producers the Neptunes. It features additional vocals by former labelmate Dani Stevenson and incorporates Chuck Brown's 1979 single "Bustin' Loose".

On April 15, 2002, "Hot in Herre" received over 760,000 streams on AOL Music's First Listen feature following its debut, setting a record for the website. The song was the inaugural winner of the Grammy Award for Best Male Rap Solo Performance at the 45th Annual Grammy Awards on February 23, 2003. In 2008, it was ranked number 36 on VH1's "100 Greatest Songs of Hip Hop". The song became Nelly's first number one hit on the US Billboard Hot 100 and in Canada. It peaked at number four in the UK and reached the top 10 in several other international markets. The song was number three on the Billboard Year-End Hot 100 Singles Chart for 2002.

Nellyville debuted at the top of the US Billboard 200. It remained at number one for four non-consecutive weeks and was eventually certified six-times platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) for shipments of over six million equivalent-units in sales, which allowed Nellyville to become Nelly's second number-one, multi-platinum, and top-10 album in the US following his debut album Country Grammar in 2000. As of March 16, 2011, Nellyville sold 6,488,000 copies in the US, and it became the 14th best-selling rap album of all time. Internationally, it peaked at number two on the album charts in the UK, Australia, Canada, Germany, and New Zealand.

"Hot in Herre" received a total of 74,2% yes votes!

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceres CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Polyamory Gone Wrong: Toxic Relationships, Emotional Abuse, Pregnancy Body Horror, Gaslighting, Infidelity, Isolation, Unhealthy Relationships. Previous Chapter 1: Home Is Just a Place You Leave (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 2: Collateral Void

The night air felt cool, brushing softly against your skin as you sat at the dining table, fingers flying across the laptop keyboard. The faint glow of the screen illuminated your focused expression, but the peace was short-lived.

“Boring! Though what kind of work is it? Can I help?” Gojo drawled dramatically, suddenly appearing behind you. Before you could react, his long fingers darted over the keyboard. “What’s this? Spreadsheets? Bleh. Delete. Delete. Delete.”

“Satoru!” You shrieked, smacking his hands away as he howled with laughter, stumbling back like a kid who’d just set off fireworks in a schoolyard. “This is quarterly projections; it’s a highly important document people worked hard on!”

“Oh, come on, you’re working too hard,” he teased, leaning down with his hands on the back of your chair. “Work-life balance, baby. You need more Gojo in your life.”

“I need less Gojo in my life,” you muttered, shoving him off.

The bedroom door slammed open with enough force to rattle the walls. Nanami stormed in like a man possessed, holding up a fractured piece of pottery that looked both ancient and priceless. You recognized it immediately—the Kintsugi Haniwa, a beautifully restored clay figure you’d given him years ago, a piece Nanami revered as a testament to tradition and resilience.

“Satoru!” Nanami said through gritted teeth, his voice low and vibrating with barely restrained rage. “Care to explain why I found this”—he held the artifact higher for emphasis—“chucked under the bedside table?”

Gojo froze mid-smirk, his expression slipping for the first time. “Oh. That—that’s weird. Who would—?”

“You broke it and hid it there!” Nanami growled, keeping the artifact aside, the accusation dripping with certainty.

“Hid is such a strong word,” Gojo replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I simply relocated it.”

“To the floor?” Nanami darted towards Gojo, voice raising with each word, veins practically bulging at his temple.

Gojo sidestepped next to you, standing you up and using you as a human shield. “Look, Nanamin, accidents happen! Why don’t we focus on forgiveness instead of anger?”

The three of you were circling the dining table like children playing a game of tag—except one of those children was trying to commit murder. Gojo kept darting behind you for cover, his grin only widening as Nanami’s rage escalated.

Nanami’s glare sharpened, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm monotone. “First, it was the trimmers. Now this.”

Gojo perked up, suddenly smug. “How do you even know it was me? Maybe she used your trimmer.” He pointed a long, accusatory finger at you.

You stared at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. “Are you serious?!”

Nanami didn’t even glance your way; his focus stayed zeroed in on Gojo. “Because you are the only one with grandma hair.”

Gojo gasped, clutching his chest like Nanami had physically stabbed him. “Grandma hair?!”

“It’s white, isn’t it?” Nanami said flatly, unbothered, still trying to grab him.

“Excuse you,” Gojo sputtered, sidestepping Nanami and pointing wildly at his own head. “This is platinum perfection. It’s fashion-forward. It’s—it’s a statement.”

“It’s hereditary decay,” Nanami shot back, not giving up the chase.

You snorted, unable to hold back the laughter as Gojo gaped at both of you in utter betrayal, holding you close to his chest by your waist, trying to block Nanami. “You’re both ganging up on me. This is domestic abuse!”

Nanami’s scowl deepened. “Don't change the topic, Satoru!”

Gojo shrugged innocently. “Hey, at least I cleaned it.”

Nanami’s nostrils flared. “Cleaned it?”

Gojo’s grin turned nervous as he added, “Well, you look mad, so I guess not entirely...”

Nanami lunged forward. “You left all your hair on it! What do you even use my trimmers to trim, because you sure as hell can’t grow facial hair, you manchild!”

“You know what I shave!” Gojo called back, then squealed in delight and bolted, dragging you along.

You froze mid-breath, horror washing over you as the implication hit. “Gojo, do you have a death wish?!”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his eye practically twitching with it as his seething glare intensified. “You shaved your fucking balls with my facial trimmers?!!” He spoke low, advancing like a storm cloud as Gojo circled the table, “Then had the audacity to leave it dirty with your… your gross hair for me to find! Like you are a cat offering me dead animal!?!!”

Gojo darted as Nanami chased him with murder in his eyes. The three of you continued circling the dining table in a chaotic frenzy, Gojo skidding across the floor in his socks, cackling like a lunatic.

“We have exchanged so many bodily fluids, and this is where you draw the line?” Gojo mocked, ducking under Nanami’s arm.

“Disgusting!” Nanami barked, seething as he pointed an accusing finger at Gojo. “I swear to God, Satoru, you are the bane of my existence!”

“But you love me,” Gojo teased, skidding to a stop so suddenly that you stumbled into Nanami. Nanami caught you easily, steadying you with one hand, but nearly crashed into Gojo, his eyes blazing with fury.

“Apologize!” You shouted, stepping between them before Nanami could strangle him.

Gojo huffed dramatically, tossing his head to the side like a diva. “Fine, fine. I’m sorry, Nanamin. Truce?”

Nanami grumbled under his breath, clearly unsatisfied. But before he could say anything else, Gojo grabbed his face, leaned in and kissed him square on the mouth.

Nanami’s entire body froze, his eyes going wide.

“There,” Gojo said smugly, pulling back with a grin. “Divorce dodged! Yay!”

You stared at them, caught between amusement and disbelief. It felt perfect—so perfect you almost wanted to cry. The laughter, the banter, the way they made you feel seen and cared for. You soaked in the moment, memorizing every detail—Gojo’s messy white hair, Nanami’s steadying touch, the golden light filtering through the lamps, casting everything in a soft, warm glow.

“Go ahead, ignore me,” you said jokingly, crossing your arms. “I’m clearly the third wheel here.”

Except they did.

The lights flickered.

Your smile faltered as you blinked, realizing they weren’t paying attention to you anymore. Gojo had grabbed Nanami again, pulling him closer. Their voices dropped into hushed murmurs, unintelligible and distant. You opened your mouth to say something, but they didn’t respond. They were kissing again. Fully.

And they were across the table now, far away—too far.

“Guys?” you said, laughing nervously. But the sound was thin, swallowed by the sudden heaviness in the room.

Gojo’s face blurred at the edges, his features smeared like wet paint dragged by careless fingers. Nanami’s figure was rigid, his face unreadable as shadows pooled at his feet, darker than they should have been. The air shifted—heavy, oppressive—pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake.

“Hello?” You tried again, louder this time. Your voice cracked slightly.

Nothing.

They didn’t turn toward you, didn’t even flinch. They were consumed with each other, as though you weren’t even there. The shadows stretched further now, creeping into the corners of the room like black ink spilling across the floor.

“Stop it,” you said, your tone sharper, though a pit began to form in your stomach. Their forms were blurring further, warping. The golden light dimmed, turning sickly and cold. The dining room, once warm and filled with laughter, twisted into something unfamiliar—something wrong.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from us,” Nanami said, suddenly turning to you. His voice was hollow, devoid of the calm warmth it usually carried. The words sent a chill crawling up your spine.

“What?” Your gaze darted between them, your chest tightening. “What are you talking about?”

Gojo’s head snapped toward you with unnatural speed, his blindfold gone. His six eyes glowed horribly bright, the light of them reflecting like mirrors in the dark. His smile was gone, replaced by something jagged and cruel, something inhuman.

“You didn’t think we’d find out?” he said softly. There was no teasing in his tone, no charm—just an edge of menace. “About them?”

“Them?” you echoed, the word barely escaping your lips. Nanami stepped closer now, his movements slow, deliberate. His face was shrouded in shadow, his features obscured like they were melting into the dark.

“The twins,” Gojo said, the word cutting through the room like a blade.

Your breath hitched as Nanami advanced, the shadows around him crawling along the floor, reaching for you like grasping hands.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” you whispered, instinctively wrapping your arms around your stomach. Your pulse roared in your ears as the room tilted, the walls pressing inward, suffocating you.

“We have to take them,” Nanami said, still moving towards you, his voice distorted, as though it came from deep underwater.

Gojo smiled again, moving towards you, his grin splitting unnaturally wide, the corners of his mouth stretching just a little too far. “We can’t let them live. You know that, sweetheart.”

“No! They’re mine,” you choked out, stumbling backward, your arms tightening protectively around yourself. The table between you seemed to shrink, leaving you exposed as they advanced.

“You can’t keep them from us,” they said in unison, softly, the words curling through the air like smoke.

“Stop!” you screamed, but their forms warped, dark shapes spilling into the edges of your vision. The shadows surged forward, hands reaching—

You jolted awake in the chair with a sharp gasp, your body trembling violently as you shot upright. The room was dark again, save for the faint glow of a screen. Your breathing came in ragged bursts, your pulse thundering as you clutched your stomach, feeling the reassuring movements beneath your palms.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

The laptop sat open in front of you, the spreadsheet forgotten, the cursor blinking insistently in the silence. The apartment was quiet, but the echoes of their voices lingered, a whisper in the back of your mind—a threat you couldn’t shake.

The shadows felt darker now.

“They’re mine,” you whispered shakily, curling in on yourself. “They’re mine.”

Weeks had passed.

You had buried yourself in a new country with the same job because you couldn’t abandon the business you had painstakingly built alone, with your blood, sweat, and tears. It was all you had left of yourself—the last thing tethering you to who you used to be. You ensured no one could access your personal information, locking it away like a fortress. Still, you felt like a ghost, drifting through a life where no one knew your name, where no one could see the haunting memories that followed you.

Your days were a blur of meetings, phone calls, and paperwork. You let go of every luxury, stripped yourself down to the bare essentials—as if even the smallest indulgence might give them a clue, might allow them to trace you. Not that they would. Your days were spent in a tiny apartment that didn’t even feel like a home. The walls were too close, the air too still, and the silence stretched on like a second skin. It wasn’t a home. It was a box—cold, cramped, and indifferent—where you ate alone, worked alone, and slept in fits and starts, the hours fractured by dreams you couldn’t escape.

The nights were the hardest.

Alone in a foreign city, you lay twisted with pain, your body betraying you in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your skin felt stretched too thin, muscles aching like they were being pulled apart, reshaped against your will. The babies—their babies, no! your babies—grew inside you, alien things that contorted you from the inside out. Every sharp twinge of pain felt unnatural, every shift of movement a cruel reminder of what they had left behind. You couldn’t help but wonder if your body might rip open entirely, split down the seams. The changes weren’t normal. Your bones creaked and groaned under the weight of something you couldn’t understand, your body remaking itself to accommodate children who were never supposed to be here.

You worked through it. You worked through everything. The nausea that made your hands tremble. The exhaustion that dragged your eyelids shut. The cold sweat that drenched your skin as the babies pushed against you, growing and moving with a purpose that felt wrong. It was all wrong. But still, you sat hunched over documents and contracts, your vision blurring until your eyes burned, pushing through the pain until the lines of text no longer made sense. Anything to keep the memories at bay.

But they crept in anyway.

Gojo’s laughter. That unmistakable, infectious sound that could fill a room with light. It used to be enough to pull you out of your darkest thoughts, but now it echoed like a cruel reminder of what was lost. Nanami’s quiet, steady presence haunted you too—those rare moments when his stoic mask cracked, when the tenderness beneath the weight of his quiet sorrow slipped through. The fleeting seconds when everything had felt right, when you believed you were loved, when the world seemed like it could wait just a little longer.

Those moments were gone, but they still haunted you. They slipped through the cracks when you least expected it, invading the silence, invading the cold. The life you had left behind wouldn’t let you forget.

You had traded one form of isolation for another.

But at least this one was on your terms. At least now, you were alone because you chose to be. You weren’t the woman who had thrown everything away for them, not anymore. That woman was gone.

Your old phone, now completely untraceable, stayed on out of morbid curiosity. You didn’t know why. Maybe you wanted to see how long it would take for them to notice you were gone. If they ever would. Maybe they were happy you were out of the picture. Maybe your absence was a relief. You kept a new phone for work, clean and also untraceable, and refused to check their social media. You couldn’t bear to.

//

Back in Japan

It started with the ring.

The bedroom door slammed open just as the first pale rays of dawn broke across the sky. Gojo stumbled inside first, his uniform coat discarded in the living room next to Nanami’s coat, tie, and their shoes. His pale blue shirt completely untucked and unbuttoned, almost sliding off his shoulders, revealing his toned chest down to his navel. Nanami stumbled after him, his arm wrapped around Gojo’s waist from behind to steady him, his teeth leaving faint, red marks against the back of Gojo’s shoulder blade. Both of them swayed like ships lost at sea, unmoored and directionless. The unmistakable scent of alcohol clung to them—whiskey, gin and tequila, sharp and sour in the still air.

Gojo turned and pressed Nanami against the wall within seconds, his long fingers tangling into Nanami’s hair, lips dragging lazily along his jawline. Nanami’s face was flushed, and he was uncharacteristically pliant, unresisting. His hands drifted to Gojo’s hips, sliding lower, grounding himself through touch.

“Satoru,” Nanami muttered, his voice breathless, strained—a fleeting attempt at lucidity. “Do you know where she is?”

Gojo didn’t pause, his grin sharp against Nanami’s skin as he murmured, biting softly, “‘She’? Who’s she?”

Nanami’s hands tensed at his sides. “Our wife.” His voice broke slightly on the word. “You haven’t seen her?”

Gojo finally pulled back, crystalline eyes hazy and lidded, his blindfold dangling from Nanami’s wrist again like some forgotten relic. “Of course not. I thought you knew where she went.” His smirk faltered only slightly before he dragged and pushed Nanami backward toward the bed. “Don’t ruin the moment. She’s probably on a trip—working hard, being the boss lady we love.”

Nanami let himself fall onto the mattress with a bounce as Gojo straddled him, hands already wandering over his waist. Gojo pressed and rubbed their bulges together, punching a groan out of Nanami, who breathlessly stuttered as he tried to speak again, but Gojo kissed him roughly, stealing his words. It was messy, desperate—a distraction from something neither of them wanted to name. Still, the nagging thought clawed at Nanami’s mind, like a splinter he couldn’t ignore.

“She didn’t tell me,” he muttered, barely audible between gasps, his hands trying to still Gojo’s ass. “Where she was going.”

Gojo paused for half a second, then scoffed, rolling his hips once more as though to smother the thought. “You think she tells me everything? Haha, funny. She always tells you, though.” His words slurred slightly, dismissive.

“That’s not true.” Nanami said while the table beside them jolted as Gojo pushed Nanami further into the mattress, the sharp clink of metal against marble cutting through the room like gunshot.

Making Nanami still instantly.

“What was that?” His voice was low, tight. The haze of lust and alcohol shattered like glass.

Gojo blinked, lifting his head lazily. “Probably your sanity leaving the room,” he muttered.

Nanami ignored him, leaning to the side and shoving the bedside table back with his foot, earning a low scraping sound as it moved. Gojo groaned, trying to tug him back down as he continued assaulting Nanami’s neck and now his shoulders, which peeked through his half-unbuttoned and completely untucked shirt with bites, but Nanami’s focus was elsewhere. He leaned down further, and the room fell silent to him.

There, half-hidden in the dust and shadows, lay a small, glinting band of gold.

Nanami’s fingers shook as he picked it up. The ring cold against his skin, familiar and damning all at once. He stared at it like it might burn him.

It was her ring.

“Satoru,” Nanami said quietly, grabbing Gojo’s jaw with one hand—who had been too busy biting his shoulder to notice—and turned him to face it. His voice was fraying at the edges as he held up the ring, its gleam sharp in the weak dawn light. “What’s this doing here?”

Gojo stared at it for too long. The color drained from his face, the drunken nonchalance slipping further with every second. “She probably took it off,” he said finally, though his voice cracked. He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “You know she gets eczema sometimes… itchy hands, right?”

The words hung in the air, hollow and pitiful. Gojo didn’t believe them any more than Nanami did.

Nanami shook his head slowly, his grip on the ring tightening as his knuckles turned white. “She always wears it when she’s on work trips,” he said, his voice hoarse, brittle. “She says it keeps creeps away.”

Gojo didn’t respond. He just stared, his wide eyes fixed on the small, damning band of gold as though it held all the answers to everything. Nanami didn’t wait for him. He shoved Gojo off and bolted from the room, his bare feet thudding against the floor as he grabbed his phone from his coat in the living room.

“Nanami, wait—” Gojo stumbled after him, still dazed, but Nanami was already swiping through his phone, his thumb moving in quick, frantic motions.

His heart sank.

Her last message to him—the last sign of her—was over six weeks ago.

Six weeks.

Six weeks, and he hadn’t noticed?

Gojo could have been an idiot, but he wasn’t, or so he had always thought.

The color drained from Gojo’s face as he stared at the screen while the realization spread through Nanami’s heart like poison. Without a word, Nanami reached over, his hand dipping into Gojo’s pants' front pocket to pull out his phone. Gojo let him, watching as Nanami unlocked it and scrolled through the messages.

The screen glowed with the same message. The same day. The last day they had heard from her. The day in the drawing room she had begged them to tell her if they loved her.

A chill settled into the room, sinking deep into their bones, heavy and unshakable. Nanami’s hand dropped to his side; the ring, along with the phones, slipped from his fingers and landed with a dull thud on the floor. The silence that followed was choking. Nanami turned to Gojo, his face blank, but his eyes were wide, wild with a horror he couldn’t contain.

Gojo stood frozen, his earlier bravado gone. He looked smaller somehow, his face pale and slack as the weight of what they’d done—what they’d lost—sank in.

“She’s gone,” Nanami whispered, the words barely audible, like a confession he couldn’t bear to say any louder.

“She’s not gone!” Gojo shot back immediately. He laughed—a hollow, desperate sound—as if the act of saying it would make it true. “As I said earlier, she’s probably just... just out. On a work trip. She’ll be back. She always comes back...”

But his voice trembled at the edges, and they both knew the truth now. The ring on the floor gleamed coldly, like evidence of everything they had destroyed—everything they couldn’t take back. Like a final goodbye neither of them had ever thought of.

//

The same night, after too many sleeping pills in your new home on the other side of the world, your vision blurred and your body felt like it was splitting apart; you opened your old phone to look at old pictures. After a few hours it buzzed, and against your better judgment, you looked.

Toru (DNR): “Where are you?”

The message sat there, glaring. Your heart dropped. Another followed seconds later.

Ken (DNR): “We messed up. We apologize. Please. Just tell us you’re okay.”

You threw the phone, your vision swimming in tears, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. After more than six weeks of you leaving, more than six weeks of silence, after everything they had done, now they noticed? Now they cared?

It was too late. You had built walls around yourself now, high and impenetrable. The same walls you’d erected when you had realized, too late, that you weren’t loved—not the way you had been promised. They weren’t even the people you thought they were.

The city’s lights blinked outside your window, distant and indifferent, like the glow of a world that had moved on without you. Somewhere out there, they were searching for you, but you didn’t care anymore. You had traded the ghost of their love for the numbness of being alone in this foreign place.

//

Back in Japan

More days passed.

Their apartment remained frozen, a mausoleum of the life you had left behind. Your old laptop still sat neatly on your desk, untouched and gathering dust. The faint imprint of your body lingered on the couch cushions, as if you might walk in at any moment and collapse there, laughing about how long the work trip had been. But you never would. Not anymore.

Gojo filled the silence with noise. The television blared cartoons he wasn’t watching. Music thumped from his phone, but the songs ended too quickly, leaving the hollow quiet to seep back in like poison. He laughed too loud, talked too fast, his words tumbling out like he could outrun the ache blooming in his chest.

“She’s fine,” he’d say to no one. To Nanami. To himself. “She’s just being dramatic. She’ll come back when she’s ready, when her work is over. She always comes back...”

But at night, when Nanami wasn’t around, when the weight of it all pressed against him like an iron hand, Gojo sat in the dark, the only light spilling in through the half-open blinds. He would pull your favorite blanket off the back of the couch, holding it tightly to his chest. It used to smell like you—that soft, warm scent that made him feel like everything would be okay. It never actually did. He’d bury his face in the fabric anyway, clutching it so tightly his fingers ached, as if he could squeeze the memory of you out of it.

“Stupid blanket,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice cracking. “You were supposed to keep her here.”

The quiet answered him. It always did.

Nanami, on the other hand, threw himself into work. The apartment had become unbearable, the sight of your clothes hanging in the closet like a ghost driving him out into the cold. He buried himself in files, meetings and missions, anything to drown out the sound of your absence echoing through his skull. But no matter how hard he tried, you found him anyway.

It was in the middle of a crowded street crossing that he saw you. For a fleeting second, he froze, his breath catching painfully in his throat. A woman parked a convertible just ahead, her hair falling in the same way yours used to, her jacket a perfect match to the one you bought last winter. He pushed forward, shoving past commuters, his heart pounding like it might tear itself free from his chest.

“Honey,” he breathed when he reached her, only to stop dead when she turned. A stranger’s face stared back at him, startled and confused.

Nanami’s apology was soft, choked. He turned away quickly, gripping the strap of his grocery bag so tightly his knuckles blanched. His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall.

Later, he found himself in your office, the door locked behind him, the room suffocatingly still. The desk was untouched, a fountain pen left on your favorite notebook where you had last placed it, its tip dried out. An old grocery list lay discarded by the mechanical keyboard. Nanami picked it up carefully, his thumb tracing over your handwriting, the curve of each letter searing into his mind.

Vitamins. Sticky Notes. Under-eye serum.

The list was mundane, ordinary, but his hands trembled as he held it. He could almost hear you muttering to yourself as you wrote it, pursing your lip in concentration. His vision blurred, and he sank into your desk chair, his free hand moving to his tie, removing it, then wrapping it around his knuckles, gripping it tightly. The silk bit into his fingers as he pulled, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The silence, the unbearable ache in his ribs—he tried to choke it all down, twisting the tie as though it could hold him together.

But it couldn’t.

He’d often do this now, lock himself in your home office, gripping his tie until his knuckles turned white, as if that could choke the guilt down.

Gojo found him there hours later, the list still crumpled in his hand, his head bowed as though in prayer. Neither of them spoke. Gojo didn’t laugh this time, didn’t tease. He just stood in the doorway, silent and pale, his eyes fixed on the man who had always been stronger than this—who now looked just as broken as Gojo felt.

One night, Nanami arrived home to find Gojo sitting on the floor, facing the wall, staring blankly ahead as though he could see through it. The light from the dim lamp cast faint shadows across his face, carving hollows beneath his eyes, which looked emptier than Nanami had ever seen them.

The silence in the room wrapping itself around Nanami’s throat as he shrugged off his coat. Gojo didn’t move, didn’t even blink, his hands limp in his lap, fingers twitching faintly as though they were searching for something to hold on to. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse, hollow—a broken whisper that felt like it had been ripped from somewhere deep inside him.

“I… I shouldn’t have isolated her that day.” He didn’t look at Nanami, his gaze still fixed on some distant point beyond the wall. “When… I didn’t think about what it would do to her.”

Nanami froze mid-step, eyes sharp as they fell on Gojo. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the city outside. Nanami’s expression hardened, though his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, cold, cutting.

“You think I don’t know that?” His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I know, Gojo. I know exactly what we did to her. How we fucked up. How we forgot about her.”

The words hit Gojo, but he didn’t react. He just let them hang there, sinking into his chest like stones. His lips twitched, a ghost of a self-loathing smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Forgot about her…” he repeated softly.

Nanami didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw tightened, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, too raw to voice. He watched Gojo slump further, his knees drawing up slightly as though he were folding in on himself.

A few nights later, Gojo was sprawled on the couch with a drink in hand, the liquor doing little to numb the ache in his chest. He stared at the ceiling, thoughts racing, spiraling downward into a dark abyss.

“She’s not coming back, is she?” he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, but they landed heavily in the room, a painful truth.

Nanami didn’t answer, but the guilt in his eyes spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of their shared failure.

The memory of you haunted every inch of their apartment. Gojo saw you in the pillow he clutched to his chest at night, pretending it still carried your scent. Nanami heard you in the faint creak of the floorboards as he walked past your office, his hands brushing the edge of the desk you used to sit at. They never said your name. It hurt too much.

“We thought we were protecting her,” Nanami said, voice a quiet rasp as he stared at the empty wall Gojo had been fixated on.

Gojo’s lips twitched faintly, a bitter mockery of a smile. “We thought wrong.”

Neither of them slept at nights. Gojo lay on his side, staring at the window with red-rimmed eyes, while Nanami lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, wearing your ring on one finger—he kept rolling it with his thumb absentmindedly. The silence between them was absolute, filled with everything they had left unsaid.

It was the silence you had lived in for far too long.

They called. They texted. They waited. The apartment stayed quiet. Your things stayed untouched. And the void you left behind grew deeper with every passing day.

//

Five months into your pregnancy, you lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, your body slick with sweat, fingers clawing at the cold tiles for stability. You’d slipped and fallen, your phone nowhere in sight, the apartment eerily quiet except for the harshness of your breath.You didn’t know how long you’d been there—minutes, hours, days—time had lost all meaning. Your stomach roiled violently, muscles clenched in spasms so sharp they stole the air from your lungs. It felt as though your insides were being shredded, your bones splintering and grinding, like they were trying to rearrange themselves to accommodate the impossible.

A guttural gasp tore from your throat as another wave of pain ripped through you. You pressed a trembling palm to your abdomen, feeling the unnatural shift beneath your skin. The twins moved—twisted and writhed in a way no baby should, their forceful movements pressing outward like they were fighting to escape or fighting for space, too strong, too demanding. Your skin stretched tight, painfully taut, burning with the strain of holding them in. It felt like something alive and wrong, something too strong for your fragile human body.

The veins beneath your skin bulged out, an intricate web of blue and purple crisscrossing your stomach like angry rivers about to burst. Your abdomen swelled grotesquely, the skin shiny and thin, and for one terrifying moment, you thought it might tear open entirely. The bones in your hips creaked audibly under the weight, the sound a grotesque whisper that echoed through the silent bathroom. Your spine screamed with every slight shift, vertebrae grinding against each other as though your body was folding into itself, trying to protect you from the inevitable.

Tears slid down your cheeks, hot and bitter, though you barely registered them. It wasn’t just the pain—God, the pain—but the isolation that cut the deepest. You had never felt so utterly alone, so abandoned. Not just by the city you didn’t belong to, but by them. By the men who were supposed to love you. Who should have been here. Your breaths came in short, harsh bursts, the sound bouncing off the tiles, sharp and hollow.

“We don’t need them,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you pressed harder against your stomach, trying to soothe the frantic movements. Your words cracked, brittle and weak. “We don’t.”

But your heart betrayed you, aching in your chest like a wound torn open anew. You could still see them if you closed your eyes—Gojo’s infectious grin, his arms around you as though he could hold the whole world together. Nanami’s steady, grounding presence, his quiet strength that had once made you feel safe. Loved. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to swallow the sob clawing its way up your throat.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they weren’t here, that they had left you alone to bear this. To bear them. Yet, in the silence of that bathroom, the darkness swallowing you whole, you realized you were lying to yourself. You missed them. You missed them so much it hurt.

You blamed it on your hormones, soothing your stomach. It was a miracle you hadn’t fallen in a way that could have hurt the babies. Just then, the twins moved again, a violent lurch that left you gasping, your body arching involuntarily as another jolt of pain seared through you. The sharp pressure pushed against your ribs, a sensation like tiny hands and feet pressing outward, testing the limits of your body. Your skin rippled faintly, the bulge of their movements visible beneath the surface.

You shuddered, your tears mixing with sweat as they dripped down onto the tile. What are you? You wanted to scream, but the words wouldn’t come. The horror of it—the body horror of carrying something so unnatural, so wrong—settled like a stone in your chest. You weren’t sure you could take it anymore.

“Mama will take care of you both,” you whispered shakily, trying to soothe yourself as much as them. Your hand rubbed slow, shaky circles over your stomach. It was the only comfort you had left—this fragile, strange connection. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

And like always, the sensation of their movements softened at the sound of your voice. The pressure beneath your skin eased slightly, the frantic shifting slowing into restless, jerking flutters. It wasn’t much, but it gave you enough space to breathe, to push down the rising panic, to push forward. Your muscles trembled as you moved, dragging yourself toward the bathtub, one hand bracing against the toilet seat for balance. Your body protested, hips throbbing, spine sparking with pain, but you kept going.

“Just a little bit more movement,” you murmured to the twins, coaxing them as though they could hear you. “And Mama will be vertical again. Then we can have some dark chocolate… you know, the one you’ve been craving? The only one both Dadas used to love. We’ll watch…”

The words cut off abruptly as your foot slipped on the damp tile. You gasped, arms flailing, but your body betrayed you. The porcelain edge slamming into your head with a horrible thud.

For a moment, everything was soundless.

A hollow ringing filled your ears, the bathroom blurring around you as your vision dimmed at the edges. The pain in your skull throbbed in time with your heartbeat, sharp and unrelenting. You pressed your palms to your forehead, curling around yourself, trying to shield the twins from the impact.

“No, no, no,” you whimpered, your voice a cracked whisper.

The darkness pulled at you, threatening to drag you under, but you fought it, laying back down to press your forehead to the cold tile. Your breathing was ragged, uneven, your pulse hammering in your ears as you held onto the only thought that mattered.

They are okay.

Your hand pressed against your belly again, searching for the faint, familiar movements beneath your skin. For a horrifying moment, there was nothing. Then, faintly, you felt it—a small, restless flutter. Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and silent, as you curled against the floor, the relief making your limbs weak.

“It’s okay,” you whispered brokenly, as much to yourself as to them. “It’s okay. Mama’s here. Mama’s okay. You will be okay.”

But even as you said it, the weight of everything—the pain, the isolation, the unnatural horror of what was happening to your body—threatened to swallow you whole.

“Hey! Are you okay?” A voice came from nowhere. Deep, rough, like it belonged to someone who had been waiting for this moment. 

You froze, immediately clutching your stomach as the babies shifted again, their movements sharp and jarring. Had they found you already? How could they have known? How could anyone have known? You looked around, panic seizing your chest. The pain from your fall still burned, but the thought of someone being so close made your stomach churn. You clutched your belly tighter, trying to protect them, protect yourself.

“Hey, I know you can hear me. Do you need me to call an ambulance?” The voice was insistent, but there was something else there, a knowing edge to it that sent a chill crawling down your spine.

You noticed that the voice was coming from the wall next to the tub.

“Who’s it?” You managed to ask, gathering what little courage you had left, trying to steady your shaking voice.

“Your neighbor,” the man’s voice said, his tone low, almost a growl. “I’ve seen you around. I think you’re pregnant, right? With twins?”

You blinked, trying to process what he had just said. How could he possibly know that? Your heart skipped a beat. How much did he know?

“How’d you know it’s twins?” you asked, your voice tight, filled with suspicion. This man seemed too aware, too knowledgeable.

“I’m a sorcerer too, like the men’s children you carry,” the man continued, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reverberate in your bones. “Just the one who deserted the hopeless crusade. And well, my technique allows me to sense things like this, but you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t partake in that world anymore. Haven’t in a really long time.”

His words sank in slowly, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe him. His explanation was coherent, his tone calm, almost reassuring. You were too exhausted, too delirious with pain to think clearly. It made sense in your sleep-deprived and pain-addled state.

“I... I can’t go to the hospital,” you whispered, your throat raw. “Could you just help me up?”

There was a pause, a shift in the air. “I’ll help you,” the man said, his voice now excited, or maybe happy, like he was suddenly hyperactive. “But I’ll have to break the door down to get in. I’ll fix it after, with a stronger lock.”

“Sure, no issues.” Beggars couldn’t be choosers. You didn’t have the strength to protest. You were already lost in the fog of exhaustion, pain, and confusion. He was here. He would help you.

Soon the sound of splintering wood echoed through your apartment, followed by the dull thud of heavy footsteps. Each step reverberated like a low drumbeat, slow and deliberate, growing closer until they stopped just outside the bathroom door. The handle turned once, then creaked open with an eerie calm. You felt a chill run through you, something more than the cold air from the cracked window. It wasn’t just the wind that made your skin crawl. There was something wrong about this man, something dangerous. But in your haze, you couldn’t put your finger on it.

You couldn’t even see him at first—your vision swam from the pain, your body sprawled awkwardly on the cold tile floor. The sharp edge of the sink bit into your side as you tried to sit upright, your other trembling hand pressed protectively against your stomach. The air shifted, heavier somehow, like something massive had entered the room. You forced yourself to look up, squinting through the haze.

He stood in the doorway, tall enough that he seemed to block out the light spilling in from the hall. He had to duck slightly to clear the frame, stepping inside with a confidence that bordered on insolence, like he owned the place. He was broad-shouldered, his form looming and imposing, dressed in a loose hoodie that made him look even larger. His face was partially obscured by shadows, but you caught glimpses of sharp, angular features—a jawline carved from stone and eyes, predatory and unreadable.

“Hey, the fall looks nasty.” He said as he crouched slowly, knees bending with a shift of worn jeans fabric as he brought himself down to your level. The movement was unsettlingly fluid for someone so massive. Especially since he was still looming over you like a giant.

Up close, you could see him better—his face was unnervingly smooth for a man who carried himself like he’d lived through hell. His hair was short and faintly disheveled, like he hadn’t cared enough to fix it. You couldn’t tell if he was young or old.

“Your sorcerer's brats…I can feel it. They’re… restless, aren’t they?” He said matter-of-factly, his gaze drifting pointedly to your swollen abdomen.

The words sent a shiver crawling down your spine, and you became hyperaware that you were only in a flimsy nightgown as you protectively clutched your stomach. “How do you know that?” you managed to croak out, your voice trembling.

He shrugged one massive shoulder. “It’s my hobby to know these things.” His tone was mocking, almost bored, but there was an undercurrent of something darker there, something that made your chest tighten. “And you’re in pain far too often, aren’t you?”

You glared at him, eyes narrowing. “You walk around noticing pregnant women?!!”

“No, the service is exclusive to you, princess.” He said, laughing, the sound so loud it was rumbling in your bones.

You flinched as he reached for you, his hand massive, calloused, and littered with faint scars.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed instinctively, curling tighter around your stomach, but the effort sent a fresh wave of pain ripping through your abdomen. You gasped sharply, vision blurring at the edges again.

The man didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch at your outburst. Instead, he studied you with a quiet, unsettling patience, as though deciding something important. Finally, he exhaled, a sound like a low growl, and said, "Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be."

Before you could protest, he scooped you up effortlessly, his arm sliding carefully beneath your knees and back like you weighed negative but also fragile. However, you stiffened, every muscle in your body tensing as he lifted you, the pressure in your abdomen worsening with the shift in gravity.

“Put me down,” you gritted out, struggling weakly against his hold, but he didn’t budge. The grip he had on you was far stronger than anything you could have fought.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered, sounding vaguely amused again. “You can fight me later. For now, shut up and let me help you.”

Your head lolled against his chest, the fight draining from you as the pain surged again. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, and your vision blurred further. You caught the faint scent of him—smoke, faintly metallic, and something almost feral, something wrong that made the hair on your arms stand on end. He didn’t smell like anyone you’d ever met before.

“Why are you helping me?” you murmured weakly, your voice barely above a whisper

His features softened at the question, and when he answered, his tone was quieter, but no less unsettling.

“Because someone should.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning you couldn’t unravel. You blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes, the edges of your consciousness starting to fray as exhaustion tugged at you. He didn’t look down, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression unreadable, but there was something about the way he held you—something deliberate, something protective—that made you believe him, if only for a moment.

The last thing you heard before you drifted into unconsciousness was the sound of his low, rumbling voice, almost to himself.

“You’re tougher than you look, princess.”

And then the darkness swallowed you whole as he lay you on your bed.

The next day you had woken up feeling human again, or as human as you could feel in your human vending machine state. You were cocooned in far warmer blankets that you didn’t own, surrounded by vitamins, pregnancy pain medications, and food in the fridge that you hadn’t ordered. The front door of your apartment was now reinforced, and by the kitchen counter, new keys were attached to a sticky note bearing a name. His name.

A/N: Feel like throwing your phone yet? Good. 🫠 That means I’ve done my job. Now, let’s talk about him. The towering enigma with predator energy who broke into your apartment like it’s a casual Tuesday and called you “princess.” (✿ ͡👁️ ᴗ ͡👁️) WHO IS HE?! Shadowy savior? Bored stalker? Gym bro with too much free time? Is this Toji’s long-lost cousin? Sukuna in a hoodie? Kashimo on his day off? Choso after therapy? Or someone even worse? 😱 Bonus points if you drop “Gakuganji” in the comments for chaos. (╯ ͡❛ ᴗ ͡❛)╯┻━┻ Team Nanami? Team Gojo? Team Mystery Hunk? Or Team ‘Let Reader Nap in Peace’? 🤔 Drop your loyalty, wildest theories, unhinged guesses, and thirst-fueled fan-castings below because this love story is messier than Gojo’s hair on a Monday. Next chapter: Yaga playing babysitter for two emotionally constipated men who need therapy, not bail money, and maybe why Reader deleted her socials. Until then, stop shaving your hoo-ha with someone else’s trimmers—Gojo would 100% snitch to HR. 💅 And if you’re not on the taglist yet, comment below to join the chaos. 😈

Next Chapter 3 - Corporate Warfare: Protocol The Circus of Two (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth

[blue-sadie]

Unpacking

Art Teacher Billy Hargrove x Student Reader x Music Teacher Eddie Munson Series Masterlist Part 5 of the Teachers Pet Series - OG @amber-michaelson Summary: collage can be stressful, and too of your high school teachers stopped by to help you destress Warning: double penetration

Yn/2nd person pov

I dropped the last box with a huff, placing a hand on my back leaning back till i heard the satisfying crack, i looked around the room the one side fill of untidiness of boxes and plastic bags while the other side lay bare 'guess I'm lucky' i shrug my shoulders adjusting my crop top my body tensed hearing someone clear their throat behind me.

I stumbled turning to fast on my feet "h-i hi" i smiled nervously as i pushed hair from my face as my eyes slowly drifted up the man infront of me, he wore black shoes and dress pants, a white button up, he held a clip board and pen, his platinum blonde hair was neatly pushed to the side, "are you Ms l/n" he asked his eyes blue eyes locking to mine.

I nodded my cheeks becoming a rosy pink "well Ms l/n I will be your English professor, I take it upon myself to read up on my students and I think it would benefit you to join my writing club, seeing that you are a writer" he carried his words proudly but had a hint of something else i couldn't describe.

He extended his arm handing me the clipboard that held a list which already was quite full a lot of the names being womans names "looks like your almost full" i glanced up at him as i was signing my name one of the corners of his lips curled up as he looked down stifling his laughter.

"I mean most of them I didn't have to ask" he murmured cockily, my gaze ran up and down the list again, a giggle left my lips seeing the amount of phone numbers and xoxos there were, i handed the clipboard back smiling "looks like you got your work cut out for you" i said a nervous laugh following, he chuckled his eyes locking to mine again, making me feel a weird sensation "well Ms l/n I'll make sure I can handle it" he smirked winking at me before he left.

I released a breath i didn't know i was holding, I bit my lip thinking over the interaction but got disturbed "hey angel" my eyes widened as Eddie stood in my doorway his cocky smile plastered on his face, I quickly ushered him inside and shut the door.

"What the hell are you doing here" I whispered yelled making him laugh as he crashed down on my bed, I opened my door to peer out to see if anyone saw only to come face to face with billy's barely clothed chest "hey baby" he winked, I face palmed as he pushed his way into my dorm giving a knowing nod to eddie who just gave him a goofy wave.

"What are you doing here" i asked for the second time my eyes following billy as he took a seat on the squeaky desk chair "can't we come see our favourite student" he raised his eyebrows grabbing a chip out of the bag i had opened earlier I shook my dead frequently "no no no" i said walking around the room making it a bit more presentable.

"Hiding us from your new teacher are you" I rolled my eyes looking back at Eddie who raised himself on his elbows "he was just introducing himself" i muttered making them burst out laughing 'yeah right' Mr Munson said between laughs my eyes travelled to Eddie hearing a crinkle noise slip from his jacket "what are you carrying" i asked.

He shuffled around taking a small plastic bag out of his jacket chucking it to me, my eyes widened seeing the bag of weed it fell to the floor with a soft thud "what is wrong with you" i gasped quickly kicking it over to billy who picked it up and opened it taking a sniff "that's the good stuff" he murmured I grumbled in disbelief.

"Love do you ever have fun" eddie asked raising himself from the bed and walking towards me his arms wrapping around me bringing me closer to him, his hard on pressing against my thigh "don't you wanna try new things" he lifted his hand to push hair out of my face "to live on the wide side" his voice dwindled as he stared into my eyes as he brought his face closer latching his lips to mine.

Billy came up behind us pressing himself to my back "don't leave me out baby" he said tugged my lips away from eddies and pressing his own against mine, eddie dipped down to my neck, their hands were running up and down my body tugging at my clothing till it was discarded on the floor.

"Your so pretty angel" eddie groaned looking down my body billy's hands grazed my skin as they came around my waist going down to my core, his fingers lightly scraping the soft skin, two of his fingers dipped inside sliding up and down my slight, i closed my eyes tightly leaning my head back against him a soft 'fuck' leaving my lips.

His fingers slipped inside pumping in and out "your still so tight" he breathed lowly his palm working against my clit as his fingers thrusted inside me, my jaw clenched trying to hold back my moans "is someone embarrassed" eddie chuckled his hands grabbing my breasts tugging and squeezing them i shook my head no.

"Then you should let out those pretty moans of yours" Billy said his thrusting fingers fastening, my eyes almost rolling back at the stimulation, eddie pinched my nipples making me let out a moan and the rest just followed "good girl" they groaned, billy pulled out his fingers making me whine and shake.

Mr Munson and Hargrove took off their clothes, their hardened cocks sticking out "jump angel" eddie gripped my thighs hoisting me up his cock entering me as soon as i settled "fuck" i moaned throwing my head back "already using profanities and i haven't even gotten in yet" billy smirked against my skin latching his lips to my neck.

Billy's cock pressed up against me his head slowly pushing in along with eddies, the stretch burned making me groan out, their mouths opened and breathed out in pleasure "holy shit" eddie grunted, their hips started to work their way out and in again.

Their slow thrusts slowly picked up the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room "you ok baby" billy asked but all i could get out was a chocked moan, i felt like a rag doll as they bounced me on their cocks, the stimulation was getting to much for me.

The familiar knot started to form in the pit of my stomach "fuck your tightening up" billy grunted his hands gripping me tighter, the heads of their cocks pulsed with anticipation their eagerness to cum "you about to come baby" i nodded frequently my head flew back against his shoulder as my moans heightened.

My body convulsed and shook as i released around their cocks my muscles clenching as my moans chocked, their pants and grunts ceased as i felt the warm liquid fill me up 'holy fuck' my head draped down my eyes closing in satisfaction.

"You will always be our favourite student and we'll be more than happy to fill you up"

[thestarfishface]

What is something you always wanted to mention but no one asked yet about blorbitos?

I have gotten some questions about something mentioned in my many doodles so I am using this opportunity to talk about The Botched Proposal (mentioned in this post)

SO BASICALLY what happened goes like this:

Verity and Rodin knew each other and were Blacksmith Buddies (TM) for several years pre-adventuring, and started dating once they left town to quest and such. Verity kicked the bucket 2-3 months into Questing, after which the rest of the group spent a few years trying to revive her. Nothing worked* and they eventually gave up.

Rodin, later in life, started building up his political influence, eventually becoming a Very Big Deal and getting the title of Lord. He did end up getting married to a dwarvish woman as part of this, but it was very much a political marriage and it didn't last long bc his (now ex) wife "didn't like playing second fiddle to a dead woman". There's some baggage there. Yikeronis.

Part of dwarvish custom is that you can symbolically pass on titles to the deceased to honor their memory. Rodin wanted Verity to be honored and share his lordly title, so (assuming she was Super Dead And Never Coming Back) he did a post-mortem symbolic marriage to her to pass on his rank and title.

*Turns out, one of their resurrection attempts DID work, it just took 200 years to kick in.

Several decades after marrying her post-mortem, Verity shows up, unexpected and very much alive, on Rodin's doorstep. And he has to explain all that to her. It is awkward as hell.

The Most Awkward Proposal In The World happened not long after Rodin explained all this to her. He was super flustered and defensive and told her he would NEVER have gone through with what he did if he had known she was going to come back someday, and says that they can get the marriage annulled. Verity DOES like Rodin, but marriage was a bit much, and she needed some time to waffle over her feelings. There was A Quest she and the current party had to go do and she said they'd talk when she got back.

So she gets back after the quest a day or two later and goes up to his room to talk things over. She manages to surprise him and, as she walks in, sees him chuck something shiny across the room. There's some awkward stammering conversation wherein Rodin understands if she wants to get the marriage annulled, and has already had the paperwork drawn up- all she has to do is sign it. BUT if she thinks she DOES want to keep the marriage, he wants to propose for real. With some fancy engagement jewelry he has already made. And threw across the room in surprise when she came in. So. That's. Awkward.

Verity says she still cares about him but things are real awkward and weird now and she needs time to adjust and figure out her feelings. She likes him, but marriage is too much too fast. Rodin is disappointed but understands (he's just grateful she doesn't hate him after All That), then manages to... exit the conversation by leaving the room and skedaddling away. Despite the fact that they were in his private quarters when they had this conversation. So he just. Left her. In his own room. As a way to escape the awkward convo. (Cue Mira and Willow's ghosts screaeeeaaaaaming, not that anyone can hear them.)

Anyway Verity was nosy and went digging for the jewelry after he left and found out it was a platinum and amethyst armband. Very pretty and matched the crystal of her horns. She ends up leaving it on his desk.

And thus begins The Situationship (and many many divorced jokes).

[cuprohastes]

Interplanetary Showdown

Boswigd was, to put it lightly, under a lot of stress.

He'd competed for the last 12 years: Local, national, international, and Intercolonial... and finally he'd won the coveted Palladium Arc.

Something to be proud of — The literal greatest competition hunting stick wielder his entire species was able to find. None better.

And to be fair, if he'd quit then, he'd have been quite able to say that he'd reached the top and was quite entitled to step away.

But there were the Inter-species games.

And some of his opponents were... amateur by his people's standards. And then there were a few who were really putting in the effort but, he felt that they weren't an issue.

Maybe one in a hundred of the species here could compete with him. Less. One in four hundred? Who knew!

And then there was the fucking Human.

These guys! They didn't even look like they could stand up straight without something going wrong — Only the most basic of depth perception, no echolocation.

And yet… And yet, Boswigd was looking at losing to one.

His head covering was wiry and like black moss, his skin was ludicrously dark — Boswigd has thought it was oil or paint, but no, that's just how he looked, and he was walking around in just... cloth.

Plant fibre cloth!

Boswigd had full shock pad gloves, and impact dampeners, high contrast filter lenses, grip impactor boots, joint braces, fleximesh clothing that reduced drag to nearly nothing… every advantage allowed by the rules.

And the Human had a t-shirt, shorts and some rdidiculous foot contraption made of foam held on by two loops of worn plastic.

And this ridiculous ludicrous figure had just walked up to the line, stared vaguely into the distance and whipped a regulation hunting stick through the air with near perfection, scoring heartbreakingly well.

Then to keep things fun, with no special event gear, just grabbed the damn thing out of the air on it's return.

So yes. Stressful.

And because the Universe hated Boswigd, his hunting stick delaminated on his first throw, peeling apart and fluttering pathetically.

"Ey mate, tough luck." came a soft voice. Boswigd looked around to see his opponent, come to gloat and needle him, no doubt.

Boswigd could have cried.

But hten the human flipped his hunting stick around, and offered it over.

"It's a good stick, give 'er a chuck, ey?" the human said.

Boswigd stared then very carefully took the hunting stick, flipped it over, checked it. He looked over to the judges, who signalled that he could proceed.

He stepped up: And in a moment of calm he'd never experienced before threw the best he'd ever done: The stick coruscating as it caught the light, slipping through the air like it was alive: Through the first ring, the scond ring - Fractions of a length frem dead centre, arcing around, zipping through the last two rings, an 11.1 score already rolling up. Boswigd caught the stick purely on reflex with a fluid and thoughtless ease that bought him up to...

A perfect 12.

Boswigd had beaten the Human with his own stick, won Palladium, and was going home a legend.

Then... A thought. The Human... he was going to claim Boswigd's achievement - After all he'd used the Human's stick. He'd tell everyone that Boswigd only threw that well because the Human helped.

But no!

The Human was cheering him. "Bloody good throw!" he yelled, cheering as loud as the crowd.

He was still celebrating when they gave him the Platinum medal instead of the Palladium - And he shook hands with the Gold, Silver and Copper contenders, congratulating them on how far they'd come.

Boswigd was at a loss: The human lost but...?

"Ah the Humans." said Andruf, a Tsin, later in the accommodation hall. Andruf, who hadn't even made Silver. "Even if they don't win, they're proud to have taken part. They call it... Good Sportsperson-ing? You beat them, and they want to celebrate you for it. Funny little guys. It's a point of pride that if you deserved the win, they absolutely will defend your right to it."

Boswigd looked down at the hunting stick. Somehow, it meant more to him than the medal. A medal he'd take home, but in his soul, a tiny flicker of goodness and worthiness that was just as precious, put there by the human he'd beaten.

OK this is clearly about the Olympics with the Silver Medalist winner Yusuf Dikeç: Who is actually a seasoned soldier who shoots with both eyes open as his preferred style. Which is why he didn't use an eyepatch or a light reducing ring. He could have worn the same gear as everyone else. And yes, currently he's probably one of the top shooters in the world : No 2 out of hundreds of thousands of competitive shooters - So y'know. Amazing!

[landon-presley]

Landon stumbled back into Serena's place in a cloud of rowdiness and aggression, his friends trailing behind him with raucous laughter echoing in the hallway making sure he got there safely. He slammed doors and knocked into furniture. He made his way over to Serena, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. Standing in the doorway with a cocky smirk, he ran his fingers through his platinum blonde curly hair, pushing it away from his face with a careless gesture. "Babe," he said, extinguishing his spliff by pressing it into the door frame, his voice slurred with intoxication. "Babe!" He called again trying to get her attention. Landon picked up one of her books chucking it in her direction. "Fucking listen to me, babe ! "

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Chapter Twenty-Six

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Thank y'all for your patience with me for these chapters. I hope it makes up for the anguish I put you through for the past couple ones. XD

Chapter Warnings: Tooth rooting fluff

The trek back to your rooms was a slow one. Your head was pounding, and your ribs ached; your steps slightly shuffled as you used the wall for support. The carpeted floor felt like it was moving underneath your feet as if you were on a ship sailing for moons across the Narrow Sea.

It was difficult to sneak past the guards this time, making maladroit movements that stirred a profound nausea within you. Your blood pounded in your ears, the consistent beating of your heart causing your balance to teeter on the brink of collapsing. It seemed like the journey would never end, and when you felt your body could no longer take it, you forced your limbs to move—traversing across the courtyards of the Keep and into a deserted entrance to Maegor's Holdfast.

Your knees wobbled, bracing yourself against the stone wall so as not to collapse. Examining your surroundings, you saw the familiar paintings and tapestries of your room's corridor, the guard still fast asleep outside. Your nails dug into the cracks, pushing yourself off as you looked for a distraction.

It was easy enough to sneak past the Gold Cloak before, but now, with the constant thumping in your skull and sluggish movements, you feared the guards would discover you. If it took another hour, you would find a way to rid the man of his position. You looked at a vase parallel to your position. Your steps staggered as you grabbed it.

Hiding within a shadowed alcove, you chucked the pottery as far as your muscles could, hearing the guard start awake and run to the noise. You moved past him as quickly as your limbs allowed, your breath coming out in ragged pants as you flung open the doors to your chambers. You rested your body against the wood, finding comfort in the sturdy material that never bent or bowed, no matter its weight.

You began to undress yourself, slowly untying the knot at your waist as your breathing settled into small puffs from your nose. Turning haphazardly and throwing the article onto a chair, you're greeted with cropped silver hair bathing in the moonglow of the night.

"Why are you here?" The words spit out of your mouth like soured milk, shoving the pain from your body.

Aegon's platinum locks shined in the flames of a fire you don't remember lighting, a goblet in his grasp. "Where were you? Off with one of your knightlings?" he snapped, sipping his drink.

"That is none of your concern," you retort, walking to the center table.

Beneath the dim lighting of the candles and fire, Aegon studied you, observing the deep circles under your eyes that mirrored his own, the streak of red liquid matching the color of your hands and nails. Though it has long since dried, Ser Edder's blood still clung to the cracks and crevices of your skin, staining your flesh.

You poured yourself a cup of water from the basin, attempting to quell your nausea as you slammed the empty glass back onto the table, gasping.

"Leave," you commanded the Prince, not sparing him a glance.

"What have you done?"

You turned yourself to face him, your balance unsteady as you met with a squared face etched with a concern you had never seen worn by him. It caused you to pause, queasiness creeping itself back into your throat.

"You'll know soon enough."

You felt the contents of your stomach rise faster than you could quell it, running to the chamber pot and emptying your supper into it.

Without warning, there was a gentle touch of someone holding the loose strands of your hair, hands instinctively slapping them away. They refused to move, and another gag abruptly distracted your protests.

Aegon rubbed circles onto your back until your arms gave out, unable to keep yourself up as he held you. You wanted to push him away, still angry with everything he has done, but found yourself too weak to protest, laying limply in his embrace.

Tears slowly fell from your eyes, leaning your forehead into the crook of his neck, the pain in your head and side ever more apparent with your sobs. Aegon held you through it all, not saying a word as he brought you to the table. Sitting you down, he cleaned the dried blood from your skin, taking care of every inch.

He unbraided your hair with a gentleness you never knew he possessed, soaking the rag in water and squeezing it over your scalp. The pink droplets ran down your forehead and neck as the Prince washed the blood from your locks. You hadn't realized how much blood covered you until you looked down into the bowl, the water appearing a dark red color that reminded you of the Arbor Red the Prince loved.

Aegon's gentleness made you feel weak, an emotion you swore never to feel again. Your body so quickly forgave his actions, letting him peel the stained clothes off your body as he continued his work. You hated him. You loathed him for what he did, not only for the murder of your kin but for every action he made. He stole your innocence at such a young age, your first encounters with the pleasures of flesh done under the influence of alcohol, manipulated and used for his selfish desires for reasons unknown to you.

It was not love. It couldn't possibly be that. You would never lay with the one you loved when you had done something that hurt them without their knowledge. Perhaps he had an obsession only a man could understand. It was a shiny, untouched thing for his hands to tarnish simply because it would be him doing so. But the kindness he showed you with his fleeting touches and lingering smiles, brief kisses, and sweet nothings whispered into your ear when no one was around showed otherwise.

"Helaena is with child," you spoke without thinking, wincing as Aegon pulled a fresh nightdress over your head. The words sounded plain in the Prince's ears, but he knew otherwise, the cold expression of defeat and hurt hidden deep within your eyes.

He refused to answer, words unable to form even if he tried. You said no more on the subject despite your great need to know why he did it. Why did he unthinkingly go back to his old ways as if the moments shared between you were nothing?

Anxiety began to fill the empty pit of your stomach as Aegon directed you to your bed, pulling the rumpled covers back as he helped you in. What would happen on the morrow? Surely, he would run to his Mother and grandsire once the news broke, blabbering on about how he saw the Princess bloodied and bruised at the hour of the owl. They wouldn't care that he was waiting for you in your chambers, improper and inappropriate for even the whore Prince himself.

You resigned to the fate of punishment, laying back stiffly on your feather pillows as you stared at the same ceiling from earlier. Aegon stared down at you from above, a look you couldn't discern as you grew uncomfortable with his gaze, your fingers fidgeting beneath the thin cotton sheet. He appeared as if he wanted to say something, the words barely held behind pouted pink lips.

He seemed to decide against it, pursuing the mouth you caressed with your own as he went to the pile of discarded linens. You watched him with curious eyes, straining your neck to see him carry the bloodied dress and rag to the fire, placing both as they engulfed in the bright orange flames. Your uncertainty is dismissed as if it never existed.

Aegon's actions confused you, causing your already disgruntled head to swim with thoughts you couldn't decipher, lulling it to the side as a wave of pain hit you. You both watched the burst of flames from the sudden fuel slowly dim, reducing the evidence of your crime to ash. Then, as quickly as the dress had burned, Aegon poured the dirtied water onto the fire, ridding anything that could be used against you.

You couldn't understand why he did it. Perhaps he was drunk and not thinking clearly, though the thought only served to confuse you more. You never saw Aegon so caring and doting on anyone in his family, not even his children. The man shied away from affection toward his kin as if they had a sickness, and the treatment he bestowed on you tonight stirred emotions within your chest you could not name.

Tears began to well in your eyes again, failing to hide the hiccup that accompanied them. Aegon quickly returned to your trembling form as he kneeled at the side of the mattress, brushing a strand of damp hair stuck to your temple. He brought his goblet to your lips, wordlessly encouraging you to drink as you swatted him away.

You tucked yourself further beneath your blankets like a child with the fear of the dark, concealing your soft sobs. Aegon stood from his crouched position and set the cup on your bedside table. He dragged a plush green armchair from beside the hearth, the sound grating your ears and traveling straight through your skull as he sat. The Prince made himself comfortable at your side, placing his ankle over his knee as he silently observed you.

Anger suddenly replaced the weakness you felt. Why was Aegon still here? Why did he continue to bagger you with his unwelcomed presence? Did he only seek to embarrass you further? The notion that Aegon might be as sick as people rumored crossed your mind, causing another wave of nausea you couldn't tell was from your injuries or the thought of rising.

"I will never forgive you," you growled, your voice coming from deep within your chest.

Aegon shifted behind you; whether from the harsh words or the position he was in, you were unsure.

"I know," he softly spoke, the admission barely audible between the throbbing of your ears.

Your eyelids were heavy from the day, your body wanting to finally shut down and take the rest you were deprived of as Aegon hummed softly. You flinched at the unexpected sound, turning your head slightly in response.

The tune was familiar, a far-off melody that reminded you of home, not the one on Dragonstone, but the one you spent creating all the firsts of your life. The house where you had your first meals and words, walked on wobbly legs, and spilled your moon blood, where moans and girlish squeals of joy sounded as you ran across cracked wooden flooring, girls twice your age chasing after you with giggles.

Aegon seemed to slow in his humming, your mind coming to a halt as sleep dug its gentle claws into your limbs.

"And I know the kindest thing..."

You felt your eyelids become as heavy as the bags of grain you carried for training, attempting to keep them open and not give the Whore Prince the satisfaction of lulling you to sleep.

"I know the kindest thing is to never leave you alone."

You were unsure when sleep happened as your vision went ebony, the soft humming of Aegon drifting through your ears and embracing you in a blanket of dreamless darkness.

***

Jeyne and Fiora thought nothing of your symptoms, believing it to be one of your bouts of headaches as they tended to their morning routine. You refused to let them undress you and see the purple and yellow-green blotches on your ribs, the knot on the back of your skull. Though you trusted your maids with secrets, you did not want to test their loyalty with something as grave as this. They need not bear the consequences of your sins.

You could barely stand the sounds of the morning doves and wood pigeons, their crooning songs like an ice pick to your mind. Aegon did not return to your chambers in the following days of your recovery; you believed it to be for the best.

You still clung to the anger and betrayal for what he did, but the emotions soon became a mess, a ball of string unraveled and carelessly rewound together again. Every time his countenance flashed within your mind's eye, you felt that same bundle of string tangle further within itself with emotions you could not name.

Aegon's actions embittered you. You did not need his help. You did not want his help, yet the arrogant fool still gave it to you. It must be some ploy for him to weasel back into your good graces. He did not care for you more than the whores he bedded on the Streets of Silk. He proved it as much with the coming of Helaena's third child.

On the seventh day of your solitude, a knock was on your chamber doors. Believing your maids were coming with your peppermint and chamomile tea, you bid them enter, only to find the Queen adorned in her typical, conservative green gown. You attempted to hide your displeasure at her presence as you rose from the plush settee with a deep curtsy, nearly losing your balance before the Hightower woman caught you.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your arrival, my Queen?" you questioned blankly, offering her a seat near the warmth of the hearth. Alicent pursed her lips as she accepted, smoothing her finally sewn skirts as she cleared her throat.

"Lord Vaemond Velaryon has petitioned the Crown for the Driftwood throne."

Your body moved faster than your mind, turning so abruptly that a wave of nausea washed over you. "What?"

"During your... illness, Lord Corlys suffered a grave injury during a battle in the Stepstones. An injury in which he might not recover," she began. The Queen's words were tentative, her doe brown eyes frantically looking anywhere but you. "In light of this tragedy, the succession of Drift Mark has come into question."

A frown pulled your lips downward, your eyes squinting with an accusatory gaze. "My brother, Lucerys Velaryon, son of Laenor Velaryon, is set to inherit Driftmark. This matter was settled years ago."

Alicent smirked at your words, the aura of uneasiness leaving for one of arrogance as she looked at you. Her expression was unnerving, causing you to be the one who turned away to focus on anything rather than the person across.

Do you recall our conversation from moons past? Where I brought to you the hypocrisy of your birth?" You clenched your jaw at her arrogant words, fisting the fabric of your night dress. "When Rhaenyra ascends the throne, you know it will not be her who rules, but your Father. Prince Daemon is a cruel and unjust man. He will reign with fire and blood upon the innocents of the realm. He will kill anyone who sets to oppose him."

You refused to look at the beseeching Queen, rolling your eyes in disbelief as you leaned onto the plush settee. Alicent proceeded to drone on until there was a painful thumping in your head. This was the most anyone had spoken to you in days; it just had to be her. The sound of her voice was grating, a knife dragging along the red rock walls of the Keep.

"He will kill my family, your kin. Aemond, Helaena, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Aegon. You told me that your worth is not defined by titles or marriage but by actions. Support Vaemond's claim and protect-"

"You will know what it is like to watch loved ones die. Just as I have," you interrupted, finally making contact with Alicent's pleading brown orbs. "Where was my mercy when you sentenced my kin to the sword? Your children will bear the consequences of your sins."

"That was not my doing. My Father-"

"You stood by and let it happen!" you hissed, your nails biting crescents into your palms to control your burst of anger. "You are a desperate woman clinging onto the coattails of those who have sought to keep you locked within a gilded cage of suffering. You speak of love for your family, but am I not your family? Is Rhaenyra not your family? Am I not a woman fighting and protecting herself from the people you seek to please?" You inhaled a ragged breath, steadying your uneven breathing and beating heart as your head pounded.

"What you ask of me is only for the gain of those who wish to see me gone, and that is something I cannot do in good conscience."

You hadn't noticed the Queen's trembling fingers picking incessantly at her cuticles until you saw blood coming from a piece of skin pulled too deep. Instinctively, you thought to grab a wash rag and some water but swallowed the urge to help the woman who caused her suffering. Alicent's face hardened as she watched the crimson liquid seep into the cracks of her hands, placing them behind her as she stood primly.

"I thought you ought to know your family should be arriving in four days time, along with your half sisters. We shall convene as soon as they arrive." The Queen smoothed out her unwrinkled skirts, a distraction from the intensity of your stare as she began to exit.

"What authority will decide the outcome of this farce Vaemond Velaryon has created?" you interjected, the wooden frame of the settee groaning under your weight. "My Grandsire? Will he be coherent with the milk of the poppy you continue to push on him?"

The Queen contorted her lips into a downward smirk, clasping her fists at her front as she rolled her shoulders back, her neck ramrod straight. "It would be mine, and the Hand," she answered smugly, her gold and emerald earrings swaying with the movement of her mouth.

You released an exasperated breath, clicking your tongue and shaking your head, the movement causing you to lose focus.

"But be assured the father's will is just and I shall forget the insults you have spoken to me today, for the Seven commands it." You scoffed at her pious expression, rolling your eyes as you sucked in a quick breath to retort before the Queen interrupted. "Good day, Princess. I pray to the Mother for your speedy recovery."

Without so much as a glance behind, the Queen Consort exited, her elegant green skirts swishing with every clicking step of her finely made shoes as you fumed in silence.

***

The early spring air was crisp against your cheeks, the stray flyaway locks in your braided hair gently swaying in the breeze. You were the only person standing below the winding steps of Maegor's Holdfast, slightly bristled at your fellow welcome party's absence. You wore a thick satin cloak of red and black over your form, your dress of dense charcoal cotton with bronze lines of embroidery. A sturdy leather collar caged your neck, golden threads sewn into the bones to support it. Your brass cloak clasps held the Targaryen emblem in the broaches with matching circles sewn onto the hem, giving your coat a weighted feel.

Your Mother was the first to exit the carriage at the announcement of a kingsguard, staring at the tall red rock structures. Daemon, Jace, and Luke soon followed, your second youngest brother running to you. The nursemaids carrying a crying Viserys, babbling Aegon, and young Joffery came after with Rhaena. Luke had grown so much since the last time you saw him. His head used to be at your chest, now just above your shoulder.

"Luke," you called softly, tenderly stroking his mop of brown hair as you embraced. "You've grown."

Lucerys nuzzled his face further into your shoulder, squeezing you impossibly tighter. "I have missed you so much, sissy." He sounded on the verge of tears, and you, too, were almost emotionally overcome as you saw Jace's smile.

You were with your family, finally.

"I've missed you too." You pulled away from your younger brother's body, though not too far before Joffrey's little form ran into you. "I'm sorry I missed your nameday, Luke. I trust that you've enjoyed my gift, yes?"

"Of course, sister. Daemon has helped me with my training, though I doubt I will ever be as good as you with the blade," he answered bashfully, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink.

"Oh, nonsense, Luke. I was barely your junior when I learned. You still have plenty of years ahead to become better." At the mention of your Father's name, he approached you, peering underneath his sparse brows.

"Daughter," he greeted tersely, his hands intertwined with his belt.

"Father," you smiled, hoping he would ignore the slight of the Queen's and the Hand's absence. "How wonderful it is to have you all back at the Keep." You released Luke from your grasp, curtsying with the bow of your head. "Please, allow me to welcome you-"

Your Father's abrupt laugh caused you to bristle, blinking rapidly as you licked your lips, swallowing the formed lump and embarrassment.

"Sweet daughter, you look as if you are a woman grown," Rhaenyra spoke as she placed a comforting hand on Daemon's bicep. "You are more beautiful than the last time I saw you."

You accepted the flattery in stride, a slight flush to your ears as Luke took your hand in his. Though he was your younger brother who still had yet to become a man, he understood adults and their languages that took many years for some to master.

Little Luke, you thought, nearly a man grown, affectionately smiling down at him.

"Mother, 'tis lovely to see you, and with child no less." You approached her, placing your palm on the bump as you felt the flesh underneath move. "Why did you not tell me?"

"I thought it would be best to inform you in person, my sweet girl. The Maester believe I am five moons," she answered, covering your hand with hers.

You grinned at the idea of another silver-haired child growing inside the walls of Dragonstone, motioning your head toward the enormous wooden doors. "Come. Let me escort you to your chambers."

Your family traversed the halls of the castle you all called home, Rhaenyra and Daemon speaking in hushed tones. Your siblings had scampered off to become acquainted with where they once lived, and the servants had taken the youngest ones to their rooms.

You observed your parents glancing at the decorations of the Keep, exchanging displeased looks with one another as you bit your lip. You hadn't given much thought to the decor of the Red Keep, your mind preoccupied with the countless hours of politicking and ensuring that your Mother's succession would be smooth that you hadn't noticed that the tapestries of flying dragons, riders bounding with their mounts became those of the Seven, holy pictures of the Crone and her guiding light, the Maiden with her pure, ethereal beauty, and those of religious importance.

As you passed before a tall alcove, a Seven Pointed Star was carved into the stone wall, letting the natural daylight in. Your Mother and Father stopped to stare.

"I would say it's nice to be home, but I scarcely recognize it," Rhaenyra said, a slight lilt to her melodic voice and sharing a knowing glance with Daemon.

You felt your nose become itchy at the thought, unsure why her words created such an onslaught of emotions. Shame churned your gut, looking away from your Mother to see your Father continuing his trek into the dark corridors. Your eyes burned as you stood beside Rhaenyra, refusing to look up at the Star as your breathing hiccuped.

This seemingly innocent symbol was the catalyst for everything you kept within. All your doubts, inadequacies, mistakes, insecurities, and failures came pouring out with a barely contained sob, your body recoiling itself.

"I'm sorry, Mother," you whispered hoarsely.

"Oh, my sweet girl, whatever for?" she questioned, immediately enveloping you in her maternal embrace.

"I-I tried Mother, to do what Father wanted me to. To be strong, to show them that I'm better than what my title leads them to believe." You inhaled a jagged breath, removing your Mother's arms and replacing them with your own.

You did not deserve her comfort. What had you done to secure Rhaenyra's claim as heir? Play dress up in front of the Small Council? Warm a spoiled prince's bed? You indeed had done nothing to aid your Mother and solidify her succession in the eyes of Lords, too distracted with a plan so idiotic not even Otto Hightower could see the benefit.

"My daughter," Rhaenyra spoke softly, holding her thick cloak to her body, "my beautiful, strong, cunning daughter," she continued, her leather traveling shoes clacking on the stone floor. "I know what your Father planned, and you have done more than anything I could have dreamed. I've heard how you demand for your voice to be listened, how you aided the Sea Snake in the Stepstones, how you ceaselessly fight for the small folk in spite of the Council's arrogance." Your Mother laughed softly to herself, clicking her tongue as she smiled. "At times I believe you would be more fit to rule than I."

Her statement alarmed you, your eyes going wide as you quickly glanced around to ensure no prying eyes or eavesdropping servants lurked within the shadows of the halls. "Mother, do not say such things. You are the realm's rightful heir. You've been groomed for this since the King declared you as such."

Rhaenyra chuckled, her porcelain teeth glinting in the dim glow of the yellow candlelight as she embraced you once more. "I do believe I have neglected my duty and placed it upon my daughter. For that, I am deeply sorry."

"Mother. You needn't apologize to me. It is an honor to serve in your stead, to be allowed to devote my life in service of you," you spoke earnestly, not wanting her to feel guilty for the actions that you chose.

"You haven't had much of a childhood, my beloved, to know what I mean, and it hurts my heart to see you so distraught over things that were already planted before you blessed our lives." Rhaenyra gently smoothed the loose strands of your black hair, her violet orbs catching on the white streak, a wistful look inside them. "When I ascend the Iron Throne, I want you to by my side, to guide me in uncertainty and provide council as my Hand."

A gasp caught in your throat at her confession, a fresh wave of tears pouring down your damp cheeks as you shook your head. "No, Mother. I cannot accept. I am undeserving of such an honor."

Rhaenyra cupped your face, her lithe fingers causing the fine hairs to stand on end as she smiled again. "I shall hear nothing of that, my love. You will stand by me as Hand of the Queen and you will do so graciously."

"But what of Father-"

"No," she interrupted with a determined flick of her head. "You will be my Hand. I would rather have no one else at my side."

All rebuttals trapped inside your throat, her steadfast declarations causing you to gape at her, struggling to come to terms with the contents.

You, the Hand of the Queen. One of the most coveted positions of the Crown given to you by a woman you failed. Your face scrunched at the wave of emotions that pulled you under, unable to discern if it was deep-seated gratitude, fear, happiness, or anger. It was most likely a whirlpool of all, dragging you into its depths as you cried into the crook of your Mother's neck, her gentle arms embracing you.

Masterlist of Series

Just a sweet little chapter to make up for all the angst I've been writing. Despite how daddy Daemon acts, he is proud of his daughter. He's just not very good at showing it. I mean, how many women have been on the small council? Two. And they were both queens. I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. It's pretty much going to be nonstop drama from this point on. XD

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn , @malfoytargaryen , @targaryencore , @justasmallbean , @omgsuperstarg , @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , @duesobabe , @djlexi , @ynbutbetter , @legolas017 , @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @daenerysqueenofhearts , @justarandomfloewerchildofthenight, @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927 , @prettylittlelady , @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk

Bold means I couldn't tag you. Comment or message me so we can get it fixed!

[yuriosakawa]

Gothvincible AU (Part 10)

Chapter 34: Goth Rudy Rises

Rex stood back, admiring his work like a painter appraising a newly finished masterpiece. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… Goth Rudy."

The Guardians—Mark, Kate, Amanda, and Black Samson—watched as Rudy awkwardly adjusted the black choker around his neck, looking unsure about his new aesthetic.

His usual oversized shirt and khaki pants look was completely replaced. Now, he wore a black band tee under a dark forest green jacket with a light brown fur collar. His dark gray jeans and black fingerless gloves added a grungy touch, and the black chucks tied it all together. But the real kicker? The black eyeliner framing his eyes and the small chunk of his shoulder-length hair pulled into a tiny man bun.

Rex crossed his arms. "So? What do we think?"

Kate tilted her head. "Honestly? Not bad."

Black Samson gave an approving nod. "You actually pull it off."

Mark blinked. “Yeah, I hate to say it, but… you don’t look terrible.”

Amanda smirked, arms crossed. “You don’t look totally ridiculous.”

Rudy’s eyes widened slightly, and he cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “That is… the highest compliment I could receive.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s all it takes?”

Amanda shrugged. “It’s Rudy. That was basically glowing praise.”

Rex clapped Rudy on the back. “Alright, my goth apprentice, welcome to the dark side.”

Rudy sighed. “I am already regretting this.”

Amanda chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”

Rudy exhaled, glancing at his reflection in a nearby window. “…I suppose I don’tentirely dislike it.”

Rex grinned. “Hell yeah, you don’t.” 

Chapter 35: The Gothification of Amanda (The Origins) 

Rudy adjusted his choker, still feeling a little out of place in his new goth attire, before glancing over at Amanda. “So,” he said, “what led you to adopt this particular aesthetic?”

Amanda leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, you wanna hear my goth origin story?”

Rudy nodded. “If I am to embrace this look, I wish to understand how one fully commits to it.”

Amanda chuckled. “Long story short? I asked Eve.”

Mark, who had been listening from nearby, blinked. “Wait, Eve got you into goth?”

Amanda shrugged. “I wanted to reinvent myself. I was sick of people looking at me and seeing a little girl. Eve was already in the middle of her own rebellious streak and suggested I go goth. Next thing I knew, we were in her room going through clothes and makeup like a whole damn makeover montage.”

She gestured to herself, showcasing her fully realized look—dark gray blouse under a fitted leather jacket, a sparkly black skirt, black high socks, lace-up black boots, and fishnet gloves. Around her neck hung a silver rosary, and her eyes were framed with black eyeliner that made them look sharper than ever. 

But perhaps the most striking change was her hair, now bleached platinum blonde, almost white.

“After that, I stuck with it,” she continued. “And you know what? It works. Nobody looks at me like I’m some little kid anymore.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “You do look kinda badass.”

Rex gave her a thumbs-up. “Certified goth queen.”

Rudy studied her appearance before nodding thoughtfully. “I see. A reinvention of self, symbolized through a carefully curated aesthetic. A fascinating social phenomenon.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Or, you know, I just like how it looks.”

Rudy smirked slightly. “Yes, that too.”

Chapter 36: The Immortal vs. Goth Rudy

The Guardians had gotten used to Mark being a goth. They had begrudginglyaccepted Eve and Amanda’s transformations. They had even managed to tolerate Rex’s commitment to the look, despite the fact that his version of goth was just an excuse to dress fancy and talk shit to authority.

But Rudy? Rudy going goth? That was where the Immortal drew the line.

Standing in front of the team, arms crossed and looking thoroughly unimpressed, he stared Rudy down. 

“I expected this from them,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the others. “But you? The smartest one? The one who’s supposed to be mature?”

Rudy, unfazed, adjusted his black choker. “There is a fundamental misunderstanding of gothic culture at play here. Allow me to elaborate—”

The Immortal groaned. “Oh, here we go.”

Rudy ignored him and launched into a full-on lecture. “The goth subculture originated in the late 1970s as an offshoot of post-punk, embracing themes of romanticism, existentialism, and melancholic beauty. It has historical influences dating back to the Gothic period, particularly in architecture and literature, with figures such as Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe shaping its aesthetic and philosophical—”

Rex, lying across the couch, cut in, “Or—hear me out—Rudy just wanted to shake things up a little.”

The room fell silent for a beat.

Rudy frowned. “That is an oversimplification.”

Rex smirked. “Yeah? Well, let’s simplify it some more: dude used to be a literalglob of flesh floating alone in a tank. Let him live a little.”

Rudy opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated. “…That is not entirelyaccurate.”

The team stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “But, yes. That is an acceptable summary.”

Mark snorted. Amanda grinned. Even Kate was hiding a smirk.

The Immortal, meanwhile, just sighed. “I hate all of you.”

Rex patted Rudy on the back. “Welcome to the goth life, dude.”

[risingsoleil]

Who would win in a fight, kyoshi & Roku vs Aang & Korra. I feel like there’s a correct answer but I’m not sure 🫣

Brah, honestly I'm gonna be a little biased.

But Kyoshi/Roku is gonna come out on top.

The reason I say that is not because Kyoshi is my fav avatar 🫣 But because in their times (along with Aang), bending is not only an extension of themselves but also in their daily lives.

Korra's time period blends technology and bending together. So there's some assistance that doesn't always require bending, if you know what I mean? In Kyoshi/Roku/Aang eras, bending is used all around them. But in Republic City, there's not a greater need for that because technology fills the gap.

If we translate that into fighting, Kyoshi/Roku will know how to use the elements around them whether technology is there or not. And I think that's the leverage they have against Aang/Korra.

I'll use Lin as an example. When she's fighting the Equalists in Sato's underground workshop, she's more reliant on metalbending. But the trouble is that Sato used platinum to limit her surroundings. However, she bent the earth beneath her during the fight. But doesn't use this again for the remainder of the battle to chuck rocks at the mechas or something

Because of this, I personally think Kyoshi/Roku would come out the winners. But that's just my opinion 💞

Mahalo nui loa for the ask!! ❤️❤️❤️

[t-allyitup]

erm ... draft of high school/ya designs for the rest of the cul de sac that i haven't sketched yet . nazz, jonny, jimmy, sarah specifically. i'll do the kankers soon maybe ? idk

some notes:

jonny: i really wanted jonny with cornrows/braids to work but it doesn't really align with my personal image of him so i did a test sketch and decided i didn't like it. his natural hair is just gonna flow. his shirt is a fela kuti shirt with the neckline cut off so it sits more loose, and i can honestly see him lounging in sweats and pj pants a lot. he def wears lots of bleach dyed shirts and muscle tanks imo. shoes could either be some of those sherpa lined ox blood red timbs or super beat up yellow slip on vans ... im undecided. he has some piercings and probably pulls a frank ocean and dyes his hair green and gets a buzz cut eventually too. i drew him with piercings but im not really a fan of how it turned out so im ignoring those. i personally hc jonny as aroace, just to mention

nazz: i have an hc or i guess just in my universe nazz is korean-american and dyes her hair like beabadoobee (platinum blonde with grown out roots) and maybe has some electric blue streaks in her hair. she has freckles and a septum piercing and bangle bracelets and wears chokers (i forgot to draw these tho oops). she likes bootcut jeans and halter tops... she def goes braless imo ik thats a weird hc but idk i think she's soooo early 2000s in lots of her lore so it mAkes sense. i wish i had drawn her less skinny, in my head she's more midsize and like pear shaped ig but with thinner forearms and calves. also want to note that her eye makeup is meant to be sharp and exaggerated ... i feel like looking back on this it looks like i made her eyes a very over-exaggerated almond shape but i didn't mean for them to come out that sharp i suppose

sarah: tallllllllllllllllllllllllll asf ! wears a lot of denim shorts and converse. i also think a lot of her little stylistic notes play off of nazz, i have a theory that nazz is like a big sister figure to her and she subconsciously picks up stuff that nazz does because she admires her so much (or nazz gives her stuff/shops with her! i like that better) for example the bangle bracelets, chokers, dark denim, choppy bangs yk. in my head sarah is always wearing chucks and she ofc has her big a$$ mouth. i think she gets braces too

jimmy: crack design bc i got tired but he gets that white boy fade and his ears pierced, skinny jeans and big hoodie, birkenstock boston clogs, probably wears his shirts fitted and cut just above his waist cuz he's a lil slimey like that. lost the headgear but still has braces and an expanded, maybe also got some sort of jaw surgery for his teeth cuz they were fawked

[twistedmercy]

out of place (f. weasley)

chapter one

pairing: fred weasley x oc!malfoy

sypnosis: arabella malfoy, the oldest daughter of lucius and narcissa, is in her 6th year at hogwarts. she had always had an annoyance towards the weasley duo, especially fred, who’d taunt her daily along with his carbon-copy twin brother, george. the malfoy girl and weasley boy had been rivals since the start. a little time together, however, could cause the two to have a change of heart.

warnings: heavy topics such as violence, neglect, manipulation, cheating, swearing, etc.

authors note: i started this story on wattpad many many (three) years ago! i hope you enjoy :)

next chapter:

——————————————————————————

"ARABELLA!"

arabella shot up. the sudden yelling had disturbed the rest she long desired. she blinked a few times to help her fuzzy vision. she groaned, looking in the mirror in front of her bed. her hair was all tangled and her lips were dry.

"bella!" the same voice yelled once again, only this time, accompanied by footsteps coming towards her room.

the voice came from bella’s little brother, draco. he was dressed in a fine black suit, and his platinum blond hair was combed back. he had a strong smell of cologne, too strong. bella’s nose scrunched when it came in contact with the scent.

"what are you doing still in bed?" draco snarled, "mother and father are getting impatient."

"why," bella asked, rubbing her eyes. "what are they waiting on me for?"

draco stood there, his mouth wide. "are you actually stupid," he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose, "its the world cup today, you oaf."

"what?" bella asked, looking at the calendar on the wall. it was, indeed, the day of the quidditch world cup. she suddenly felt her heart race and scrambled out of bed. quidditch was her favorite sport. how could she have forgotten the day she was looking forward to?

draco's laughter rang around bella's room as he leaned against the door. she grabbed the nearest item and chucked it at him.

"why did you wait this long to wake me up?!" she asked, running to her closet grabbing the outfit she picked. a lot like draco's, her outfit was pitch black, but it was a black dress with puffed, flowy sleeves.

"because it's not my job to tell you to keep up with things," draco remarked, "oh and before i let you get dressed," he continued, pulling something out of his top pocket. it was an envelope. "a letter from your boyfriend."

bella cocked her head to the side. the word boyfriend threw her off because last time she checked, she didn't have one. "boyfriend? what do you mean?"

he held the letter out to her and she snatched it out of her hand. as draco left and shut the door, she tore the envelope open. the letter read:

dear bella,

by the time you get this letter, i won't be able to receive one if you do write back. no, nothing is wrong. i have good news actually. father got us tickets to the world cup! i assume you'll be there as well, knowing your father's history with the ministry. if you are there, try and find me, okay? i can't wait to see you!

your good friend,

ced

bella smiled wide reading the letter. cedric diggory was one of her best friends. he was the only person not in slytherin to talk to her during her first year at hogwarts. the only one who wasn't scared or intimidated by her. he looked past her family's bad history and just saw the good in her. no matter how much his fellow hufflepuffs judged him for talking to her, he stuck by her side all these years. she flipped the letter over to see he wrote a little postscript.

P.S.

if you see me with the weasleys, do not get the wrong idea. my father and their father decided we go to the games together. i don’t like them, and they don’t fancy me neither, especially after the whole quidditch debacle last school year.

bella’s smile quickly faded. she really could not escape that family, especially the twins, fred and george. they were the jokesters of her year at hogwarts, but she found them nowhere near funny. she just saw them as embarrassing. they would taunt bella constantly just to get a rise out of her, but it never worked. fred was the most annoying of the two, always yelling snarky remarks at bella during class, or throwing paper balls her way. he mocked her about her family, how they were nothing but arrogant and belittling, but fred was the only one belittling anyone. her and the boys always bickered in class, in the corridors, you name it. they never shared a laugh, and doubtful they would ever.

bella sat the note down on her dresser. she wasn’t going to let those redheads ruin her game. she finally changed out of her sleepwear into her outfit for the games. after putting it on, she brushed her wavy blonde hair out a bit, getting rid of the tangles. she put light makeup on and took one last look in her mirror. she grabbed her handbag, slipped on her shoes, and headed out her bedroom.

walking out the door, she looked at the long corridor. though many would love to have a house like her's, she preferred a smaller setting. mansions get boring, very quickly. she did like the noise her shoes made when walking through it, though. the sound of her feet hitting the ground echoed through the hall.

she got to the stairs, held onto the railing, and walked down. the stairs led her to the main lobby of the mansion, where draco was waiting with their father and mother.

"took you long enough, arabella," her father, lucius, said in his normal, snarky tone. in the media, he was represented as a well respected, well mannered man, but the press didn't know him personally. bella knew him as the father who barely gave a shit about his kids. the father who pushed his kids to their limits until he made them afraid of him. the father of the year.

bella was hardly afraid of him now. she had grown up and matured without the help of him.

"good morning to you, too, father," she replied, mocking his tone. his stone cold face finally gained some emotion to it, only that it was anger. bella made it down the stairs and joined her family.

her mother, narcissa, gave her husband a shameful look, then turned to bella. "you look beautiful, honey," she said, kissing bella's cheek.

"thank you, mother,” bella replied.

"do you have all your stuff?" narcissa asked, and bella nodded.

"how are we getting there?" bella asked her father. he clicked his tongue before responding.

"a carriage will be here any minute now," lucius said, "we'll be going with the minister."

bella had met the minister of magic many times, and she thought he was a big old goof; not fit at all to be a minister.

she nodded to her father as the sound of hooves stomping was heard. "come on now," lucius said as he made his way out the door. narcissa walked beside him while bella and draco staid in the back.

the carriage outside was a shiny black, lead by winged pegasi, about four of them to be exact.

"ah, lucius!" a man called from the carriage. it was minister fudge. he got out of the carriage, followed by another man who bella did not recognize, and walked over to the family to greet them all.

"how are you today, minister?" lucius asked, shaking fudge's hand.

"hello narcissa," fudge shook her hand, "you both remember barty, of course?" he asked, referring to the man beside him.

"how could we not?" narcissa said, shaking barty's hand after her husband did.

"there are the young masters," fudge said as he walked towards bella and draco. he grabbed bella's hand and shook it firmly.

"good day, minister," bella said with a closed lip smile. he then went and shook draco's hand, who greeted him with the same remark.

"barty," the minister called out to rhe man accompanying him, "i'd like you to meet the children, arabella and draco. children, this is mister bartemius crouch. he is the head of the department of international magical cooperation."

"pleasure to meet you both," he said shaking both their hands, starting at bella then going to draco.

"alright," the minister exclaimed, rubbing his hands together, "shall we be off?"

everyone nodded and the minister led them all to a carriage. a man, who must've been the one running the carriage, hopped out and opened the door for the minister, barty, lucius, and narcissa.

bella followed after her mother, but was stopped by the carriage man. "you two will be sitting in the smaller compartment," he said, walking over to another set of doors and opening them.

the inside of the carriage looked very comfortable; the seats looked as if they were made out of clouds, and they were a fine red color. there was a cabinet filled with soft drinks and sugary pastries. bella got in first, sitting on the side nearest to her, and draco sat across from her.

"if you need anything, just ring the bell," the carriage man said and shut the door.

bella threw her head back and relaxed in her seat. it felt like she was sitting on a large marshmallow. she rose back up to look at the variety of treats. she hadn't been able to eat breakfast, so she was quite hungry.

she grabbed a wrapped pumpkin pastie, took the wrapper off, and began to eat it. it tasted just like the ones she had at hogwarts, just a little less sweet and a bit dry.

"so," draco spoke up, "what did your boyfriend have to say?" he asked, a smirk showing up on his face.

bella rolled her eyes. "cedric is not my boyfriend, draco," she said, "and he was just telling me that he'd be at the world cup."

"he might as well be your boyfriend," draco replied, leaning back in his seat, "how did he get tickets for it?"

bella took another bite of her pastie before responded, "his father works at the ministry, idiot. you know this," she said.

"oh, right, right," draco nodded, before his eyebrows furrowed once again.

hes always wearing that disgusted look, and bella rarely sees any other when in the presence of their parents or his schoolmates. he always gives the impression that he's some rude, intimidating individual, but he's really not. not at all. not to bella, at least. to bella, he's always been her sweet, little brother. at some times, he's her best friend.

"does that mean those weasleys are gonna be there as well?" draco said, looking as if he would vomit. he’s had his own runs with the weasley boy in his year, ron. though unlike bella, draco was the rude one who instigated.

"cedric said they were going together," bella said, taking another bite of her pastry.

draco scoffed. “some boyfriend you have, then,” he said.

“cedric doesn’t like them, neither,” bella replied, “remember the quidditch game they played? how all of gryffindor blamed ced for potter’s injury?”

draco nodded. “then why are they going together?”

“their fathers are friends,” she replied.

“you’re gonna be hanging out with the twins bella, going to have loads of fun,” draco laughed, mocking his sister.

bella tore a piece off of her pasty and threw it at draco’s face.

“shut it, dra,” she said, and all draco did was laugh.

the rest of the time in the carriage was nothing but silence. bella and draco we're both still pretty tired, and they didn't really have the energy to talk the whole time.

draco had ended up falling asleep, and bella had started on another pastrie. suddenly, she began to hear roars and cheers of excitement. she looked out her window to find loads of tents, and more people surrounding them. they all were wearing either red or green decor, supporting the two teams in the cup: ireland and bulgaria. bella was planning on cheering for ireland. draco, on the other hand, was a bulgaria fan.

the sound of people cheering made the experience so much better. it was one main reason why she loved to play quidditch for her house; the mutual adrenaline made anything more enjoyable.

the carriage flew a little while longer, and the sound of cheers became quieter. bella took one more look out the window and saw that they were at the stadium. it looked huge from up above.

she looked at her sleeping brother. his mouth was wide open and his head was laid back. it was a funny sight, really. she reached over to him and began to shake him lightly.

he woke up with a jump. "huh? are we there yet?" he asked, blinking.

bella nodded, putting her hands in her lap. the carriage came to a stop, and a somewhat hard landing. one hard enough that bella was lifted a couple of inches off her seat.

draco cursed under his breath. he got up and went to the door. he opened it, and bella saw the adults outside. draco stepped out of the carriage and bella followed him.

he was waiting at the door for her. she got to the door and grabbed onto draco's hand so she wouldn't fall out on her way down the steps.

the stadium looked grand. it seemed to be at least 15 stories tall. if it looked this great from the outside, one could only imagine what it looked like inside.

she looked behind her and saw the crowd once again. there had to be at least 500 tents there, and even more people. if she didn't leave right now, she wouldn't be able to find nissa and cedric before the game begins.

bella walked up to her mother, since she would be the better person to ask. "mum?" she began, and narcissa turned around.

"yes, darling?" she asked in reply.

"can i go look for my friend? he said he was going to be here," bella asked. draco then walked up to them both.

"i need to find crabbe and goyle, too," he said. their mother hesitated for a moment, but that gave lucius just enough time to answer.

"you two must stay with us, no wandering around this place," he said, gritting his teeth together.

narcissa turned around and glared at him. "don't be like that, now," she scolded her husband, and turned back to her children, "of course you two can go. do you know how to get back here?"

bella nodded. "yeah, it's kinda hard to miss," she said and laughed.

narcissa smiled. "alright, be back here at least 30 minutes before the game starts," she said.

"okay, we won't be too long," draco said before nodding to bella. they said their goodbyes to their mother, and they set off to find their friends.