#Chuck Platinum

[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"

[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 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

[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 ! "

[thesixenthusiast]

ruby – eddie roundtree

part one (part two, part three, part four)

pairing: eddie rountree x fem!oc (may change to x reader) warnings: drinking/drugs (billy/daisy's addictions) word count: 1.6k author's note: please bear with me in this, if there's a few time mix ups just with the order of things, please do let me know but i'm trying to find an equal balance between the book and show and it's a little difficult lol

On October 4, 1977, Daisy Jones & The Six performed to a sold out crowd at Soldier Field in Chicago, Illinois. They were one of the biggest bands in the world at the time, fresh off their award-winning, multi-platinum selling album “Aurora.” It would be their final performance. 

In the 20 years since, members of the band and their inner circle have refused to speak on the record about what happened… Until now.

–

THE RISE OF THE SIX (1966-1972)

The Six started out as a blues-rock band called the Dunne Brothers in the mid-sixties out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Billy and Graham Dunne were raised by single mother, Marlene Dunne, after their father, William Dunne Sr., left in 1954.

BILLY DUNNE (lead singer, The Six): I always dreamed of something different than the typical laid out career paths. When Graham first got the idea to start a band, I assumed it was just to win back his girlfriend. He was, what fourteen? The kid thought his life was over. [Laughs] I guess in retrospect, maybe it was a good idea. 

WARREN ROJAS (drummer, The Six): He was definitely trying to get his girlfriend back.

GRAHAM DUNNE (lead guitar, The Six): We were solid, fine for a while. When Chuck quit, we were out a bassist, which isn’t really something you can do without in a band. Billy originally wanted Eddie to switch to bass, but he wasn’t too keen on that. 

EDDIE ROUNDTREE (rhythmic guitar, The Six): I was so sick of Billy trying to run the band, it wasn’t his band, or at least, it wasn’t supposed to be. 

WARREN ROJAS: There was this girl in my math class, her uncle owned a music store downtown, and she used to give lessons to kids on weekends, it was mostly just some scheme by her uncle to get people to buy guitars. 

BILLY DUNNE: She was a sophomore, a young sophomore at that, she wasn’t even 16 by the time she joined, I was a year out of high school and the rest of the boys are creeping on 17 and 18, she just didn’t fit. Warren gets all the boys on board before bringing the idea up to me so I look like the asshole if I say no, I wanted to say no too, but she was good and I didn’t have another option. 

EDDIE ROUNDTREE: She didn’t even show an interest in being in the band, she wasn’t begging us to give her a chance, we were near-stalking her at the music store, waiting for the perfect opportunity to hear her play and casually bring up that we happened to need a bassist.

JULIET OPAL (bassist/singer, The Six): They weren’t nearly as sly as they thought they were. I originally thought it was some attempt at stealing records or 8-tracks, y’know waiting until I wasn’t looking, but they kept coming back, seemingly just waiting for me to do something, what it was I didn’t know, but something. 

EDDIE ROUNDTREE: [Sighs] They decided I would be the one to talk to her. 

The shop’s bell rang, signaling the door had been opened, which swung Juliet’s attention away from the magazine she was skimming and up to the front of the store, peering through the aisles to see who entered. A boy, one she recognized from the creeping on her from the previous weeks, made himself visible and she was immediately on high alert. He approached the counter, swallowing nerves as he did, and cleared his throat. 

“Hi,” his voice was hoarse, she took the awkward silence as a moment to study him, he wore a striped shirt, loose jeans, and brown shoes, his hair could use a comb through. He extended his hand, “I’m Eddie, I think we go to school together.”

“Juliet,” she met his hand, “is that why you’re here, to tell me that we might go to school together? Or is there an ulterior motive, one that may explain why you and your friends have been spying on me the past week,” any speck of confidence Eddie had going into this was entirely gone. 

“I’m in a band with some friends and our bassist bailed on us pretty recently. My friend, Warren, he’s a junior like me, I think he’s in your math class, said he saw you play bass and that you were good. We just wanted to see you play before we formally asked.”

“Formally asked what?” She leaned up from her elbows that she had been propped on.

“Oh, to, uh, like,” he stopped himself, licking his lips and sighing, “would you want to maybe play bass for us?” His eyes instantly went to his shoes and he stuffed his hands inside his pockets. 

“Can I have a little more info maybe? It’s not personal, I just don’t know you, like at all and you could be the worst players for all I know.”

EDDIE ROUNDTREE: That one hurt, something about a younger kid who you have a solid five inches on insinuating that she’s better than you are, especially when you’re practically on your knees begging for her to help you out can feel like salt being rubbed into a fresh wound. 

JULIET OPAL: What else was I supposed to do? [Laughs] Just blindly follow the older boy who had been spying on me for a week to the alleged garage that he practices in with his alleged band and hope for the best? I paid attention in the stranger-danger assemblies, I knew better. 

EDDIE ROUNDTREE: I invited her back to Billy and Graham’s but she said she had to close up for her uncle. Once we were out in L.A. she told me she actually just didn’t wanna leave with me and in hindsight, I can’t say I blame her.

The following morning Juliet and the Dunne Brothers skipped their first period and met in the Dunne’s garage. Juliet studied the wads of scribbled sheet music Billy had handed to her without looking her in the eye and she didn’t miss the way Eddie rolled his eyes at his hostility, and Eddie didn’t miss the way her upper lip curled into a smile as she saw his reaction. 

After rifling through the stack of papers, she picked out one at random, and set it down on the table in front of her, leaning over to scan in a few times before pulling the strap of her guitar over her head. She looked over to the group of boys, standing huddled together with Billy noticeably further away and Warren nodded fervently at her with a grin overtaking her face. 

After she played through the song, Billy made her play another, and another, and two more after that ‘for safety.’ Once he had run out of excuses for her to keep playing, he asked her to step out of the garage so they could confer with each other. After seven minutes and two overheard “c’mon man”s from Warren, Juliet was invited back into the garage and to serve as a temporary bass for the band, just until Billy could come to his final decision. 

JULIET OPAL: He was stubborn even then, I’m honestly surprised he let me in.

BILLY DUNNE: I didn’t want to let her in the band. 

EDDIE ROUNDTREE: I wanted her in the band, I made sure Billy knew that.

JULIET OPAL: A week after I joined, we were playing a gig with​​ the Winters. 

The group stood backstage, listening to the music that was permeating into every corner of the room. Juliet stood sandwiched between Warren and Camila, listening to the band. They had a keyboardist, she caught Juliet’s eye once they had got backstage, when they finished playing and she got offstage, Juliet made a beeline for her, introducing herself. 

“I’m Karen,” she introduced herself, “you play with these guys?”

“Mhm, I’m on bass right now, but in an ideal world I’d steal Eddie over there’s job,” she pointed to him and he smiled back, nodding his head up at her, unknowingly, “I won’t though, kinda like him, at least more than I do Billy,” Karen nodded, opening her mouth to excuse herself from the conversation, “y’know I’ve been saying we need a keyboardist.”

“Have you now?” That piqued her interest she stopped in her tracks and smirked over her shoulder. 

“No,” she admitted, “but I’ve been thinking it.” Billy hollered her name, gesturing her over to the group, who were making their way onstage. She pulled a receipt with a phone number scribbled across it in black ink and handed it to Karen, “If you ever get sick of them, give me a call, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Do you always carry around drug store receipts with your phone number on them?”

“You never know who you might meet,” she shrugged and started sprinting towards the stage before calling out over her shoulder, “worked out this time. Wish me luck!”

KAREN SIRKO (keyboardist, The Six): She was so.. vivacious, so full of life. She apoke about a million miles a minute, if I wasn’t fully interested in what she was saying, I don’t think I would’ve caught a word of it. You have this young girl talking your ear off, she seems entirely sure of herself, but also still feels a need to prove to you that she deserves to be there.

JULIET OPAL: I liked Karen, how could I not? And based on the way events would play out, clearly I wasn’t the only one. 

WARREN ROJAS: It was a great gig, Julie did great, not that we weren’t expecting her to, we were just worried about her, she had never done anything in front of a crowd before, but she did everything that actually counted right. 

EDDIE ROUNDTREE: On the drive home she sat next to me and she told me I played well, then she leaned in and kinda whispered and she thanked me. She thanked me for being the one to ask her to join because she would’ve said no to anyone else. [Smiles]

[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

[thatbanditqueen]

No One Walks Out Ch 6

My boy my boy... it's been a long time, Becky. This is a response to the writing game prompt "You will love it." "I will hate it." "Nah, you won't."

Thanks to @whositmcwhatsit and @be-my-ally and @vintageshanny and @ellie-24 and @missmaywemeetagain and @from-memphis-with-love and @arrolyn1114 and for playing this game and supporting me as I write, thanks too to @ab4eva for just being an all around mensch....

Summary: Elvis calls Becky, or rather, watches as Charlie calls and asks her to come on tour. She doesn't realize this tour is not going well. But once she is there, she decides to just roll up her sleeves and jump right in. Because Elvis.

WC: 7.3K

Warnings: Swearing, implied drug use, oral sex. This could have been very angsty but it is actually a big ball of unpolished, fantastical, indulgent fluff. I wrote this today and didn't have anyone read it. So beyond typos, expect historical inaccuracies and probably mischaracterization of everyone, including my OC.....

If you need to catch up.... Chapter 5: Salty Lips

Chapter 6: Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire

6 pm Sunday, July 20, 1975

Geiler’s Hardware Store, Jackson, MS

Harriet’s key clicked into the back lock of her parent’s hardware store, and she pulled the handle to double-check that the door was, indeed, locked, before turning to look at her cousin. Becky’s mind was elsewhere and she stared down at her Chuck Taylor sneakers, raising her head only after Harriet coughed, and the two women made their way to Harriet’s small, yellow AMC Pacer. Becky looked out the window, playing with her hair, purposefully avoiding Harriet’s curious stare.

Keep reading

“Earth to Becky, where are you? You haven’t said anything about the date Ida set you up on Thursday.”

Becky pulled on the ring she wore on her right hand, a band of platinum with a diamond flower at the center. It was the ring Elvis had given her, and she could still almost feel the caress of his hand as he slid it on her and told her how beautiful she was, how she deserved beautiful things. That had been a month ago, but it could have been yesterday when Charlie, Billy and Jo had all been rounded up to drive her home to Jackson after a whirlwind week at Graceland.

Becky tilted the ring back and forth, then looked up to watch the businesses in the Fondren go by as Harriet drove her home. Why did it feel like cheating on Elvis to go one blind date. An innocent blind date. An innocent blind date that had fizzled out and ended with a very platonic hug.

“Ugh, he was nice enough. I don’t know.”

Harriet looked over, then back at road.  “It’s Elvis. Ida says he calls you every few days.”

“Yeah, he does. He asked me to come with him for his show in New York. Then well, when I said no I guess he went down the list.”

Becky sighed, thinking of the photos in the newspaper of Elvis with a very thin, very blonde woman who definitely was not Linda. The thought made her frown, and Harriet looked at Becky with sympathy as she turned the car on to her parent’s street.

“I thought you said that you left things on good terms, and that he wanted you to move up there? I can’t believe you would rather be here in Jackson than in Memphis.”

“Yeah. I mean no. I like, him, I mean, I cannot help it. I used to day dream of dating this man. But look at me, Harriet.”

Becky grabbed her purse and got out of the car,  sweeping her hand over her body to showcase her tee shirt and jeans as she stood.

“I’m not groupie material. And I can’t up root my kid and move to a new city just so I can join Elvis’ harem for a few months. We left things on good terms, but I don’t even know if I am cut out to be a harem member.”

“You are a knock out, Becky. You are totally groupie material. No, wait. You're better than groupie. You are at least favorite girlfriend number two or three material. I cannot believe you aren’t on your way to Memphis. Or New York. You only live once!”

Harriet grinned as Becky shook her head and sent her off with a bang to the yellow hood, before turning to walk into the house.

She was a greeted with a yell from Ruth, who was coloring with Ida at the dining room table. Becky could smell Saul’s pot roast wafting from the kitchen as she crossed the room and kissed Ruth on head, checking out her drawing of what looked like a dressed up mushroom in a pile of rocks standing next to Father Christmas.

“What do you think?”

She looked at Ida, whispering as she tried to decipher the words her aunt was mouthing.

“The mob-bit? The Hobbit! Yes, of course, it's The Hobbit. There’s Bilbo. Wow, Ruth, you really captured what I thought he looks like.”

“I’ve been practicing my hobbit form. And see, he’s talking to Gandalf.”

“Ah, yes, I can tell from the beard.” She had to stop herself from giggling at Ida’s wink. “SO amazing, you have become a very talented artiste!”

“Well, she learned from the best.”

Becky smiled at her aunt as she went to grab a beer. “I think the student has surpassed the teacher, I can’t wait to hang this one the fridge.”

 The phone rang while Becky was at the fridge, and she watched Ruth run to get it as she slumped into the chair next to Ida, who reached over to rub her forearm.

“Oy, Rebecca, was the restocking that bad today? You should have stopped Saulie from leaving. He is only 60, he could have helped finish -”

“Oh, no, Ida. Unless Saul has an in-depth knowledge of waterbed installation, his presence wouldn’t have made a difference.”

 “Why do people want to sleep in those things? What if they leak. Or break? I get sea sick just thinking about it.”

“I’ve heard they can be really relaxing. I don’t know, but there is a new waterbed store two doors down. The owner spent an hour trying to figure out what materials he needs us to order, so I guess business is keeping him pretty busy.”

“Can you imagine getting busy in a water bed?”

“Ida!”

Ida grinned, fluffing up her short, silver bob. ”I’m just saying, I couldn’t make whoopee on top of a big bag of water, oy vey, I’d be so nervous, what with the sound of the sloshing - “

“Wait, hold that thought, although you know I love hearing about your sex life.” Becky held up her finger for her aunt to stop talking, pausing to hear what Ruth was saying on the phone.

“How do I know you are really a friend of Elvis’? Well can you ask him to come over again? The  kids next door don’t believe he is my mom’s boy friend. And he promised to take me for ice cream again.”

Becky strode over to the phone. “Ruthie, who is it?”

Ruth covered the receiver with her hand, a mischievous look crept up her little face. “He says his name is Charlie, and when I asked how he knew you, he said -”

Becky held out her hand, taking the phone from her daughter. “Uh huh, ok, that’s enough from you , chatty Kathy, go help Ida clear up the art studio and set the table for dinner.” She paused, smoothing her hair, as if Charlie could see her from the other side of the phone.

“Hi Charlie. What’s up?”

She heard a single nervous “ha” on the other side of the phone, and took a deep breath. “Well, a, heya there Becky.”

It seemed to Becky like there was a more anxious desperation behind Charlie’s perfunctory niceties.

“Hiiiii? What’s up?”

“Look, um, Elvis asked me to call and see if you might reconsider coming out on tour? You know he misses ya somethin’ awful, ain’t stopped talking bout that cute chick back in Jackson.”

Becky took a deep breath, thinking of the photos in the paper of Elvis and that model.

“Hmmm. I’m sure. You know I want to, but I have a kid, Charlie - and it’s her  last little bit of summer, I don’t wanna leave her  twiddling her thumbs while I go traipsing around the country-”

“So bring her. Priscilla brings Lisa all the time, you know, they make it work,  Elvis is a family man, hon- I mean Becky, tour is not some wild orgy. You’ve been there. The guys, the band, were all like a big happy family.”

“One big happy family, huh? I don’t know.”

“I can hear it in your voice, Becky girl, I can tell ya wanna come.”

Becky sighed, looking as Ruth paused her place setting to look up and grin at her mother. Ida was behind her, eye brow arched up as Becky motioned her over, whispering with her hand over the mouth piece if it would be ok to take off for a few days. It was disconcerting how much Ida nodded and how quickly an excited gleam grew in her eyes. Becky shoed her off and carried the phone to wonder down the hallway so no one could hear her.

“Maybe. You really think I could bring Ruthie? How long would it be for ?”

She heard Charlie breathe a sigh of relief, and then there was a kerfuffle and the bang of the phone handle dropping on the floor.

“Hey Becky Butt.” Elvis’ deep voice filled Becky’s ears and she realized he must have been sitting there watching Charlie ask her. “Honey, I ain’t stopped thinkin' bout you since you left me. I need you, need you bad."

Becky started to blush, just at the needy, low tenor of his voice. "I have been thinking about you to."

"That's good baby, real good. Let's get you out here, see if I'm still the same as you remember. Can’t wait to see you, baby. Tonight ain’t soon enough.”

“Tonight? Uh - Elvis, I - Charlie said I should bring Ruth? Is that really ok? Is it safe?”

“Honey, I’m a black belt with a gun. Ain’t no safer place on earth. Hell, probably the safest place for your baby. You know how crime is getting in our cities. Bring her along. Charlie can babysit too, he’s basically a child himself. Got the brains a one, any how.”

Becky stood there, tapping her toe as her mind raced. Every bit of sense screamed at her not to meet Elvis on tour. She had just told Ida last week she was ready for her aunt fix her up with any nice single guys her age, in a conscious effort to try and get Elvis out of her system. Be a normal, responsible adult. Having, normal, responsible relationships. But now, talking to Elvis, all she wanted to do was give in and rush to be near him.

“Ok.” She whispered out.

“Good, good girl. I’m having Charlie run get Joe, fly ya out tonight. Go get ya self packed up.”

********************************

The Norfolk airport was pitch black when they landed, and if it weren’t for the lights along the landing strip, Becky may not have been able to make out Jerry’s scowl from across the tarmac.

“You shouldn’t have come.” His voice was clipped and terse as he grabbed her traveling bag, looking her up and down as she wobbled behind him in the high heel suede boots Elvis had bought her.

“Hello to you, too.”

“He said you were bringing your daughter, so at least you have some sense.”

Becky gulped as Jerry opened her door, and she flipped the sun visor down to fix her make up.

“Yeah, I guess… I um, changed my mind. I thought she would have a good time, but then, I don’t know,  I thought the schedule would throw her off. And I guess I don’t want her to get too attached to him. Or the idea of me and him. This is all just a little fun.”

Jerry looked over at her, his shoulders seemed to clench with his jaw as he drove

 “Fun. Ha. Well get ready, I think you’re in for more fun than you bargained for.”

Then Jerry pulled over, and his voice went from sarcastic to earnest as he turned off the car. “Or you can just say the word right now, and I’ll turn around, take you back, and you can catch a flight home. I’ll tell him you never showed.”

Jerry’s hopeful expression gave Becky a strange sense of foreboding and all the excited, giddy anticipation drained from her body.

“But Jerry - there are no direct flights to Jackson, and it’s midnight.” Her lip quivered as she pushed her lipstick back into its case.

“And I - I can’t afford to pay for a hotel and then all the connections I would have to make to get back home. Why are you acting like this? What happened?”

The drove under a streetlight, and Becky saw the bags under Jerry’s eyes more fully as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Elvis has been getting into it with the band all week. Kathy and two of the Sweet Inspirations stormed off the stage mid-show tonight cuz he was talking shit at them sideways.” Jerry looked over at Becky. “The big man can dish it out, but he cain’t take it. No sireee.”

He drew out his “sireeee” as he pulled the white Lincoln into a parking spot at the back of a hotel. Becky shifted back and forth during the elevator ride up, arms crossed in front of the white floral dress she had excitedly wiggled into with glee three hours ago, as Ida kissed her good luck, and Ruth had glowered,  asking again why she couldn’t come. Now she felt ridiculous. Ugh, why couldn’t she ever listen to the voice of reason in her head that told her something was a bad idea. Leaning against the cool metal of the elevator, Becky kicked Jerry’s shin and tried to keep her voice light, positive.

“Ok, so level with me. Why is he fighting with the band, he seemed fine when he called me earlier.”

Jerry stepped away, grimacing at her familiarity. “That is because he is the master manipulator, and he wants you to come keep him company. But the last few days he has been stoned out of his gourd. More than usual. Cuz he’s in pain from all the performances, cuz he’s tired, cuz he’s bored. And he does not want to be on tour.”

“Then why is he?”

Jerry sucked in his breath and held up his hand, and a look of sharp contempt framed his smile as he rubbed his thumb and his forefinger together.

“Money money money, Becky! Linda needs a bigger apartment in LA! Dr. Nick needs a new house! Joe’s swindled him into starting a racquetball club! And of course he needs a different, gold plated plane.”

Becky swiveled in front of Jerry, looking him square in the eye as they hit the twenty first floor and she stepped backwards into the hallway.

“And what about you, Jerry, are your needs being taken care of?”

Jerry shook his head, and a sharp chuckle escaped his lips while he hung back and threw Becky’s blue travel case at her feet.

“Hmmm. I reckon you gotta from here, Becky. He’s in the Presidential Suite. Just down the hall.” He looked away, stating in a matter of fact tone. “Have fun.”

Becky’s mouth dropped as she watched Jerry tilt his head to the side through the closing doors, his eyebrows arched in a challenge. The elevator clanged shut, and Becky steadied herself, then opened her purse, as if all of life's problems could be solved with a tissue or some lipstick. There was the paperback copy of The Hobbit at the bottom, the one she’d been reading to Ruth. The one Ruth had shoved in her hands at the last minute, demanding that she call home and read to her while she was away. Becky smiled, thinking of Ruth’s big brown eyes as her small, stubborn mouth announced that she would be telling the neighbor kids all about how her mom was going to meet Elvis at his concert, even as Becky begged her not to.

“I guess if one good thing comes out of this, it should be Ruthie one upping those Ledbetter brats.”

Becky dug around in her purse, and decided to pop a tic tac in her mouth, the mint was refreshing, it washed away the bad taste her conversation with Jerry had left in her mouth. Then Becky took a moment to look herself over in the mirror. Ida had helped her pin her hair half up in the front, and her floral, cotton dress hung down in a flattering way from the embroidered empire chest to hang loosely over her hips before stopping at her knees. The suede boots gave her some height, and she liked the fringe along the side, she liked the way she could feel it dangle as she walked. She just had to keep her balance and everything would be fine. Looking at herself in the mirror, she blew herself a kiss and took a deep breath. In a moment of inspiration, she broken off one of the yellow roses from the vase on the table, and pinned it into the side of her hair, then strode down the hall.

She pulled on the ring Elvis had given her, once more finding reassurance from rubbing the metal over her finger again and again. But her confidence faltered for a moment outside the suite when she heard the smash of something being flung and breaking against the wall, followed by stomping and shouting. Elvis-like shouting.

“Fired, they’re all FUCKING fired. ‘Cept Myrna, she’s the only one with any sense a loyalty or professionalism. I don’ care if them other bitches come back here, begging, BEGGING, on their knees for their jobs back. They revealed their true colors here tonight. It’ll be a cold day in HELL before I take ‘em back.”

The shouting paused, and Becky leaned into the door to try and hear what the chorus of male voices muttering indecipherably were saying, before a loud voice, deeper than the Mississippi delta, bellowed back.

“Nah. Nope. I ain’t apologizing for shit. They need to ‘apologize to me, Felton, for not bein’ able to take a  GODDAMN joke. There’s a hundred back up singers out there  starving fo’ work. Who’d slit their momma’s throats for a chance to sing with us. Why don’t you do YA job and go find me some a them? What the hell I pay ya for? ‘Sposed to be producin’ this show, go produce some back up singers.”

Becky’s excitement at seeing Elvis again had now been replaced by a tense ball of nerves shifting in her stomach. Suddenly the sound of footsteps came towards her, and she jumped back from the door just in time before three or four men pushed by where she stood back, sucking in her stomach and gripping the wall as she watched them trudge down the hallway. Then she turned to find Charlie at the door, looking at her as his face scrunched from unease into a wide grin.

“Why if it isn’t Becky from Birmingham. Whatcha doin’ hugging  the wall out here, Becky? Git in here, girl.”

Charlie stood back, and Becky braced herself as she entered the hotel room.

It was a mess, plates of half eaten food lined the table and bar, several of which had been flung against the wall, where mashed potatoes and gravy now dripped down the wallpaper onto pieces of broken porcelain on the carpet. Becky shivered, and then tried to compose herself as she looked around. There was Joe, smoking and pacing on the other side of the room, he turned when he saw her, unable to hide the disdain that grew on his face. She recognized Red and Lamar on the couch, Sonny hunched against the wall, but didn’t know the younger, skinnier guy with long brown hair.

Becky suddenly felt very awkward and out of place and brought her blue, vinyl travel bag up to her stomach where she could hug it for comfort. She smiled at Lamar as Charlie patted her back.

“You know the fellas, aintcha Becky?” She nodded, her walk stilted as she came further into the pent house. “The big guy just went to his room, but man are you a sight for sore eyes, he sure is gonna be glad to see you.”

Sonny let out a laugh, then stood up and walked towards her.

“I thought Jerry was picking you up?”

“He was, I mean he did, but I guess he - um - had other stuff to go do.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. By now I bet he’s kissed Myrna’s ass so hard his lips are glued to it.” Sonny rubbed his hands together, looking Becky up and down, and she hugged her bag harder at the resentment in his eyes as he went to pour himself a drink.

“Don’t pay him no mind, Becky, he woked up on the wrong side of the bed is all. For the last ten years.” Charlie laughed loudly at his own joke, as he guided Becky through the tense, silence of the living room towards the master bed room, where he knocked on the door to the old “Shave and a hair cut, two bits” pattern.

“I said to FUCK OFF.” Was the response, and Becky looked at Charlie imploringly.

“He seems - out of sorts. Maybe I shouldn't be here.”

Red snorted behind them, muttering under his breath that was one way to put it.  But Charlie shook his head, whispering.

“Nah, it’s jus been a rough night with some a the personnel.” This elicited another snort from Red, but Charlie continued, undeterred. “He wanted to know the second you got here, trust me.” Then Charlie cleared his throat, calling out.

“Hey boss, guess who is here? It’s lil ol Becky! Just in from Miss’ppi.”

“Well why the didn’t ya say that in the first place.”

The door flung open with a bang to reveal Elvis, still wearing the blue jumpsuit with the silver zebra pattern rising on either side of his chest. A matching zebra patterned belt was at his waist and his hands held an old fashioned looking quilt in patriotic red, white and blue around his shoulders, like the comfort blanky Ruth still slept with sometimes.

 Becky immediately dropped her bag and went to him, cupping his face with her hands as she looked up into his eyes. In spite of all the shouting, the gruff stance, he looked like a wounded puppy. She would whatever she could to take all the pain out of his eyes and hold him until he knew that everything was alright.

The side of her pinky crested against a taut choker, as she shook her head at the dark make-up smudged around his eyes. His lips pursed together at the center as he looked down sheepishly, like a little boy, biting his lip as his hands let the quilt drop to the floor and found her waist.

“Are you cold, Elvis?” She asked, looking at the quilt.

“What, oh that? Nah honey, someone gave it to me at the show and I like." He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Aww Becky, is it good to see you.”

Elvis picked her up and swung her around, bouncing her against his slight belly. His face lit up, and Becky could almost swear he wiped a tear from his eye as he placed her down and drew her into his side, walking her out to the living room.

“Now, this is what a good gal looks like, a loyal gal. Drop ev’ry thin when her man needs her. Man ‘o man, baby. You look like an angel, sent from heaven. How’d I get so lucky, have an angel come visit me, huh?” He grinned, looked at the others before kissing the top of her hair with gusto, so much so that his chin knocked the rose out of it, and then he accidentally stepped on it when he moved to pick it up. Elvis bent at his knees, wobbling as he tried to gathered up all the petals, his voice was high and babyish.

“Aw, no no no no. I’m sorry baby, I trampled all ova ya pretty flower.”

Then he dropped it an octave yelling forcefully.

“Charlie - boy, where’d that dumb ass go.” Before he had even finished uttering the words dumb ass, Charlie was there, chuckling as if Elvis and he were two frat boys yanking each other’s chain. Instead of master and trained dog, Becky mused, then pushed the thought from her mind.

“Charlie, run out and get Becky some fresh roses -”

Becky bent down next to Elvis on the carpet and stilled his hand to pull him back up, notching herself under Elvis shoulder as she turned to Charlie.

“Don’t you dare, Charlie. I just stole it on my way in, I can always go get another one.” Then she leaned up on her tippy toes and kissed Elvis’ cheek. “It’s a sweet thought, though. You’re sweet a sweet boy. Thanks for inviting me to join you, wished I hadn’t missed the show.”

Then she ran her fingers through the sweaty matted hair at his temple, stroked out the sticky hairspray that had kept his coiffed, high pompadour in place. Elvis’ blue eyes locked with hers and his whole body softened.

“S’ok, honey, probably all for the best. Was a sorry ass excuse for a show anyway.”

Becky trailed her fingers lower, over his chin and down along his chest hair.

“Impossible.” She whispered into the crease at his armpit, nuzzling her nose against the edge of his shoulder.

He didn’t even break eye contact as she looked back into his face as he lifted his right hand out and waved the guys off.

“Alright, boys, dismissed.”

Becky smooshed her face back into his armpit, rather than watch the parade of angry, middle aged men depart. Just before he left, she heard Charlie start to say good night and how nice it was to see her, when Elvis yelled for him to stop making eyes at Becky and go find his own gal.

Then they were alone. In a sea of dirty dishes, broken plates, rose petals and one coffee table that looked like it had been turned upside down. Unless it was some sort of new modern design, where you placed your coffee on the marble slab face down on ground.

Looking back up at Elvis, Becky didn’t know what  to say.  The screaming she had heard through the door had terrified her., yet looking at him now it seemed so clear how tired and how much pressure he felt. Jerry’s words rang in her ears, and they summoned all of Becky’s stupid, nurturing instincts. She began to pull off his scarf, peppering his chest with a few soft kisses to sooth the heart beat she heard, running as fast as a loose rail car thundering down a mountain.

Looking back up at his face, she licked her thumb, without consciously realizing what she was doing, and started to clean up his eye make-up, and he started to babble about the whole world going to hell. But he quieted as she shook her head, and gripped her hand tightly, shakily. Feeling him tremble, she remembered how exhausted he must be. So she paused and led him through the master suite and into bathroom, when she sat him on the toilet, stopped him again from protesting that he was fine, with a finger to his lips. Then she took a wet washcloth, and straddled his lap to clean his face.

Elvis grinned up at her, and when was done, he clasped both her hands in his and brought them forward to kiss her knuckles, his eyes level with her breasts. She let out a gasp at the way he sucked at her knuckles, before she shook herself free so she could reclaim her hand and undo his choker.

“What’s the matter, baby boy, hmmm? What’s all the fuss bout tonight, huh?”

She soothed his forehead with her fingers, cracking her neck as she steadied herself on his lap. The texture of his blue, gaberdine suit was soft underneath her bare thighs.

“Ah, nothing honey, jus the doggone back up singers can’t take a joke. Walked off in the middle of the set, make me look like a damn clown.”

Becky steadied herself.

“I find that hard to believe. Don’t look like a clown to me. If anything,” she begun to unzip his jumpsuit, her hands smoothing over the cool sweaty, hair she found there as she pushed against his belly. “If anything, they’re the ones who look foolish. Walking off like that.”

Elvis' lip hung down, just the slight hint of a double chin grew there, before they widened into a smile, pushing the apples of his cheeks up towards her.

“Ya sweet honey, ya know that? Wait, whatcha doin’ woman?”

Becky giggled as she pulled off his belt, and leaned into smell his chest.

“I am undressing you, Elvis Presley. Shower time.”

He tried to dismiss this idea with a wave of his hand.

“Honey, I don’t need a shower.”

“Oh yes you do.” Becky rubbed her hands under Elvis’ jumpsuit, trying to push it off his shoulders. “When was the last time you took a shower, you stinky boy.”

He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Uh, uh, uh -”

“Ha, if it is taking that long to answer, it has been tooo long.” She jumped up, and went to start the water. Elvis stood, bringing her back against the bathroom wall.

“Think you can come in here, and order me around, huh?” He smirked. “I like how I smell. Smell like a man. S'natural, s'way God made me.”

“Good little boys.” Becky worked her hands back under his suit. “Who take good little showers.” She got the fabric off the side of his shoulders. “Get good little rewards.”

He stilled her hands, enveloping her with his scent, a staunch mix of sweaty musk doused with a bottle or two of brut. Becky wrinkled her nose.

“And what about bad little boys who do what they want, huh?”

She threw her arms around his neck. “They get loved on until they learn to behave.” And she began to kiss his chest and neck with a swift barrage of pecks.

“Alright, alright crazy woman. What’s my reward, then, huh?”

Becky pulled her dress off with a speed that made Elvis' head spin, but before he could make a snarky remark, she bent over to take off her boots, and all he could do was stare at her bottom as she motioned for him to unclasp her bra.

“Your reward is me. In the shower. Washing you.”

Becky giggled self consciously as she took Elvis’ hands and drew him into the shower. She didn’t know where her chutzpah had come from, all she knew was that when she was with him, she was a woman transformed. Her walls came down, and she wanted to be as close as possible to him, do whatever she could to put him at ease. Being around Elvis had warped her entire way of thinking.

The way his smirk rippled across his cheeks as he watched her lather up a wash cloth and start scrubbing over his hair chest made her tummy feel funny. Like she was about to jump off a diving board. She watched the soap drizzled down over his waist and down his happy trail. Becky swallowed hard, unable to stop herself from rubbing over it with her hand and wiping the soap into different shapes around his belly button. A triangle, a circle, a heart.

Elvis chuckled as he squeezed his eyes shut under the water, letting it rinse everything off as he muttered that she was a weirdo. Then he took the wash cloth from her hands and spread the lather over the top of her breasts. Back and forth, as if mesmerized. His attentive gaze made her vibrate, and Becky’s nipples became hard nubs. She pushed his hand aside, stepping close to rub the soap from her bosom against him, playfully.

“I think they’re clean.”

“Never can be too sure.” He pulled her closer, nudging his nose over hers as he took the washcloth back and began to caress her butt. “Just bein’ thorough. Wanna a get all my reward.”

“Your reward was me washing you, not the other way around.”

Elvis winked. “I’m renegotiatin’.” And he carefully turned Becky around so that she was leaning into the shower wall, while he slowly moved the washcloth over her shoulder blades, the small of her back, her bottom cheeks and the backs of her legs. His movements were so soft and tender, that they made all the thoughts drain from Becky’s head with the water. Her knees turned into jelly.  And all she knew was the warm sensation vibrating up her spine and tingling between her legs.

It was 3:45 am when they finally collapsed into the master suite’s large, king bed in matching pajamas. Becky could rest assured that every part of her body was clean, and while she hadn’t scrubbed him behind his ears, she had done her best with Elvis.

He had taken the cute, sexy pink fluffy negligee she had brought to sleep in from her hands, and thrown it in the trash, reiterating that just because they were on the road, they were never safe from commie drug dealers. Arsonists. Assassins. Any number of dangerous threats that could result in an instant need to evacuate the hotel.

“Trust me, Becky, you’ll be greatful ya wearing something decent if that happens.”

Becky rolled her eyes, saying to herself that Elvis was worse than her grandmother. But she obliged and reasoned that Elvis’ pajamas were probably more comfortable than the gauzy peignoir she had brought. The she settled back, watching him take his medication from the black, doctor’s bag, before folding her arms around him when he snuggled up and lay his head on her breasts,  murmuring to her in a low, babying tone.

“Aw Becky, don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t come.”

She stroked his soft, dyed hair, shhhing him as she smiled to her self at the hint of grey she saw at the peak of his right side burn.

“You’d be fine, you always are.”

“Nah, honey, none a these fools love me for who I really am. None of them would be here if it weren’t for the money.”

“That’s not true, your friends love you. They’ve known you all your life.”

“Nah uh, they don’t, baby. No one loves me. You might be the only one in the whole world who doesn’t want anything from me. Won’t take my goddamn money, even when I mean it as a gift. Because I do love givin’ gifts.”

Becky trailed her fingers across Elvis’ forehead, enjoying the way his warm skin felt under her knuckles. “I know you do. You really do.”

“But no one appreciates it, they just want more. Won’t be happy til they suck me dry. Ugh, I don’t know if I can even sleep, so keyed up about the band.”

Becky kissed his forehead, as an idea percolated, and she rose from the bed to grab The Hobbit from her purse.

“Here, why don’t I read to you, take your mind off things?”

Elvis’ took the book ins hand. “This the book Spock was singing about?”

Becky giggled, thinking of Leonard Nimoy’s record few years back. “I believe the song you are referring to is ‘The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins.’ And yes, it was inspired by this book. But I know you've heard of The Hobbit, Elvis. Have you ever read it?”

Elvis shook his head, but before he could protest that he didn’t read children's books, she brought his head back to her bosom and began reading it, doing the voices the same way she did with Ruth. They passed out at some point in the “Roast Mutton” chapter,  after pausing from time to time debating what their hobbit names would be.

“I think you are probably too tall to be a hobbit, Elvis, probably more an elf. Your name is practically the same as their language.”

“Well, that don’t make sense, no one names their kid after a language. English. Spanish. This is ma son, German. So then, what do you ’spose my elf name would be?”

Becky yawned. “I guess that will be our proooooject over the next few days, figure out what our hobbit and elf names are.”

“Guesss sooooooo.” Elvis yawned back.

**********************************************************

Becky found her paperback copy of The Hobbit open and smashed between them where Elvis had fallen asleep with his head on top of her chest. Several pages were bent back, and she tried to get them straight by bending them the other way, before deciding to put the lamp on top of it with the hope it would weigh them back into place. The room was still so dark, it surprised her to see that the clock read one p.m. It had been five or six when they passed out, and Becky could hardly believe how quickly she adapted back to Elvis’ schedule.

Looking down at him, she returned to cuddle into him, thinking how sweet he looked with his mouth wide open, asleep, completely unperturbed about the weight of the world that he carried on his shoulders. Then, as she shimmied her legs next to his, she felt the distinct, outline of an erect penis. I guess he slept well, she thought, and suddenly felt an aching tingle light up between her legs and a naughty thought enter her mind. Becky bit her lip, wondering how to wake him up without making it obvious. She began to nestle her knee into his cock, then blow air over his eyelids, faintly at first as she watched his long eyelashes flutter and waited to see if it woke him. When he remained asleep, she blew harder, emptying her lungs, until she saw his eyelids move and he opened one eye, with a blank, confused, slightly drugged out stare. This prompted her to plop back, not so stealthily, and pretend to be asleep herself. She also stopped moving her knee over his penis. Sleeping people don’t do that.

“Ha, now watcha think ya doin, Becky Butt?”

Elvis narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. A chuckled escaped Becky’s mouth, and her hand replaced her knee to slowly sweep over the outline of Elvis’ length, teasing his tip with the swirl of her thumb. Elvis seemed to instinctively move back up against the pillows, while also trying half-heartedly to swat away her hands from his pajama bottoms as she moved her head to his crotch.

“Now, honey, you’re a good girl, good girls don’t do that.”

Becky pulled at his waist, leaning down to nuzzle against the silk over his thigh, looking up and batting her lashes.

“Baby, you’ve been so stressed out, this tour got you all worked up. I’m just trying to help you relax and clear your head, so you can figure out what you want to do about your band.”

Elvis released her hands from where he had stopped them at his pants, and flopped back against the head board, resigned and moaning as her hand feathered over him. He closed his eyes as he looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “Lord have mercy. What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

Becky did a wiggly, little triumphant dance as Elvis shook his head, grinning as she pulled his pants down and very slowly and reverently bent down to kiss the tip, savoring the way his breath became heavier as she did. He bit his lip watching her look at him as she swirled her tongue around his foreskin where it now crested back above the head. In a leisurely, affectionate way, she moved her tongue hesitantly around him, using one hand to loosely palm up and down his shaft as she sucked the tip once more. Kissing it delicately, relishing how sensitive he was, how even just moving her mouth down an inch made his leg jolt. She laughed onto his cock when his knee knocked her head, and she looked up to see a warm, boyish smile beaming back down at her.

“Hey now, be gentle with him. He's, uh, he's, ughhhh, he's shy.”

Becky smiled as best she could up at him with a penis in her mouth, and worked to just move along the end of the foreskin to the top of the head, waiting as he moved her hair to guide her forward. His gasps sent a sharp ping to her core and Becky realized that the sound of Elvis’ hushed pleasure was like an aphrodisiac that she wanted to chase. And chase it she did, hollowing her cheeks to bob further down, seeing how far she could go with out gagging, seeing what happened when his tip hit the back of her throat, savoring the feeling of how it almost choked her.

His mouth now hung open, and he let out a loud moan as she delved deeper with the next thrust. Looking, she saw that his eyes were squeezed shut  and his mouth hung open, the bottom lip shaking tremulously as she began to speed up her tempo, following her mouth with her hand and breathing through her nose as she tried not to gag when she plunged downward. Then she felt Elvis grip her hair with a tight fist.

“Ah honey, oh Becky, oh honey, Imma about to burst!”

She watched his face contort as she nodded her acquiescence and continued to move her mouth over him, possessing him and at the same time giving herself to him as he arched his back up into her and came with a loud, breathy, high pitched cry. He was tangy, and salty, and she looked at him with a seductive wink as she flipped her hair and tried to swallow it all, before gagging and coughing most of it out of the side of her mouth and onto the duvet. This performance was followed by loud belly laughs from both parties as Becky rolled over in a fit of giggles at her clumsy attempt to be sexy. She hid under the pillows and blushed when Elvis moved over, threw the pillow away, and pulled her onto him with a goofy smile.

“Ya sure are sumpthin', Becky Butt. Man ‘o’ man." He sighed, stroking her shoulder. "Haven’t done anything like that in a while. Prolly since last time I saw you.”

“Elvis, you don’t have to lie to me, I see the photos of you with your other girlfriends on tour.”

He sucked in a deep breath, taking her chin to look up at him.

“You mean that girl I invited on tour after you turned me down? Honey, she don’t mean a thing, just someone to keep the bed warm. Wasn’t getting busy with her, tell you that.”

Becky arched her eye. “Really?”

“Mmmmhmmm. She is pretty, but she don't turn me on, not like you, baby. You’re my little snake charmer, member? And man, honey, every time too. Something special bout you. Gonna need you to come on the rest of the tour with me." His arm dropped, and his eyebrows furrowed and Becky realized he must be thinking about the tour. "Fuck, man, gotta figure out what to do bout these singers, goddammit. I don really wanna train new gals to sing, with only a few nights left.”

Becky patted his arm. “So don’t. Just apologize.”

A nervous squeak escaped her throat when she saw his lips purse and his eyes narrow in disbelief at her suggestion.

“You don’t have to mean it! I believe you were right, they are being bitches. Baby, trust me, you know how singers can be, premadonnas. And they are women. You can’t win with us. But you can know in your heart that you were joking, and also do what needs to be done to keep the show going by mending fences. S’easier to catch more flies with honey, E.”

Becky felt like a traitor to her fellow womankind, as she felt fairly certain that whatever had happened, the back up singers probably had every right to be upset. But the end justified the means, right? Her reasoning seemed to have some effect, as Elvis' pinched lips released and he grunted.

She watched as he looked at her, and repeated "easier to catch more flies with honey" in a high, mocking voice, while he rolled over and picked up the phone, asking the operator for Joe’s room. “Get Lowell on a plane, tell him to bring everything in the store. I don’t care, jack, do you work for my daddy? No, that’s what I thought, huh. Yeah, Imma have Felton take it all over to the girls, to everyone, tell them I know things got outta hand this week, let’s leave it in the past. Oh, and I wanna get Myrna a new Caddy, so she knows what loyalty means to me.”

Elvis was patting Becky’s thigh as he did this, his fingers playing a rhythm only he knew. But it made Becky feel special, needed, close to him, and she found a strange contentment just being there, receiving the song his body was tapping out. After he hung up, he called room service and asked them to send two of everything from the breakfast menu, explaining he didn’t care if it was 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

“Ever been Asheville, ha, honey?”

“MMmhmmm. No, can't say I have. Guess we'll have a few days there to figure out what our hobbitses names are.”

“Already know what your’s is. Becky Bobbit.” He grinned wide at her quizzical face. “Cuz you bobbit so good on my nobbit.”

Becky hit him as he burst into a fit of giggles. “Dirty, nasty, mean man.”

“Awww, honey, s’compliment. Wanna keep you round with me always, my lil bobbit hobbit.”

“Ha.”

“Comin’ to Memphis after the tour?”

“Elvis - I -”

“I thought we were talkin’ bout getting you moved up there. You will love it."           

“I will hate it.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

“Hmmm, you might be sick of me after the next few days.”

Elvis squeezed his arm around her tighter, looking down at the stain on the duvet, and then back at her with a silly smile.

“Nah, I won’t.”

***************************************************

For fun...

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[morerandombullshit]

Our Exceptional Minds Rating: T Pairing: Tech x GN Reader Word Count: 2221 Summary: College AU where you and Tech are in the same English literature class and are amicably competing for the class' highest grade  CW: Light innuendos, mentions of alcoholism and financial hardship, otherwise enjoy whatever this is Note: This is my tribute to Tech and the show as a whole in a way? I can't believe it's been so long since the finale

I also bought into the “Tech is alive” theory and I’m still crushed but I’ll be fine I’m fineeee

(Ao3 version here)

You twirl your pen in your hand as you listen to your professor’s dissection of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. 

“...Written to illustrate the racism present in Alabama in the 1930s…Painting a picture of how America’s Great Depression looked…”

You try not to yawn. You’d already mentally dissected the book, but the guy beside you is taking notes at the speed of fucking light. With light brown hair cut to look like he has a receding hairline, plus it gives Steve-from-Minecraft vibes, pale skin with a little tan to it, warm honey brown eyes and thick-framed round glasses with brown-tinted glass, he looks a lot like a nerd.

His clothes are more casual, but still with that nerdy vibe—short-sleeved white button-up, dark wash jeans and lightly faded red Chucks. Though you have to admit, he gives that bashfully charming vibe too—

Nope. You’re focusing on getting the highest grade in this class. Not one guy. It’s your last year of college, and you’ve been doing this since your first.

The rest of the class is the professor explaining a paper on a non-fiction book of the student’s choice. It’s the last assignment before finals, and worth about thirty percent of your final grade. Once the lecture is over, you get up and go, but no, you have to bump into the guy who caught your eye earlier.

“Shit!” you yelp as you fall back, splaying a hand behind you to catch your fall. He blinks, adjusting his glasses and then offering a hand out to you, which you take. “You alright?” he asks, British accent faintly lilting his voice. Damn. Shaking the observation from your head, you cough a little. “Tech.” he says, holding his hand out. “My name’s Tech.”

You smile at his surprisingly charming awkwardness as you shake his hand. “Y/N.”

A small silence passes before Tech asks, “Want to, um…go somewhere else?”

Usually, you wouldn’t go somewhere with someone you don’t know—especially if it’s a guy—but his awkward charm is winning over you. “Ah…sure.”

—0—0—0—

And that’s how you’ve found yourself in a two-story house with four other guys who bear a striking resemblance to Tech, a girl who also bears a striking resemblance to Tech besides her platinum blond hair and a lovable golden retriever with warm chocolate eyes.

“Tech, you finally brought someone home?” the brawny guy with a bald head and a web-like scar on one side of his head (and going over his left eye) bellows, showing off extremely gentle giant vibes. Unlike Tech’s lilted British accent, there’s a rugged Australian lilt to his voice instead. “Calm down, Wrecker.” the dyed-silvery white haired guy with a buzz cut, an almost- permanent scowl, a crosshair tat on the left side of his face and a toothpick in his mouth. “You’ll scare them away.”

Another man snorts, and he’s paler than even Tech is. “I’d pay to see that.”

“We don’t have the money to spare for that, remember?” the dark and broody guy with long, loosely curly dark brown hair held back by a red bandana with a skull on the side of it says, voice a bit deeper and richer than the others’. “Not with our student loan debts and mortgage.”

“He has a point, Echo.” the girl pipes up, her Australian accent the strongest of everyone else’s. She pets the dog. “We barely have enough to keep ourselves and Batcher” —she scratches behind the dog’s ear— “Alive as it is.”

You wince. Your heart’s breaking for everyone here already, but you feel as if you’re intruding, being here as they talk about personal matters that don’t involve you. 

“Anyway…” Tech coughs awkwardly. “This is Y/N. They’re from my English literature class.”

After the awkward greeting, you get roped right into a hug by the gentle giant—Wrecker, if you’d heard his name right. You find out the rest of their names—the dark and broody one is Hunter, the dyed-gray haired one is Crosshair, the pale bald one’s name is Echo, the girl’s name is Omega and the golden retriever’s name is Batcher.

You’d also found out they’re all siblings—Hunter being the oldest at 27, Wrecker at 25, Echo at 24, Crosshair and Tech being 22 because they’re twins and Omega at 17, plus Batcher is 5. 

By the time dinner rolls around, you and Tech have been working on your respective papers. You’re doing 1984, and you notice Tech’s doing To Kill A Mockingbird. 

You’re so focused that you don’t notice that you and Tech are close and side-by-side. “Hey, Hunter said dinner’s ready.” you hear Omega say, and that’s when you notice how close you and him are. Shit. You shift a little away from and you clear your throat a bit as you lock your laptop and set it down. “Right.”

“What’s your word count?” Tech asks as you and him sit with everyone else at the kitchen table. “Ah…541.” you reply as you go for the huge bowl of stew in the middle of the table. A small smile graces his face, and even you have to admit the sight is cute as hell. “I’m at 1579.”

You sputter, almost spilling your stew. “What?”

“Is this a competition?” Tech adjusts his glasses, a cute mannerism that only gets cuter the more he does it. “Because if so, I seem to have won.”

You’re left to digest your shock as Wrecker guffaws, Omega giggles, and a little smirk comes out of Crosshair. Hunter’s leaning against the counter with his bowl of stew. And God, the stew is good. “Who made this?” you ask around a spoonful of meat-and-carrot heaven.

Everyone else points to Echo, who smiles sheepishly. “I’m usually the one who cooks because I’m the only one with culinary skills. Wrecker makes it with love but burns everything, Hunter can only make the prepackaged stuff, Omega can’t cook yet, Crosshair can but something always goes wrong and Tech, um…he’s banned from the kitchen.”

You almost choke on your stew as it goes down. “Wait, what?” You look over at Tech, eyes probably comically wide. “You never said you couldn’t cook!”

“I never said I could, either.” He replies, doing that cute fucking adjusting-glasses mannerism again and smirking. There’s a teasing note to his voice and it just makes the whole thing even cuter. “I’m banned from the kitchen because I kind of…made an experiment out of dinner.”

“And permanently stained the cabinet above the stove red with tomato sauce.” Crosshair cuts in. “Need I remind you of the ass-kicking you got saved from when I found out the alcohol wasn’t contaminated by that?”

Everyone, including you, laughs as Tech replies with, “So, you confirm you’re an alcoholic?”

Omega snorts. “As if we didn’t know. Every time he’s at home, he’s knocking shitty gin back.”

Another laugh from around the table, including you and excluding Crosshair. “Look, I love alcohol as much as the next person,” You say once you’ve calmed down. “But don’t drink gin. Rum is so much better.”

“Exactly.” Hunter snorts and raises his mug before taking yet another sip from it and going silent. The table settles into camaraderie and sibling things, and Tech’s eyes meet yours amidst the chaos of Wrecker and Omega asking Echo where a “Lula” is and Crosshair sighing in exasperation. 

He adjusts his glasses, offering you a small, awkwardly charming smile, and you smile back as butterflies start to flutter in your stomach.

Maybe he isn’t so bad after all…

—0—0—0—

A couple weeks later, and you’re hanging out with Tech and his siblings again. They’ve become a constant this past while, and you’ve donated them some extra money from an “anonymous” source, even if you’re a little stretched in the financial department yourself.

Besides, they need it more than you do. With the stress of a grossly overpriced mortgage and student loans, something that’s foreign to you since you got a full-ride scholarship, you feel as if it’s your responsibility to help them out. 

Hunter, Wrecker, Echo, Crosshair, Omega and Tech—as well as Batcher—are like a second family to you now, and you’re definitely emotionally attached. There isn’t a way that you aren’t.

You knock on the door and Omega answers with a grin. “You don’t have to knock, y’know?” She teases as she steps aside to let you in. Batcher runs up to you  and presses her side to your legs, giving you a small greeting bark. You laugh and scratch one of her floppy ears before she walks somewhere else. “I know.” you smile a bit as you ruffle Omega’s shoulder-length curly platinum blond hair. “It just feels right.”

Crosshair snorts from the end of the front hall. A couple weeks of knowing him, and according to Tech, he’s mostly dropped his gin-swigging habit. “You sure you and Tech aren’t dating?” he asks, smirk on his face and causing you to roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. We both have finals next week, so it wouldn’t be rational to start dating right now.”

“But you could have…study sessions.”

You don’t miss all the innuendo packed into those last two words, and apparently Omega gets it too, because she snorts—and you can feel heat creeping up your neck from it. “And that’s where you keep your mouth shut.” you say, a little embarrassed but also teasing right back at him. You and Tech have already been studying for finals since you turned your respective papers in. 

“Crosshair, stop torturing them. You’re in withdrawal, but that doesn’t mean you suddenly get the right to be an ass.” Hunter says as he comes to the doorway and smiles at you. “Studying with Tech again?”

But you could have…study sessions.

Crosshair’s words bounce around in your head for a moment as heat creeps back up your neck. Shit. You get it under control and nod. “Yeah. Finals are gonna be a bitch.”

You smile a bit. “Thanks. Tech’s home,right?”

“He’s waiting for you.” Wrecker calls from the living room over the wrestling match on TV. “Do good on those finals, yeah?”

You laugh. “Will do!” you call back before heading for the stairs. You knock on the door first before going into Tech’s room, and finding him working, but he looks up at you and smiles, adjusting his glasses. He seems to do it around you all the time these days, but it’s just as cute as when you’d first noticed it. “Hey.” you say, sitting on the floor next to him and being careful not to mess anything up.

“Hi.” he says, passing you some notes. “Shall we get started?”

You nod, placing his meticulous notes next to you and pulling your own laptop out. And yet Crosshair’s earlier teasing still pokes at you…

A few hours in and Tech looks up at you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Can I ask you something?”

You blink, looking up from your notes. “Y—yeah. Sure.” you mumble, having an idea of where this is going but not wanting to assume. He scooches closer to you and looks you in the eye, gaze so gentle you drop the stack of notes in your hands out of pure shock.

Tech’s hand reaches up and tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, making you swallow and heat to creep back up your neck. Maybe your heart even skipped a beat. You can’t tell—your senses are narrowed to that feather-light, tender touch and the softness in his eyes. “How’re you so fucking perfect?” he mutters, taking another strand of your hair in his hand and lightly tugging it. “I swear to God, you’re like an angel.”

You smile a bit. “Wow, English lit did something for your flirting game, huh?” you tease, just to hide how flustered you are. Though by the small glint in his eyes, he already knows. 

Tech’s hand moves from that loose strand of your hair to your cheek, his hand surprisingly warm—you think you lean into the warmth, but other things are on your mind. He gives you this sweet, soft smile that makes your heart melt before leaning a bit closer.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, only inches from your face. Fuck. You’re not sure how to respond for a moment, but when you gather the courage to, you mumble, “Yeah.”

Tech’s smile grows a bit as he leans in the last few inches and presses his mouth to yours. It’s a slow, sweet kiss with an undercurrent of nervousness on both your parts, but you kiss back all the same. 

You pull away after a few minutes, the kiss lingering for a moment. He’s smiling at you, something tender warming his already warm brown eyes. “Thank you.” he says, his voice a little quieter.

Your eyes snag on the notes, but you couldn’t care less about studying at the moment. “No problem. “No problem.” you lean back, thinking for a moment. “Y’know, we could take a break. Dinner’s probably not going to be ready for another couple hours.”

Tech’s eyes light with mischief now—and it’s a good look on him. “I like the way you think, cyare.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jade, Riddle: Days that we Treasure

Why do they use the most Obviously Evil and Unsettling images ever 😭 Who looks at the Mega Ursula painting and goes, “Ah, yes. This is a perfectly sane and totally good person”??????? Or that unsettling image of the Evil Queen??? They did NOT get their best angles…

THE TWINS ArE NOT BEATING BACK THE LEECH CRIME FAMILY ALLEGATIONS ANYTIME SOON... Jade says his dad taught him and Floyd skills like how to break free of ropes and how to pick locks... 💀 and then Jade talks about how he beat up some sharks and made them bleed--

It's really cute to hear about how Jade collected baubles just like Ariel did 🥺 even gifting some coins to Azul!! Him chucking everything once he lost interest broke my heart though... (Some clarification: Jade indicates that he used to like manholes; this is a unique cultural aspect of Japan, as manhole covers tend to have fun designs there. He was probably referring to those, not just plain manhole covers.)

A Tale as Old as Time.

"Oya, what a charming portrait of a crustacean."

Jade spoke of a painting of a crab, lips pursed as if midsong, a flurry of bubbles and sea life swirling around it. Light shone down from the surface world, as if spotlighting a lone performer on an otherwise dark stage. Such fun! Such whimsy! Such…

… easy game, Jade thought. His polite smile tugged into what was decidedly a far less polite smirk.

He had honed a discerning eye, parsing people as easily as one might parse papers. One look was all that was needed for him to tell: the crab would easily be suckered into signing a contract. Gullible, cheery fools like him always were.

His grin grew. Fingers curled against his chin, almost resembling a folded paw which concealed claws.

“I don’t like that look of yours,” Riddle declared. His resolute tone resounded in the darkened museum as he fell beside the eel. “It looks extremely suspicious!”

“Riddle-san. How good of you to join me.” With a hand shifting to be placed over his head, Jade gave him a curt bow. "I apologize if you were disarmed by my expression. You see, I have a tendency to smile awkwardly out of nervousness."

Riddle made a face and shook his head. “I’m not sure if I entirely believe that.”

"Who can you trust, if not your dear classmates?"

Riddle gave no response, only meeting him with an exasperated look. Jade’s chuckles were loud in the cavernous quiet of the museum.

He gestured to the platinum frame containing the singing crustacean. “Are you familiar with this gentlecrab?"

"I have learned a bit of the history of merpeople," Riddle declared proudly, puffing his chest out like a swaggering peacock. "He is the Sea King's favored composer. From what I understand, music is highly regarded in your culture—and it is for that reason that this composer was able to earn such an important position in the king’s court. He was not only wise, but also wove stunning melodies which captured the hearts of all sea creatures. Truly an ideal candidate to stand by the king’s side.”

“That’s right. My, you certainly put in the extra effort to your studies. As expected of Riddle-san.”

Jade brought a hand to his mouth. “Ah, but there are many stories of him that the land textbooks do not tell. For example, did you know that this great composer was also a friend and confidant to the Mermaid Princess?”

“The Mermaid Princess… Surely you don’t mean the Mermaid Princess that bridged the humans and merpeople?”

“The very same.” Jade gave a light laugh. “They say she was spirited and defiant, with a deep fondness for humans, in spite of her father’s protests. The great composer discovered her hidden grotto, which was full of gadgets and gizmos aplenty, items the Mermaid Princess had scavenged from shipwrecks—and his loyalty was put to the test.”

Jade held out both hands, lifting one while lowering the other, then swapping sides. He simulated a scale and changing weights.

“The Sea King, who detested humans, and the Mermaid Princess, who loved them. Which of the two would the composer follow?”

“What a ridiculous question!” Riddle frowned, sweeping out an arm—as if to collapse a house of cards. “Of course the Sea King is the most correct. He has the most authority in the circumstances, and furthermore, the composer is in service to the king. It is clear that it is the composer should side with the Sea King.”

Jade's eyes glinted like coins shifting in the darkness. "In the end, he chose to support the Mermaid Princess."

"What?!" Riddle recoiled in visible shock. "That's preposterous! On what grounds....!"

“He must have valued the Mermaid Princess’s friendship with all of his heart,” Jade replied teasingly, “or rather, it was because he understood her sorrow and desire.”

“A man of his skill and stature, understanding her feelings and breaking the rules on her behalf…? I can’t picture it myself.”

"Perhaps it is difficult to understand without full context." Jade's brows turned upward, almost passing for sympathetic. "... There was a dark era of the Sea King's rule when music of any kind was expressly forbidden. However, the great composer—in an act of rebellion—played to his heart's content in secret. The Mermaid Princess came upon his secret and learned of the joys of song and dance from him. She understood that, to the composer, music was his most prized possession. His treasure. He could not bear to be without it, just as a fish cannot be without water."

Riddle's face creased. "I see, so the Mermaid Princess and this composer... They understood one another's circumstances. Both of them knew the pain of longing for something forbidden."

"Yes. To them, it was worth disregarding the law to attain that which they loved the most." Jade's suspiciously pleasant smile returned. "I believe that is incredibly courageous and admirable of them."

"That is hardly surprising, seeing as you and your brother constantly skirt school rules!" Riddle grumbled under his breath. "And no matter the reason for it or the results achieved, you are all still guilty of your crimes!!"

"Such harsh accusations." Jade's lips peeled, revealing the many tiny, razor-sharp teeth he so often hid from public view. "Most graciously, the story I was telling you has a happy ending. Th Sea King pardoned them both for their transgressions. As they say, all's well that ends well."

"Rule-breakers walking away without so much as a light sentence... That's considered a happy ending for you?!" Riddle's snarl filled the room, rattling the portraits that lined the walls, the priceless artifacts out on display. He was redder than the crab composer himself.

"Oya, Riddle-san. What a loud voice—you may just disturb the other museum goers.” Jade tossed a glance at the room adjacent to theirs. Their peers milled about, clamoring for glimpses of pieces of art, scraps of history, and shards of greatness.

The dorm leader hastily cleared his throat. “Apologies... I lost control of my temper for but a moment.”

“There is no need for an apology. I’m certain the merciful Sea King would have granted you clemency as well.”

“D-Do not tease me!!” Riddle’s face inflamed once more, earning a stifled snort from his classmate. “S-Stop laughing!! It’s NOT funny!!”

His protests were of no use. Jade’s snort swelled into barely concealed chuckling, and then finally burst into a monstrous grin. It didn’t quite match with the soft laugh that bubbled up from his throat.

The surface world had introduced to him a plethora of new wonders. Mushrooms, mountains, and what else…? The very people of the land.

I will never tired of these peaceful, fun-filled days.

They were his invaluable treasures, things well-worth fighting for.

[jadeazora]

(Archie and Maxie, Rose, Guzma, etc. not included since they were much more mild imo.)

A more detailed list of their crimes:

RR Giovanni specifically since he's always has some kinda scheme going and seems among the most competent of the lot, extremely manipulative and charismatic, was able to force all the past villains to band together to fight off Team Rocket on Pasio (or somehow lead them in the RR storyline)

Cyrus in Platinum was really only foiled thanks to Giratina, otherwise, he was the closest to actually winning imo. Literally, what could the player have done in that situation? The Lake guardians could only balance one dragon, and while we have the Master Ball, he's the one that gave it to us in the first place. Do you think he'd really let us just chuck it at one of the Dragons? That he couldn't just warp it away or freeze it in time?

Ghetsis. Groomed his (adopted) son in order to be the perfect little puppet king, with apparent intention to dispose of him after he outlived his usefulness, first villain to actually try to murder us, possibly implied to have killed N in Ultra (I said this before: I do not like that he has N's Dragon. Not one bit!), and then he physically assaults and threatens to kill Lillie if the player doesn't stand down.

Lysandre. Attempted genocide with a WMD. His organization has strong secret police traits, even tho those aren't developed too well in the original XY games. Haven't looked at him in the same way since he executed a couple of Team Rocket grunts by boiling them alive. (That's just really gruesome for Pokémon. And then it's heavily hinted he was stalking a Team Break grunt with that same intent, just waiting for the guy to push his luck.)

SM Lusamine. Emotionally abusive and controlling to her own daughter, might strike a bit closer to home than with Ghetsis. Froze potentially dozens of Pokémon, going by those cryo tanks all over her room, and then flips out as the Motherbeast and tries to attack Lillie.

Volo. The way the game builds us having a bond with him before he reveals that he was just using us all along, and then orders Giratina to kill us all with a smile on his face was so brutal, and I never saw it coming. Adding to it, we're alone with this man with likely no one else around for miles at several points in the game, one of these being our literal most helpless moment when we've been banished and the clans can't help us under threat of war.

[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

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[justforbooks]

Dickey Betts

Guitarist, singer and founding member of the Allman Brothers Band best known for writing their 1973 hit Ramblin’ Man

Dickey Betts, who has died aged 80, was a founder member of the Allman Brothers Band, one of the most influential US “southern rock” groups of the 1970s. The hard-living outfit blazed out of Jacksonville, Florida, in 1969 with a mix of rock, blues, country and jazz that defined the genre, also influencing artists such as Lynyrd Skynyrd, ZZ Top, the Black Crowes and Kid Rock. They scored several platinum and gold albums and were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Although the six-piece band was ostensibly led by the blond- haired Allman brothers, Duane and Gregg (guitar and keyboards/vocals respectively), as joint lead guitarist, singer and main songwriter Betts played a crucial role. A larger than life character with his cowboy hats, long moustache and gunslinger good looks, Betts wrote many of the band’s best loved songs, including��Jessica, Blue Sky and the 1973 US No 2 smash Ramblin’ Man, inspired by life on the road.

The signature duelling of Betts’s and Duane Allman’s lead guitars rewrote the rule book of how twin guitarists play together - previously one had played lead and the other rhythm. The band’s huge fanbase included President Jimmy Carter, and in 2020 Betts even received the rare accolade of a mention in a Bob Dylan song, when Murder Most Foul contained the line “Play Oscar Peterson, play Stan Getz/Play Blue Sky, play Dickey Betts.”

He was also the inspiration for the rock star character played by Billy Crudup in the former rock journalist Cameron Crowe’s film Almost Famous (2000), the director having been drawn to Betts’s aura of “possible danger and playful recklessness behind his eyes”.

Betts was born in West Palm Beach, Florida, one of the three children of Harold, a carpenter, and his wife, Sarah (nee Brinson), who wrote poetry and played the cornet in a Salvation Army band. Although his father was also a keen fiddler, Dickey’s first instrument was the ukelele, which he started playing aged five, later graduating to the mandolin and the banjo.

He was at West Gate elementary school when he wrote his first song, Seven Years With Pamela, about his sister. He then attended various West Palm Beach schools until seventh grade, dropping out of high school when he was 16, by which time his pursuits included carpentry, hunting and listening to the Grand Ole Opry on the family radio.

Hearing Chuck Berry’s Maybellene in his mid-teens prompted another switch of instrument, as he “started realising that girls like guitars”. He dropped out of high school aged 16 to tour the US with a travelling circus in his first band, the Swinging Saints, but was playing in Second Coming with the bassist Berry Oakley when Duane Allman invited both men to join his new group.

The lineup was completed by the drummer Butch Trucks and – unusually in white-dominated 60s southern rock - a black second drummer, James Lee Johnson, who had previously played with Otis Redding and Percy Sledge.

Although sales of their first two albums were sluggish, Duane Allman’s appearance on Eric Clapton’s 1970 album Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs – which included the classic hit Layla – boosted the heavy-touring Allman Brothers Band’s rising profile. Their 1971 live album At Fillmore East sold 1m copies.

After Duane Allman and Oakley were killed in motorcycle accidents in 1971 and 1972 respectively, Betts led a rejigged lineup. The 1973 album Brothers and Sisters – featuring Ramblin’ Man and the instrumental Jessica, later the theme to the television motoring show Top Gear – topped the US charts for five weeks, while 1975’s Win, Lose Or Draw went into the Top five. By then the band were succumbing to a familiar music industry cocktail of success, drugs, alcohol and feuding.

Betts and Gregg Allman both made solo albums, before Betts felt betrayed when the latter testified against the band’s road manager in a 1976 drugs case and refused to work with him again. Nevertheless, they regrouped in 1978, splitting again in 1982.

A second comeback in 1989 proved more enduring, although in 2000 Betts was fired over his drinking. That third spell in the band had been dogged by alcohol and drug abuse, lawsuits and arrests, and in 1996 he was charged with aggravated domestic assault after pointing a handgun at his fifth wife, Donna (nee Stearns), whom he had married in 1989. The charges were dropped after Betts agreed to enter rehab.

In his later years he returned with his own Dickey Betts Band and played in the band Great Southern with his son Duane. True to his ramblin’ man credentials, he remained on the road to the last, even after brain surgery following a 2018 fall at home, and he released live albums well into his 70s.

He is survived by Donna and his children, Kimberly, Christy, Jessica and Duane.

🔔 Forrest Richard Betts, musician, singer and songwriter, born 12 December 1943; died 18 April 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[thatcartoonnetworkblog]

Cartoon Network Friday Spotlight: "The Bear That Wasn't"

Frank Tashlin may not have been as innovative as a director as Tex Avery or Chuck Jones, or as consistently hilarious as Friz Freleng or Bob Clampett, but he had arguably the most impressive resume of the major Looney Tunes directors. Tashlin moved from studio to studio for more than 15 years, most notably holding a few stints at Warner, as well as brief runs of varying jobs with Ub Iwerks, Columbia's animation division, and even Disney, not to mention working on his own comic strip, as an early pioneer of stop-motion animation, and as a gag writer for a range of talents including the Marx Brothers. In the 50s, he started directing live-action films for comedic icons like Bob Hope and Jerry Lewis, with or without Dean Martin, as well as bombshell Jayne Mansfield.

Hugely impressive, right? Tashlin also wrote a few children's storybooks during all of this time, one of which would be adapted into a short subject during Jones' tenure at MGM*, this, which ended up being the studio's last short subject.

In this, a confused bear wakes up from hibernation in the middle of a busy building, where he's confused for a big, hairy man in a fur coat who needs to go back to work. The thing is, he's just a bear and wants to go back to his lifestyle, but no one will believe him. He goes through the chain of commands to state his case, but to no avail.

The original book was a criticism of the increasing corporate industrialization and the pressures in society of embracing popular opinion despite how it might conflict with the truth. The cartoon keeps these themes to varying extents but due to its short nature, some of it is missing, which Tashlin noticed and considered disappointing, even as Jones made the short as a tribute to his friend and in hopes of winning him an Oscar. That didn't prove to be, but it's still an enjoyable cartoon, one of Jones' last true classic animated works. Luckily, this is available on the first Looney Tunes Platinum Collection.

*confession- I don't recall or have immediate evidence of "The Bear That Wasn't" airing on CN or Boomerang, but as it's a part of the Turner library, I think it's worth adding here anyway.

[retrospeccd]

Okay boys, my car has been Fallout themed for a very long time. BoS sticker on the back window, (a tradition from my first car, RIP little Sephia) Lucky 38 Platinum Chip on my side window, Vault 101 charm on the rearview mirror, Vault Tec lanyard. The question is, with the show out now and my plate renewal coming up....

Or chuck a suggestion in the replies if your brain comes up with something better