#yellow pacer
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Folksy Friday | Huun-Huur-Tu - Chyraa-Khoor (Yellow Pacer) (Tuvan)
#throat singing and lively instruments#huun-huur-tu#chyraa-khoor#yellow pacer#tuvan#тыва дыл#tyv#turkic#asia#tuva#russia#2010#2010s#folk#what language is this#Spotify
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Missing Pieces : Fontaine x f!Reader
Summary: After supposedly returning from a shooting he can't remember, Fontaine's memory seems to be a little jacked as something doesn't feel right. He sits down with Slick Charles, trying to connect the missing pieces in his daily routine, while everyone tries to explain to him that someone's missing...
Warning(s): Violence, Angst, Amnesia, etc.
It was loud, it was close, almost like it was right in front of him.
BANG!
A gun shot rang out.
Fontaine's eyes burst open, he sits up with a startled breath, almost choking on the first gasp he lets out.
Putting a hand against his chest, feeling for the indent of a bullet hole he was sure had gone through him at some point. But there was none, only the raised scars from a few mishaps or scuffles with any dumb motherfucker that used to try him. The ghost of pain was strange, as he shook himself out of his slumber it quickly settled and numbed to nothing. But it wasn't really even a memory, a nightmare?
He'd gotten shot before, never flat out in the chest like he'd felt when he got up. Somehow, he imagined it would've felt differently. But, then again, it was only a nightmare.
Fontaine ran a hand down his face, sighing heavily. The nightmare faded from his mind, he couldn't even remember what it was about, but it had left him shaken.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he seemed to wait for something, looking beside himself to see if anyone were sleeping at his bedside. It was empty, the other side's cover tucked tight.
Brows furrowing at the weird feeling that the morning had already brought for him, Fontaine huffed out a breath and stood, preparing for his day.
He got dressed, throwing on the white sweatshirt and a pair of worn down jeans, as he pulled them on, he caught sight of a silver chain on his dresser, a threaded cross at the end.
Walking over to it, he took it and looked it over, it was unfamiliar to the eye but he could've sworn at some moment he had probably worn it, or he had seen it on somebody else. He pockets it, leaving the room.
Outside, he meets up with his boys, the gang crowding at the corner, waiting on him. On the front yard, Fontaine lays on the lifting bench, putting an ungodly number of rusted plates on the bar before pressing the weight with no assistance.
The two other swole muhfuckas huddle around him hyping him up, throwing insults to goad him to a few more lifts as he nears his next rep, "One more! Weak ass nigga!" Fontaine huffs a puff of air, muscles flexing as he lifts another. "One more!"
"Hey Fontaine!" Junebug yells as he runs over, a Caprisun in his grasp.
Fontaine racks the weight with no problem, sitting up, he looks to the kid as he stops in front of him with a toothy smile, looking around. "Where she at, man?" Junebug asks, suddenly looking disappointed.
Fontaine raised a brow, before standing taking his jacket off the ground, "What you doin' here, Junebug?"
"(Y/n)," the kid says, "Where she at, huh?"
"I ain't got yo' babysitter, lil man." The name sounds familiar for a split second, until it doesn't.
Junebug frowns. "Did you get in a fight again?"
"What the fuck you talkin' bout, Junebug? I dunno no bitch named..." he pauses a minute, catching sight of a car, a 1975 AMC Pacer, a dark yellow color. It was parked up down the block, just behind his Pontiac.
Ignoring Junebug's nonsensical questions, Fontaine turns to Big Moss, who holds a handheld fan to his face, "Yo' nigga, who car is that?" he points to the Pacer.
Big Moss looks over, squinting a bit, "Ain't that yo' honey's, mane?"
"Ma' honey?" Fontaine made a face, clearly the only person lost here. "The fuck you on?"
The rest of the gang around made sour faces, some clearing their throats and turning at the suddenly uncomfortable conversation, attempting to nosily mind their businesses. "Not no mo', I guess," Big Moss says, awkwardly. Clearing his throat, "It's cool mane."
"The fuck--" Fontaine's interrupted.
"You and (y/n) ain't together no mo'?" Junebug looks disheartened. "What you do?"
"Ya'll niggas crazy, I ain't know no bitch named (y/n)--"
"Fonnie..." a gentle whisper in his ear startles him. A woman leans in close to him, he feels her hands drag up the side of his torso and up his chest from behind, hugging him close for just a second...
He turns quick.
His eyes instinctually cut to the yellow Pacer at the corner of the street as he finds no one to blame behind him. "Crazy..." he repeats, maybe about himself.
Fontaine decides to get in his car, driving to the liquor store. He buys a lotto and a routine bottle of Anaconda Malt Liquor. As he unscrews the cap, taking a swig, he hopes for a buzz or a sense clarity that never hits him, maybe it was time for something a little stronger.
He scratches the lotto, and the same outcome taunts him back with a 'You Lose' in bold. Tossing it to the ground, he walks back towards his car, coming up towards Frog, the homeless old man that always had some riddle to say. And he didn't disappoint. "Lovin' n' holdin an' they just takin' n' stealin', ey youngblood?" Frog says, holding up the styrofoam cup as Fontaine pours a good bit of the liquor to his cup.
"Yeah, Frog," Fontaine sighs, used to the nonsensical jabber. "Yeah."
Leaning up against the side of his car, he takes a drink, before reaching into his pocket, pulling out the chain he'd found in his bedroom earlier. He brings it up to look closely, in some way he recognized it, but not enough to recognize it as something he'd worn in the past few days or even months.
As he holds the chain, he notices a smear of red along his finger, rubbing his thumb at the stain on the silver, rubbing off the red. He stares at it on his fingers, he recognizes it to be lipstick, a soft red shade.
Even more confused, he huffs out a breath, but he holds the chain tight in his grip, trying to think of any moment in time that he could've possibly been given it, or anyone that could've left it. He hadn't let anyone in his house in a while, let alone his bedroom, the last woman he had slept with had been...fuck when was the last time he'd gotten laid?
For some reason, he was convinced it wasn't as long ago as he thought.
He gets in his car, driving back towards home.
That's when he catches sight of someone. At the end of the street, a black man in a white sweatshirt limps down the road, his chest stained with red. He's on his knees, curling his arms around someone, dragging the person onto their feet, but they're limp in his grip, dead. A woman, jeans wet with blood and knit sweater falling off her shoulders torn and smeared with red. She's pretty, gorgeous even, from what he can see from here.
The man struggles to stand to his feet with her again, his shoulders shake from the effort or from the angry sobs that wracked through him. Fontaine can see that every movement is agony, he watches as the man hacks up a mouthful of blood. He'd been shot too.
As he hacks up a lungful, the man's eyes flicker up to see Fontaine driving past. They look at one another.
And for a moment, Fontaine sees himself. Literally. His hair, his eyes, his clothes even which he was wearing at this current moment. He forgets he's still pressing on the gas when he loses sight of him.
Fontaine stomps on the brake, stopping the car, he looks to the rearview mirror, quick. When did he start breathing so heavy? It had to just be a coincidence, just a trick of light or of his mind. That can't be him.
Interrupting his thoughts, a black van drives into the area, nearly clipping the Pontiac as it swerves around the corner and towards the couple.
"NO, NO, Nooo! NO!" the man even sounds like him..."Get the fuck away from us! Get the fuck off--! No!" he's cut off by the slamming of the car doors, muffling his screams and driving off quick.
All that's left of them is the red stain against the cement.
As he makes it home, trying his best to forget about the strange event, Fontaine pockets the chain he forgot he was still clutching.
He makes a sandwich, cutting it in half, he walks to his mother's door and knocks, "Mama, you hungry?"
She answers. "Nah, I'm good, baby. Josephine had a fish fry last night, I'm still full."
He walks away from the door, covering the plate for later and making another sandwich. He must've blanked out because next thing he knows he's making two new peanut butter sandwiches, cutting the crusts off one of them absently. Slowly stopping, he places the knife down, confused with himself.
He takes one of the sandwiches, sits down on the couch and turns on the TV. As a poorly filmed commercial starts, he swipes his malt liquor off the table and takes a swig. "--Gon getcha summa dis here limited-time-only Hotbox Spicy Chicken! Cause remember, who needs all these vices when you've got all these herbs and spices--" the narrator continues as folks dance after every bite.
A commercial he's seem about a hundred times, before another came on about perm cream.
Fontaine zoned out, chewing silently on his sandwich, wondering why everything seemed so off today. Who was (y/n)? Did he just imagine seeing himself today? Who's fucking chain was this?!
He tosses the chain across the table, it hits a box of pizza that halts its slide to the floor.
That's when he noticed the pizza box at the table, eyes narrowing as he quickly thought of someone. Slick Charles. "Motherfucka'..." he stands and takes his keys off the hook.
---
"You saw me, what?"
"Die, muhfucka!" Slick Charles repeats with an agitated yell. "I saw you and yo honey!"
This is the second time someone mentioned his 'honey'.
"I'm clearly not dead, nigga, where's my money?"
"There are more pressing issues to discuss here, nigga!" Slick Charles backs away from Fontaine, looking around his chest for bullet holes, anything to declare the man, undead. "Look if you don't believe me, we'll get, Yo-yo! She'll know, she done lef' around the time you came in, alrigh'?!"
Fontaine glared at the pimp, before rolling his eyes and exiting the hotel to make his way to his car, Slick Charles following. For some reason, his mind drifted to earlier that morning, seeing the couple, covered in blood and dying on the street.
Finding Yo-Yo about to sell some ass for a $50, they interrupt the transaction, getting the sassy prostitute in the car, clad in a fur coat and yellow boots, she sneers at them both. "Ya'll owe me, 50!"
Fontaine gets to the point, hushing the woman. "I need to ask you somethin'," he begins. "You seen me?" he asks, tentatively, almost in a whisper. Asking meant admitting to some degree that he thought he was actually dead and had come back. In some way, that would explain his very realistic nightmare.
"Not like that, nigga..."
"Nah, I mean...you seen me?" he questioned again, quieter this time, serious.
"Yes, nigga, I saw you," Yo-Yo admits, truthfully. "And wasn't (y/n) witchu? I ain't seen her, she ight?"
Slick Charles leaned back in his seat, remembering seeing the young woman in the car before the shoot out started. "Aw no," he whispered.
Fontaine glanced back at the pimp, confused and angry. "Who the fuck ya'll talkin' bout, man? Who's (y/n)?!" he hits the steering wheel, tired of the day, and the dumb shit that's been getting to him lately. "What bitch ya'll think I'm fuckin' with, huh!"
"Well ain't she give you that?" Yo-Yo pointed to the chain on his neck. The cross he had tossed and decided to take with him, he had just absently put it on, almost out of instinct.
"You know who's this is?" Fontaine held the cross up to her face.
"Uh, yeah, nigga, what's wrong wit you?" she gives him a distasteful look.
"Who?!"
"(y/n)!"
"You--"
Slick Charles slaps down a polaroid photo on the console divider, "So you tryna tell me, you don't remember her?"
Fontaine looks down, choosing to ignore the change in tone, Slick Charles has his pointer finger in the middle of an unfamiliar photo, he picks it up. The car is dead silent now as he holds it up to his face, luckily he had parked under a street lamp, providing him a little light to see.
Fontaine's eyes widen as he sees her fully for the first time. (Y/N).
They're frozen in time in the photo, in a paused state of a love he couldn't remember. She presses a smooth kiss to the side of his face, he wraps an around around her waist, pulling her into his lap, his expression was softer than normal despite a lack of a smile. But he wasn't looking at his lips, but the way he'd leaned into her, held her close, he'd never done that before, always keeping his distance from any actual relationship that he recalled in his life.
So this was (y/n)?
He felt he would've remembered someone like her. Why didn't he?
"Remember 'er now?" Slick Charles asked.
"I'm gon' need you to tell me what exactly you saw last night," Fontaine's eyes flickered to Yo-Yo, he's gratefully for how dark it is, he had a feeling now that he had seen her today, drove past her, let someone take her away. What the hell was going on?
---
There was an elevator that led down under the Glen, this tiny town was somehow apart of an entire experiment, for what? He didn't know.
But, it seemed to involve him. Involve you. And involve all the people of The Glen. And if he wanted to know why he seemed to have died late last night, he needed to find out what exactly was going on.
Luckily, he had some help, although he would've preferred a smarter duo, he was stuck with them.
As Slick Charles held his gold gun up to the pale-skinned scientist with a clean shaven afro, giggling and spasming seemingly uncontrollably, Fontaine made his way around the lab.
Yo-Yo began to mess with a few of the strange sets of chemicals within the lab, taking notice of the lack of experimental subjects: like mice or even rabbits, nothing. She tipped a beaker, blew on the white dust, she supposed was cocaine and swirled a bit of a blue liquid in a test tube.
Fontaine found two surgical tables, blue sheets over each figure that seemed to lay atop the metal slabs. Not a single breath moved through the sheets, nothing to signify either one was alive.
He moved one sheet first, it was you. (Y/N)...
And everything suddenly started flooding back in waves.
"Wake up..." she breathes, tapping his cheek as she yawns against his chest.
"I'm awake..." he responds, tiredly.
"No, you're not," she grumbles, before sitting up a little. The movement coaxes him awake, his arm pulling around her shoulders tighter to get her to lay back down.
"Be quiet," he pulls her down on him, she chuckles, conceding.
He scoffs out a humored hum, turning over her, they drift off for another hour or so, awakening to kiss the other. He's leaning over her, the chain she had given him, swinging in front of her face, hanging off his neck.
Fontaine notices it, taking it off in that moment and placing it on the dresser, "No, hey, that keeps you safe," you protest as he moves to shift between your legs. "Don't take it off, Fonnie."
"Yeah, well right now, it's distractin'," he squeezes your thigh, bringing one of your legs over his right shoulder. "I'll put it on later, if you're so worked up bout it."
"Ok, ohh--k, yeah..." he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, letting you take hold of a handful of his locs, your nails running through his scalp in a way that just told him to keep going. "Fon'..." you gasp as he cups the skin of your ass to move down lower, greedily.
After another hour of consuming the presence of one another for the morning, you both move through the day as you usually would. Fontaine would bench press a few reps with guys, you would start making campaign flyers for the protests during the week. He'd leave with Junebug later unbeknownst to you and deal with an amateur dealer that made the dumb decision to sell on his side of the streets. When he comes back, Fontaine and you would head to the store together, he'd get his usual Anaconda Malt Liquor and you'd usually go for a Moscato if not a pack of swedish fish. Pass by Frog for another daily lesson in senile obscurity and pour him a cup.
Heading back home, they'd have breakfast together, sometimes you'd make eggs and bacon, other times Fontaine would make the only thing he really knew how to which were peanut butter sandwiches. You hated the crusts, so he'd always cut them for you. You'd call him soft and he'd sit pause mid-way to let you finish yourself in bitter defiance, to which you'd quickly take back your statement. "Wait, wait, I'm kidding," you laughed. "Come on, finish, you cut them the best! Fonnie!"
"That's all you, baby," he took a bite of his. "All you."
"No, I'm sorry, please, please," you begged, wrapping your arms around him to pull him back to the kitchen. "Come on, Fonnie--"
"How many times I gotta tell you to stop wit' that, Fonnie shi', huh?"
"But I thought you liked it when I called you, Fonnie?" you teased with a smile.
"Fonnie sounds like a bitch, I ain't no bitch."
"You're my bitch though," you cackled.
"Whatchu say?" he turned, surprised at the answer. And you took off running. "Naw, bitch, get your ass back here, whatchu say!"
"Nothing!" You laughed as you ran through the house away from him. "I'm sorry!" you put your hands up as he grabbed at you, the two of you soon enough laughing together.
"Getch your ass back here!"
Later in the day, Fontaine recalls the customer dealings of his business, remembering that Slick Charles still owed him a pay day since last week. Fontaine got to his feet, took his keys, and you accompanied him into the pontiac, tapping the insignia on the hood of your Pacer car parked behind.
Driving off, the two of you enjoyed a moment with each other, you leaned over the console between you both, singing to the song on the radio. "I need a hug...I need a hug..." you nuzzled your face against his shoulder.
"You need to be quiet," he snickered, emphasizing 'Need', glancing over to you as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, and you just kept at it.
He finally parked up by The Royal, a hotel across The Glen, where he knew Slick Charles would be. "Stay here," Fontaine said before leaving the car.
You roll down the window, sticking your head out to wave towards the pimp as your boyfriend forces his way into the hotel room. "Hi, Slick!"
"(Y/n)! Why you ain't tell yo' violent ass nigga to show some goddamn muhfuckin' respect!" he yells mostly towards Fontaine, who glowers at him in return, threatening to punch him right in the grills if he don't keep his mouth shut.
You duck back into the car, choosing to let the two men figure their shit out, instead opening the windscreen, watching as a photo fell out to your lap. A little picture of the two of you, you recalled the day, you'd only been officially together for a few months at the time, but you were happier than ever.
Looking up you take notice of another photo, of Ronnie, you had never met the boy, but you had always wished to, knowing what had happened to the sweet kid, always made your heart clench with tears. You pressed two fingers to your lips and to the still frame of Ronnie, breathing sadly, in some way you felt you knew him, maybe had met him, caught glimpses of him in the street when you were younger.
A beep is heard, startling you to drop the polaroid of you and Fontaine, it slips between the seats and you curse, "Shit, ugh," you glare back at the car that had stopped behind the Pontiac, before driving driving again. "Motherfucker!" You sneered at the driver, who just kept his windows up, music blasting, glass shrouded in smoke.
Fontaine soon returned to the car, pocketing the fraction that Slick Charles had made, not enough to fully pay him back though. "You ready?"
"Yeah, I--" then you saw the same car rolling backwards, coming to a slow park just behind the trunk. But, it was the man walking up to Fontaine's side of the window that really terrified you. "Fon--!"
He turns a little too late, "GET DOWN!" just pulling out his gun when the window shatters, the car being layered with bullets, the young man on the other side frantically emptying the clip. The click of an empty magazine is the only thing left to hear besides the bass drum of the radio of the assaulting vehicle.
The young man stumbles backwards, stuffing the weapon into his shirt and racing into the car for a getaway, as the car speeds off from the scene, Fontaine takes a shuttered breath. Blood spilling from between his lips, his hand achingly coming up to feel the holes that had ripped straight through him.
"(Y/n)..." he heaved out, he turns his head as much as he can, every movement a strain on his failing organs. "(y/n)..." he said again, hoping you'd say anything. "Say somethin'," he huffs out, panicked. Say you're ok. "Say it..." he breathes. "Say it..." he repeats as he struggles to breathe, hoping he'd live a little longer to get some fucking help.
He reaches for you, his fingers inching towards yours, but you were already gone.
And then that's when the van comes around. A few men, white guys in black suits wrapped in plastic, gloved hands and unbothered looks as they swing open the car door. "Woah, he's still alive," Fontaine hears one of them say. "Do we still take him?"
Who the fuck were they?
Obviously they weren't police, or ER, or even some random passerby's.
"Won't last long, so yeah," another says, opening up the opposite door. "Not sure about this one though." He was talking about you, Fontaine was sure.
Fontaine blinked, blacking out a moment before breathing harshly once, as if his heart had stopped in that split second, he was somewhere else now. Suddenly, he had been hauled into the van.
"Guess we'll just have to wipe the next one till we can get a copy going, right?"
"Dunno, we've never had to do that before. Damn, this is going to be a lot of paperwork," the white guy sighs out before turning you in your seat, Fontaine finally gets a good look at you as he lays there trying to keep his eyes open. Your sweater was drenched in your blood, and probably a bit of his, the side of your face wet and broken up from the bullet through your temple. You had died as soon as it happened.
Fontaine felt his heart drop, blood filled his throat and he choked on the feeling, but he wasn't sure if it was from the heartache or the puncture. "...'er go..." he gurgled out, eliciting the attention of the disturbed men around him.
There was a pause. "Was that you or him?"
"Well, it wasn't me..." one of the collectors said.
"Let 'er go, muhfucker," Fontaine managed.
They had begun to drive, going around the corner and away from The Royal motel.
"Shit, he really is still alive," the white man gapped, but he still began to haul you out of the car. "We're not really supposed to talk to y--" then there was a gunshot.
Startling all of them as the man that had begun to unceremoniously strap you down to the metal, fell back and too his knees, silently. A bullet between the eyes. The van swerved in the mens sudden panic.
Fontaine had still had a hand on the handle of his gun all this time, the only issue had been getting the energy to pull the trigger. And he let his hand go around to pull again on the white man that moved to pry the gun from his grip, "No, stop!" the collector had shouted, but the gun went off again, this time right through his hip. "Ahh!"
"Oh, shit! Hey, get up!" picking his co-workers up off the floor, "Get the hell out of here, we'll send another unit!" the only uninjured stranger hauled the others into the van as Fontaine stumbles out of the car taking you with him, trying to get a locked eye on the last of them as they drive off and away from the scene as if they hadn't even been there.
And so, Fontaine sat on the curb for a moment, holding you tight, wondering if anyone else would try to just snatch them off the street again. He watched as the van drove off fast, he wondered why they had bothered to do all of that. To kidnap him off the street, as if they had known exactly who he was, where he would be and that he'd be shot. What did they mean by make a copy later?
Fontaine swayed, wondering how he had even lasted this long. He let his head settle against yours, he wished for the little snore of yours that would usually coax him to sleep. He recalled the first time you had fallen asleep against him, the first time he caught himself falling asleep next to you. Pretty much the first of any time he had let anyone catch him slipping.
And he waited for a single breath to slip from you, to bring him even a sliver of comfort.
But it never came.
Even in the early morning, when he found himself staring into the eyes of...himself? Driving by in the very same car that had been totaled to shit in the parking lot of The Royal motel.
Even when the same black van swept by, turning to haul the two of them up off the street and into the van. They don't let their guard down like the others, and he breathes for the last time in that van, holding tight to your hand, just before they pull you both apart.
- - -
It's not a memory that he can grasp onto, because it's not his to have. Just a copy of moments he's never lived.
And they flood his mind.
Fontaine leans over your dead body that laid on that cold slab of metal, the familiarity becoming knowing, absence of memory becomes an overflow of moments he knew he hadn't lived but he could still hold onto.
As the labs alarms go off, he takes you into his arms, ready to take you out of this horrible place, get you some place warm.
Something the previous version of him, hadn't been able to do. But, he was pulled to do the same as his previous self had tried for you.
"Come on, I got you," he spoke, miserably.
It was like speaking to a lover he had never had. But it was also like losing one he had never said goodbye to.
"Come on, please," Fontaine undid the straps, pulling the plastic sheet laid across your naked flesh. He shivered, you were cold, "I've got you," he stares down at the floor as he holds you in his arms. Memories still flooding his mind, sensations, sounds and feelings only a single version of him had experienced, and it wasn't him.
But he still knew he had loved you.
Slick Charles and Yo-Yo pull him from the lab, the alarm sounding loudly, meaning whoever owned this place would be on their way, forced to leave you on that metal slab, next to the original version of himself.
Fontaine was on that elevator. But, a piece of himself stayed down there, and he'd be back to find it again.
"Believe us now?" Slick Charles spoke the question almost sympathetically.
#fontaine#fontaine x reader#they cloned tyrone#they cloned tyrone x reader#fontaine x black reader#black reader#x black fem reader#they cloned tyrone fontaine#fontaine x black!f!reader#fontaine x f!reader
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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.
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“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.”
***************************************************
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#elvis presley#elvis fanfiction#elvis x oc#big daddy elvis#elvis presley fanfiction#no one walks out on big daddy#elvis fanfic#thatbanditqueen#Youtube
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FNV Minor Character Poll - GRUDGE MATCH - Cadaver Clash
Left: Mr. RADical, a nuclear waste enthusiast who died outside of Novac doing what he loved.
—Day 1: Love the suit. Can scavenge anywhere now, screw the rads. I hereby christen myself Mr. RADical. Get it? Ha!
—Day 4: Suit passed first test with flying (yellow) colors. Overnight visit to Yucca Mountain. Didn't go too deep because something big moving down tunnel. Rad level high even where I was, and I didn't feel a tickle. Go, rad suit, go!
—Day 5: Vomited all morning. Didn't splash on suit or I'd be pissed. Must be something I ate.
—Day 9: Exciting! Ran across old woman's scrap yard. Bought glowing container for measly 50 caps. Heading for Clark Field to prove suit at higher rad levels. If it holds up, I'm going to pop this jar of goop open and pour it all over me! I bet I could swim in this stuff if I had enough of it! Oh yeah!
Mr. Radical was the 101st seed in the tournament overall on the A-side bracket. He beat Ronald Curtis (a.k.a. Picus) and Jimmy before being defeated by Keely, the ultimate runner-up, in Round 3-A.
Right: Trash, a wannabe ghoul who died in the Nuclear Test Shack doing what she loved.
—Dear Die-ary: I'm so done being confined in this human body. So, today I moved in to the shack at the abandoned test site. There should be enough radiation there to turn me into a ghoul. All around me this world is bleak and dreadful; is it so wrong to want a body to match it? I wonder what color my skin will turn and if I'll be able to find a good shade of lipstick to go with it. Probably not. God, everything is so miserable.
—Dear Die-ary: I've been in this shack for almost a week now. Nothing is happening. I'm so bored. And this shack is so hot. And it's totally ruining my hair. It's like, so hard to find dye this color in the wasteland. This sucks, I want to be a ghoul now. I hate all this waiting. Life, ugh, living is so overrated.
—Dear Die-ary: Good news Die-ary! I think it's finally starting to happen. Ok, so I do feel like, totally miserable (what else is new ha-ha-ha) and my skin is starting to peel off, but I'm pretty sure that is the first step. Oh, and my hair! I finally got it just the way I like it and now it starts coming out. Why does ghoulification have to be so unfair?
Trash was the 104th seed in the tournament overall on the A-side bracket. She beat Ada Straus and Pacer before being defeated by Harland, an ultimate quarter-finalist.
[Bracket | Info & FAQs]
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The reveal of who hit Tom and Jane's car (if we get it) absolutely has to be an exact description of the car before the person's name is mentioned because that is the only possible explanation for why every single vehicle is described as a 1987 pontiac firebird or yellow AMC pacer instead of 'a car'
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More domestic Steve/Barb for my co-captain of this ship, @findafight
Barb wakes up slowly, lazily, eased into it by the sun peeking through the curtains and not the blaring of her alarm clock. She can take her time, let the heaviness of sleep slowly lift from her bones. Bleary and still half asleep — she stretches, groaning — feeling the gentle pull of her muscles. Her arms stick out from underneath the blankets as she does so, her bones clicking, and she feels the sting of the chill in the air.
It was starting to get colder out now, the wind whipping up a frost in the early mornings. She could feel the cold, feel it pressing at the windows. Seeping into the air and leeching all warmth. Steve's curtains did little to keep in the heat. She quickly retreats under the cover, into the pocket of warmth her and Steve have created.
Rolling over, she blinks and finds Steve’s side of the bed empty. The sheets are cool, but they’re still rumpled in a vaguely Steve-like shape. He always was an early riser, but she can’t help but feel the anxiety starting to twist in her gut. Leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp, she forces herself up and into something vaguely resembling a sitting position. The light is harsh, but warm, Barb scrunches her eyes shut as the light floods her vision.
She blinks again, rubbing away the sleep as her eyes adjust to the light. Her glasses are neatly resting atop the bedside table, next to what looks like a yellow blur. A note? Putting on her glasses, her vision clears, and Barb finds that it is in fact, a note. Steve’s left her a message in his familiar, scratchy, handwriting.
Gone for a run, back by breakfast. Love you! <3
Smiling, she runs her hand over the yellow paper, thumb brushing against the heart Steve had drawn. Her chest flutters at the sight — at the silly heart, at the note itself. A little reminder that he loves her, and he’s thinking of her. Smoothing out the paper, she opens up her book and tucks the note inside.
Throwing off the covers and swinging her legs out of bed, she feels the chill ripple across her skin. Seeping straight through the worn fabric of her pyjama pants and an old gym shirt of Steve’s she had stolen to wear to bed.
Staying in bed alone, isn’t as pleasant as it was before Steve, she’s found. She can’t feel his radiating warmth, feel his breath on her skin, his cute snuffling snores. She knows what she’s missing now. Waking up on an early Sunday morning, feeling Steve pressing gentle kisses to the back of her neck, his strong arms wrapped around her waist, legs tangled with hers. It was everything.
Waking up in his bed, knowing he’ll be back, and thinking of her — was still nice, but wasn’t as good as when he was there with her. A shiver runs down her spine, and she gets out of bed.
It’s still early morning, and everything is quiet. Barb can’t hear Steve in the shower, or listening to the TV downstairs, but she doesn’t worry. She knows where he is. He’s safe, and he’ll be back.
In an attempt to fight off the morning cold, she pulls on a pair of fuzzy socks she had left here last time, and one of Steve’s oversized Pacers hoodies. Barb used to judge girls who were obsessed with stealing their boyfriend’s clothes, thought it was a possessive ‘staking their claim’ thing. She knows better now. She gets it.
It smells like him.
Pulling open the curtains, the light floods in. It doesn’t feel it, but it looks warmer already.
She heads downstairs, socked feet padding against the carpeted floors. It’s colder down here, with the large open spaces, and the central heating turned off. She could turn it on, Steve wouldn’t blame her, he knows how much she hates the cold now — plus his parents were the ones paying the power bill anyway, and they could afford it. But it felt weird without Steve there.
So she opens more of the curtains, letting the light in so the sun can slowly warm up the hallowed halls of the Harrington house. It helps.
The first time she was alone in Steve’s house without him, it felt weird, and thrilling, nerve-wracking all at the same time. She had a boy, who liked her, who trusted her enough to leave her alone in his house.
Now, she was more calm about it. Used to it.
Barb heads to the kitchen, to the now familiar beige cupboards and dappled countertops. Steve’s moved the spare radio onto the windowsill, likes to listen to tapes, or whatever sports game was being reported on as he cooked. She likes it too, the noise making it so she doesn’t suffocate in the empty echo of a house without Steve. Turning it on, she switches until she finds a station playing music she recognises, and lets it play.
The coffee machine hums as she turns it on, a fancy thing her parents would never spend money on — Barb making sure she’s making enough for two.
Turning to the clock — some fancy one Steve said his mother spent far too much money on for something designed to go in the kitchen — Barb debates whether to start breakfast. She has the time to actually start cooking something, and not just putting toast in the toaster — depending on how fast and how far Steve decides to run today, of course.
Steve likes to come home and cook her breakfast — has even bought her breakfast in bed a few times — and has admitted as much to her. It’s just another way for him to take care of her.
But she’s awake, and out of bed, and has the time. It might be nice to surprise him for a change. Cook him breakfast. She doesn’t get the chance often — he always wakes up before her.
Nodding to herself, she opens the fridge to see what she has to work with. Not a lot, in all honesty. But enough for eggs. No bacon. Maybe toast on the side? Steve really needs to do a grocery shop. The vegetables he has are still fresh, and he has plenty of cheese — so Barb settles for omelettes. She’s decent at making them, if she says so herself.
So she pulls out everything she needs, turns the volume up on the radio, and starts cooking.
---
Steve loved an early morning run. The rush of endorphins, the gentle burn of his muscles, the wind rushing past him. When most people were still asleep, he could enjoy the quiet streets of Hawkins without interruption. Barb was safe, the demogorgon was dead, there was nothing hiding in the shadows waiting to catch him alone. It was a step back to normal, and it was nice.
The best part of an early morning run was being able to go home afterwards. To hop in the shower and feel the warm water ease his muscles, to feel the sweat wash off of him, to fill up on breakfast, to relax. Satisfied.
It was even better when Barb was there. She was fast asleep when he left for his run that morning, face slack, hair messy, and had shuffled into the warm spot he’d left as soon as he was out of bed. He could kiss her goodbye when he left, and could kiss her good morning as soon as he returned.
He would always return to her.
Unlocking the front door, Steve lets himself inside. He can see the sun streaming through the large windows in the living room, visible from the front door. Music is playing faintly from the kitchen. Barb is awake. He can feel himself smile at the thought of her.
Toeing off his shoes as fast as he can, Steve throws his keys onto the hall table and makes his way to the kitchen. He’s eager to see her, of course he is. The excitement of seeing her again still hasn’t worn off, even after months of dating. Everyone said he’d leave the honeymoon phase, that the shine would wear off — but it hasn't yet and he doesn’t want it to. He’d only been on a quick jog, all things considered, and he was still thrilled at the thought of seeing Barb again.
Steve almost runs inside, but instead he pauses at the entry to the kitchen, leaning on the propped open door. He watches her fondly, his eager grin settling into something softer, fond.
Barb didn’t hear him come in. The music is louder now, his radio set to some top 40’s station with the volume turned up. He recognises it— it’s a love song that’s been playing pretty regularly lately. She’s humming to herself at the stove, swaying and singing along with the music. God, he loves her. She makes him so fucking happy. The sun lights her hair up like a sunset — or a forest fire — outlining her against the window.
The song picks up with the chorus, and she starts to dance in place, poking at her food with the spatula as she wiggles along with the beat. He tries to hold back a giggle as she shakes her butt, following the motion with his eyes. She looks happy. If he wasn’t all sweaty and gross from his run, he’d drape himself over her back and hold her tight. He might just do it anyway.
He approaches her from behind, careful to make sure she’s not holding a knife or the hot pan — and places his hands on her hips, feeling the soft fabric of her pyjama pants under his hands. Her pyjama pants are pink, fitting comfortably on her hips, with multi coloured spots. He smiles everytime he catches sight of them, because it means that Barb has been there.
Hooking his chin over her shoulder, he looks down at what she’s cooking. She jumps, but quickly settles when she realises it's him, and he can feel the motions of it under his hands.
“Morning, Barbie,” he greets, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her neck.
She turns to look at him, face melting into a smile as they lock eyes. Her voice is still rough with sleep, warm and scratchy. “G’morning. I made us breakfast.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” He says, kissing her neck again, but lower this time — his face almost buried in the hood of his Pacers hoodie. It looks better on Barb. “I could’ve made something.”
“But I wanted to,” She says simply, with a small shrug of her shoulders. His heart swells. At how easy and obvious she makes it sound. As if caring for him was an easy decision. Steve presses his face into her neck, inhaling. Kisses her again, feeling her soft skin against his lips.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, pressing himself closer against her back, snaking his arms around her waist.
“My pleasure,” Barb replies, quickly looking back at the stove to make sure her food doesn’t burn — and then back up at Steve. She tilts her head, the hint of a smirk on her lips. “Now go shower before it’s done, you’re so sweaty, it’s disgusting.”
He just smirks back, squeezing her waist. “ But I thought you liked it when I’m all sweaty?”
She laughs, and it’s everything. “Not like this. So go shower. Shoo.”
Pouting, but not all that serious about it, Steve pulls away from Barb and retreats out of the kitchen. He watches her as he goes, walking backwards, and she’s watching him back. “Miss you already.”
“Get out of here,” She laughs, shooing him away with her spatula.
#Stranger Things#Steve Harrington#Barbara Holland#Barb Holland#Starbara#Hollington#steve x barb#i love them a lot#if anyone needs a sign to jump on this ship#this is it#pls join us#my writing
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Mistress of darkness
Where all my goth bitches at?? Yeahhhhhh baby this is for you. 🦇got to represent my fellow, gothic Eddie simps. (Please tell me what you think!)
Pairing: Eddie Munson x goth! reader
Warnings: swearing, bullying, not much else.
(She/her pronouns used. (I think)
Summery: moving to a new school, you try to find your crowd, feeling lost, when you stumble upon a strange candlelit room.
Description: think 80s goth. Wild, teased, and hair sprayed black hair, the perfectly, imperfect Siouxsie Sioux, eyeliner. And don’t forget the beauty that is fishnets, leather, and studded belts.
Let’s not forget the very queen her self, Elvira. An iconic inspiration for style.
———————————————
You’re not sure if you where all that nervous about this new school. Sure, your style was less then typical, but in your old school their where plenty of other people who shared your love of all things dark and mysterious.
There would defiantly be people here that where the same right?
Boy how you where wrong.
The morning of your first day, your hands where still frantically pushing and pulling at a teasing pick, entangled into your dark hair and puffing it up before snapping it in place.
Hair spray misting through the air in thick clouds.
You stared at yourself in the mirror of your vanity, trying desperately not to panic when you realized one half of your eyeliner was significantly longer then the other, intern making the brows that connected them incredibly uneven.
You sat for another grueling hour, shoving face cleaner and eyeliner in and out of your pours.
Ok. Ok ok. That’s good enough, no one will notice will they? You thought surely everyone’s been there and they’ll understand
You tapped your foot violently on the floor, jittering your legs in anxious muscle spasms.
I hope they like me. Your mind flooded again. What if they think I’m just a wanna be? What if they don’t want me to join their table? Or worse What if…. Oh god… what if they think ultravox is goth?!
So maybe music was a bit important to you, more importantly the very mention of music being placed in the wrong gene categories.
You took a step from your vanity smoothing out your tinkled, fishnet sleeves. You had already gotten dressed, which was always the first thing you did. Specifically to protect the poof of your teased hair, against a flatting shirt collar.
Lastly, you jammed your foot into tall leather boots, lacing up the miles of laces against their zigzagged hooks and tightening the strap right above the knee. Insuring the right jeans you wore where tucked Nicely underneath them.
You stood up, grabbing your old cross body bag adorned with patches of your favorite things, Elvira, Siouxsie Sioux, and the evil dead. shuffling for your keys among the clatter of items they where stuffed within it.
Calm down, it’s go time.
Ripping open the door and cautiously stomping down the staircase to head to school you heard you mother call from the kitchen.
“Have a good first day! Love you!” She yelled happily, her colorful polka dotted apron smeared with flour.
“Thanks mom! Love you!” You yelled back, jolting out the door and down the sidewalk to your car.
You wished you drove a hurst, or an impala or even just any nice sleek looking ride.
Instead, you threw your bag across the sun cracked seats of an old amc pacer. The paint chipped and rusted from the outside, adorned with dents from your ‘not so easy’ driving lesson. And the worst part of it all, was the loud mustard faded yellow that covered the entire thing.
You reached in, jolting the car alive after a ton of rapid ticks and rumbles of a struggling engine.
—————
You swear if your speakers weren’t blown out you would have jammed all the way to school, letting your first day jitters melt into the seats.
Since that obviously wasn’t happening all you could really do was park quietly and open your creaking rusted door.
It’s fine, everything’s fine, and this is gonna be a great day.
As you walked across the parking lot, seeing the bustle of students crowding the pavement, you quickly noticed the eyes on you.
You where used to it, it’s not like stares have ever been surprising, it happened everywhere you went, but today you where having a lot harder time ignoring them.
Especially when their hushed comments were never as quite as they thought they where.
You’ll find your crowd. You told yourself. Theirs always a crowd.
Walking through the doors of school you began looking for your locker, checking a million times that it’s number matched the paper in your hands.
“766, 766” you repeated quietly, eyes trailing the metal numbers amidst the blue.
You suddenly felt yourself slam into someone, realizing in your hunt you had failed to keep your eyes on the bodies walking the opposing direction.
You stumbled in your boots catching your self on the floor as you bag skidded to the side.
“Sorry!” You shouted behind the roar of students. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Oh it’s ok I-“ he began before chuckling loudly. “Wow….Didn’t expect more freaks to roll in this year.” He jutted.
You looked up at him, green letterman jacket hanging on his body like an attention craved rag. You stood up, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.
“Hmmm yeah, haven’t heard that one before.” You rolled your eyes.
“Do us all a favor and get a new hobby, your concern with others style is more desperate then you think.”
He scoffed, laughing with a firm scowl dampening his face.
“Style” he said sarcastically
Before pushing past you, giving a shoulder check that made your bag slump to the ground again.
Of course. Their in ever school.
You went on your way finally finding your locker and quickly fumbling through the combination.
Once you had your books all settled you happily tapped your ‘siouxsie sioux and the banshees’ magazine clipping to the inside.
My queen, may she guide me through the year.
Heading off to class you began to notice quickly you had yet to see a single person like you. Your gut starting to twist. You really missed your old friends, it was a lot easier battling snide comments when you had like minded people beside you.
The day dragged on, bringing more and more insults and back handed compliments.
“I like your costume.” A classmate sarcastically said, her lips practically dripping in malice.
Sure because that was really a compliment…
By the time lunch hit you finally came to the realization that out of all the groups, clubs,and cliques there was not a dark music lover one.
The nerds, the sporty, the plastics and the normals but even through the geeks, not one looked like they’d share your interests.
Don’t be shallow. You thought. Maybe theirs gems among you.
You pumped up your courage, letting your boots clack and clutter heavily as you walked, the chains around your belt dangling and slamming against the metal studs, as you approached a table.
You sat down in an empty seat in a low crowded table, a couple of people listening to their walk man’s and some playing chess. They looked up at you, quirking their brows befor scoffing and getting up to move.
“Wait I-“ you started before realizing it’s useless. You really shouldn’t judge people especially when this is what your met with from those who judge you.
Your not sure why people assumed the way you dressed effected your personality.
Not all nerds where shy, not all cheerleaders where bitchy, and not all goths are depressing.
You mostly thought of yourself as the snid, funny type. Sometimes mean, sometimes sarcastic, but most of the time funny and fun loving.
You sighed loudly at the empty table, pushing your tray Aside as you began to people watch.
One group stood out to you, but after hearing the screaming comments of their leader you got a little nervous to approach them.
Still you did admire that at least a couple people looked like they where outside the realm of the casually dressed.
He looked like a metal head, adorned in denim and leather, chains and patches. A twing of punk and thrasher slewed into his attire.
I’ll buck up the courage… you thought. Hmm maybe tomorrow? I just can’t Walt’s up to them, that didn’t turn out so well last time.
Your courage was smashed a little when the boy glanced at you, a confused and puzzled looked on his face before turning back to his friends and muttered something, laughing lightly.
You really hoped he wasn’t judging you, he really had no room to talk.
When lunch was over you continued with the long drowning day, finally reaching the end.
Ready to head out, you stopped at your locker before noticing your science textbook was no where to be seen.
Fuck. I can’t loose it on the first day. You thought. Iv got to keep my grades up this year.
You pondered for a moment, scanning your brain for places you’d been. Right after science was drama, a class you never wanted to be apart of but was told it looked good on your record. You sighed heading to the other side of the building, hoping the doors where still unlocked so you could grab it and get the hell home.
————————————-
Eddie slammed his fist down on the table, knocking game pieces away in his excitement. Raising his hands in the air.
“The heroes where trapped! Scanning the darkness around them in terror as the floor boards creaked.” He began.
“Undead moaning lurking in the darkness around them.”
He let out a loud guttural howl, as the group watched intently at their dungeon master.
The candles bringing soft light around his theatric form.
He put his hands in the air notching his fingers into claws as he creeped towards the table.
“Before they could run, they saw a figure emerge from the darkness-“
He was cut off, as the door to the room opened, and a dark tall figure walked in.
“MISTRESS OF DARKNESS!” He yelled, motioning to the door frame as the door slammed shut behind you.
“Ahhhh!!!” The group yelled, eyes wide with fear. As Eddie began to laugh wildly. Before quickly gaining his composure, trying to work with the sudden uninvited guest.
You stood there frozen in place hands stopped in front of you with mouth wide.
What the fuck did you just walk into. Oh god where’s your book, should you run? What the hell is this. A room filled with candles and man screaming names at you while laughing? Shit shit shit.
“The mistresses approached the table towering over the heroes as her undead fangs snarled.” He yelled out motioning you to come into the light.
You had no idea what to do, running seemed like an embarrassing option, but so did standing their silently. so you complied, taking a couple of loud echoing steps towards the boys. As they visibly tensed.
The candle light washed over you, revealing your extremely puzzled face.
“I uh- uh..” you stuttered. Say something say anything!
“Hero’s! Nows your chance! Will you banish the mistress to the shadow realm! Or let her suck your soul from your body!” Eddie continued, never breaking character and honestly you where kinda amazed that he just played along with this distribution. But you half wondered what the hell this whole charade of stories was.
Sucking souls from bodies??? What the hell. I mean cool but also why you?
“Banishment!!!” Dustin yelled! Pretending to hold a sword up in his hands as he stood.
“Roll for initiative young barbarian!” Eddie yelled back as Dustin through a d20 on the table.
Seemingly devastated as it bounced onto a 2. He slumped back in his chair as the others groaned.
“Mistress! How will you fight back against the forces of light?!” He asked motioning a hand to you.
“I uh- well I-“ you started.
Pull yourself together. Your fine (y/n). It’s some sort of game. Play along! Who knows maybe you’ll make friends!
“I’ll- uh- suck out his soul from his nimble body!” You awkwardly shouted. Pointing at dustin and raising your hand into a fist.
Eddie stopped for a moment, eyes fixed on you. She’s really playing along? He thought. No one ever plays along. He smirked
“Right! Roll for initiative!” He yelled tossing you a dice from the table.
You awkwardly fumbled with it in your hands, and threw it across the surface, landing on a beautiful 18.
You pumped your fist. Not sure what this means but you knew 18 was higher then 2 so that’s a good sign.
“The mistress extended her arms, grabbing the barbarian as he screamed. ‘Your mine now!’ She screeched pulling the soul from within his body. Delivering the finely 10 points of hit damage.” Eddie yelled
“No!!! Come on man I was so close!” Dustin yelled.
“Your the one who kept bugging the orc in the first room dustin! You have no life points left!” Mike jutted.
“Saving throw Eddie please!” He begged
“Silence, defeated hero! Your eagerness was your downfall!” Eddie finished bowing and looking up to you.
He slapped his hands together laughing.
“That was fun mistress! Didn’t think you’d play along.” He said watching as your still embarrassed form fiddled with the straps on your bag.
“Uh yeah it was kinda neat, I uh, just needed my textbook.” You said sheepishly.
All eyes where fixed on you.
“Ah! Thought it was yours.” Mike spoke up grabbing a book from under the table and handing it to you.
You noticed the bat book mark sticking out of the top and figured that might have given it away.
“Thanks.”
“Your the new girl right? Just moved here?” Dustin asked starring up at you.
“Yeah, yeah I uh, just moved to Hawkins from Indianapolis.” You confirmed scratching your neck nervously.
“Well welcome to the worst town of the state.” Eddie pipped up smirking. “Pretty brave of you to show up dressed like that your first day”
“Uh. Brave? Like that?” Your eye twitched, he may have been fun a second ago but it really ticked you off when people said stuff like that. “If I’m ‘brave’ for wearing,’this’” you motioned to himself “then your brave for playing this game… who cares if it’s what you like. I don’t think it’s all that weird to have a different wardrobe.” You scoffed.
“What’s next your gonna tell me I’m wearing a costume?” You jutted.
He laughed. “Feisty thing aren’t you?”
“Bitchy thing aren’t you?” You shot back, turning to heads towards the door.
He smirked. “Thanks for visiting mistress of the night! I look forward to your next attack!” He yelled across the room.
You put your hand on the door pushing lightly.
“Anytime metal boy.” You scoffed sarcastically. “Look forward to eating your soul!” You yelled back as you walked through the door.
((Let me know if you want a part 2 or a series form this I have some ideas))
#fanfiction#theloveablesociopath#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x y/n#Eddie munson x goth reader#eddie x reader#stranger things fanfiction#eddie stranger things
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Hi, for the wip game, I will be curious to have a look on Boy with the Bat Book 2 or Rom-Com as you prefers :)
Hello! I decided to do rom-com as I had just done one for boy with a bat.
WIP Wednesday! Make me write!
First ask here.
Snippet
“I was wondering when your shadow would darken my doorway,” Claudia said, as she lead the way to the kitchen.
Eddie winced at the harsh words even if they gently given. He looked around the small house, Dustin’s mark stamped on every corner even though he had moved out long ago. But more surprisingly was Steve’s touch had found its way into the decor. And not just his photos on the wall either.
It was in the Pacers blanket on the loveseat, the baseball bat by the front door, the bright yellow pillows on the sofa. Steve was loved here and god did that make Eddie’s heart ache.
He sat down at his usual spot at the counter and watched as she bustled around the kitchen getting him cookies and glass of milk.
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Here's all the gear names in the new update
LONG ass post so under the cut:
HEADGEAR:
Long-Billed Cap, King Flip Mesh, Blowfish Newsie, Pilot Hat, Barrelfish Baseball Hat, Octoleet Goggles, Worker's Head Towel, El Rey Calamar, Zekko Cap, Ink-Guard Goggles, Teal Pinhole Shades, Green Pinhole Shades, Pink Pinhole Shades, Yellow Pinhole Shades, Patched Hat, Fugu Bell Hat, Hothouse Hat, Mountie Hat, Black FishFry Bandana, Squidfin Hook Cans, Matte Bike Helmet, Deca Tackle Visor Helmet, Barrelfish Headgear, Slipstream Helmet Pro, Slipstream Helmet, King Facemask, Motocross Nose Guard, Digi-Camo Forge Mask, Yamagiri Beanie, Sneaky Beanie, Tee Time Visor
CLOTHING:
North-Country Parka, Octoleet Armor, Dev Uniform, Cooler Jacket, Fresh Octo Tee, Chilly Mountain Coat, Takoroka Windcrusher, FA-01 Jacket, FA-01 Reversed, Pullover Coat, Birded Corduroy Jacket, Deep-Octo Satin Jacket, Zekko Redleaf Coat, Lemon Mountain Coat, Zekko Jade Coat, Light Bomber Jacket, Navy Eminence Jacket, Tumeric Zekko Coat, Custom Painted F-3 , White Leather F-3, Chili-Pepper Ski Jacket, Whale-Knit Sweater, Rockin' Leather Jacket, Kung-Fu Zip-Up, Panda Kung-Fu Zip-Up, Shirt with Blue Hoodie, Grape Hoodie, Hothouse Hoodie, Pink Hoodie, Olive Zekko Parka, Black Hoodie, Baby-Jelly Shirt & Tie, Prune Parashooter, Red Hula Punk with Tie, Dots-on-Dots Shirt, Toni K. Baseball Jersey, Barrelfish Baseball Uni, Short Knit Layers, Positive Longcuff Sweater, Annaki Yellow Cuff, Annaki Red Cuff, Octarian Retro, Takoroka Jersey, Octo Jumper Home, Pink Easy-Stripe Shirt, Inkopolis Squaps Jersey, Lime Easy-Stripe Shirt, Annaki Evolution Tee, Zekko Long Carrot Tee, Zekko Long Radish Tee, Black Cuttlegear LS, Takoroka Crazy Baseball LS, Red Cuttlegear LS, Khaki 16-Bit FishFry, Blue 16-Bit FishFry, Sharkfin Raglan, Black V-Neck Tee, White Deca Logo Tee, Half-Sleeve Sweater, King Jersey, Gray 8-Bit FishFry, White Urchin Rock Tee, Black Urchin Rock Tee, Wet Floor Band Tee, Squid Squad Band Tee, Navy Deca Logo Tee, Mister Shrug Tee, Chirpy Chips Band Tee, Hightide Era Band Tee, ω-3 Tee, Missus Shrug Tee, League Tee, Friend Tee, Tentatek Slogan Tee, Octoking HK Jersey, Dakro Nana Tee, Dakro Golden Tee, Black Velour Octoking Tee , Green Velour Octoking Tee, Slate Streetstyle Tee, Red Tentatek Tee, Blue Tentatek Tee, Squid Yellow Layered LS, White King Tank, Slash King Tank, Navy King Tank, Lob-Stars Jersey, Fishing Vest, Front-Zip Vest, Silver Tentatek Vest, Tentatek Slipstream Vest, Teal Body Warmer
SHOES:
Deepsea Leather Boots, Annaki Arachno Boots, New-Leaf Leather Boots, Tea-Green Hunting Boots, Octoleet Boots, Knockout Boots, Cream Basics, Shivery Squidkid III, Fried Squidkid III, Big Squidkid III, Chained DC Toejamz, Jeweled DC Toejamz, Swirled DC Toejamz, Trifecta Duck Boots, Trifecta Hi-Tops, Trifecta Sandals, Smoky Wingtips, Gray Yellow-Soled Wingtips, Inky Kid Clams, Musselforge Flip-Flops, Cyan Dakroniks, Black Dakroniks, Piranha Moccasins, White Norimaki 750s, Black Norimaki 750s, Gray Sea-Slug Hi-Tops, Orca Hi-Tops, Navy Enperrials, Amber Sea Slug Hi-Tops, Yellow Iromaki 750s, Honey & Orange Squidkid V, Sun & Shade Squidkid IV, Orca Woven Hi-Tops, Green Iromaki 750s, Purple Iromaki 750s, Red Iromaki 750s, Blue Iromaki 750s, Orange Iromaki 750s, Red Power Stripes, Blue Power Stripes, Toni Kensa Black Hi-Tops, Sesame Salt 270s, Black & Blue Squidkid V, Orca Passion Hi-Tops, Truffle Canvas Hi-Tops, Crab-Trap Squidkid III, Violet Trainers, Canary Trainers, Yellow-Mesh Sneakers, Orange-Mesh Sneakers, N-Pacer CaO, N-Pacer Ag, N-Pacer Au, Sea Slug Volt 95s, Athletic Arrows, OB Gaiter Waders, Noir Guppies, Birch Climbing Shoes, Green Lace-Ups, White Laceless Dakroniks, Blue Laceless Dakroniks, Suede Gray Lace-Ups, Suede Nation Lace-Ups, Suede Marine Lace-Ups, Toni Kensa Soccer Shoes, Stamina Cycling Shoes, Energy Cycling Shoes, Polka-Dot Slip-Ons, Burden of Floof
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The Besties Awards - Elvis Movies
These are the results of the The Besties Awards - Elvis Movies, a poll that we created in our Elvis Discord. I shared the link in a previous post, so some tumblr members have voted as well! The results are surprising! Here’s a link with the details if you want to know the nominations and the percentages each one got.
FUCK MARRY KILL
Fuck - Vince Everett (Jailhouse Rock)
RUNNER-UP: Dr. Sideburns (Change of Habit)
Marry - Toby Kwimper (Follow that Dream)
RUNNER-UP: Dr. Sideburns (Change of Habit)
Kill - Jodie Tatum (Kissin’ Cousins)
RUNNER-UP: Josh Morgan (Kissin’ Cousins)
FAVORITE MOVIE
Follow that Dream
RUNNERS-UP: King Creole and Jailhouse Rock (tie)
FAVORITE SCENE
“It ain’t tactics honey, that’s just the beast in me” (Jailhouse Rock)
RUNNER-UP: Toby’s association test (Follow that Dream)
FAVORITE ELVIS CHARACTER
Toby (Follow that Dream)
RUNNERS-UP: Deke Rivers (Loving You), Danny Fisher (King Creole) and Vince Everett (Jailhouse Rock) (tie)
BEST ACTING
King Creole
RUNNER-UP: Wild in the Country
BEST CO-STAR
Ann-Margret as Rusty (Viva Las Vegas)
RUNNER-UP: Carolyn Jones aka Morticia as Ronnie (King Creole)
BEST “GOOFIE ELVIS” MOMENT
Tulsa babysitting Tiger (GI Blues)
RUNNER-UP: Chad with Maile in the car (Blue Hawaii)
BEST KISS
Elvis and therapist (Wild in the Country)
RUNNER-UP: “I’m coming all unglued” kiss on the couch (Jailhouse Rock)
BEST CHEMISTRY
Ann-Margret (Viva Las Vegas)
RUNNER-UP: Vicky Tiu (It Happened at the World’s Fair)
BEST MEME
“Weirdos, man. Weirdos” (Change of Habit)
RUNNER-UP: Gomez Addams reaction meme (Frankie and Johnny)
BEST WFT SCENE
“Little Elvis” gets excited (Girls! Girls! Girls!)
RUNNER-UP: The Dogman (Live a Little, Love a Little)
BEST OUTFIT
Badass look with leather jacket (Roustabout)
RUNNER-UP: white “silky gangster” suit (The Trouble with Girls)
WORST OUTFIT
Yellow sweater (Frankie and Johnny)
RUNNER-UP: Baseball stitch suit (Clambake)
BEST BEACHWEAR
Denim shorts and open shirt (Follow that Dream)
RUNNER-UP: White swim trunks and polo shirts (Blue Hawaii)
HORNIEST MOVIE
Live a Little, Love a Little
RUNNER-UP: Viva Las Vegas
BEST HAIR
Vince’s Hair (Jailhouse Rock)
RUNNER-UP: Danny’s floppy hair (King Creole)
WORST HAIR
Blonde wig (Kissin’ Cousins)
RUNNER-UP: Spock haircut (Change of Habit)
HOTTEST SCENE
“The Walls Have Bon… Ears” (Girls! Girls! Girls!)
RUNNER-UP: Greg takes a shower (Live a Little, Love a Little)
HOTTEST COWBOY
Pacer (Flaming Star)
RUNNER-UP: Jesse (Charro)
BEST MUSICAL NUMBER
Jailhouse Rock (Jailhouse Rock)
RUNNER-UP: Bossa Nova Baby (Fun in Acapulco)
BEST MOVIE SONG
Trouble (King Creole) and Jailhouse Rock (tie)
RUNNER-UP: Edge of Reality (Live a Little, Love a Little)
BEST FIGHT
Toby takes down gangsters (Follow That Dream)
RUNNER-UP: Deke Rivers “Hey, sideburns” fight (Loving You)
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Is this at all important? Nope. Is it interesting? Well kinda depends on who you are ig. Anwyay. Hatchetfield citizens cars:
Tom - (beige?) Sedan
Lucy - Black Rolls Royce (probably a rental tho considering she's visiting from England)
Bill - Yellow AMC Pacer
Tom (Ghost Jane) - red 1986 Fox Body Mustang
Duke - Old Station Wagon
Holloway - 1987 Pontiac Firebird
Sam - Police/Squad Car
Gerald & Linda - SUV
Roman - Rolls Royce
Solomon - Strech Cadillac Fleetwood
Ted - Baby Blue Studebaker
Frank - Ford Taurus
Kale - Van
Lex - a beat up old van
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what gear do your OCs use? asking for... research purposes..... ✍️👀
I LOVE YOU
*down to send reference images for anything. Wanna see wolf with a bun hairstyle? Gotcha. Milo no glasses, got it
Strikethrough means old info
Keep in mind I came up with these guys in splatoon 2!
☆Wolfsune_9, nick: Wolf, Rank: Wolf Pack's team leader
Species: Inkling
Ink color: Aqua fade to dark blue
Eye color: Dark blue (R)/ aqua (L)
Hair: Splatoon 2 boy basic haircut Half braid(short, 3-4 braid bubbles(braid)) on right side, scrappy cut on right side. Crooked bangs, 2 little pieces stick out on top of the head.
Wears their hair in a bun casually, like if they're at home.
Skin tone: Pale af jfc
Headgear: gasmask, (if it isnt hidden or too busy in that area of the drawing->) GOLDEN TOOTHPICK(left ear)+eminence cuff(same ear), fake contacts, Studio headphones
Top: zekko hoodie
Bottoms: shorts
Shoes: Mint dakroniks, Arrow pull-ons
Weapons: Carbon Roller Deco, Kensa Octobrush, Flingza Roller, Splat roller, Slosher
Pronouns: they/them
Sexuality: Pan, demi
Height: 5'2
Bday: Feb 16
Extra: age 17, lvl 95, Rank S+9 in splat zones, S+3 tower control, S+0 in rainmaker and S+1 in clam blitz
Fav setup: splatzones, blackbelly skatepark, arowana mall, ancho-v games
Salmon Run: loves salmon run, profreshional 150, eggxecutive
Fav manga character: Mask
Most like: Mask, Aloha, Skull. Depends on the mood. Extroverted Introvert
Peircings: eminence cuff upper left ear, 3 lobes each ear. Bottom lobes are upside own hearts, left one is dark blue, other is cyan. Others are whichever (dark blue/cyan/black)
Others: Scars: left brow, under right eye, left chin. Often drawn with a 2D crown hovering above head. Center of crown has upsideown blue heart. Droopy eyes. Left ear has a big cut
Personality: chill, cool, an artist. Can get excited over things they're a fan of ex. Mask lol
☆Leo
-inkling
-Dark blue, aqua (only when teamed with squad)
-grey eyes
-side cut
-tan
-pilot goggles/fake contacts (If i don't feel like drawing the goggles haha)
-black / grey hoodie
-shorts
-black dakroniks, black seahorses, black & blue squidkid IV, black trainers
-Dapple dualies nouveau
-Male, he
-poly? Boys, gals, non-binairy and gender fluid
-5'5
-Feb 29
-age 16, lvl 63, rank S+ in tower control, S in splatzones and rainmaker, A in clam blitz
-tower control, ancho-v games
-likes salmon run, overachiever
-aloha, gloves
-gloves
-confident, flirty, rarely loses but salty, gamer
-thick gold cuff on left lobe, often wears of rings
-big round sharp eyes
☆Milo nick: big bro Milo!!
-Inkling
-spiky hair
-green, aqua
-green,
-is pale but actually gets out in the sun unlike SOMEONE wolf
-freckles!!!!!!!!
-tinted shades, fake contacts. Hes got bad vision
-Olive Zekko hoodie
-baggy shorts
-arrow pull ons, purple-hi-horses
-ballpoint splatling- heavy splatling
-male/he
-Ace. Would rather focus on so called family first(the team)
-6'2
-To be decided
-age 18, lvl 82, rank S+ in splatzones and tower control, S in rainmaker and A+ in clam blitz
-splatzones, the reef
-thinks salmon run is cool, profreshional 100
-aviator, rider
-aviator, prince, goggles
-laid back, will mot be quiet, strong, don't mess with him, the big bro of the team
-Big round soft eyes
☆Natasha , nick: 'Tasha (more common)
-inkling
-cut basic girl hair
-purple, aqua
-Purple eyes
-Dark skin
-annaki facemask, paisley bandana(splat 1)
-takoroka nylon vintage
-leggins
-neo octoling boots
-E-liter 4k, kensa splat charger
-female, she
-lesbian, ace
-5'11
-November 24th
-age 17, lvl 87, Rank S+ in splatzones, S in tower control and rainmaker and A+ in clam blitz
-splatzones, moray towers
-likes salmon run profreshional 80
-skull, n-pacer
-skull
-chill, badass
-3 peircings each lobe - purple, cyan, purple for both ears, spider bites
-thin, sharp eyes
-two vertical scars on left side of lips shhhhh. We don't talk about that, she doesn't like it.
Name: ANDREA!! My crazy girl
-Salmonling/Inkling
-Orange (bit of red)
-orange/red, yellow scalera eyes
-long side cut
-tan-dark
-grizzco hat (worker's cap)
-office attire?? Messy tie
-ripped leggins
-angry rain boots????
-loves the grizzco blaster but if she ever did play turf, E-liter 4K
-She/they/it
-6'3
-October 28
-age 21, lvl 73 (only from grizzco) ranks n/a
-hazard level max is fun, salmonoid smoke yard
-Omega
-X-blood
-harsh on teammates, does her best to not scare off new recruits tho. Not afraid to swear like a sailor.
-thin sharp eyes
Twin Devils:
□Travis: nick: Trav
-octoling
-blue, purple w/Marx
-blue
-unique octo, hair goes forward
-tan-dark
-headgear
-top
-pants
-shoes
-Octobrush
-male he/him
-ace, doesn't care about any relationships
-5'7
-May 25
-17, 86, S+
-Tower control
-profreshional
-Souya kawata, Vintage sorta
-doesn't care
-Stoic, scary
-spider bites (rings?) Right side, hourglass earrings
■Marx
-octoling
-blue, purple w/Trav
-blue
-unique octo, hair goes backwards
-tan-dark
-headgear
-top
-pants
-shoes
-Nautilus 47
-male he/him
-ace, doesn't care about any relationships
-5'7
-May 25
-17, 86, S+
-Tower control
-profreshional
-Nahoya kawata, double egg sorta
-doesn't care
-spider bites (rings) left side, hourglass earrings
-Scary. He may seem approachable and he sure as hell will pretend to be for fans, but don't even bother on the battlefield.
-They always support eachother in battle, they don't even have to communicate, but Marx likes to talk just to fuck up the opponents
-Just about unstoppable when paired up, but they hate their teammates and often refuse to acknowledge them. It has happened that they've bullied their teammates out of a team so that they can play at their best
-Don't do turf, just ranked
-Private battles are often being challenged, and they only do 2v4s. They haven't lost once.
☆Gabriel, nick: gab, gabby rank: aqua tm 3.5
-Octoling
-curly hairstyle
-pink, aqua
-pink eyes
-tan-dark
-fishfry biscuit bandana
-black tee
-leggins calves
-blue slip-ons
-octoshot replica
-Male, he
-straight, ally
-5'0
-To be decided
-age 16, lvl 21, B+ in splatzones and rainmaker, B in tower control and C+ in clam blitz
-Rainmaker,
-dosen't do salmon run, apprentice
-prince, goggles
-prince, goggles
-super shy, cute, nervous
-scars cover arms from octo army
I haven't come up with lots for him yet
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Let there be Metal..Kramer Pacer limited edition guitarra in sparkle yellow..
#electricguitar#kramerpacer#kramerguitars#guitar#guitarist#floydrose#guitarsolo#metalguitarist#guitarmania#seymourduncan#eighties#superstrat#yellow guitar#sparkleguitar
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Well, it's not like I'm- or from what I can say at least, we in collective strangers far away from one another, are surviving but... I'm sorry if this seems both nonsensical and unbelieveable, but it's... it's more like we aren't in a part of the situation both of you and some others are in. All we can do is both ask and speculate as to what happened, with bits and pieces given to put together what's going on there. Again, I'm very sorry for the off-put yet sensible answer that I can give.
(Emperry Team Campsite, Day 379(Morning))
*The morning sun shone through the cracks of the tent, with Prince slowly blinking awake.*
*He grumbled, hearing faint static come from one of the backpacks stored in the corner of the fragile space. Sleepily reaching for the source, he grabbed the walkie-talkie and held it up to his ear.*
Prince: "Nnngh.....you're still connected to us...?"
*He yawned. The young boy seemed to be a bit more aware of his surroundings, so he chose to take a peek outside to see if N-Pacer was still sleeping before he said anything else.*
*And lo and behold, N-Pacer was still in a deep rest after a night of keeping watch. Prince sighed in relief after ducking his head back into the tent.*
Prince: "Ehe.. As hard as that is to believe.....it does explain why you keep on asking questions....and also why you suddenly connected to a line meant for just two people.."
*Prince sighed.*
"I-It's not that I believe you, though! N-Pacer said I should stop talking to you if you're still connected."
*The yellow-haired inkfish pursed his lips.*
"But......I'm still curious....."
(Askbox status: OPEN)
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Indiana Pacers Fanatics Hoodie Medium Blue Yellow NBA Basketball.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Indiana Pacers Baseball Hat Yellow Maingate Adjustable Autographed Signed.
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