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comphy-and-cozy · 4 months ago

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One Night Standards - Anthony Beauvillier

Pairing: Anthony Beauvillier x fem!OC

Summary: Country music sensation and Nashville sweetheart Harper Mitchell just got out of a very public, very messy breakup. She doesn't want a relationship, and, fortunately for her, Anthony Beauvillier won't be around long enough to start one. All of the makings of a perfect arrangement... right?

Word Count: 9K

Author’s Note: My first ever Beau fic!! Written for @offside-the-lines for @wyattjohnston's Summer Fic Exchange! Rox, I had a blast creating this universe for you and hope that you enjoy! S/O to Demi and @smileysvech for the plot help and being ever-helpful sounding boards.

Warnings: Alcohol use/mention, cheating themes, implied smut, friends-with-benefit relationship.

NHL Masterlist | Moodboard

AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS NO MORE: ‘MICHARDS’ SPLIT!

Sources close to country music star Harper Mitchell confirm that she has split from her boyfriend, Joey Richards of 3 years amid leaked photos of him with another woman. The Daydreamin’ in Denim singer, 27, has declined for comment.

Harper blows a puff of air out of her lips, swiping out of Twitter. Absently, her hand moves to toy with her necklace—the one Joey had bought her to celebrate her song going Platinum. There’s a brief moment as she realizes it’s not there anymore, that she gave it to a friend of a friend so she could get it out of her house.

It’s a simple action, miniscule in the grand scheme of her life or even her day, but it strikes her hard all the same. Within moments, her eyes are lining with tears, the all-too-familiar lump sitting heavy in her throat. She lets a tear fall before exhaling slowly. “God dammit, Joey.”

The sharp ring of her phone jolts her out of her thoughts, her agent’s name flashing across the screen beside a star emoji. When she answers, she’s greeted by a laundry list of upcoming meetings, interviews, and appearances; Harper bites back the urge to ask when she’s going to get a break.

“Don’t forget you have Erin Alvey’s album release party tomorrow night,” Candice is saying. Harper can hear the jingling of her keys as the engine turns over on the other end of the phone. “Dress code is Denim & Diamonds. I sent you a few outfit ideas and a screenshot of the details again.”

“Got it,” Harper hums, mind briefly flitting to the denim corset she has hanging in her closet. She makes a mental note to pull out a few options, even though the thought of going out in public and having to socialize makes her itch. “Will—will he be there?”

Candice pauses, and a soft almost motherly tone takes over. “No, Har. He won’t.”

Harper nods to herself, humming to let Candice know she heard. Candice continues, “There will be some press there, though. Make sure to practice up on your statements, okay? They should be focused on Erin’s album, but you know they’re looking for a reaction out of you.”

“Right,” she replies, the voice inside her head reminding her to give that man nothing.

After reviewing a few more upcoming to do’s, Candice bids her goodbye, and once again, Harper is left alone in silence. She practices her brave face, taking a deep breath before heading to the closet to plan out her outfit; she’ll be damned if she doesn’t show up to the party hotter than ever, with no outward sign of any distress.

———

When Filip Forsberg sent the team group chat an invitation to his wife’s album release party, Anthony had accepted quickly. Initially, he was eager to seize the opportunity to bond with some of his new teammates, but now that it’s the day of, it’s the last thing he wants to do. Still, he forces himself to pull a shirt out of one of his suitcases, tossing it in the dryer to iron out some of the wrinkles after being haphazardly chucked inside following his third trade call in two years.

Another trade, another team, with new teammates, new facilities, new plays. At this point, he’s starting to consider himself an expert in getting traded. On one hand, he’s appreciated the opportunity to explore multiple new cities while he’s young and single. On the other, he’s noticed that he’s growing jaded, hesitant—unwilling, even, to grow attached to anything or anyone on his new team, because if he’s learned anything over the last few years, it’s that all of it is temporary.

Anthony allows himself to mope a little bit, but it’s a text from Dante confirming that he’s going to pick him up in an hour that gives him the motivation to get his head back in the game and hop in the shower. He takes care to get himself ready; maybe, if he puts the effort in, the sting of the trade will dull. Maybe he’ll find a pretty girl to get lost in for a night.

By the time he’s getting into Dante’s car, he’s feeling much more confident and social—the getting-ready gin and tonic he had certainly helped. He’s grateful for Barzy, even states away, for introducing him to Dante a few summers ago; the familiar face has made things a little less lonely since arriving in Nashville.

The party is a few miles outside of the downtown area, giving Dante the chance to provide Anthony with a quick rundown of the dynamics of the team and what to expect. They joke around, make some idle chit chat, laugh about a few stupid memes. When they arrive twenty minutes later, Anthony steps out of the car with a little extra swagger in his step.

Inside, he and Dante quickly find a few of the other Predators in the corner of the room, munching on some hors d’oeuvres. They settle in, chattering about what celebrities they might see at the event. Anthony’s eyes roam, absorbing the elaborate decor, before his eyes land on a familiar face.

“Oh my God, that’s Harper Mitchell,” he whispers. “I’ve had a crush on her for years.”

Ryan raises his eyebrow, then grins at Anthony. “Really? A Frenchman like you?”

“You forget who my friends were in New York. All kinds of country boys over there,” Anthony replies, his mind flashing briefly to the country music Mat would blast in the car on the way to and from the rink. “Barzy’s gonna die when I tell him she was here.”

The group mingles, Filip eventually making his way over to greet his teammates. Anthony does his best to be conversational, staying engaged, but he can’t help but glance across the room in search of long, dark curls and skin-tight jeans. He makes a mental note to text Barzy and tell her how much hotter she looks in person.

Dante elbows Anthony, who is conveniently mid-sip of his drink. “Dude, she’s coming over. Buck up, Romeo.”

Across the room, Harper steels herself, finding comfort in the familiar brown eyes of her longtime friend’s husband, flanked by a posse of who she presumes are teammates. Outside of attending a few games with Erin, she knows next to nothing about hockey, but she’s always been surprised at how good looking Fil’s teammates are.

“Great to see you Fil,” she says, plastering her practiced smile on her face.

“You doing okay?” he whispers into her ear as he leans in for a hug.

The tightness in her throat returns, the heavy lump sitting firmly. Harper swallows thickly, blinking quickly to rid her eyes of the tears that threaten to bubble over. “Yep. All good.”

If Filip sees through the weak lie, he doesn’t say anything, only pulls away and gestures to the group of guys behind him, standing awkwardly as they glance around. “You remember Dante and Ryan.”

“Of course,” she nods, offering each of them a smile. Her eyes connect with Ryan. “Great goal the other night.”

“And this is Beau—Anthony Beauvillier—he’s the new guy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Harper’s eyes lock with two cerulean ones. They’re kind, warm—comforting. “Welcome to Nashville.”

“D’you live in Abberly Foundry?” he blurts it out before he has a chance to stop himself.

Dante sputters out a laugh. “Dude, come on. You can’t just ask her where she lives.”

Anthony blushes, looking at Harper bashfully. “N-no, I’m sorry it came out that way. I mean, I live there too. I think I’ve seen you in the lobby a few times.”

“Hopefully you haven’t seen me after a show; usually those looks are a little rough,” Harper says with a smile.

He doesn’t have the balls to tell her she looks beautiful every time he’s seen her, so he just laughs it off instead. She turns her attention toward Ryan to ask about his kids, relieving Anthony of the pressure of having to carry on the conversation; instead, he takes a breath, a long swig of his drink, and slips himself into chatter with Dante.

Even after she walks away to brush elbows with the other Nashville starlets, blue eyes follow Harper for the rest of the night.

———

She bumps into those same blue eyes in the elevator the next day, and Anthony offers to help carry her groceries to her apartment. Fortunately for his nerves, Harper is trained in small talk, asking him about how he’s liking the city and what he’s explored so far. He feels a little lame that the answer is virtually nothing outside of a handful of restaurants and bars.

Once he’s inside her apartment—a slightly elevated version of his own—Anthony feels like he doesn’t belong there. His eyes dart around, taking in the decor: the little blue bowl by the counter for her keys, the flowers on the coffee table, the framed Sopranos picture next to her fridge.

“Tony’s my dad,” she explains when she notices Anthony amusedly chuckling at it.

“Good dad to have,” he comments, setting the grocery bags in his arms down onto the counter. He stands awkwardly, not sure if he should leave or offer to help.

“Are you a Sopranos fan, too?”

“Of course,” he grins, then puts on his best Italian accent. “What, no fuckin’ ziti?”

Harper’s laugh is loud, and Anthony feels a surge of pride in his chest that he made the Harper Mitchell laugh. “Finally, a man with taste.”

“I have a hard time sleeping after games sometimes,” he explains, helping her to empty her bags, “so I’ve made my way through a lot of shows.”

Her eyes narrow as she begins to put the groceries in their respective homes. The conversation flows naturally to her, comfortable with forcing all kinds of chatter at shows and appearances. “What’s your favorite that you watched recently?”

“The Jinx for sure,” he says. “It’s one of the craziest I’ve ever seen.”

Harper’s jaw drops, and at first, Anthony is afraid he said something wrong. But then her face lights up, and her eyes grow excited. “Oh my god – the hot mic footage!?”

Anthony shakes his head in disbelief, nodding in agreement. “I know. That was a wild way to end it. And to make people wait almost 10 years for another season!?”

“I won’t lie, I’ve been in a huge Bob Durst hyperfixation lately,” she laughs, excited that someone understands her niche interest. “I’ve been listening to the podcast, too.”

Anthony leaves an hour and a half later after a full-blown discussion about Robert Durst and The Jinx, along with her number stored securely in his phone and an open invitation to come over the next time he can’t sleep (“I have a lot of late nights, too,” she’d said). The next day, he sends her a Sopranos meme, not knowing it’s the catalyst that will change the rest of his life.

From there, a flip switches. Just like that, Harper can barely remember what life was like before Anthony arrived—and Anthony can’t fathom a Nashville without Harper. They start spending much of their free time together, which, while limited, is made much more convenient due to the fact that the commute is only a short elevator ride up four floors. The days in between are filled with text messages and voice memos, usually random thoughts sprinkled in with a recap of some movie she’d recommended or silly updates on the road.

Anthony finds himself looking for her name on his phone when he leaves the gym, keeping mental notes of her schedule to know when he should clear his own to make time for her. He brushes off teasing from his teammates, razzing him for being a lovesick fanboy.

From the start, despite both Forsbergs digging on multiple occasions for more information, Harper never could quite put a label on the relationship she and Anthony had. She’d clocked the way his eyes flicked down to the curve of her breast, yet she also was keenly aware of the many opportunities he’d had to make a move and never had. He was cute, but she wasn’t interested in pursuing anything farther—not after Joey. She needed time to heal, to recover, to grow on her own. She’d focus on her career, write an album telling her story. And then she’d find someone.

If she was lucky, maybe Anthony would be waiting there at the end of it all.

———

It’s a few weeks into their newfound routine when Harper declines a request to hang out, informing Anthony that she’s having a girl’s night out at the bars to “celebrate her freedom”.

While disappointed, Anthony is equally eager to have a night to himself to relax. It’s been a whirlwind few weeks adjusting to his new team, new routine, new friends. He gets takeout—Harper’s favorite Italian place just down the block—and, after calling his mom, he fires up the Playstation to lose himself in a game for a while.

A few hours later, he sets down his controller, stretching his legs out with a groan. He glances at the clock on the microwave, his mind briefly flitting to Harper, hoping that she’s drinking and dancing Joey out of her system. It feels a bit strange, he thinks, to be home on a night off and not be with her, but he knows that a night out on the town is therapeutic in a way he could never provide.

Then, his mind starts to wander, thinking back on the times he’s heard people say that catch phrase, The best way to get over someone is to get under somebody else, and he can feel his skin crawl at the thought. His blood simmers low in his stomach, the ugly head of jealousy roaring as he pushes away the images floating into his head.

Of course he’s attracted to Harper—who wouldn’t be? Long, dark hair, her big, brown eyes, a body that’s more fitting for a supermodel than a musical artist; she has it all, and a bubbly, quick wit that would make anyone fall in love with her.

Not that he’s in love with her. Or even has feelings for her. They barely know each other—that would be crazy. Never mind the fact that she’s the only girl he’s really spoken to since he got to Nashville. Hell, he hasn’t even thought about opening the apps to find a girl, even though he’s sure he could pick one up with ease.

He blames it on the season, on the craziness of yet another trade, of prepping for the playoffs. A nagging feeling inside of him knows that’s not entirely it, like part of him is whispering to himself, She’s right there, idiot.

But there's no way a girl like that could ever be interested in him—a measley, dumb jock who hasn’t had a home since New York. Harper Mitchell is far too intelligent, successful, and driven to ever give him a second glance. He doesn’t even have the money factor to give him an edge over who he presumes are his potential competitors.

So, friendly neighbors it is.

He wrestles down the thought as he climbs into bed, though his mind is clouded with thoughts of Harper as he falls asleep.

Anthony blinks awake, taking a few moments to acclimate himself. A quick check confirms he’s in bed and it’s late—only the low light of the moon shines behind the drawn curtains. As consciousness begins to seep back in, he realizes that it’s a disjointed knocking at the door that woke him.

A glance at the clock—2:48am—has a confused grunt emerging from his throat before he’s begrudgingly dragging himself out of bed. Slipping on the pair of sweatpants he’d left in a pile on the floor, Anthony blinks more sleep out of his eyes, navigating his way to the front door.

“Harper?”

“Anthony!” she squeals, launching herself forward. Strong arms are there to catch her, leather skirt and all. “I missed you.”

He stifles a laugh, stumbling back inside his apartment and hoping she didn’t wake any of his neighbors. “Harper, did you just get home?”

It’s only when he pulls away that he notes the large brown paper bag clutched in her hand: McDonald’s. Judging by the large Diet Coke and heavenly scent of fresh fries, along with the glassiness of Harper’s eyes, Anthony deduces in short order that it’s a drunk meal.

“Dave took me to Mickey’s,” she explains.

“Dave?”

“M’Uber driver,” Harper slurs, tugging open the brown bag and fishing out a box of chicken nuggets.

Anthony stifles a chuckle watching her dunk an entire nugget into the honey mustard sauce packet. He also realizes how little he’s clothed—he hadn’t thrown a shirt on in his sleepy march to the door.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Anthony realizes that Harper’s chewing has slowed and that she’s unabashedly staring at his exposed torso. He watches her eyes trail along the lines of his muscle, dipping lower until the view is obscured by the thick hem of his sweatpants.

“You’re hot,” she says, bluntly. Anthony’s laugh quirks up the side of his mouth.

He figures he doesn’t have much to lose, so he says, “So are you.”

Harper flips her hair. “Do you think so?”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

In response, she dunks another nugget into the sauce. “You’re sweet.”

Anthony opens his mouth to reply when Harper’s face contorts. Her eyes widen, and she chucks the nugget out of her hand while darting into the bathroom. The door shuts behind her and he winces when he hears the muffled sound of retching.

After laughing to himself, watching the smallest hope of earning a kiss from Harper Mitchell’s pretty lips drift away, he debates whether he should offer to hold her hair back. Ultimately, he opts to pour a big glass of water, grab the Advil bottle, and find a t-shirt in his dresser drawer.

He knocks softly on the bathroom door, helping her up and leading her back to his bedroom after cleaning her up. Not exactly the way he’d envisioned Harper in his bed, but he supposes beggars can’t be choosers.

It takes a bit of wrangling and no shortage of discomfort on Anthony’s end to get Harper changed into his t-shirt, into bed, and to consume both the Advil and some of the water he poured. By the time he returns from brushing his teeth, she’s out like a light, and Anthony smiles to himself as he slides in next to her.

While it wasn’t what he had in mind initially, Anthony feels her warmth beside him and listens to the steady sound of her breathing. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks to himself that he doesn’t mind one bit.

———

Harper’s head pounds as soon as she opens her eyes. It takes a moment to register that she has no idea where she is, the bed and walls and curtains all unfamiliar. The space beside her in the bed is warm, but there’s nobody there. Where the fuck is she?

She racks her brain, only snippets of last night flickering into her memory. One thing she does remember are soft, blue eyes and a familiar laugh.

Anthony.

After checking herself to confirm she is, in fact, clothed, Harper sits up, almost forgetting about the splitting headache that’s threatening to ruin her day before it even begins. Massaging her temples, she groans.

“That good, huh?”

The voice startles her, and Harper glances up to see Anthony walking toward her, a steaming mug in his hand that he offers her as he approaches. He opens his palm to reveal two pills, which she accepts gratefully along with the coffee. “Thanks. How… why am I here?”

Anthony laughs. “Oh, you remember nothing, huh?”

“Oh god, what did I do?”

He fills her in on the details, from the mess of honey mustard to wrestling a t-shirt over her head to get her into bed. He does, however, decide to keep her drunken confession of attraction to him to himself. No need to divulge that yet.

“Did we… ?” Her voice is different, hesitant, and Anthony makes a mental note of it. He shakes his head, and the relief on her face nearly makes his heart crack.

Harper laughs uncomfortably, the tension between them suddenly thick with the knowledge that both of them are thinking about the exact same thing: she doesn’t care to admit that the thought has crossed her mind prior to right now. She rubs her face with her hands with a groan. “I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing.”

Anthony waves a hand to brush it off as he says, “It’s nothing. You were… charming.”

Her face contorts into an exaggerated expression of worry. “That sounds horrific. I don’t want to know.”

Harper lugs herself out of bed not long after, once the deep throb inside her skull subsides just slightly—though she’s not confident she’ll make it up the elevator without vomiting. Anthony doesn’t show any sign of discomfort from the social mishap from earlier, offering her an old pair of slides so she doesn’t have to make the trip back to her apartment in her heels. “For your walk of shame.”

She snorts, accepting them gratefully. “Does it count as a walk of shame if we didn’t even sleep together?”

“Well, technically we did sleep together,” Anthony says with a shoulder bump, enjoying the way her cheeks flush when he says it.

“And now I’m leaving,” she says with another laugh, pulling open the door. “Goodbye, Anthony.”

———

Following their pseudo one night stand, Harper is grateful for a 2-day road trip that forces an extra few days to let her embarrassment settle. Even after multiple profuse apologies, she still feels mortified, but Anthony doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he texts her after landing home to confirm their plans for ��Nashville Day”, as Harper had dubbed it—a day, she had said, to show him some of the classics of Music City.

After practice, she meets him eagerly to take him to purchase his very first Nashville cowboy hat, which she makes him wear as she treats him to his first ever Nashville hot chicken sandwich (Anthony tries to blink away the tears in his eyes while simultaneously being incredibly impressed at the ease with which Harper puts away once of the spiciest things he’s ever eaten in his life).

Following a quick ice cream detour—Harper doesn’t tell him that she thinks the ice cream will help his burning tongue—the third part of Nashville Day begins: a bar crawl to an assortment of classic Nashville bars, including the bar she’d first started performing at.

“You ever been line dancing?” she asks, guiding him through the crowd on the sidewalk. The city is bustling, per usual, but Anthony doesn’t notice anyone except Harper and her floral wide-leg jeans.

“I’m from Quebec,” he laughs. “What do you think?”

Harper grins. “Great. Come with me.”

Anthony steels himself as he follows her between two wooden doors. It’s dimly lit, with low lighting shining on the worn, wooden floor–from years worth of dancing. Harper smiles.

“Can you do the Cupid Shuffle?”

“Uh… kind of?”

“It’s like that, just with more country music.”

Putting on a brave face, he nods with far more confidence than he feels. Harper finds two barstools—to let him ‘observe’ first before diving in himself. What Harper doesn’t notice, though, is that Anthony spends more time watching her smile and bounce her knee with the beat.

A small crowd gathers and he’s immediately overwhelmed by the synchronized shuffling, stomping, and tapping, but he tries to study the movements carefully. A few songs pass but he’s nowhere near feeling confident enough to go out on his own—in fact, he’d be quite content sitting on the sidelines for the rest of the night, but of course, Harper has other plans.

“Come on, this is my favorite one!” she squeals, seizing Anthony’s hand and dragging him out into the crowd before he has a chance to protest. Harper selects a spot on the edge of the line, positioning him beside her and jumping right into the moves. Anthony moves partially into panic mode, eyes darting around at the patrons around him moving perfectly in sync. His feet cross over themselves, awkward and out of place, and Harper laughs, exaggerating her movements to try and help him out.

“Stomp, stomp, back, back,” she guides him, taking his hand again to turn him when the group shuffles and changes direction.

Anthony’s got two left feet, but he manages to get a decent enough hold on the moves, following the beat—albeit a bit clumsily. Harper admires his commitment, watching the way his brows knit together in concentration.

Eventually, he gets the hang of it… sort of. Still, he’s relieved when Harper exits the dance floor, nursing his bruised ego while they make their way to get another drink.

“You did good out there for your first time,” she says encouragingly.

Anthony scoffs, biting back a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she replies with a wink. Her eyes trail over to the mechanical bull on the other side of the room, the crowd around it growing. “You want to scratch another first off your list tonight?”

Blue eyes follow her line of sight, widening when they register what she’s referring to. He’s shaking his head before he can get the words out. “Not a chance.”

“You’re scared,” she says teasingly, sticking her tongue out. “I get it. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

The crowd cheers as she hauls herself up on the saddle. Anthony ignores the pulse below his belt at the image of her legs straddling the bull, but he can’t help the throb watching the way her hips loosen and roll with the movements of the bull. It’s not his fault his brain decided to conjure the image of her doing the exact same thing on top of him.

Fortunately for him, he’s adjusted himself and she doesn’t seem to notice the half-hard erection when she rejoins him after getting knocked off—after an impressive 18 seconds.

“I’m really glad I didn’t try to compete with you,” he says, handing back her drink that she’d left with him for safe keeping. “I’d probably end up on IR and get yelled at by my coaches.”

Harper laughs. “I’ll accept that as an excuse. But after your season is done, you’re getting on that bull.”

“Aye aye,” he says with a salute.

The pair fall silent for a few moments, distracted by the next patron getting flung off the bull in an aggressive 3-second ride.

“Why don’t you have a girl, Anthony?” The question comes from out of nowhere.

“What do you mean?”

She takes another sip. “You’re handsome, you’re successful, you’re an athlete, you’re funny. What girl wouldn’t want you?”

Anthony’s heart starts to pound in his chest, his breathing quickening. Keep it cool, man. He shrugs with a nervous chuckle, faffing some string of “yeah, I just–just not really into that right now, while I’m young, you know?”

Harper observes him for a moment, lost in thought as she swirls the lime in her Corona. Anthony lets the moment sit, returning her gaze with a cool and patient smile, his eyes bonded to hers.

When she speaks, Anthony’s expression falters at first. “The good thing about Joey was that he understood the schedule. So much hopping. Meetings, promos, shows, events. My career isn’t going to be second place to a relationship, so better to date someone who understands that lifestyle.”

Anthony nods, following along. He can practically see the flight path of this conversation, wrestling with the slight increase in his pulse as it plays out in front of him.

“‘Course, maybe that didn’t help, either,” she says with a laugh.

It’s Anthony’s turn to leave a long silence, contemplating her curiously. He weighs the words on his tongue, toying around with them before speaking them out loud. “Sounds like you need a friends-with-benefits.”

Harper considers. Friends with benefits gives the company of a partner, but without the attachment. At least, in theory.

“Everyone knows friends with benefits doesn’t work,” she retorts. “Someone always falls for the other.”

“Not if one of them is leaving Nashville this summer.”

Her eyebrows raise. The offer, no longer subtle, is hanging out in the open on the bar lined with scuff marks and water rings from damp bottles.

“You sure you want to be saying that?” An invisible line in the sand, officially crossed.

A smile graces Anthony’s lips, which he then wets with another swig of his beer. “Most girls only want to date me for the celebrity—to say they’re fucking an NHL player.”

The rest of his sentence doesn’t make it out, but it’s obvious what comes next. But not you.

Because Harper gets it. She’s a celebrity herself, has even more fame and accolades than Anthony, is comfortable with the public eye and everything that comes with having a blue checkmark next to her name. There’s no need to skirt over the clout-chasing and wallet-grabbing insecurities.

Plus, they’re neighbors. Convenient for short notice booty calls—and easy to go to bed alone. The sporadic travel schedules are mutual, as are late nights, early mornings, and quick nights at home. And with Anthony’s future up in the air, it practically guaranteed a clean split at the end of it all.

“Is that all?”

Anthony nudges his empty bottle toward the edge of the bar, leaning in closer toward Harper as he does so. The sweet scent of her perfume invades his senses when he brings his lips closer to her ear before whispering, “I really, really want to fuck you.”

She feels a low pulse in her gut at his words, then downs the rest of her beer. No longer able to deny her burgeoning attraction to him, she shrugs. “Alright. Show me what you got then, Tito.”

Anthony grins at the nickname, sitting back and offering his hand. Harper accepts it, and soon enough, they’re climbing into the backseat of an Uber.

They end up at Harper’s, and Anthony doesn’t demonstrate patience when he kisses her as soon as the door closes. His tongue is practiced, and Harper gets the distinct sense that he’s been waiting for this for a while. His hands card through her hair, holding her close like he can’t bear to part with her.

“If we’re going to do this—” she begins, wrestling his shirt over his head, pausing for a moment to admire the god-like physique underneath his clothes. She’s never seen it sober, and she wants to enjoy it. Her eyes trailed over the deep cut of his muscles, words stuck in her throat as she gapes at the sight in front of her.

Anthony’s lips curl up, amused by the way he appears to have rendered her—the bubbly, famously charismatic Harper Mitchell—speechless. His hands are steady pressed against her sides, hot on her skin. He brings her attention away from his body when he asks cheekily, “Do what?”

“I’m serious, Anthony,” she says, more sternly after she wrenches herself away from his tempting lips. “If we’re going to do—this—that’s all it is. I’m not doing the whole ‘Oops I fell in love with you’ shtick, and I need you to be okay with that. Okay?”

The subtle twitch of his jaw is the only sign of any hesitation; a beat passes, and he nods so smoothly that Harper is almost surprised. He doesn’t give her much time to dwell on it, though, when he presses forward to capture her lips again, leaning her against the wall.

“Whatever you say,” he breathes.

There isn’t much talking from there, save for the sound of lips on skin, soft moans, and the rustle of sheets. Anthony’s body slots against hers, skin hot as he moves slowly, deeply. Harper’s fingers press into the dips of his biceps, pleasure radiating.

When they lie beside each other panting later, Harper turns to face him. The best way to describe the way he’s feeling is shock at how explosive, how other worldly it was to be with her. He’ll come to grips with the fact that he actually slept with the country singer he’s had a crush on for years later.

Anthony feels her eyes on him and he lets his hand rest on her side. Her voice is soft when she asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“How this has got to be in the top five greatest decisions of my life.”

“Only top five?” She nudges his leg teasingly.

“I’ll re-evaluate after next time.”

It doesn’t take long for their already practiced routine to become ritual: during periods they’re both home, one rarely spends an evening alone. Sometimes she’ll bring takeout, sometimes he’ll cook and they’ll watch a hockey game or a movie, and sometimes they go straight into the bedroom—particularly after a few extra days apart.

For once, the ‘friends with benefits’ thing works. Things are easy between them, casual, and the base they’d already established for their relationship makes things smooth. Harper’s having fun, and, for the first time since she saw those videos of Joey, she feels happy.

And Anthony? He doesn’t tell her, but he secretly wonders if their arrangement is actually the best decision he’s ever made.

———

The room is quiet, save for the slowing heavy breathing. Harper’s legs feel like jelly and the space between her thighs tingles with a warm radiance that only Anthony can bring.

“What happened with Joey?”

Harper casts him a sideways glance, sheet rustling with the movement. Moonlight streams in through the half-parted curtains of Anthony’s bedroom. It’s always funny to see the same view that she has from her own apartment, but in an entirely different space. “I don’t want to do pillow talk, Anthony.”

He pauses for a moment, smiling to himself. “Okay,” he says, slipping out from underneath the sheet; Harper’s eyes instinctively move to the generous, shapely curve of his ass. The cool, purple light of the moon illuminates the shape and lines of his back muscles as he leans down to pull on his boxers, then his sweatpants, then his Alo t-shirt. Strolling out of the open bedroom door, Harper hears his feet padding down the hallway rug, followed by the sound of a cabinet, a clink of glass, and finally, the sound of a cup being filled with liquid.

Moments later, Anthony saunters back into the room, climbing back onto the bed. He hands her a stemless glass of wine, then grabs the remote from the bedside table and clicks on the television mounted across the room.

“Now it’s just two friends hanging out.”

Harper can’t help the short, exhaled laugh that slips out despite the impact of the message. She blinks, letting her eyes flick down to the glass. The red wine sloshes inside, its tart scent drifting into her nose. She takes a sip.

“I thought we were happy,” she says after a while. Her voice is quiet, reflective, shaking just the slightest bit. Anthony sits patiently and listens. “We were talking about moving in together.”

The glow from the television lights up the side of Harper’s face, cast down as she tells her story. Anthony watches her, his heart lurching at the expression on her face. But he needs to know. Needs to know what he’s working with, what his barrier to being with her—really being with her—looks like.

“He checked in at night when we were apart, FaceTimes a lot of the time too, so it honestly wasn’t anywhere on my radar; I genuinely had no idea he was sneaking around.. I thought the pictures were photoshopped—just something someone was making up on the internet for drama.” She pauses. “But then I saw the videos.”

Anthony’s mouth falls open. “There were videos?”

“Multiple,” she says, a soft, sad smile on her face as she glances over to him. His heart fractures.

“I’m sorry,” he says dumbly. “That’s awful. What did you do?”

“I’m not sure what it was like in Chicago, but it blew up here. There was no way he didn’t know that I knew. So I packed up his shit, left it on the porch of his house, and that was it. I didn’t give him the chance to explain himself or apologize.”

Shit. “Still… that’s a lot to have to deal with. You need closure.”

“I deserve better than that,” Harper says matter-of-factly. “And anyone who isn’t going to give me that doesn’t deserve my time. No closure necessary.”

Anthony nods, struck with the sheer force of her strong persona. He hesitates, the words sitting in his mouth for a few moments as he debates if he should speak them out. But he can’t miss the opportunity—not when this is the closest he’s come to uncovering the truth. “Is that why you won’t do a relationship?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Not every partner you have is going to be like that, you know,” he offers.

Harper shakes her head, taking a sip of the wine. “I’m not ready to take that risk yet.”

———

It isn’t until the end of April that Harper realizes the enormous space Anthony had carved out for himself in her life. She’s sitting on his mattress, legs crossed with an oversized Islanders sweatshirt on, playing him a portion of a demo she’d recorded earlier that day. His suitcase is out, and he’s in the process of packing for an extended trip to Vancouver—at least, longer than he’d been away since they started spending time together.

“A whole week?” she pouted.

“It’s only five days,” he laughs, folding a hoodie and placing it into the bag. He glances at her, liking the sight of her on his bed and in his clothes. The sleeves of the blue sweatshirt are baggy, rolled over her wrists, and the hem at the bottom swims over her thighs. Then he adds, “You look good in that.”

“I look good in everything,” she says with a cheeky wink.

“You do,” he agrees. “And nothing, too.”

A pulse awakens between Harper’s thighs at the heat in his eyes when he says it, gone with a blink when he returns to the closet to pull out more clothes.

“I don’t know how to be here alone anymore!” she whines.

Anthony snorts before tossing a few pairs of rolled up socks into his bag. “Are you sure it’s not just because you start to get cranky when you go a few days without dick?”

Scoffing, Harper rolls her eyes. “I can get plenty of dick, if I want it. I don’t need you for that.”

If her sharp words hurt him, he doesn’t show it, instead sending a smirk in her direction. He zips up his suitcase, setting it on the floor before turning back to her. Blue eyes lock with hers as he slides a knee onto the mattress, then the other, slinking his way toward her until his legs are straddling hers, his lips mere inches from her own. Harper feels a flutter in her heart that mimics the one between her legs, heat flooding through her at the proximity of his body. “You don’t need me, but you sure do want me.”

Just like that, she’s putty beneath him, melting as soon as his plush lips press against hers. Heat radiates through her system as the kiss intensifies, allowing his tongue to slip into her mouth. Anthony’s fingers lace with hers and pin her hands against the mattress, bracketing her face with his arms.

Abruptly, he pulls away from her, his cheeks flushed. Another smug smile curls up on his face, observing the hitch in her throat and the glassiness of her eyes.

“You sure you can get that somewhere else?”

———

Eliminated in the first round, the Predators’ playoff run isn’t nearly as deep as Anthony hoped it’d be. Not just for the obvious—chasing his dream of winning the Stanley Cup, but because the end of the season means his inevitable departure from Nashville, and, ultimately, Harper.

As disappointing as the loss is, hearing the deafening silence of Predators fans at Bridgestone Arena, he’s grateful for the lack of travel home afterwards. He feels strange packing up his things after the game, seeing the disappointment and frustration running deep in the locker room, not knowing if he’ll be back in this place come October to help them take another run at it.

Harper arrives to his apartment not long after he does, wordlessly joining him in the shower he stepped into. Their bodies blend into one under the warm water, cascading over their joined form as she allows Anthony to work out his conflicting feelings in the comfort of her arms. It’s quiet, sensual; his lips seek out peace by marking up the smooth skin of her neck and collarbones while he presses his hips into hers, following a steady and slow rhythm until they’re both reaching their climax in the steam-filled room.

She stays over that night, a rare but not unheard of occurrence as their relationship has progressed. After another round of silent, sinful therapy, Anthony is plagued by his typical post-game insomnia, heightened by the disappointment of his loss and the uncertainty of his future. He watches Harper sleep, soaking in each breath, the rise and fall of her chest, the glow of her skin underneath the moonlight. Her air-dried hair is wavy, a little bit of frizz, and even in the dark, the sparse freckles on her nose stand out against her tawny skin.

It’s almost 2:30am by the time he realizes he’s been gazing at her for over an hour. He’s a little bit embarrassed, quickly blinking away even though she’s been dead to the world ever since he made her come for the third time that night. It was too easy to trail his eyes over the lines of her face, the fullness of her lips, drowning out the stressors of the outside world with Harper’s beauty.

His eyes grow heavy, lost in thought, amused at himself for literally watching her sleep. He hadn’t even thought about hockey.

Anthony’s eyes widen. He hadn’t thought about hockey on the last night of his season, with no contract in place for his next, after an abysmal performance in what was supposed to be a promising postseason. Instead, he’s being a lovesick puppy staring at a girl who isn’t his.

And all at once, it hits him. He’s in love with Harper.

And he’s leaving Nashville. Doesn’t know if he’ll be back. And he promised her he wouldn’t catch feelings. Practically guaranteed it.

His heart thuds in his chest as the realization sets in. Despite his fear and uncertainty about the enormous wrench it just put into his… well, life, he’s suddenly wondering how long he’d lived with this feeling for Harper and didn’t know it. He’s never been so aware of the beating of his heart in his chest, memorizing the feel of it.

Harper stirs beside him, as if her subconscious has finally realized he’s been staring at her for way too long. He turns his head and closes his eyes, feigning sleep, unsure if she’s awake or just shifting. Sleep closes in on him, not claiming him completely before he feels a gentle press of lips against his sleeping cheek.

———

In the morning, his scent is the first thing that Harper registers, head resting heavily on Anthony’s bicep. His leg is pressed against hers, and a subtle adjustment of her hips confirms that neither of them bothered to put clothes on last night. He’s warm, solid against her body, and the steadiness of his deep breathing is calming.

She wonders how late he stayed awake. He’d thoroughly exhausted her—the space between her legs aches deliciously when she stretches—and the thought flits through her mind that last night was probably one of the last times she’d be with him for awhile. Maybe ever.

So she savors it. Instead of leaving the way she always has, the way she knows she should, she snuggles into his warmth, soaking it in one last time.

When Anthony wakes, Harper is practically wrapped around him, nuzzled underneath his chin. His heart hammers in his chest as his revelation from the night before sinks in.

He’s in love with Harper Mitchell. And she’s naked in his bed.

Anthony’s mind rolls, wondering if he should tell her. And if he should, what should he say—and when? He’s running out of time, his time in Nashville slipping away faster than he’s ready to accept.

By the time Harper wakes, he’s made the executive decision to wait. Not yet.

She stays for a plate of scrambled eggs and one more round against the counter when a comforting hug gets quickly heated. Anthony stares at the door long after she leaves, words echoing in his head in a hopeless jumble.

It isn’t until the next day when he’s packing up his bedroom and finds a small, Harper-sized sock that he makes the split decision. He sends a quick text letting her know he’s on his way, and her expression is concerned when she answers the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Can I come in?”

She steps aside to let him in the door, following him anxiously into the kitchen where he turns to face her. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her arms cross and an amused expression floats over her face. “Oh yeah?”

“Reflecting,” he corrects. “On my time in Nashville, now that it’s…”

The words trail off, but Harper knows what’s next. Over.

“It’s been short, but I realized I dreaded the end of the season not because of getting eliminated, but because it meant I’d be leaving you.”

The words hang heavy between them. He sighs and speaks again. “You asked me why I don’t have a girl, and the truth is that I didn’t know what I wanted until I woke up with you in my bed.”

Another beat passes and he waits for the message to hit. Then he confesses, “You’re what I want, Harper.”

“Anthony,” she says, like a warning. He can hear the way her voice trembles, and he can feel the lift in his heart. “Don’t do this.”

He ignores her, ignores the way her body stiffens. If he can just get through to her, she’ll see. He’s sure of it.

“You said it yourself—you deserve better than how Joey treated you. You know that I can and will treat you better. Exactly how you deserve.”

“You can’t say that.”

“Why not?” he challenges. “I know you feel the same.”

Harper exhales harshly, her hands on her hips. For a second, Anthony is scared of her and the fire in her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” she finally says. Joey flashes through her mind, glimpses of the video of him kissing another girl, of the way it felt like the world had stopped when she saw it. The lump in her throat is heavy, and she shoves away any flitter of hope that burns quietly in her chest. She can’t—cannot—allow that to happen again.

“Does it matter how I feel?”

Harper’s eyes shoot up to Anthony’s, the usual cerulean swimming with a deeper cornflower shade. She can’t place the emotion behind it. Concern? Hurt? Something else?

“I care how you feel,” she says, “but no matter how you feel, it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want that. I can’t do it right now.”

“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it. We’ve basically been dating this entire time.”

Harper shakes her head. “Your definition of dating must be very different from mine.”

“Sleepovers, movie nights, coffee dates, constant texting,” he lists, counting them off on his fingers. “That doesn’t sound like dating to you?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? What’s not fair is you not even giving me a chance when you know I��m right!”

“You knew that’s all this was!” Harper exclaims, her heartbeat racing. “You agreed to that before any of this started, Anthony.”

Anthony bristles, his jaw clenching. His breath quickens and anger bubbles in the pit of his stomach—he can hear the resistance in her voice. Why won’t she admit she feels the same? He knows she does.

But if she isn’t going to, or doesn’t want to, then there’s no use in trying. And he can’t keep falling harder for her—not if she isn’t going to reciprocate.

“Then maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.”

Something flashes in Harper’s eyes, so fast he barely catches it before it’s gone and replaced by cold. Her back stiffens and she draws herself up taller. “Maybe we should.”

The silence in the room is heavy and uncomfortable. Anthony and Harper stare at each other, unspoken words swirling in the air between them. There’s so much left to say, so many things left unsaid, but Anthony’s head is too clouded with defeat and frustration.

So, he shrugs, bids an uncomfortable goodbye, and takes his leave of her apartment. Harper stands in silence, wondering how, after all the care she took to protect herself after Joey, she feels the same ache in her heart as the day he’d left.

———

The next day, Harper has a songwriting session with Zoey, who, fortunately for her, comes prepared with three half-written songs. They’re easier, take a little less brain power, and she’s grateful for a friend who came prepared. Waking up was easy, but remembering her and Anthony’s fight had been tough.

Those three songs turn into a warmup, and three hours later, Harper emerges from a songwriting haze, almost half an album deep. There’s work to do, but she’s pleased with what they came up with, her mind already swimming with other ideas that she’s sure she’ll be recording half-completed voice memos with for the rest of the night.

She stays to chat with Zoey for a little while, catching up on the latest in each other’s lives and making plans for coffee soon. Harper packs up her things, murmuring a goodbye with her head swimming.

“Who is he?”

Zoey’s voice comes from behind her, and Harper pauses, her keys jingling in her hand. She turns. “Who is who?”

“The guy in those songs.”

“What are you talking about? Zo, it was Joey,” she says.

“Not all of it. There’s someone else in there.”

Anthony’s eyes float through her mind, and although she can lie to Zoey, she can’t lie to herself.

Harper flies home, rushing up the elevator and pounding on Anthony’s door. She stands impatiently, heart thumping in her chest, listening for the familiar sound of his feet on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

The sound doesn’t come, though, and Harper waits by the door until a building manager comes by and informs her that the resident of unit 1293 turned in his keys earlier that day. Vaguely aware of offering a short ‘thank you’, Harper returns to her own apartment in shock.

Anthony is gone.

And she’s only just realized that she’s in love with him.

Twenty four hours later, she’s on a plane. Her heart beats in her throat as she watches it touchdown. Bienvenue a Montreal flashes on the screen outside the jet bridge. Harper finds the address she bribed Filip for in her phone, pulling up her Lyft app.

Once she’s in the vehicle, she blows out a breath and loses herself in thought. The Montreal skyline comes into view outside the window, and she’s instantly surrounded by everything Anthony. The trees, the buildings, the streets—she wonders how many of them he’s seen, been to. She thinks about going to those places with him.

When the red Nissan pulls up to the house, Harper thanks her driver and steps out. Her hands shake, but she pushes through, clutching the handle of her small duffle bag until she’s knocking at the door.

Anthony’s face is nothing but shock when he opens the door. “Harper?”

“Anthony,” she says, breathless. She’s frozen in place, staring at him, like she forgot what she came there for. His eyes, she notices, are the same shade of cool, cornflowery blue as that day he’d left. It makes her heart ache.

“What are you doing here?” His words pull her out of her thoughts and she briefly wonders how long she’d been staring at him in silence.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you leave like that. After everything we—I just couldn’t.”

He sighs, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. “You made it clear how you feel, Harper. You didn’t need to come all this way to say it again.”

“No, Anthony,” she says, watching his expression shift when she says it. “I was wrong. I was scared. I am scared.”

“Of what?”

Harper shifts on her feet, the lump in her throat tightening. Anthony’s gaze is firm and unwavering. “Of getting hurt again. Of Joey happening all over again. Of you leaving.”

It clicks for him, then, the worry in her eyes. “I’m not Joey, Harper. I think you know that. I can’t promise that everything will be perfect always, but I’m willing to give it my best shot because I think you’re worth it.”

“What if you decide I’m not worth it anymore?”

Anthony takes her hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “Harper, you are kind, funny, smart, talented, and beautiful. Anyone who doesn't see that isn’t worth your time anymore. Myself included.”

She doesn’t reply. It’s almost overwhelming, the things he says to her; she sees kind things about her written in articles and posted online, but it sounds entirely different coming from his mouth. He continues, “That’s what I was trying to tell you the other day. You are worth it. And I’d like to prove it to you, if you let me.”

Their eyes meet, bodies unconsciously floating together. Anthony stays quiet, gauging her face for a reaction. The fear is still there, looming over her in a silent and constant threat, but blue eyes pierce through the veil and she focuses hard on them to push the rest away.

Then, she smiles. “Kiss me, you idiot.”

#anthony beauvillier fic #anthony beauvillier x oc #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine

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stupot · 2 years ago

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everyone has that one moment in a pokemon playthrough that is the funniest shit in the world mine is a recent platinum playthrough i was streaming to my partner when i encountered mesprit and i said “watch this” and chucked 1 heal ball at it on full health knowing full well it would break out. and then it caught. comedy gold

#pokemon #a heal ball has the exact same catch modifier as a pokeball #which is to say it is a normal pokeball but pink #and this was the first ball i threw #still not over it

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whorecrux-of-slytherin · 9 months ago

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Draco Malfoy x y/n (Slytherin Reader) one shot

SUMMARY: Draco relentlessly flirts with y/n even if it annoys her.

WARNING: none other than the fact that this is not proof read.

It was late afternoon after lunch break and Y/n was noting down points on a piece of parchment while professor Prof.Binns went on droning about the 'Medieval Assembly of European Wizards'. Most students find History of Magic to be exasperating but it's mostly because of Prof.Binn's teaching techniques.

Regardless of how boring it may seem, y/n makes it a point to give her 100% in class. She was concentrating so sincerely that she failed to notice a certain platinum haired boy glancing her way every few minutes. As the class went on, Prof. Binns decided to halt the lecture to let the students read and review the material before proceeding further . As she continued to read through her textbook, a charmed paper swan flew over her head and landed right on the page she was reading. She looked up and around to see who levitated it towards her and saw the group of infamous Slytherins laughing- Malfoy, Zabini, Parkinson , Nott, Crabbe and Goyle. She immediately knew it was their doing. Draco was waiting for her to look in his direction and now that she did he winked at her and shouted across the class " go on darling, read it" ; only for his friends to howl and make funny noises. Y/n got irritated so she rolled her eyes at him and grabbed the paper swan to crush it into a paper ball and chuck it at him. Soon the class ended but only after Prof.Binns had given them an essay as homework.

Y/n slung her bag on her shoulder and carried her extra books with her arms & exited the classroom to head to the courtyard since it was her last lecture of the day. Draco immediately followed her out of the class to catch up and annoy her. "Uff, that looks heavy; lemme carry them for you sweetheart" he tries to snatch the books in her arms. Y/n gets irritated " Don't you have somebody else to bother Malfoy?". "Actually, I do but you're far more interesting and also pretty cute to look at" he replies with a grin and tries to snatch her books again. This time y/n stops in her tracks and pulls Draco down by his tie to look into his eyes "Back off Draco". This makes him grin wider and he lets out a whistle while looking her up and down " ooh... feisty". Y/n blushes at the action and immediately releases his tie and walks away while Draco just stands there grinning like a fool in satisfaction.

Later that night y/n entered back in the Slytherin common room after having finished with her dinner and decided to sit on one of the couches near the fireplace. She was reading a magazine that she found on one of the coffee tables when she felt the couch sink beside her and an arm around the back of the sofa where she sat. She immediately recognised who it was just by the smell of expensive cologne. " What do you want now Malfoy?" she said without looking up from the page. "What? Can I not just spend some time trying to make acquaintances with fellow house mates?" he mockingly replied. Y/n decided to ignore him altogether and Draco got the hint but he wasn't satisfied with the interaction just yet, so he started to play with her hair. This made y/n's blood boil and she swatted his hand away and he let out a chortle. "You have nice hair" he said. "Oh why thank you Mr.Malfoy. It's an honour to get complimented by the ferret boy with slimey hair" she replied with a sarcastic smile. Draco pulled a face at this but laughed it off. Y/n shut the magazine and stood up and walked towards the stairs leading to the girl's dormitories when she heard "Goodnight darling!". She turned the corner as she secretly smiled at his antics and yelled back "Goodnight ferret boy!"

..........................................................................................

Thanks for reading! 🤍

Sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors, this is not proof read 😅

Do like, share and comment your thoughts down below 🤔💭

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cuprohastes · 4 months ago

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Interplanetary Showdown

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

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

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

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

But there were the Inter-species games.

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

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

And then there was the fucking Human.

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

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

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

Plant fibre cloth!

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

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

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

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

So yes. Stressful.

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

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

Boswigd could have cried.

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

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

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

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

A perfect 12.

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

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

But no!

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

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

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

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

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

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

#HASO #Humans are weird #Competition #Alien #story #humans are weird

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landon-presley · 8 months ago

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

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thesixenthusiast · 2 years ago

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ruby – eddie roundtree

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

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

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

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

–

THE RISE OF THE SIX (1966-1972)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#eddie roundtree #eddie roundtree fanfiction #eddie roundtree x reader #eddie loving #eddie loving x reader #daisy jones and the six #daisy jones fanfic #daisy jones and the six fanfiction #daisy jones and the six fanfic #daisy jones x reader #warren rhodes #warren rojas x reader #warren rhodes x reader #graham dunne #billy dunne #camila dunne #eddie roundtree x oc #daisy jones #eddie roundtree smut

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t-allyitup · 4 months ago

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

some notes:

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

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

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

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

#ed edd n eddy #eene fanart #eene jonny #eene nazz #eene sarah #eene jimmy #cul de sac kids #re-design/au design not my characters tho #idk. i'm tired. hope this is cool

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thatbanditqueen · 1 year ago

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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.

Keep reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, she learned from the best.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ida!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi Charlie. What’s up?”

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

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

“Hiiiii? What’s up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok.” She whispered out.

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

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

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

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

“Hello to you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought Jerry was picking you up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he dropped it an octave yelling forcefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, boys, dismissed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Becky steadied herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Honey, I don’t need a shower.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think they’re clean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’d be fine, you always are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guesss sooooooo.” Elvis yawned back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Becky arched her eye. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ever been Asheville, ha, honey?”

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

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

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

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

“Ha.”

“Comin’ to Memphis after the tour?”

“Elvis - I -”

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

“I will hate it.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

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

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

“Nah, I won’t.”

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

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morerandombullshit · 5 months ago

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

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

(Ao3 version here)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—0—0—0—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he isn’t so bad after all…

—0—0—0—

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

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

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

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

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

“But you could have…study sessions.”

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

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

But you could have…study sessions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#the bad batch #college au #tech x reader #tooth rotting fluff #romantic fluff #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa #ashs bullshit

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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Jade, Riddle: Days that we Treasure

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

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

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

A Tale as Old as Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#twisted wonderland #twst #Jade Leech #Riddle Rosehearts #twst imagines #disney twisted wonderland #something no one asked for #spoilers #twst scenarios #Jade birthday takeover #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios

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jadeazora · 1 year ago

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

A more detailed list of their crimes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year ago

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Chapter Twenty-Six

Masterlist of Series

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

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

Chapter Warnings: Tooth rooting fluff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What have you done?"

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

"You'll know soon enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And I know the kindest thing..."

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was not my doing. My Father-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

You were with your family, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what of Father-"

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

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

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

Masterlist of Series

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

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