#austin butler the man you are

[fqntasies]

Prize - Feyd Rautha x Reader

Summary: The Na-Baron is set to fight in the arena once more; yet his opponent's reveal is a shock to you and perhaps the other Harkonnen as well. Upon his impending victory, your husband claims you as his prize, ravenous, of course.

Disclaimer: connected to my other fics of feyd. I dont write my stories as chapters, but rather time-jumps to various moments in the reader & feyd's story (considering that I write you both as connected through dreams since childhood, betrothed, etc.)

Word Count: 1,988

This was to be the second fight you would witness of the Na-Baron's, a momentous celebratory event that filled arena's and sparked a sense of frenzy among the inhabitants of Giedi Prime. The first you had witnessed took place just months before your wedding ceremony; in part a testimony of the Na-Baron's prowess and strength, a claim perhaps to your hand, if you were to view it as such. The spectacle had left you breathless then, and you were certain this time such a reaction would be warranted as well. If nothing else, the racing of your heart and the thunderous chorus of the crowds stood attest to it. They were like beasts among the stands, delirious for their prince, and loyal to their homeworld above all else, chants in the air.

This particular occasion already felt separate. Opponents were typically drugged enemy houses or military prisoners let loose in the triangular space, as was custom. But not today. You had seen odd glances among the servants, and even whispers from other members of the Harkonnen house along passing corridors. Something had been changed in the lineup. But what? Had a prisoner been injured? Escaped before the fight? When you look to your handmaidens, they give nothing away but reassuring nods, pale skulls angling towards where the battle will commence after but a moment.

You could not deduce; instead aware of the light breeze that clips at the base of your neck, and the blinding light that reigns above. It casts sharp shadows over your party, jutting from the edge of the alcove's decorative ceiling.

You stand from your seat to walk the few paces to the edge of the balcony, the dark silk of your gown sliding across your thighs like rivets of water. It is just a few paces, but you feel as though you have stepped into a new world as the sun lathes you in it's blanket of heat. You press your palms against the stone that greets you, and eyes turn down, fixed at the doors to the far north of the arena. The ring on your finger sparkles brilliantly in the day, and for a moment, the roars around you are deafening.

Then, silence... and there he is.

You see that pale visage stark against the darkness behind him, hands gripping twin blades, and you are rapt with attention. Feyd's shoulders heave with his heavy breaths, armor only enhancing his form. You knew if you were to stand up close, his eyes would be endless black pools, ravenous for the blood that was to spill before him, striking against the milky softness of his skin. He was his own animal. Foreignly alien, and yet yours all the same. Husband.

You blush as his eyes find yours abruptly, and he stalks from the entryway, steps bringing him towards you in the sand, even as he is leagues below. Your mind drifts to just hours before, where the Na-Baron had caged you among ebony blankets in your shared chambers, leaving no escape from the broadness of him in the cool of the morning. Ghosts of his tongue and mouth have you heaving a breath; licking your lips as though parched. You knew you would dream of him again tonight, even as his arms would trap you like a vice in the safety of sleep. It thrilled and frightened you alike.

Feyd lifts his blade in oath above his head, like a promise to the heavens, and you nod in reply as that sharp edge glints in the light. This blood he spills for you. Always for you. As he would for any who dared to come between.

When he turns, he rolls his shoulders languidly with a tilt of his head. Ready to strike. And you shift to look towards the very same gates he had come through moments ago. That's when you pause - a breath catching in surprise.

The harpies - you were sure of it; their angled forms were roped about each other, a strangling mess of light limbs as they were dragged by burly guards towards the center of the sands. An offering before their dark prince. Proposed like some strange kind of sacrificial lamb.

Suddenly you knew - this was what had made everyone so surprised.

Feyd has turned again, his face now determined, set. You can see it in the sharpness of his jaw, like he vibrates with a new kind of rage. It's his declaration of his love. He will destroy the things that sought to destroy them and their bond; greedy creatures who cared not for the destiny set before their master. Only seeking flesh and carnal sustenance.

At one point, members of the Harkonnen house had thought to leash the Na-Baron with the harpy creatures; perhaps thinking such temptations could control him, avenues orchestrated by the Baron himself, or Rabban, though you assumed the former. But they had failed to see the lengths to which Feyd was devoted to you, had never known the dreams you both had shared since before your very meeting.

This was what he offered to you. Power and promise. Heady in the air, and ripe with opportunity.

---

When they were lifeless upon the sands, you meet your husband's gaze again. There is red painting his body like stars in the milkyway; and a gash covers his chest where one of the harpies had caught him in her claws. He sways a bit, almost drunkenly; and a bloodied grin paints handsome features as he picks up a pace towards you, black cloak carrying behind him like a billowing shadow. You know where he is headed, as his form disappears beneath. It sets your heart to a stampede, goosebumps prickling along the flesh of your arms, and you are swift to dart from the cover of your ladies.

He hunts you, a hulking form somewhere below, closer and closer.

You envision the Na-Baron stalking through the main doors as you flit between sunlight and shadows, a rasp low in his chest as he parts his lips to taste the air, bloodlust and craving. A needy hunger. It makes your legs feel unstable as you blindly chase between archways, imagining the ghost of your prince behind you at your neck. Would he grab you, you wonder...? Would such hands that had slaughtered moments ago trap you now? The horror. The wonder. Your fingers grasp fistfuls of your gown, bare feet pressing against the cool of the marble under your padded steps.

You huddle swiftly behind a wall to catch your breath, angling your jaw to listen as you puff air in and out of your lungs.

"I know your here, princess."

You startle in silence, running cold - gosh - that voice. It was a weak point for you, Feyd had learned swiftly (as had you). A dangerous piece of knowledge, used more often than not as a way to keep you in your shared bed, wanton and delirious as he sought you out. You knew he carried a dare in his words now. Try to run, little rabbit. Try and see.

You want him to catch you, you think. Though perhaps not yet. Your mind fights for what to do - envisions him around you, and you battle the fog of your machinations in a fleeting moment - dashing towards a new hall at the opposite side of the room.

His laugh is low and drawn out as you fly from him, turning into a growl. You are nearly through a new door when he has you - twisting your fighting form and pulling you with him into the unfamiliar space, strong fingers gripping at your waist.

Then he is claiming your mouth with his, pulling you down with him and into his lap, arms trapping you like you were meant to be there - precisely so - all tongue and taste; the two of you stumbling against a wall. You moan - preen against him, fitting to his hold like a puzzle piece that was perfectly matched.

The slide of his tongue on yours is wet and heavy - and in the haze of kisses you see his eyes heavy lidded, watching, following a growl and the nip of his black teeth. It has you sighing again, mewling like some wanton thing, and the silk of your skirts are gripped in his hand at your hip, which cranes to push you against him. The other angles your neck, tipping your mouth deeper into his, and you think for a moment there is no where else you could go. No where quite like this where you belong so completely. His touch is so warm, and broad - iron too, you are aware that even if you attempted a form of escape, he would have you again in an instant.

"- My prince."

His eyes flash at your breathy words. You two had danced this game before - pretending it was your first meeting, feigning some kind of unaware strangers scenario, though you were both well aware of the visions that plagued each other's sleep for years.

He couldn't ignore the calling of your soul even if he tried.

"My lady." He sounds debauched as he cranes to attach a hot mouth to the spot below your ear, and you arch further into him, brows knitting together at the sensation; fighting for control. You make that sound again - the gentle whine that makes his eyes nearly roll back in his skull, and he chases it with another lathe of his tongue, and a warning rumble in his chest.

Don't tempt me - he taunts.

You have half a mind to mark him the same.

"You're not leaving this time, sweet one. I still haven't even gotten your name." His words proceed a suck at your bottom lip, and you angle to taste him in the fog that covers your mind. You almost don't understand the words in your haze; but the smile you taste in his kisses brings you back, and you pull away enough to face him, lips detaching from his own with a wet gleam.

"But my lord - you know I am engaged." the rumble he makes is another warning, hips against your own as his hands hold you there.

"Then I shall cut him down like all the rest." There is a pride and a jealousy that glimmers in the Na-Baron's eyes, even in this pretend world the two of you have crafted, and it takes you a moment to snap out of your heady admiration of him, chasing after his tongue with your own as you lean back in. Heads turn this way, and that, the heat of your breaths and the wetness of your kisses filling the silence of the space you've chosen.

Feyd groans - followed by a gentle tilt of your head, and his lips are by your ear, his hand in your hair, a commanding hold - though you know he'd never hurt you.

"I quite think you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, little one?" You pant softly in response, only able to suffice a delicate nod in his embrace, overcome with your desire for him. And that's all he needs to hear, sliding his tongue against yours once more before he's hoisting you in his arms, the fabric of your dress bundling by his hold, baring the soft tenderness of your thighs. It has the muscles in his neck craning with a ragged groan, eyes trailing to meet yours with barely restrained tension. A man at his breaking point.

His swift strides have you clinging tightly to him, nose against his neck, pressed just under his ear. The wafting aroma of his cologne and the sweat and blood of the arena are filling your senses. You know he brings you to your chambers; the grip of his hands and the speed of his steps tell you as much; it makes you taste your lip between your teeth, pressing just so against him.

His prize.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Feral for Feyd

[he enjoyed the taste]

[burnthheparaphilia]

THIS GIVE ME SOME DADDY VIBES FR.

I've just came with the gaze of the first photo 🤭

[mastersoftheair]

from appletv's instagram story

[bucking-mustangs-with-wings]

It is currently 1:30am and my search for a single pic for an au has sent me down a continuous deep dive chain of austin pics for the last hour. Suffer WITH ME

[lindszeppelin]

I am no longer living.

[angelinajoulie]

lord have mercy

[missmaywemeetagain]

Happy 53rd anniversary to the most fave iconic Elvis black suit/pink scarf/no shirt look!

🔥🔥🔥

August 1st, 1969, International Hotel, Las Vegas

Literally the most gorgeous man I’ve seen in my life, right here.

[pinksiames]

God bless for the modern age cause if I was saying the shit I’m saying now I’d be put to the stake and burned alive in an instant

[coconutcordiale]

hi! congratulations on 500!!🥳✨

could i request roommates with rooster for the bingo if it hasn’t been taken already? 🤍

you taste just like sundays (dripping off my tongue)

pairing- rooster x female!reader

warnings- 18+ minors DNI, dom bradley, oral (m receiving), degradation kink, probably not a good idea to fuck your roommate if i'm being honest but live ur life, the ‘miles teller is a mean dom so let’s pretend rooster is too’ club unites at dawn (or whenever I get around to posting this)

length- 3.3k

an- thank you so much!!! i'm sorry this took so long :( and of course apologies if this is not your thing i just run away in wild directions with these prompts

500 follower celly prompts are done yay! only took me over a month 🙃

title from u taste like sundays by łaszewo. i thought it was funny because i'm immature

You’re debating the merits of Kodiak Cakes versus Eggo frozen waffles on a late-night shopping run when you hear your name coming from a familiar voice.

You try not to tense up, but the smile on your face feels like plastic when you turn around to see the blonde. “Justin, hi.”

“I can see why you didn’t want me to come in last night.”

You pause. That’s one hell of a greeting.

Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, you let the freezer door slam shut, a gush of cold air raising the hair on your arms. “What?”

He gives a pointed look towards Bradley, who wandered from you moments before Justin waltzed up, still in his uniform. “Didn’t take you for a tag chaser.”

You fight the sudden urge to roll your eyes obnoxiously.

“He’s my roommate,” you respond through gritted teeth.

At least you know for sure you made the right call to not sleep with Justin last night after your mediocre date, no matter how frustrated you’ve been lately, no matter how much he reminds you of a poor woman’s Austin Butler.

He may be pretty, but he's still a dick.

Given that you don’t actually know Austin Butler, you can only hope he’s less of a dick than this guy.

Justin scoffs, “Sure, he is.”

You didn’t mind Justin’s cocksureness when you first met him in line at your favorite coffee shop, liked it even. He paid for your iced oat milk latte, forward and confident in a way only men who always got what they wanted could be.  

When he brought up taking you to dinner, it hadn’t even been a question, not really. You were surprised at how much you didn’t hate the inevitability that existed in his suggestion, like he always knew you’d say yes.

But then, he spent the entire date talking about himself, hardly letting you get a word in edgewise, and had the audacity to get angry when you didn’t invite him into your bed. So, now, you kind of want to wring his neck, twisting until the last bit of his undeserved, obnoxious pride is depleted from his annoyingly muscled body.

“Is this the fruit you like for your smoothies?” Bradley asks, oblivious, as he ambles back up to you with a red bag boasting tropical fruit blend on the front.

When you don’t answer, too busy grinding your teeth together and imagining what it'd be like to knee this overgrown frat boy in the balls, Bradley looks up from the bag, spine straightening as he clocks the tension between you and Justin.

“Hey man,” your mustached roommate says slowly, carefully, extending a hand towards Justin. “I’m Bradley.”

Justin stares at the outstretched hand in disgust and it drops back to Bradley’s side. You finally give in to the urge to roll your eyes.

The thing is the last couple of guys you slept with were so courteous, so sweet, so nice. They were barely a cut above adequate, leaving you with an itch to scratch, discontent trembling beneath your skin.

By the time you ran into Justin, you were embarrassingly ready for someone bolder. Someone a little more confident, a little more willing to take charge.

Someone a little more like Bradley, your mind supplies.

Shut up, you shouldn’t even know that, you tell it.

Unfortunately for you and your imagination, you do, in fact, know that Bradley would likely check every box that you’re looking for. The thin walls of your shared apartment ensured that months ago.

Lies to yourself aside, two minutes into a bruschetta appetizer with Justin, you had realized he was likely only going to take charge in disappointing, selfish, and unsatisfying ways.

“Don’t waste your time with her,” Justin tells him, acid dripping from every syllable. “She’s a fucking cock tease.”

Bradley’s eyes flash in anger, the bag crinkling audibly as he takes out his ire on frozen fruit. “You sure that’s something you want to have said to me?”

You watch Justin size him up, probably noting the couple of inches your roommate has on him.

“She’s not worth this shit,” he spits before turning on his heel to stalk out of the aisle.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight for a moment when he leaves, ignoring Bradley’s eyes on you. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Bradley nods tersely, silently following you to the checkout line, waffles forgotten.

+

“That’s the guy you had over last night?” Bradley asks finally when you two make it back home and are busy putting things away, disdain ringing clear through the apartment.

“No, I didn’t let him come up,” you snap, knowing it comes out a little harsher than your roommate deserves. “He called me a cock tease, remember? Because apparently letting him buy me dinner means I’m supposed to put out.”

He puts his hands up in defense. “Sorry.”

The silence stretches out awkwardly between you, the refrigerator humming as you try to focus all your attention on the absurd number of cereal boxes in the pantry.

“It just sounded like you were having a good time when I got home last night,” he mumbles.

You freeze, wondering if it’s possible to will a blush back down your body. How did you not hear him come in last night?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rooster,” you manage a flippant tone you don’t feel at all, continuing to move things around the cupboard haphazardly.

“Didn’t mean to overstep,” he says innocently, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter across from you in your tiny galley kitchen. “I’m not judging, more impressed, didn’t know you were such a player. Going out with one guy, calling another over after.”

“I didn’t,” you defend without thinking, and you immediately want to slap your hand over your mouth.

You can feel the heat of his body at your back now, and silently will your hands to stay steady as you organize cereal boxes.

The man is such a slut for Shredded Wheat. He’s probably the only person keeping them in business at this point.

You wish you didn’t find his penchant for shitty cereal as endearing as you do.

“Oh?” He says, but there’s a shift in his tone, voice at least a couple of octaves lower now. “So, you didn’t booty-call some guy named Bradley after you kicked blondie to the curb?”

Your mouth drops open in shock. What a little shit.

You exhale shakily, knowing there’s no way you can fight the pink rising to your cheeks now. “I don’t know what you thought you heard—”

“Don’t be like that, princess,” he rumbles in your ear, sending chills all the way down your spine. “Next you’re gonna tell me it was just a dream.”

You bite your lip. How could he possibly know that was the excuse you were going to try?

He chuckles, something wicked lighting up his coffee-colored eyes as he turns you around and backs you against the counter, pulling boxes out of your hands and tossing them in the pantry without looking. “Fine, I’ll bite. What did you dream about?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” you whisper, refusing to meet his eyes.

Unfortunately for your dwindling self-control, this puts your gaze right at his chest where his flight suit is partially unzipped, tan skin glowing against his black undershirt.

It’s clear he’s taunting you now. “That so? Have those dreams about me a lot?”

You furrow your brows. It’s hard to think with him this close, the spice of his aftershave muddling your senses. “That’s…not what I meant.”

“I have those ‘dreams’ about you too. Never knew you felt the same, or I might’ve said something before.”

You’re torn between elbowing him in the ribs for his obvious air quotes and dropping to your knees at the sheer dominance he’s exuding that threatens to choke you in this tiny kitchen.

Bradley must sense your hesitation because his fingers begin rubbing soothing circles at the pulse points on your wrists.

“I could tell you what I did after I heard your gorgeous voice moaning my name,” he offers, gently, softer than you expect, given he’s spent the last five minutes barely holding back his amusement.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

He trails a hand up your side, leaving goosebumps underneath the thin material of your t-shirt. “Was hard as a fucking rock, baby, you sounded so beautiful. Came in my fist thinking about how wet you must’ve been dreaming about me.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” you admit, still quiet.

He smirks at that. “I know.”

Glaring at him, there’s an accusation lacing your words. “You also knew I didn’t sleep with him last night.”

You want to smack the smug look right off his rosy cheeks when he agrees, “He doesn’t look like a Bradley.”

You don’t, though, eyes drifting to where your hands are trapped against the counter, Bradley’s weight pinning you still.

“I know what you need,” he murmurs, voice like caramel in your ears.

“And what’s that?” You fire back with a strength you don’t feel, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control over this situation that’s rapidly spiraling.

Bradley is unphased by your attitude. “I think you know, otherwise you’d have invited him up here.”

You remain defiantly silent, hoping your expression remains blank. His mouth twitches upwards as he sees right through you.

“Why didn’t you let him come up, baby?”

You avert your eyes, uncomfortable under his intense gaze because directed at you, you’ve never seen his eyes quite like this.

Bradley isn’t exactly known for being even-keeled, his temper often flaring as he lets people get under his skin. But he’s never been like that with you, never stared at you with anything but puppy dog brown eyes.

Until now.

Now, there’s a fire lighting them up. A fire you always assumed was reserved for flying multi-million-dollar airplanes or arguing with Jake Seresin.

Despite that, his voice is eerily calm when he hooks a finger under your chin, forcing your attention upwards. “Answer me, princess.”

“Knew he couldn’t give me what you can.”

Pink lips quirk up fully at that. “And how would you know that? Heard me before?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks in answer, and you find yourself fighting the urge to duck your head again.

“Did that make you jealous, baby?”

You let out a small breath and gather the last of your courage. “A little. Mostly just made me wet.”

Bradley unleashes a dry chuckle that has you running hot and cold with embarrassment before he speaks again, low and gravelly.

“Better than me. Makes me fucking angry,” he grumbles in your ear. “The thought of that idiot’s hands on you.”

It’s finally your turn to smirk, although it feels a little weak in the face of his intensity. “It’s a good thing I’ve always kept my dates away when you were home then, huh?”

Bradley’s mouth presses together in a hard line, expression turning to stone. You know you shouldn’t be proud of the way his grip tightens on your wrists, the way his nostrils flare in irritation. You take advantage of his momentary lapse to switch your positions, pressing him back against the counter.

You want nothing more than to get your mouth on him and drive every memory of other girls from his mind. You weren’t lying when you said you weren’t jealous at the time, but you can’t help the competitive part of you that wants him to know he won’t find anyone else like you.

Before you can, he grabs you by the elbows, pulling you to him for a filthy kiss. Your first kiss.

Huh.

You want to laugh, suddenly, that you were ready to have your mouth well acquainted with his cock before you even got to kiss him.

Bradley sucks in a sharp breath once you break away from his lips, eyes pools of black as he notices you trying to move to the floor. “Gonna get on your knees and take care of me?”

“Well, I have to make sure you forget those girls somehow,” you tease, sliding your hands across his abs as you shift downwards.

“If I had thought for a second I could have you instead they never would’ve made it past the front door.”

You roll your eyes at him for patronizing you but busy yourself tugging down the zipper of his flight suit instead of saying something that’ll get you in trouble.

Mouthing at his hardening cock over his boxer briefs, your fingers toy with his waistband but don’t pull them down. You’re fighting back a giggle, giddy and feeling pretty proud of yourself as you listen to his breath catch, as you see his hands grip the counter behind him.

When he opens his mouth there might as well be ice in his breath, a warning in his tone that sends shivers straight to your core. “Don’t tease me, baby, you’ll regret it.”

You acquiesce, pressing your lips together to hold in a smile, thinking it’ll go unnoticed but Bradley’s eyes flare anyways.

“Was gonna be sweet to you,” he drawls. “But I don’t think that’s what you want. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be trying to rile me up.”

Your eyes are stuck on where he strains against his black briefs, words becoming harder and harder to form the longer you perch on the tile floor.

He runs a strong finger across your jaw and you swallow hard in anticipation. “Harder to tell me than it is to push and try my patience, isn’t it?”

All you can manage is a tiny nod.

“Answer me,” Bradley says again, but this time the words are harsh, steel bracing his tone. "Use your words, princess."

You bite your lip, trying not to moan at the hand he’s busy tangling in your hair. He notices, because of course he does, and tugs, pulling the words from you.

“No, sweet is not what I want,” you whisper, blinking up at him slowly.

He grins at that, and you shudder at how mean, how mischievous that expression looks.

Bradley grabs your hands, placing them on his thighs. “Pinch here if it’s too much. If any of it’s too much.”

You raise your eyebrows at him but nod again, more confident this time, licking your lips eagerly.

The bastard laughs. You’re a little sheepish at the way the sound makes you clench around nothing.

“Should’ve known you’d be desperate for a cock in your throat.”

You try not to shift too obviously at his words, unable to stay still as you ignore your own need.

He pulls himself out and your eyes widen at the sight. Your first thought is how sore your jaw is going to be tomorrow.

Your second is that you do not care one bit as long as you get your mouth on him immediately.

Unmoved by the impatience playing itself out across your forehead, Bradley’s other hand goes back to your chin, thumb roughly pushing in to pry your lips apart. You hollow your cheeks around his finger, fluttering your lashes and making a show of it, pride swelling in your chest when he groans.

Your mind has all but turned off as his thumb retreats so he can replace it with his cock, and your tongue darts out to lick his slit, following down to drag across the vein on the underside.

The hitch in his breath almost makes you regret your hands frozen in place on his muscular thighs, lamenting letting him take the lead completely, fire burning deep within you to take him apart with your mouth.

There’s always next time.

Next time, you think wildly, hoping to whatever higher power there’s an unlimited number of next times that’ll make permanently altering your friendship worth it.

Meeting his eyes, they’re darker than you’ve ever seen them, and you can’t help the muffled whimper that leaves you as you feel him sliding deeper, relaxing your jaw as best as you can as he builds a steady rhythm.

It’s probably better like this anyways; lips stretched around his thick length, spit pooling messily at the corners of your mouth, tears forming as he presses himself in, in, in, choking you.

It’s got to be better like this; on your knees, Bradley’s fingers tangled in your hair, your panties ruined where slick pools between your thighs, each thrust driving every remaining thought from your head.

It’s definitely better like this; Bradley fucking your mouth with abandon and making you take it, watching the sinful curl of his lips through blurry, glassy eyes, the struggle to breathe settling something that’s been aching in the back of your brain for months now.

“Not gonna last very long,” he warns, hand drifting down to the front of your neck, hips stuttering ever so slightly when he feels the bulge of his cock there.

That’s hot as fuck, you think hazily amidst the fuzz inside your head. Whether it’s the fact that he can see himself in your throat, the lack of oxygen going to your head, or him being on the edge so quickly - you don’t know.

You don’t care. Nothing exists beyond the weight of his cock on your tongue, his rough thrusts in and out making your clit beg for attention.

“The way you look right now—fuck, you were made to be on your knees with my cock in that pretty mouth, weren’t you, baby?”

It should be demeaning, but all it does is make you press your thighs together to quell the heat lighting itself through you, searching for some sort of relief.

Bradley shifts back until the tip is left in, only the distressed whine you let out keeping him from pulling out completely. You push back down, as much as you can with him still holding on tight.

His jaw slackens in surprise, a groan rumbling from his chest. “Greedy little slut, aren’t you? Gonna take all of me, want my cum down your throat?”

All you can manage is a pathetic mewl in response, eyes desperate and pleading.

Rhythm faltering, he pumps into your mouth just a few more times before cumming with a shudder. Your hands flex against the green material beneath them as you swallow around him, salt on your tongue.

“You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, a fucking wet dream,” Bradley pants after he’s ridden out his high, pulling you up from the floor and against his chest.

In a show of brute strength, he hooks his arms under your legs and carries you swiftly across the short distance to your room, laying you down on your soft baby blue comforter. You’re so taken aback that you don’t even think to complain about him wearing his gross flight suit in your bed.

His chest is still rising and falling rapidly as he arranges you next to him and frustratingly does not touch anywhere that Jesus wouldn’t approve of, instead massaging your sore knees with affectionate, gentle sweeps of his fingers.

You’re trying not to rub your thighs together too obviously, trying to give him time to recover without letting the need thrumming through you take over.

Bradley drops a kiss on your forehead and rolls over to the other side of the bed. “Alright, baby, goodnight.”

Your jaw, even sore as it is already, drops in surprise, outrage plain as day on your face as you grab his shoulder in protest. When you roll him back over to you, he’s shaking with silent laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Bradley coos, condescension filling the air between you as he presses you back onto the pillows, thumbs moving to smooth out the angry lines on your face. “Hope you slept in this morning, it’s gonna be a long night.”

[seredelgi]

Elvis Presley performing “Wooden Heart” in “G.I. Blues” (1960)

Not me being jealous of a puppet.

[slowsweetlove]

Find you a man who can do both.

Who walks in Birkenstocks as well as shiny heeled leather boots.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

A Whole Man is Hard to Find - chapter 13

an Elvis Presley fanfic AU

Warnings: the typical universe warnings apply for this chapter, special emphasis on dated views both held and aspersions cast, by various characters

Summary: picking up from where we left off, this particular one is a bro chapter, -as I like to call the ones sans Rosey- though perhaps the underlying homoeroticism and money talk dampens the broship a bit ;)

Love note from a nutty author: thank y’all so much for all the feedback, love, screaming and prompts, it means the world to me that we’ve gotten as far as we have with this story and I cannot wait to continue on, sharing it with y’all has been such a bright spot of my year. Here’s to hoping this chapter isn’t too boring or grammatically offensive. Apologies to Steve Binder for me always making him a twink, it’s a cross some have to bear

“Captain Presley!” Calhoun’s panted greeting and the boy’s flailing limbs collided with Elvis the minute he stepped on deck, “I was trying t’stay awake last night t’tell ya but I fell asleep and then Mr Schilling wouldn’t tell m’where ya where when I done woke up this’mornin an’ I was tryin to find Miss Beaumont, -and he weren’t no help with that either, and just had to find ya…“

“Breathe my boy, try takin a breath, that it!” Elvis huffed good naturedly, patting his scrawny back as the kid gripped his fine clothes and babbled a mile a minute, “You found me now, and I’ll listen but ya gotta hold it for a lil longer, got a real powerful man comin aboard any second now.”

Cal bit his lip in frustration with the one front tooth left him, “But I gotta tell ya what I saw-“

“-And I wanna hear it, more than anythin’, but in a minute.” Elvis insisted with firm gentleness, spinning the boy around and tucking him under his arm as he walked them both towards the head of the gang plank. “Jerrah!“ he greeted his friend who looked like he was about to be sick by the sight of the approaching dandified official, “Who ya watchin? Oh why, if it ain’t the cute lil fucker with the crush on me.” he mimed surprise at the sight of the approaching visitor just for the satisfaction of seeing Jerry Schilling turn a shade greener, “Mr Bundle, wasn’t it?”

“Binder -as you know damn well.” Jerry seethed, “And if we aren’t all locked up for your obscenity by breakfast then it’ll be due to the intervention of a loving god.”

“Goodnessme.” Elvis clucked his tongue, “Mind yourself in front of the boy.”

“I should be telling you that.” Jerry shot back. “Only the pleasure of delivering a fate that’s real painful for both of us would give that man the energy and bravery to show his face after last night.”

“Since you’re so peckish, why don’t ya take Cal down below, allow me to handle this.”

“I don’t trust ya to handle that fancy man in any way shape or form that would be beneficial.” Jerry belligerently stuck a cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, “I had to tuck him into a carriage like a helpless child he was so wobbly after you were finished with him. Reckon I’ll mind my post, thanks very much.”

“Goin down with boat, hmm, Jerrah?” Elvis snickered.

“Besides,” Jerry ignored him, “that fat fuck of yours is down below givin instructions to clear the boat out and won’t elaborate when he said he’d imprison me for obstructin federal orders when I told him I only take orders from you.”

“The hell?” Elvis muttered in bewilderment.

“So, you don’t know what he’s up to either? Damn him. How’s Miss Beaumont?” Jerry turned with Elvis to face their oncoming guests, calculating that brevity would force his friend to be honest.

Elvis could feel Calhoun’s hopeful, upturned face waiting for his reply. He tightened his hug on Cal’s shoulders and murmured a tersely comforting “Well enough, she’ll be at breakfast.” out the side of his mouth while turning to greet Mr Binder as that fellow gingerly stepped off the ramp and onto his polished deck.

Gray suit, gray waistcoat, blue tie. Elvis' little lesson had not gone unheeded. The pretty official’s eyes were near azure with the new touch of dyed silk.

“My dear Mr. Binder!” Captain Presley greeted with obnoxious familiarity, “This is an unexpected treat!”

Binder looked at the hand offered in a handshake like it might bite him before thrusting forth his pallid one and squeezing the Captain’s hand so tightly the rings bit into his fingers and bruised. It made Elvis grin wider.

“To what do we owe this visit?” Elvis queried, taking stock of the multiple federal soldiers arranged behind Binder like personal Pretorians, stiff and ready to guard the government’s dutiful clerk from a second defilement. “Ya here for business or pleasure?”

Mr. Binder’s hitherto stoic face flushed crimson as the Captain’s rankling pleasantries angered him enough he found his tongue, “Business, Captain P-Presley, b-business -of course, what else.”

“Oh I dunno, didn’t wanna presume,” Elvis raised two placating hands in surrender, causing his bracelet round his wrist to jangle against his time piece, “gotta whole lotta ‘else’ aboard.”

“I-I’m here to tell you, Captain Presley,” Binder’s tone grew firmer after managing to at last say his name without a stutter, “that the government has requisitioned your boat -for a brief period, not long, just a brief period to transport troops upriver to the territories.”

“And it just had to be my boat?” Elvis glowered, his amusement fast fading.

“Yes, yes your boat is required and, and your skill recommends you as perfect for the handling of…handling of -your skills as a captain I mean, of course! -handling of men…troops, government property.” he brought his clutched order up to his face and examined the paper frantically before quoting: “-Captaining government assets up the treacherous waterway to St Paul.”

He rallied at the end after consulting his orders, managing to find a vocabulary that did not provoke double entendres, lowering the paper and looking at the Captain with federal expectancy.

Elvis mourned Binder’s success only briefly before allowing himself to absorb the reality of a trip up north under government orders, all protest against it resulting in a even worse demand. Or prison. Jerry gave a snicker beside him at their ill luck, the self inflicted karma of Elvis’ fucking with this dainty fellow.

“I am ever at my country’s service, Mr Binder.” Captain Presley replied with grave decorum before remembering the importance of keeping so easily flummoxed an ally on his side, “-and at yours.” he added in a tone he had not heard himself use in a coons age.

His tongue felt sour from how easy it had been to slip back into it, even sober. How effective it yet remained on the man before him who’s professional reply died on his lips with that personal addition.

Mr Binder’s betraying flush lasted one single, damning moment before a genuine scowl of derision replaced the fawnish wince of before. Mr. Schilling feared this had gone too far at last, a death blow was about to be struck to his incorrigible friend’s long streak of bridge burning immunity. Jerry often wondered if Elvis perhaps wanted to burn the whole operation to the riverbed floor, so as to be done with the carnival shit. Handing that job to someone else would make him blameless. No one was better positioned than Mr Binder to damn them so expertly.

“And I came to aid you, Captain.” Mr. Binder continued with admirable indifference to his momentary slip.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’ve a question for you.” Mr. Binder nodded, looking once at Mr. Schilling and then the boy Calhoun who was watching these proceedings with fascinated bewilderment.

“Ah now, I’ve never known a question that was helpful, Mr. Bi-“

“Don’t.” Jerry begged, slapping Elvis’ hand from its intended journey to Binder’s flinching shoulder. “Just don’t, for once in your life.”

“I’ve been sent by President Grant’s Administration to clean up the laws and commerce of the Mississippi River, Captain Presley,” Mr. Binder stated his well worn script of the evening prior, “and you best believe I intend to do so. But I’d rather not lock up its most able captains when I think the corruption I seek is ashore. Do you understand me, sir? Or do you only speak in the lustful language of the depraved? Your…purser led me to believe you were a -deeper- sort of man.”

Mr. Schilling’s cough was grating and deafening enough to make Cal jump in surprise. “There was mention of aid and a question, Mr Binder?” he redirected with effortless, homespun charm.

“Yes, I suppose there was.” Binder flicked his clear blue eyes over to the second mate, “Do you men not want to partner with me or do you actually enjoy slowly declining into outdated, useless finery?”

“Beg pardon?”

“What I’m trying to understand, Mr. Schilling is why after agreeing to the boat race one of you would put in an offer, tantamount to a request, to be used by the United States army, thus disqualifying you from such a race for nigh on half a month's time? Do you really hate the idea of making money so much you’d wreck your own ticket? Or am I right in judging that neither of you knew about this development until now?

Mr. Schilling and Captain Presley exchanged a look that was a non verbal communication of a resounding “told ya so” on Jerry’s part in regards to the basic command structure aboard.

“I am correct?” Binder prodded, a prim sort of authority having bloomed in him when left in peace from fiddling fingers and dancing blue eyes, “Right, then, the next question is, who actually owns this ship?

“It’s a boat, sir.” Elvis corrected gently.

More silence followed and Cal craned his neck near backwards to observe the Captain’s silent seething from the vantage point of under his jaw. It seemed to him that conversations between important men involved a great deal of glaring and not much talk. If Rosey had been there she would have taken note of the thumping vein in his neck, giving away how very much Elvis appreciated Colonel Parker wrecking his first, profitable, basic chance for autonomy.

“It was mentioned to me,” Mr. Binder went on, “-in the early morning as I had not bothered with sleep and the light was on and a fellow felt free to approach my desk- that Colonel Parker left the gala last night and departed straight away to the telegraph office, and thence to the railway office, before coming back to his lodgings aboard. Does any of this interest you, Captain Presley? I’ll repeat, who owns this boat? And why would they rather it act as a human cattle car than make a profit by submitting to a constitutionally elected committee?”

“That would be one Colonel Parker, of telegraph and railway office fame.” Jerry made a brave decision and smiled placidly, even as Elvis gave him a look that would strike most men dead. “Very fond of the old method, that one, you know, the dancing, singing, gambling, carnival style method that the railway is gonna make obsolete in a couple years.”

“I own this damn boat.” Captain Presley growled over Cal’s head and the boy felt his shoulder nearly crushed under his clenching hand.

“Not according to Mr. Moore, ya don’t, been goin through all those papers like ya asked….” Jerry kept smiling the smile of someone who enjoys a victory at all costs, and Elvis smiled the teeth-clenched smile of one who’d rather seethe than cry over a betrayal.

“How bout we take this somewhere, more private.” Elvis offered to Mr. Binder with admirable decorum for a man in such dire need of breakfast.

“Yes.” Mr. Binder was hesitant to leave the pure, open air of the deck and the federal guardians of his purity for an enclosed office and Captain Presley’s wiles, “Some discretion might not be amiss.” he conceded.

“Excellent, be so good as ta follow me, and you, Schilling,” Elvis pushed a firm hand against his mate’s chest, “will stay above with Cal and see to it that no more unloading happens until I can sort this little miscommunication out, hmm?”

“Yes, Boss.” Jerry donned his now quite common look of sullen mutiny but he took Cal under his arm nonetheless, watching with stubborn hope as the two men descended the stairs to the Captain’s practically unused office.

“What was it that you so badly wanted to tell the Captain about, boy?” Jerry asked Calhoun after a split second’s decision to make business that wasn’t his business his business. He had a strange presentiment that all business aboard would soon be everyone’s business with the way things were devolving so rapidly.

“Colonel Parker pointed a gun at me.” Cal shrugged with aggrieved pride at having been put off so long.

“Now that weren’t very patient of him.”Jerry remarked, “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do nothin!” Cal remonstrated viciously.

“What’d he do, then? -No, no you ain’t taken the piano anywhere, not nothin else is goin off here till the Captain comes back up!” Jerry broke off to yell at a few movers who were beginning to haul out the dining halls' more entertaining furniture, “Go get, move your asses back, nothin comes out till he says. Now, you were sayin, Calhoun?”

“I was goin into Miss Beaumont’s office for my lesson-“

“-that’s really Rosetta’s office, boy.”

“-yes, right, well, it’s got the safe in it, and it was empty ‘cept for the Colonel and he was busy diggin’ through it and pullin things out,” Cal explained, “and they were things I’d seen the passengers give Miss Beaumont and she done locked them up and had them slip things-“

“-deposit slips.”

“-yeah, depot slips, and he was takin the jewels out and he spooked real bad when I came in.”

“Why’d he point a gun at ya?” Jerry gnawed on his cigar placidly much to Cal’s irritation.

“He told me not to say nothin bout what I’d seen. And I asked him why not.” Cal shrugged as if this were explanation enough.

“Then what?”

“I done told ya, he pulled a gun on me!”

“Jus’ like that. You didn’t say nothin smart back or nothin?”

“Well I-“

“C’mon now, what’d you say?” Jerry fancied himself a decent detective when it came to children, the trick of it he figured, was never to outgrow one’s own childish logic.

“Well I may have told him that Miss Beaumont had killed over less.” Calhoun smiled the smile of the crooked and the besotted and Jerry offered up a prayer for him that his teeth would grow back in at a rapid pace.

“Yeah, that’ll be what done it.” Jerry leaned back against the bulkhead and looked out at the slate gray sky where it met the muddy river and imagined going northward under these conditions.

“Stick next to me or ya might get tossed over to the gators, not be the first to go that way.”

“There ain’t any gators this far north!”

“You wanna test that, boy?”

“No! No sir!”

“You done told anyone else about this?” Jerry inquired in the way of those making conversation for lack of a better pastime.

“Rosetta, rights before you hauled me up here.”

“Oh, that’s excellent.” Jerry observed, “She’ll have told most the boat but now in her righteous fury, and there won’t be no way that fucker won’t hear it somehow or other.”

“What fucker?” Cal inquired placidly.

“Elvis.” Jerry replied as if the words were synonymous.

Elvis felt himself in about as foreign a space as Mr Binder, so little used was his office and entirely stocked with his father’s materials, not his own. It was sobering, that recollection of his father’s plight and he ushered Mr. Binder into the cramped space with the gravity befitting his station. He flicked open the blinds and let the now overcast sky make a dent into the gloom and settled himself behind the desk.

“How can I help you, Mr. Binder?” he asked placidly.

Mr. Binder took time to seat himself and flick out his coattails, adjust his cravat and scan the office before folding his hands in his lap and replying with tepid politeness, “I spent a rather sleepless night last night.”

Elvis' arms tensed on the chair rests and his fingers began to stipple on the desk top uncontrollably. He himself had done a great deal of thinking about how far he’d go for a pardon, for Rosey’s pardon, and he had comforted himself that his promises and vows to God might be easily upheld if he had so antagonized Binder against him as to turn away the fellow’s desire as well. Mr Binder, to Elvis inward alarm, did not seem particularly antagonized. “I spend quite a few of those myself.” he ventured. “I like to spend them reading.”

“As do I.” Mr. Bidner smiled and it was a pleasant, sparkly sort of smile Elvis suspected only made a show when the fellow didn’t intend for it to, the thought of books had brought it out, “Usually Milton or Shakespeare, the Brontës.”

“Mm.” Elvis smiled encouragingly.

“Last night,” Mr Binder continued in this way, “ I was kept enthralled by twelve years of case files on one Elvis Aaron Presley.”

Elvis knew his face had gone white, he knew the tell tale signs of that cold cheeked response, but he kept his mouth firm, his eyes glinting, his body painfully still.

Binder went on, “I’ve had my officers taking a look into things regarding this whole operation, not just yours but the whole of it up and down the river. Shocking amount of corruption, mostly from authorities ashore I found, though of course there’s the gambling and the prostitution and the murders, all charged to various accounts -and through it all, yours was a shockingly thick stack of case notes. And then it just…ends.” he had no lilt of glee or triumph in his voice, they could have been critiquing the latest Dumas’ publication, so placid was his narrative, “Just a single line of aquittal, stamped with a Judge’s seal and every heinous crime they don’t even let people talk about gets swept under the rug and you get yourself a nice little river boat and a life -of sorts. If you call this living.” and there was the old, now familiar derision Elvis was hearing more and more in the voices of the younger set.

“So what?” Elvis asked, his voice lowly ominous as he allowed himself to swivel back and forth in the desk chair, childishly unconcerned, “You gonna arrest me now, ya pant wetting pansy?”

That barb had the intended effect, Mr. Binder’s face flushed red and what bit of dominance he had secured in the room fluttered precariously in the heat blast of Elvis’ scorn. The poor man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and undid the meticulously pressed thing with careless haste, pressing it to his sweating eyes. Elvis thought the room rather chilly. He may have commented to that affect.

“We have an opportunity here, Captain Presley,” Mr Binder rallied, but took care to address himself to the floor, and the foot of Vernon’s desk, “a very brief window of opportunity where we can pass the buck to certain officials currently being investigated and culled in preparation for President Grant’s termination and the reign of the ever so scrupulous Mr. Hayes. He’ll get the nomination, don’t even argue the point sir, he’ll get it. What that gives us, is both a tiny window in which to entirely reinvent the Mississippi River into something modern and respectable -a river upon which families and merchants may traverse without impunity- and toss the crimes, such as you yourself engaged in with bribery, back to the officials themselves, instead of the poor, innocent captain’s from whom the bribes were extracted. Do you get me?”

“You wanna keep your captains while locking up a bunch of senators and congressmen and judges?” Elvis summarized patiently.

“Yes, yes I do!”

“That’s real cute, sir.”

“Oh for God’s sake man! It’s already happening!” Binder cried through a face aflame, “Three in Arkansas and two in Mississippi last month! General Grant has taken stock of his presidency and found that it’ll be recalled as a trash fire of corruption and back room deals. He’d rather his deputies' sins not have the last word so he is cleaning house, monumentally, and it’s effecting the juries. They hear about the corruption in other states, they hear of action being taken and actual resignations occurring -they’re voting with the common people caught in the middle. It’s dismantling reconstruction faster than policies and trust me, men like your idiotic partner know their time has come. Middle men are going down to hell with their crooked beautocrats and that’s the way it should be.”

“Mr Bidner, I think you’ll find that -this dirty money you so abhor, it’s what’s made these illustrious captains you wish to save.” Elvis observed him closely, “And I’ve personal stakes here, I do gamble, I do have women aboard who make their living on the passengers, I do have a record such as would prevent me from being offered any common job -but most importantly, my father is in a Memphis jail cell, and has lingered there for months, no bail.”

“I’m sorry to hear that and-“

“Mr Binder!” Elvis insisted on being heard, “You can play the reformer all you want, but if this backfires, it’s goin to be me and my dependents gettin scorched. There’s not a single city councilor or judge in Memphis who I trust worth a damn, and I’m tellin you in confidence, I’m telling you that I’m about to send a pile of gold down to them in exchange for my father, and I’ve sent piles and piles before this to keep them happy. Now is that something you can just…write off when you accuse these men?”

“Yes.” Binder smiled and Elvis wanted to smack the man, “Yes I can, Captain, if it’s just gold that we are talking, I can. Such are the last days of the Grant Administration.”

“My darlin man,” Elvis leant forward over the desk, “you’ve no idea what you’re up against.”

“I think I do.” Mr. Binder’s pretty brows were drawn in a stern line and he too leaned forward, “All I’m asking, is that you don’t fight me on it, that you let me sort this out, that you do not come to the defense of your partner when and if he is implicated, that you warn me here and now if there is more to be found than a money trail. Is that so very hard?”

“You want me to betray a man I owe everythin, to, and then ask me to trust ya?” Elvis laughed.

“I ask you acknowledge the way of the future, sir, and I ask you to see that a man who has made a living taking homes from the impoverished, providing blackmail for politicians and who saw a skilled tart in yourself and took advantage to build this fucking carnival has been long overdo in reaping what he is about to sow.” Mr. Binder’s voice had steadily rose throughout this tirade and Elvis was surprised to find instead of shrill it became rather impressive, “And trust me, I’ve got my damn sickle out, and I’m going to harvest this operation you’ve got going here, and you can either have your pretty neck snapped for past crimes and your Purser’s neck, too, or you can aid me in this. Those are you options, sir. I don’t like threats, Captain Presley,” he sniffled briefly as he smoothed himself back into decorous moderation, “they don’t inspire loyalty. But I’ve brought a gift of sorts, a goodwill token, if you will. To show you I mean business, and that my business is not to your detriment.”

Elvis slowly extended his hand over the desktop to grasp the offered documents. In the pale, overcast light of the office window he could read that one was a telegraphed but nonetheless officially stamped and signed pardon for one Miss Savannah Beaumont of Belle Meade plantation.

He looked up at Binder, incredulous that the man had accomplished this in less than twelve hours. Testing the pansy as to whether he had any grit in him had paid off. Here was his girl’s pardon and the offer of immunity,

which, as this miracle shimmering with barely dried ink, seemed more substantive than a few moments before.

“And the other, Captain.” Mr Binder prodded.

Elvis flicked the page over and found a rather rumpled and aged one, a case report, stamped by the warden of the prison of Golddust Tennessee, stating the particulars of his arrest for crimes of lust and perversion. He’d never actually read the damn thing, had only heard the court harrang with its usual, elevated language. The document in hand read like a rather sordid novella in which his name appeared with nauseating frequency. He made it halfway down the report when he decided that was quite enough for the outdoor at hand and flicked up a inquiring eye to Mr. Binder.

“Is this one a threat or a gift?” he snarked, swallowing down the sick he felt over revisiting the trip home and the thought that here sat a man in regards to whom Jerry’s cautions would have been best heeded.

“A gift.” Binder assured, as if the damning paper was a pineapple or yo-yo, “What I am keeping behind is your pardon, less salacious for certain but a shockingly terse document with no explanation or hint of a jury. I’m sending men down to Memphis, as we speak, Captain, to go through the papers of your Partner, and for your sake I’m hoping that they find evidence to damn those judges besides that pardon. But trust me, if they don’t, it’ll do. I’ll use it. Unless, of course, you can provide me some aid.”

“I’ve said before,” Elvis made sure to smirk in that sad but winsome way that most found anything but aggravating, “I’ve assured you, Mr Bidner, I am ever at your service.”

“Right then. I’ve three things to ask.”

“Ask them.”

“Firstly, promise on whatever you hold dear that when you return from this…troop maneuver,” Mr Binder made a face at having to mention the odious interruption, “that you will sign on with the Waterways Commitre -don’t worry about your partner objecting, I intended for him to be securely out of influence by the time you make it back down to Memphis.”

“Alright.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well…swear on something!”

Elvis hesitated, thumbing at the pardon and weighing the chances of all this backfiring terribly. It seemed a better cause to die in, at least. He’d been missing something of that nature for awhile now. “I swear on my mama's grave.”

Mr. Binder took a great, steadying breath that served to make his victory rather unimpressive. Elvis clutched the miraculous pardon to assure himself that the wee fucker before him actually had some serious governmental authority. “Excellent, oh that’s very good, yes, yes alright.” Binder mopped at his eyes again and went on, “The second requirement is quite simple, it’s that you are to make no intimation to Colonel Parker of any such investigation having commenced.”

“Naturally.” Elvis agreed dryly, propping his boot on the desk and getting comfortable, grinning at the thought that Rosey would have really enjoyed being privy to this conversation.

“Parker has already stated he does not intend to make the trip north-“

“-Now hold up -how the hell did he know about this trip before me?”

“He arranged it, Captain, quite plain to see.” Binder sniffed, “I’ve the telegraph logs back home to prove it, if you wish -“

“Sweet Jesus he…” Elvis trailed off, loathe to appear any weaker before Binder by giving away just how little he knew about what went on under his very nose. They were both thinking it, he could tell by the contemplative pity in Binder’s bright blue eyes and the next requirement confirmed it:

“Mr. Moore agrees there been a great deal of uh -embezzling might be the best word for it- going on aboard, every payment you’ve made for the ship-

“-it’s a boat-“

“-has been allocated elsewhere, and is in such a tangle as to confuse anyone looking at it facevalue. You’re about to be out a great deal of money, what with unloading the prostitutes and entertainers-“

“-what now?” Elvis balked.

“The army won’t allow your gambling men, your whores or your band to remain on a government vessel -which the Proud Marie now is until you are released from this commission.”

Elvis bit his nails and wagged his boot atop the desk, grinning venomously at the barer of this new bout of fuckery. “Course.” he gritted out. “Wouldn’t want a buncha bored soldiers to have a way to pass the time while getting shipped up to have their asses handed to them by the natives.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Mr Binder simpered and Elvis wanted to smack the man, see if he’d be into that, too. “But I do suspect you’ll be paying wages for all your offloaded dependents and so, we come back round to the books and the depleted money and I’m saying that something drastic needs to occur so that the Waterways Committee has some security.”

“You want the boat?”

“Oh I wouldn’t be so cruel.” Mr Binder tutted, “I’d like a contract drawn up, signed by yourself and myself and Mr. Moore, perhaps Mr. Cash’s mark would add weight, and the details of it are benevolent -I’ve left it with a fellow to give Mr, Moore, it’s already drawn up- but it would ensure that stupendous half percent that is currently flowing from Parker’s pockets to the gaming tables will, eventually, be the Committee's share.”

“You think you’re real slick, don’t ya. Gonna offer me a deal no better than the last? How bout 40 percent.”

“How about,” Mr Binder put his finger to his pretty little lips and pretended to ponder, “I get you a new boat as this one is, god bless her, hardly staying above water. And uh, 30 percent, with a clause in there for a pension.”

“Who’s pension?” Elvis puzzled.

“You’re wife’s, Captain.” Mr. Binder huffed impatiently, “that extra ten will go to her, in case anything should befall you. Prison or the Colonel, you see I make provisions for innocents, just as you do.”

“I don’t have a wife, Mr. Binder.”

“No? Well, I suggest you make one, speedily, before that contract gets signed, in fact.”

“Make a wife?”

“If God managed it out of a rib, surely Elvis Presley can out of a Purser?” Mr. Binder was growing a bit giddy in his success and Elvis had to close his eyes and recall the fellow’s tear stained humiliation last night in order to press on.

“This is gonna serve what purpose?”

“Mr. Moore suggested that as things are, it’s all a muddle, and trying to untangle your affairs from Parker’s -including who owns the boat- would be hopeless. If taken to trial, the jury would vote for the wife. Parker hasn’t got one, but you, you would have one by then wouldn't you?” Binder seemed to have some second sense that this morning had been hellish and that pressing the point before breakfast was an easy way to make the Captain break.

“You’re suggesting I enter and pervert a sacred institution in order to save some money?” Elvis bit out.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you bent such a thing to your will, would it?” Binder sniffed then flinched as Elvis rose to his feet with uncanny speed and charged him, fists clenched, “And think, sir,” he aimed for respect as Elvis stood there ready to inflict pain, “Miss Beaumont would not only be provided for, she would also make certain that the half allocated to her would support your dependents. Say you were arrested, say the malaria catches up to you, say you get shot for being a bastard,” Mr Binder smiled almost fondly at that, “she and your dependents would have your money. If you can’t trust her, if what I thought I saw between you last night was not all theater, or perhaps one of your mulatto women will do.”

“You’ve been talking with Jerry and Moore, haven’t you?” Elvis muttered, fists slowly uncurling.

“Ah, yes.” Mr Binder had the goodness to look abashed, but that was more likely brought on by the ominous way Elvis was still standing over him, barely pacified, “And Sister Rosetta, that’s your uh, uh”

“Quartermaster.”

“Yes, her!” Binder agreed, “It would seem there is a benevolent mutiny aboard, Captain. And if your conscience smites you for turning in Parker to his just desserts, I suggest you tell it to consider the well being of your crew?”

“And the well being of your pockets.” Elvis pointed out.

“My goal, Captain, is to do so excellent a job in the position afforded me on this godforsaken river that when President Grant’s dismal excuse for a term runs out and the great reshuffling begins, -no fault will be found with me. Or those under me. And not for one single minute will the Bureaucrats think to relieve me of my post and return me east to the shadow of my father and the arms of a wife I cannot stand. Do you hear me now? And I’m offering you a chance to not get culled with the chaff.”

“Has anyone else’s boat been requisitioned, Mr. Binder?” Elvis asked, quietly and in a tone Binder could not decipher.

“Well, no one else asked to be used.” he laughed at last, “But I’m sure someone else’s will be as yours alone is not sufficiently large.”

“Then may I ask you a favor of my own, Mr. Binder?” Elvis ventured from beneath fluttering lashes.

“Uh, yes, of course, if it’s in my power.”

“Mmm, sounds like just about anythin is in your power, sir.” Elvis intoned alluringly, slinking to a crouch beside the arm of Binder’s chair, much to that official's shivering foreboding, “Is there any way you could manage to purloin Captain Jones’ boat as well?” he asked, voice going soft and high, sounding about as young and harmless as a child.

“What are you up to?” Binder asked, warily taking in the elegant hands clasped atop his chair arm and the alluring v of the Captain’s squat and the calculated harmlessness that the man, well past thirty, was swathing himself in, to an alarmingly successful effect.

“I-I just thought…” Elvis trailed off as if bashful of his thoughts.

“What did you think?” Binder demanded with outraged morality, about to flee from the scene of his second, imminent ruination and this terrifying, forever morphing creature squatted before him. “What did you think, Captain?”

“Well, t-t-there’s no need for all that, sir,” Captain Presley’s soulful eyes looked wounded and his cherubic lips, highlighted by the no doubt calculated slant of those damned sideburns, wobbled in hurt, “I-I just thought maybe Jones an’ me could have a lil race up the river while we’re at it, just a teaser of sorts.” He confessed, bashfully looking down at his hands and shrugging his shoulders in the manner of the forever falsely accused.

“God damn you to hell, Presley.” Binder seethed through his own mirth as Elvis’ shoulders began to shake up and down in something besides pantomimed hurt. Eventually both men were laughing, the act abandoned, one perhaps more uproariously than the other, but there was humor found at last. Captain Presley also rose to his feet, by some merciful intervention of a loving God looking out for Mr. Binder’s soul.

“You know.” Binder huffed when some sobriety had been regained, “The whole world isn’t full of dogs and bitches, there’s no need for this whole…whatever it is, you do.”

“Don’t you ever just do something for the fun of it, Binder?”

“Yes, occasionally,” Binder rejoined, “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Elvis got a fond look of reminiscence which suggested it had been awhile, “I race riverboats and charge the extra coal to the colonel’s account.”

“I’ll see to it that Captain Jones’ coal is charged similarly.” Binder smirked and Elvis felt the first taste of genuine like for this man, “Although Parker’s assets may be frozen due to imprisonment by that time.” he quipped, “Best to transfer the rest of the funds to a Mrs. Presley lest they take the brunt of such expenditures.”

“I’m hearin you.” the mirth had gone right out of the Captain's voice, “Can I not just sign it to my father?”

“What? With him in prison, too? Be sensible, Captain. It’s either a wife or child. Wait -have you got a child?”

“No.” Elvis could finally say that with certainty thanks to Rosey’s report. Maddy’s son was not his.

“Shocking.” Binder teased and Elvis might have been in the mood to laugh were he not contemplating marrying a woman who he thought was a different woman twelve hours before. “Invite me to the wedding won’t you? I was thinking this evening would be best, I’ll even ensure the Colonel is on the noon train down to Memphis so as not to meddle.”

“I ain’t gonna make this a church weddin.” Elvis insisted.

“Well, alright, easier in court anyway.” Binder shrugged, watching Presley’s sullen demeanor curiously, “I had thought such a thing was already imminent between you two-“

“Is that all, Mr. Binder?” Captain Presley cut in.

“Until this evening and the contract, yes, I suppose so.” Binder rose, sensing his blatant dismissal, “I’ll arrange the Colonel’s ticket and uh, meet you at the courthouse, yes?”

“I’ll send word if that particular endeavor is on.” Elvis parlayed.

“Oh it had better be, sir.” Binder reiterated, earnestly. “Or you and she will be wiped clean of funds, and my efforts for that pardon will be as nothing.”

“I’m hearin you, Mr. Binder.” it was a wonder that so ominous a voice, like an earthquake or the rush of an elemental force, could have affected brainless innocence so capably a few moments ago. Binder’s brain and other organs were confused by the change, but that was becoming a familiar feeling when in Captain Presley’s presence.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Mr. Binder muttered, at a loss as to how to conclude one of the most eventful interviews of his life when his opponent (or was it ally?) had his back to him, staring out the window with soulless eyes.

Binder let himself out.

Captain Presley followed shortly after, his steamrolling gait bound for the mess hall and a long overdue breakfast.

“Captain!” Calhoun waylaid him right in front of the mess hall doors, right where he could smell the scent of bacon and eggs and his sought after sanity.

“Lemme guess, you wanna complain ‘bout the Colonel ta me.” he slurred exhaustedly while dragging the boy along from where he hung on his jacket sleeve.

“Matter o fact, ye-“

“Take a number, boy.” he sighed, pushing open the doors to the mess and vowing to eat something before he heard another word spoken in English or otherwise about his benevolent partner.

I’ve made the following one time taglist for those of you who used to like and comment and enjoy this work on my previous, deactivated blog. I thought I’d alert y’all that this project is still ongoing, I’m still ticking and there’s new chapters if you have any interest. Cheers and all the love 💋 ~Marina/@aconflagrationofmyown

@tacozebra051

@notstefaniepresley

@tyne18

@horror-movieshoes

@lillypink

@blurredcolour

@bisexualwatson

@j-v-9-2

@pearlparty

@crash-and-cure

@dkayfixates

@woundmetender

@captainthisamerica

@eliseinmemphis

@lindszepplin

@foreverdolly

@ab4eva

@jelliedonut

@powerofelvis

@thatbanditqueen

@lookingforrainbows

@vintageworld

@robinismywife

@from-memphis-with-love

@steph-speaks

@avengen

@butlersxbirdy

@ash-omalley

@eliseinmemphis

@stylespresleyhearted

@missmaywemeetagain

@prompted-wordsmith

@whositmcwhatsit

@snowf86

@vinnvered

@butlervol6

@artlover8992

@coolgirl462

@cigaretess

[starsandstars]

Austin girlies that hasn’t seen the Bikeriders yet…

You have.. no idea

NO IDEA

[cherryplasmids]

just went to mystery movie monday and today’s film was the bikeriders. i give it a solid 70%; i like the characters well enough but i just felt like it was missing something