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Roronoa Zoro Live Action fics recommendations

(Reader inserts) Recommendations of my favorite headcanons/imagines/fics/scenarios (I don’t own any)

・・・・・・

angst fluff / wake up

angst fluff / unexpected comfort

fluff / crush

fluff / dating

angst fluff / intertwined ribbons

sfw / "don't touch her"

fluff / pretty in that (part 1)

fluff / nobody but you (part 2)

angst fluff / teasing love (part 1, part 2, part 3)

fluff / making him laugh

sfw / mise en rose

angst sfw / bet on losing dogs

angst sfw / how to disappear

angst fluff/ chaos in their bones (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9)

fluff / he gets in a fight

angst fluff / daybreak

sfw / the blade daughter (part 1, part 2, part 3)

nsfw / wet dreams

fluff / passionate kissing

fluff / "one more kiss? please?"

angst fluff / I'd die for you

fluff / late night talk

fluff / tiny mishap

fluff / relaxing together

angst fluff / hold me (still)

angst fluff / hazy eyes, clear thoughts (part 1, part 2)

angst fluff / tell me that we’ll be just fine

sfw / baby, let the games begin

fluff / if he's a ghost, then I can be a phantom

fluff / climbing through your window in the middle of the night

angst fluff / all that I need (part 1)

fluff / kisses like heaven (part 2)

fluff / au death before decaf

angst fluff / put it on me

fluff / I just can't get you out of my head

angst fluff / hurricane

angst fluff / gorgeous

fluff / the hunter who reached for the star

fluff /dancing to the beat of our hearts

angst fluff / the bait

nsfw / breaking point

fluff / "do not kiss me again"

fluff / compliments and stolen first kisses

angst fluff / handle with care

fluff / falling in love

fluff / I was born to love you

fluff / sail again (masterlist)

angst fluff / wounds

fluff / get some sleep

angst fluff / drunk confession

・・・・・・

Updated:09-June-2024

Anime Zoro masterlist

Other One Piece Live Action fics

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ᥴꫝꪮꪮᦓꫀ ꪑꫀ, ꪶꪮꪜꫀ ꪑꫀ☆

pairing(s): carl gallagher x fem!reader

summary: just fucking read it

WARNING(S)!!!: angst, short, that's all i'm saying

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

On a cold night on the Southside of Chicago,  was Y/n walking toward the very famous Gallagher family. She loved that family to death. They have all been there for her through thick and thin. Especially Fiona and Carl.

Carl…her best friend, lover, boyfriend, love of her life.

Fuck she didn't know what to call him all she knew was that she loved him with her heart and soul.

They have both been best friends from the ripe age of six years old. The two were known as mentally insane when they were younger. As they grew they matured. Well, Y/n matured.

Carl may have matured but it sure as hell wasn't his brain.

(bro no hate on carl but he is immature :) )

The couple did so much crazy shit together. No matter what it was.

Fiona on the other hand…well let's just say she's like a mom and a sister in one. Iykyk.

⳾⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅❀⑅*⳾

She had finally reached the door to her second home. Sure she had her first one but she couldn't but feel more at home there.

Walking into the kitchen, patting off the snow from her shoulders, Y/n went straight to the fridge for a beer. She took a sip as she heard the sound, BANG!

So she carefully and quietly put her beer on the counter and walked upstairs, the noise getting louder with each step. The sound of heavy breathing didn't catch her off guard, thinking it was Lip and one of his flings.

She rolled her eyes and walked towards the boy's room. Opening the door quickly she begins to say as she turns her head, " Seriously, Lip if you're gonna fuc-" she paused as she finally looked.

Not seeing Lip, but seeing a bunch of curly hair splayed on the lap of her boyfriend. It was Dominique and…Carl.

It was sad to say that she was expecting it. I mean it always ends up being her no matter what, but that couldn't stop the pain and heartbreak that struck her heart.

Seeing the two scramble and gather their clothes as she stands there with teary eyes. Turning around that bitch quickly runs past her with a smug look. She huffed, rolled her eyes, and shut the door.

As the door shut, all Y/n did was stare Carl down. He looked down at his feet.

"Why?" she said with a weary voice.

He just shrugged. He didn't know. Dominique treats him like shit while Y/n makes him feel loved. She's been there for him through all of the hardships since they were kids.

She shook her head, "No! You're not answering the goddamn question, Carl."

He stood there silent with a look of bewilderment on his face. The tears fell freely down her face, "Why do you always go back to her?" she whispered.

Once again no answer...

For once she wished he would choose her but he never does and probably never will. All she can do is hope.

"I don't know."

The girl can't help but scoff at the pathetic excuse of an answer. "I don't know doesn't answer my question so again why?"

"I'm so sick and tired of you choosing someone else over me. I have been there through everything but to you I'm nothing. Apparently, you could give less of a shit about me or how I fucking feel."

She just wanted him to love her as she does him. He does but it's Carl...he doesn't know how to tell her that.

"I swear to god, Carl. If you don't fucking spill I will walk out that door and I will not come back. If you're not gonna fight for this relationship then I'm not anymore. I am sick and tired of losing to everyone. I just wanted you to choose me and love me..."

She looked at him with wide pleading eyes, waiting for him to say anything to stop her from walking out the door. e

He tried but couldn't quite get the words out.

"but I guess I was wrong."

After that was said she left the Gallagher household and walked out into the cold winter night. Leaving a crying Carl back in his room regretting and wishing he had said something.

Tears trailed down his face. He not only lost someone he loved but he also lost his best friend.

Wet tears trailed down the girl's face in the cold night as she walked home. She couldn't help but feel relieved in a way. She no longer has to feel the burden of not being enough for someone to pick and choose.

The girl couldn't help but cry even after feeling a sense of relief. She lost her best friend, lover, boyfriend, and love of her life.

It all came down to that one day someone would finally choose her, and love her only.

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

omg it's soo bad

i just really wanted to get something out...again I'm so sorry for going completely MIA I was sick with a little something that authors get (well most authors...i think)

i like to call her...procrastination

it's been sitting in my drafts for fucking decades

love you guys </3

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accidental drunk confessions ~ matthew lillard

word count: 2971

request?: yes!

@shinichirosanos​

“Can you do a Matthew Lillard x female actress reader imagine where everyone kinda assumes they’re dating and maybe they’re at the Scream 1996 premiere and during interviews they constantly get questions about what their relationship is, but they deny it all the time and then later that night one of them finally confesses their feelings? 💛”

description: after being questioned about their relationship all the time, one of them lets it slip that they want more than friendship while drunk

pairing: matthew lillard x female!reader

warnings: swearing, alcohol usage

masterlist (one, two, three)

Keep reading

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Masterlist

Last Updated: 02.15.2023

Welcome to my main masterlist! It is about time I finally got this up and running... and not broken. Thank you to @asshlyyyy for doing this for me. Everyone go over to her page and thank her.

Under the cut you will find the links to everything I posted along with prewarning's to the fics themselves. Please pay attention to these warnings as the things I write are not for everyone!

A couple of things to note, descriptions are short little summaries. They may not be the best explained, but I promise the fic themselves are much better then such.

Along with that, keep an eye out for the emojis below for some pre-warnings.

🖤 Dark Themes 🤍 Smut

Elvis Presley

Baby Fever

► You and Elvis have been married for about three years now, and he thinks it's time for a baby

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Jessie's Girl

► You are Elvis' best friend's girlfriend, but little did you know Elvis is head over heels for you.

Part 1, Part 2 🤍

Pretty When You Cry

► Reader finds out that Elvis has to leave for Germany

Fucked My Way Up to The Top 🤍

► Sugar daddy Elvis being jealous after seeing the waiter flirt with the reader at the restaurant

Summer of '55

► The reader goes with Elvis and some friends down to the sunflower fields. Your best friend ends up asking what he's like in bed and Elvis overhears how in love the reader is with Elvis.

Art Deco 🤍

► Reader and Elvis meet at Club Handy after being apart for a short period of time. The both of you knew that you're bad for one another, but can't leave each other alone.

It's Supposed to be Fun Turning 21

► Based off the Presley home video's on Priscilla's 21st birthday. Instead of Priscilla it is the reader.

Fuck it I Love You

► Sugar daddy Elvis starting a relationship between 34-year-old Elvis and 19-year-old reader, who is the Colonel's step daughter... it starts off pretty innocent but soon turns into a lot more.

Part 1, Part 2

Honey, I Belong With You

► Drugged up Elvis begging you to stay by his side forever. You make a promise that you might not be able to keep.

Until I Found Her

► Formally known as Tredici // cowriter: @asshlyyyy

► You’ve heard of Romeo and Juliet right? Well, imagine that… but remove the violence and death. You’re the rich girl who would never be seen with someone who was poor. Well… that’s what you image was. You didn’t care about the money. Because once you found Elvis… Everything changed.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Sebastian Kydd

Cruel Summer 🤍

► The reader and Sebastian have been friends since forever... well that is until that one collage part...

Austin Butler

Are you Lonesome Tonight......?

► It is 2020 and the Covid pandemic just got worse than it already was... Seeing you are in lockdown and living with your boyfriend who was working on the new Elvis movie and your college being on lock down as well, it could get quite lonesome.

Lotta True Crime

► Serial Killer Austin kidnaps reader who has a podcast about true crime with her friends. She saw something she shouldn't have, and the rest is history.

Part 1 🖤, Part 2 🖤, Part 3 🖤🤍, Part 4 🖤

Say Yes to Heaven, Say Yes to Me

► It is the 1950s, and Austin is on his way to get married to the love of his life.

I've Got My Eye on You

► The reader is getting hated on and becomes depressed... down in the dumps... and even suicidal. Austin helps the reader through this hard time.

Put Me In a Movie

► Both the reader and Austin have an unhealthy obsession with each other and decide to finally make something of it.

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Forever in awe

Pairing : Austin!Elvis x she/her Reader

Warnings : None

——————————————

There were many things Elvis excelled at, but expressing his feelings? Not his forte. When it came to you he always struggled to find the true words to fully express his love. He was told “if you can’t say it, sing it” but even that wasn’t helpful in this moment. Nothing could show just how in awe he was of you. Your beauty, your personality, your talents, your faults, everything. He was forever in awe of you. Ever since he met you, you had been his world, his universe. Running barefoot together, reading about the rock of eternity together and now travelling together. You were his best friend and although Elvis knew that you’d both follow the other to the ends of the earth he was afraid that if he told you how he felt and you didn’t feel the same everything would change.

Elvis let put a shout of laughter as he jumps over the fence a ball tucked under his arm, his friends chasing him. He only gets so far before he gets tackled on to the grass, the ball stolen from him and the people who were chasing him switched their focus onto their new target. The dark haired boy is about to rise back to his feet when he hears a distinct laugh. That delicate noise, he couldn’t forget it even if he wanted to which, rest assured he never does. His bright eyes search the front of his house, looking for the person responsible for the fluttering, warm feeling that appeared any time he heard that musical sound.

“Oh dear, we have a Presley down! A Presley down!” His eyes finally found her and his breath was taken away.

There she stood, oblivious of the golden feeling that currently resided in her best friends heart.

“As if you could do so much better.” He called back to her, eyes sparkling, lips upturned.

“Challenge accepted, Mr Presley!” Without further ado off she went, kicking her heels off as she ran. “Steve throw me the ball!”

Said boy did as he was asked and the whole groups attention turned on her as she sprinted across the grass, trying to make it to the pathetically small stick they had found to mark as a goalpost before the group of boys managed to catch up and steal the ball from her. The magical sound of her laughs rang out and she ran, barefoot, her skirts whipping around her knees.

In that moment Elvis was thrown back in time as if watching the young girl who he started to fall in love with. He snapped out of it, picking himself up to chase after you himself. You made it past the “goalpost” just in time as two seconds later Elvis’ body collided with yours. You let out a shriek as he wraps his arms around your waist, spinning you round and round in circles. You dropped the ball, instead wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to feel more secure and like you weren’t about to be dropped.

Unnoticed by either of you one of Elvis’ friends snatched the ball and they ran off once again.

“Elvis put me down! Put me down you’re makin’ me dizzy!” You gasped, closing your eyes against the wind that whipped against your eyes, making them need to water. Elvis let out a laugh, his heart jumping as you hid your face in the crook of his neck. He lowered your bare feet back down to touch the grass, missing the feel of your arms embracing him. Instead one dropped down to rest on his arm, that was stretched out as his hands stayed resting against her waist.

The blue eyed boy couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the girl who stood in front of his, her necked craned a little more than usual without her heels adding to her height. Her face had a look of concentration on it as she reached up to brush a few stray strands off his forehead, trying her hardest to not mess up the rest of his gelled back style. She seemed to realise just what she was doing as she became aware of his fond gaze, looking down she blushed.

“You’re lookin’ very pretty today darlin.” He became aware of what he said a few seconds later as her blush grew. “I mean, not not that you’re not- I didn’t mean- you always look pretty.” Elvis cursed himself for having apparently lost control of what he was saying.

“Well…I didn’t do nothing special, so I’m not sure what you’re seeing.” You let out a small chuckle at your friends sudden loss for words.

Elvis’ eyes swept over your face taking in every inch, noticing the cluster of freckles that stretched across the curve of your nose and onto your rosy cheeks. “You ain’t wearin’ makeup” You frowned, tilting your head slightly as if to ask how he knew. “You got freckles, they don’t show if you got makeup on.” And that was when his brain seemingly unlinked from his muscles, his hand came up to stroke her cheek and he lent down hesitantly, almost as if his subconscious was telling him that he shouldn’t. He pressed a soft kiss against the small marks that lay on your cheeks, both yours and his eyes fluttering to a close at the contact.

“Hey EP!” One of his friends interrupted the sweet moment, Elvis pulled away and turned to look at the group. One of his hands remain intact with your waist, sliding to rest on your lower back, while the other fell limply to his side. “Three against three.” Elvis glanced at you uncertainly, his bright blue eyes raking over your blushing face. “C’mon man, it’s uneven if you don’t join! You can spend time with your doll later.” The dark haired boy blushed, glancing down at his shoes.

He quickly pressed his lips against your cheek, letting them linger there for just a second longer than usual before running after his friends leaving you standing there your lips apart in confusion. What the hell was that?!

———————————————

Happy Birthday to Austin and we miss you Elvis for yesterday x

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All I Wanted Was You (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Pairing: Austin!Elvis (50s) x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re touring the southern states as a singer for Jamboree Attractions. What you never expected was to fall in love, especially not with a man like Elvis Presley. He was sweet, sexy, and everything you could never have. Loving a man like that promised one thing: heartbreak. Even so, that doesn’t stop you from wanting him.

Genre: angst, bittersweet ending, songfic, sadness, fluff

Warning(s): crying, sadness, cheating (the part when a!elvis cheats on Dixie in movie), unrequited (ish) love, angst (again lol I guess I’m on a roll), kissing, use of pet name “lil’ mama” (yes, that IS a warning), not beta read, grammatical errors, (let me know if there’s anything I missed!)

Rating: PG-13 || WC: 3K 

Requested (?): Yes, by @navia3000​ I hope you enjoy and that this is what you wanted! I loved writing this fic. It hit all the feels for me. Thank you for being my first ever request! <3

Based on the song: All I Wanted by Paramore (pls listen for full effect) 

A/N: I’m back with more angst, ya’ll. I promise it’s not all sad as there is some fluff and a bittersweet ending. It’s longer than I anticipated but it flowed right out of me while I was writing and just felt… right. I hope you all enjoy! 

Think of me, think of me when you’re out there

Cherry red lipstick, high-frequency screams, chaotic crowds, and the awe-stricken eyes of young women are all you see. You take it all in from the side. The chaos is not something you get used to seeing, both him and the thrush of people in the audience. Elvis was magnetic under the spotlight, per usual. Part of you longed to be one of the girls in the front row. The possibility of those calloused, warm fingers grasping your jaw turned your knees to jello. The other, more sensible part of you knows that nothing good can come from falling for that boy. If you did, heartbreak is inevitable.

Keep reading

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Besides You

This is for all my people who are having a rough day. I've had this in my drafts for quite some time and didn't know where to take it. I hope you enjoy this, and I can't wait to get more out to you guys! Hopefully I'll have some one-shots coming up while I continue work on the multi-part fics.

If anyone knows why my posts have been doing terribly also... let me know. My posts have been... not doing quite as well as they should be. I'm not complaining it is just frustrating when you look at your follower to like ratio. My posts are showing up in tags... I just don't know what's happening.

Masterlist

Pairing: Elvis (or Austin!Elvis) x gn!reader

Warnings: Slight sexual themes, swearing, spelling and grammatical errors most likely. If I missed anything please let me know.

Word Count: 1.1k

“Hey darlin’, everything all right?” You heard Elvis speak from the door frame. You hummed and looked over at him. “Ya haven’t come down yet.” You gave him a weak smile. 

“I know… just… I’m just having an off day is all.” You replied back with a simple shrug. Though it more looked like an awkward movement due to you laying down.

You felt so bad. God… you felt so so bad. It wasn’t fair to Elvis. You were extremely happy with Elvis. That wasn’t the issue at bay. Your depression just made everything worse. You had these episodes now and again. These could appear at any moment, so you could really never prepare for them, which is why it wasn’t fair for Elvis. He shouldn’t have to deal with your… illness. 

“Mind if I join ya?” He asked with a slight smile on his face. 

You smiled softly and nodded, “though I don’t want to hold you back, Elvis.” 

“You can never hold me back, darlin’. I always want to be beside you.” He said softly and laid down on the bed next to you. You let out a break and shook your head.

“I just feel like I’m constantly holding you back.” You confessed to him. It was the first time you let those words come out of your mouth. You never told him about this. You didn’t want him to worry about you any more than he did. He looked at you confused. You brought your hand up to his shirt and played with his buttons.

“What do you mean? You’re never holding me back.” Elvis shook his head. 

“Remember all those things you wanted to do? Those that you wanted me to join you with? I would say no sometimes… and then you just wouldn’t do them. I… I don't want you to not do something just because I’m not in the mood.” You explained to Elvis. He brought his hand up to your head and ran his fingers through your hair. 

“Do me a favor, sweetheart. Look at ya ring finger there. What do ya see?” You looked at him confused but brought your hand up to your face. You looked at your engagement ring and wedding band. 

“The engagement ring you gave me, and the wedding band that binds us together.” You answered him. You looked past your hand and towards his blue eyes. 

“Exactly,” he used his finger to caress your cheek. You blushed lightly and pressed your face against his chest. “I married you because I love you for who you are. Just because ya have a few flaws don’ mean I don’ love ‘em. I love every single inch of you. From the top of your head to the ends of your toes.” He poked your stomach.

You let out a small giggle and looked up at him, “you’re so silly.” 

“Only for you of course.” You rolled your eyes playfully and pulled away. You pushed yourself up into a seated position and faced him. 

“Thank you.”

“Why are ya thankin’ me for?” He rubbed your thigh gently. 

“Because you’ve done a lot for me.” You grabbed his hand and interlocked your fingers together, “From putting up with my mood swings, joining me on my off days, holding me when I’m crying and not forcing me to speak about my feelings… to not ask why I’m crying. You don’t see me as a crybaby. You see me as a person.”

“I see you as the most perfect person I’ve eva met.” Elvis rested his forehead against yours. 

“Oh stop,” you giggled lightly as you slapped his chest lightly.

“‘M being serious,” he chuckled lightly and pulled away so that he could look at you. Your e/c orbs rolled in playfulness and pulled yourself far away from him. “Without you, I don’ know where I would’ve been in ma life. As cliche as it sounds… ya shaped me into who I am today.”

“Well… you shaped me into who I am today. Without you… I could've been dead, who knows.” You shrugged and got out of bed, feeling much better than you did beforehand. 

“I have a feelin’ God made it so we found each other. I believe in every universe… or different timeline… we would have found each other. We complete one another.”

“Okay lover boy, get out of bed.” You pulled the sheets off. “I have to clean these.”

“They can survive another night.”

“Elivs… these need to be cleaned. Especially after what happened yesterday morning.” You pointed out to him as you rolled the sheet over your hands.

“I have no idea what you are talkin’ about,” he said as a smirk found its way onto his lips. You rolled your eyes and walked over to the basket. You had to use whatever energy you had currently and get these chores done.

“Why don’ I help ya?” Elvis suggested. You looked over at him confused. It wasn’t like he never offered to help before, but when it came to laundry he tended to… shy away. He didn’t want to end up fucking something up. Like… accidentally shrinking his clothes, or turning his whites to pink.

“Are you sure? You can go ahead and do other things, I don’t mind.” You answered as you continued to peel the bed sheets off. 

“‘M sure. I want to make this day easy and enjoyable for you.” You smiled at his kind words and looked over at him. God, you were so lucky to call him yours. You always viewed him as the poor boy you met. The fame and fortune… it was something you never saw. You viewed it more as… he got a raise. It was silly but…

You knew how stressful Elvis got when it came to fame and fortune. You also knew that he loved to spend his fortune. Especially when it came to you. He loved to shower you with new things, and you loved every minute of it. Yet, you made sure he knew that you didn’t need anything. You had him, and that was all that mattered. He was all you needed.

“You’re all I need Elvis,” you whispered, “being near you makes everything easy and enjoyable.” 

“Oh darlin’,” he smiled and made his way over to you. “You’re all I need also.”

Elvis pressed his lips against yours and pulled you down onto the bed with him. You let out a light squeal before you kissed back. You brought your hands up to his face and smiled. Elvis was all you needed on a bad day. 

Sorry this was so short. Sometimes, there are certain things that need to be short. Just because they are short don't mean that they don't have meaning. I know I love writing longer things, but sometimes I can't force it out of me to write longer fics.

Mutual Taglist: @babyhoneypresley, @emmymaehereeeeee, @venus-haze, @austinstyles

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“Just a Mother”

a Sarge & lil Mama blurb || circa 1957

Summary: just adding some back story and motivations to Elaine’s side of the story presented in The Beginning.

Warnings: None really, except for talk of 1950’s gender roles, throw away line of masturbation and motherhood

“Is that all?” was the most common question asked Elaine after she first piped up in class and said she wanted to be a mother when she grew up.

A twelve years old girl, born with the luxury of living in the progressive halfway mark of the 20th century, belonging to a prosperous middle class and raised by lenient and liberal parents ought to have more ambition. Or so her impossibly cool, east coast imported, die hard beatnik geometry teacher chided her lovingly.

“A teacher then?” Little Elaine had fudged, meaning in her heart of hearts she wanted to raise little people, she wanted to make a difference with another generation, she wanted to be loved and depended on.

And why shouldn’t she? Her mother seemed happy enough being a mother. Her mother only seemed fretful when it came to father’s business. Juggling work and home life was the only cause of strife Elaine could perceive between the two, and it ingrained the notion in her little mind that keeping it separate was the key to domestic tranquility. Children, an only child like herself or a dozen taken in by the neighbor, never seemed to be the cause of any true regret between a couple.

“Oh darling, that takes money.” is what mother said when Elaine told her that she wanted a bunch of kids. “And a lot of effort and patience, which you may have but -it takes money, too.”

The white-picket-fence-American-dream could only afford two or three little ones and a new car every five years, it would seem. Elaine would rather forgo the new car and have another child, she told her mother.

Those squabbles over money and the business that Elaine witnessed between her parents ceased altogether when Elvis Presley’s infamous yawling stuck gold on the national charts. She watched then as her parents put their feet up and joked around the family dinner table that maybe they should have given Elaine that longed for sibling, a little bother or a sister. If they’d only known college tuitions would be paid for by a rockabilly record.

That’s when Elaine decided she’d need to marry a wealthy man. Or perhaps father would give her an inheritance early, a dowry of sorts. The first Rock n Roll heiress in America. Mother had warned her that their new wealth would attract no good boys who wanted her money without sticking around after to do right by her.

“Is that still all you want, darling?” Mother had asked when Elaine hit eighteen, right before God took her. “You’ve the opportunity to do so much more.”

“Miss Gladys says it’s the most important job of all.” Elaine had insisted, wounded that her own ambitions should be always so belittled.

“Well, I'd be careful of what you adopt from Miss Gladys.” her mother had warned, a funny look in her eyes, “I’ve a feeling she has ulterior motives for directing your interests that way. You should get out before you settle down, see the world, try other vocations out.”

That had worked for awhile. First Elaine had helped in the studio and then in the hospital and then she had studied hard to become a teacher, forever gravitating towards being useful, being needed, towards nurturing others. For her it was only ever that, that was all of it, that was enough.

Ambition and experience, that’s what everyone encouraged her to seek after mother’s death. The middle aged women, those who had chafed under their own domestic responsibilities and been too late to taste the freedom Elaine longed to squander were particularly insistent. Ambition and experience. Those were things that Elaine had plenty of time to indulge before marrying and being chained to highchairs and the marital bed.

Perhaps too much time, Elaine had begun to think. She was antsy, floating around in her dead mother’s circle, working herself to the bone to forget her loneliness and making little found families with any who’d let her dote on them.

No one to call her own beside her father who’s booming business needed her less and less. He needed her in his grief, but that didn’t mean he accepted her help.

Gone only a few months she had already begun to miss Elvis, and to resent his imposed law of abstinence while he was away. She wanted to marry, she wanted a man to give her children, she wanted to have a life to call her own at long last -she didn’t trust anyone to vet her prospective husbands save for Elvis. And the cycle would begin again. She cursed him in her head, and took to watching men as they swam in the public pools, distracted by muscled backs and furred legs as she taught Mrs. Davie’s children how to swim. She wanted a man, she didn’t know what for but she wanted one.

Elvis had woken her up to that sudden ambition, and she sought it with the single minded drive she put into logistics for the March of Dimes functions. She watched the way these men talked and walked and carried themselves, the ones who curled in on themselves and the ones who swaggered. The ones who whistled at her and the ones who opened doors.

What she had initially thought cruel and lewd teasing on Elvis’ part that night in the kitchen she grew to realize was him merely looking out for her welfare. He wanted her to taste the danger of attraction just enough that she’d know what to guard against. Though every passing day made that harder, charming waiters and slick doctors and grabby handed father’s of children she nannied all sparked an interest in her that had been dulled before.

There was curiosity in her as to what they wanted from her. She knew what she wanted -children, but what did they want? She would have to ask Elvis. She would have to wait for him to get back from a two year deployment and boot camp besides.

Alone in her room at nights, surrounded by text books and mother’s diaries, Elaine wasn’t sure she could hold out that long. She had heard that when God planted a child in a woman’s womb it came out from between her legs. More and more she found herself blindly and ignorantly touching that little baby house, finding it weepy and throbbing, as if as heartsick as the rest of her at the waste of her young and empty body.

Once she tried to put a finger up there as she’d heard doctors did in labor. It pinched and stung and she pulled it out hurriedly, her heart pounding and cheeks hot.

That was another warning all the women had -that children hurt. Making them and bringing them forth. Elaine knew nothing about what went into making them, though she could see that growing them stretched and tore women’s skin to accommodate the new life. Still, like an arduous adventure or a perilous quest it all seemed rather glorious to her, thrilling even, to be growing something that would outlast you.

“Just a mother? You don’t want to be anything else?” her Humanities teacher asked her, senior year of high school. An idiotic question, as if being a mother meant she couldn’t be anything else while at it. But that Humanities class did teach Elaine one thing: men must always strive to build and create a legacy, forever pressed to leave some creation behind with their likeness imprinted on it.

Women can make such a thing in nine months and from it can come millions of copies, millions of descendants. Her lack of ambition to conquer Wall Street seemed to suddenly click sitting there listening to a man drone on about the lasting impact of crumbling ruins.

They’ll never manage what we can, she realized, they can’t create a living thing like we can, they can only shape stone and clay and call it wondrous, while we can fashion blood and bone and cartilage and birth a soul.

It made sense that through the centuries men would define motherhood as “just” that. It was too threatening a thing otherwise, and a millennium of the scorn had infected the women, too, until the miracle of children was cut down to size, to something a little less holy, a little less impressive, little more than drudgery. Why, darling, don’t you know you can go out and work for another man who is not your husband these days? You can push that man’s papers about and endure his groping, come home and endure it from another, too. Who has energy to be a mother after that?

Yes, Elaine would settle for being just a mama. If Elvis would just come back already and help her choose a daddy.

Yes, Elaine would settle for being just a mama. If Elvis would just come back already and help her choose a daddy.

[clownflipflops]

August || Elvis Presley

Elvis Presley x Reader Angst

pairing: Elvis Presley x reader (mentioned)

warnings: angst, so much angst, anger, shouting, cursing, descriptions of major character death

word count: 1087

masterlist || wanna be in the taglist? click HERE | PART TWO

>> so I watched Elvis again last night with the discord and was incredibly sad and cried (again) so I had to let out my feelings with some angst. I hope ya’ll enjoy this and don’t cry like I almost did a few times while writing this lol

You don’t remember August ever feeling this cold and rainy. 

Keep reading

[clownflipflops]

lotta true crime part 4

pairing: serial killer Austin x reader

summary: serial killer Austin kidnaps reader who has a podcast about true crime with her friends cus she saw something she shouldn't

trigger warnings: mentions of murder and well death kidnapping Stockholm syndrome.. mentions of various serial killers talk of blood and knifes psychotic thinking... and smut in the next chapters last but not least my shitty writing

authors note: sorry it took so long to write art 4 i kept re writing it. might be a part 5,6

special tag: @asshlyyyy

*couple of years earlier *

“I might…” Austin said as he took another swing of his drink. “I might kill my ex…” he laughed as he looked at his best friend.

“Not the best idea….  Her new boyfriends next.” He said and stared daggers at his so called best friend Jordan, but Jordan should’ve known better he should’ve know better then fuck Austin’s girlfriend.

Did he really love her no? Did that matter no. It wasn’t a if I can’t have her no one will kind of case, but tsk he thought Jordan knew better then touch what’s his 

*present time*

Now how did he get here…in downtown Los Angeles.

He slit the girls neck, but little did he know he was getting sloppy sure he wore gloves but there was a witness .. and he dropped the knife.

Little did he know that person saw his face. Maybe not clearly but certain details they’ll remember 

*pov switch* 

Meanwhile It’s been a couple of months since Austin kidnapped you.

Your friends and family have been looking for you every night and day, while you were happily playing house with your serial killer boyfriend. And the worst part was it didn’t even bother you one bit.

You were happy and sure Austin wasn’t perfect but who was you were blinded by love. And you weren’t exactly perfect either. You cleaned the stains out of his blood stained clothes and made him dinner.

If you were being honest Austin was insane and you handled it beautifully. You never saw yourself as a house wife at all you hated when people wanted that 1950s shit they asked from you.

But here you were willing to be a bride love really did make blind and you’d be damned if you’d let it slip by. 

When Austin came home from work you were laying on the couch as you scrolled though Netflix. Watching that new Dahmer show, because at the end of the day you were still a true crime student taking online courses. 

He smiled softly as he put his keys down after he  locked the door back up. He walked over to the couch and bend down kissing you. “Hi” he said in between the kiss “baby”. You smiled softly and kissed back holding his cheek. “Hm hi how was work?” You asked and sat up a bit.

Austin sat down on the couch and put your legs on his lap. He let out a dry chuckle and started kissing up your neck. “Chilled a bit” he mumbled. Getting closer and closer to your ear “killed a bit” he whispered in your ear. And started to tickle you.

You laughed softly, this man had all of you, he owned you and he…. He would be lost without you. It’s crazy really how fast two people can fall in love, how fast they can bond over being insane… and then end up insanely in love with one another. You remember your friends, they were talking about you on the podcast it was kinda sad. A part of you felt guilty but then again they never treated you good did they. At the end of the day you knew that in a few months they wouldn’t even notice you were gone.

You got snapped out of your thoughts. As the door bell ring you looked over at Austin and he frowned as he checked the camera on his phone. “Cops…?” He mumbled to himself as he looked at you. “Listen honey I want you to go hide in room underneath our bed okay?” He said and cupped your face kissing you.

After the kiss you ran off and hid underneath your bed. Austin on the other hand went out to the door and opened it. “Good afternoon officer,how can I help you today?” He asked ever do polite. “ good afternoon mr butler just wondering why you got all these… bars up your window and doors…?” The police officer asked suspicious.

Austin chuckles and  let out a small sigh “yeah well officer I do live in a nasty neighborhood rather be safe then sorry” he said and rubbed the back of his neck. 

The officer nodded and scanned all over him still suspicious. “What happened to your hand..? If I may ask” the officer asked and looked at the bandage around his hand. “Oh I burned it while taking something out of the oven.” Austin said and looked down at his hand.

The Other officer nodded and spoke up. “You haven’t heard anything about the murders in the neighborhood have you, the missing girl?” He said as he showed him a. Picture of you, Austin looked at the picture and shook his head “no sir sorry I haven’t seen her around” was all he said. The officer nodded and spoke up for the last time “just uh stay in town we might have some more questions, if you see anything call us” he said before walking of.

Austin nodded and closed the door “good day officer”. He said and waited for them to to get in their car and drive of as soon as they did. He kicked the door “FUCK”. He said and rubbed his face you came running out of the room and looked at him.

“What’s happening ..?” You asked nervous. Austin walked over and wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“Well baby better start packing, we’re going to Vegas “

love, jessica

[clownflipflops]

My Shooting Star (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Pairing: Austin!Elvis x Gn!reader 

Summary: You say goodbye to Elvis for good, but neither of you want to let go. 

Genre: sad angst but it’s also sweet. (???)

Warning(s): sadness, crying, angst, not beta read so prob some grammatical errors (let me know if there’s anything I missed). 

Rating: PG || WC: 500 (just a drabble) 

A/N: Honestly, I can’t believe that my first post for fanfiction in the Elvis 2022 fandom is angst. I almost never write (or read) angst but this is pretty short. I am working on other fics for Austin!Elvis but this was just something that didn’t fit into my other works as I am a fan of happy endings. Anyways, I’m a bit nervous that this is my first work so even though it’s angst, I hope you enjoy!

“It’s you,” he confesses, eyes downcast. Hair falls apart and over his forehead messily. You think he’s never looked so beautiful. He lets out a sharp sigh, sounding frustrated. “It’s always been you,” he looks up again and you’re rendered speechless. 

White noise drowns out all other thoughts till only he remains—just him, only him. You blink, heat rimming around your eyes and it burns. The tears build like the multitude of emotions inside your heart. “Damn it—,” you choke out in the quiet. “I tried so hard not to fall for you, Elvis Presley, because I knew—I knew it would come to this.” 

Warmth touches your cheek. You realize Elvis is holding you, cradling the sides of your face with calloused hands like he’s never seen anything more worthy of love. Your first tear falls. 

“Ain’t that what makes this so beautiful?” He asks, velvety tone now dulled with the reality of goodbye. You see that he’s trying to be positive, to be brave like the superhero he always dreamed of being. 

Deep in the soul, you knew he would always be that dreaming little boy. Even when others only see the surface, the fame, and glory, the glitz, and glamour, the way he shines like a lone star, bright and far away from you.

To you—to you, Elvis Presley will always be the quiet southern boy that dreamt of saving everyone he loved. 

“Yes… but it don’t make it hurt any less.” You’re fully crying. A river of tears stream down your neck. He breathes out, and the humidity puffs onto your lips. It takes everything inside of you not to crumble on the floor. “But I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” you admit softly, saying the words despite your throat seizing. 

“Me—,” black curls brush over your chin as his head hangs in defeat. “Me too.” The words are gritty, quiet. 

“Promise me something?” You ask, shaky fingers grazing over the worn black lace of his shirt. Thick lashes flutter upward, his ocean eyes full of sorrow. 

“Anything,” he says, without any hesitance. 

“Since I met you, you’ve been real good at bein’ strong for everyone else,” you admit. The dim light of the motel illuminates a popcorn ceiling that you look at for strength to say these words. “Even if it’s not—,” sharp pain takes over, choking what you want to say, but you press through it. He needs to hear this. “With me… promise me you’ll be weak for someone, with someone. No one can go through life bein’ strong all the time.” 

Your forearms are pressed against a lean, toned chest that’s shuddering like thunder. He’s hugging you, cradling the back of your neck, and crying. You’ve never heard a sound more earth-shattering. The pit of your stomach plummets to the floor like an anchor as you wrap your arms around his back and squeeze. 

“I love you.” 

It’s the last thing you say to one another before he leaves, forever beyond your reach like a shooting star in the night sky. 

[clownflipflops]

Welcome to Germany, Mrs Presley

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: After the birth of your firstborn twins and his subsequent deployment, you and Elvis reunite for the first time at a German Airport. Sweeping romantic scores and idyllic kisses in the rain may have to wait for hungry babies and overly full breasts…the latter problem your husband may or may not have a chivalrous desire to aid you with

Warnings; yes, this is the lactation “kink” you were promised, I tried to not make it icky, I swear I did, but beware if that’s not your thing 💋

Also note: I will be changing lil mama in this series eventually to an original character instead of reader insert. This one has remained an insert as I started it that way, although the reader is referred to by the name “Elaine” at the very end 🥂

Enjoy: AO3 Fic Link

“Welcome to Germany, Mrs. Presley!” the kind hearted stewardess pulled you away from your panicked survey through the window of the crowd on the tarmac. Promoted by the stewardess’ concerned smile you turned yourself to the task at hand -bundling up the babies in their carriers to prepare them for the torrent of snow outside.

October born Memphian babies as they are, they’ve barely seen the outside of Graceland as the season turned cold, and impromptu as this flight has been, you were still prepared with blankets and woolen caps and fuzzy socks on their tiny feet. With all these precautions in place only their noses were susceptible to freezing off in the blizzard and that really couldn’t be helped without suffocating them and- oh god, you were a nervous wreck.

Elvis had been arranging for you to join him in Germany since he married you, right after going into the army, it had always been the plan. But his first plan -to make a family with you, out of you- had worked a little too well, and you had been stuck at home with a complicated pregnancy of twins contracted on the wedding night, a terrible bout of mastitis following that, while he got shipped off across the globe. Evocative letters and the few stilted phone calls were all that had kept you going, a keen awareness that both of these could be intercepted having cooled the initial honeymoon ardour of your arranged union. A kind friend had alerted you to these available seats on this commercial airline and, tired of waiting for arrangement to come together for private jets, you’d torn apart your room to pack and roped Dodger into being a traveling companion and pack mule, and the four of you made it to the terminal with ten minutes to spare. Vernon had called ahead to tell his son that his young wife was hauling herself and her twins over the ocean posthaste, and you hoped to god that Elvis' previous insistence on you waiting to take a private jet had been out of concern for your comfort, not desire to prolong separation.

When you’d said as much aloud to his grandmother she’d scowled at you and made a significant face at the twins, as if to remind you that he’d been the one hell bent on having you, not the other way around.

You scan the waiting crowd outside in hopes of seeing him, noticing multiple fan signs held aloft in greeting for you and his babies, and wondered how rumors could spread that fast. And there was always the shock you felt that some people would freeze their toes off just to catch a glimpse of the gal Elvis the Pelvis had wedded and bedded.

You grab a baby carrier in each hand, your “yittle” hands and arms having grown strong and defined in the past months just from hauling your progeny around, and Dodger determinedly manages the luggage. You bump between the airplane seats, shuffling sideways and maneuvering yourself and your precious load, smiling when making eye contact with one gawking passenger after another, even having to make small talk when the disembarking line stalls only a couple yards away from the exit door. There’s a bottle neck happening up there, just out of view, no more passengers managing to get out the door and passed a charmingly stuttering young husband who’s giving the plane Captain the same working over he gave his commanding officer - the one that procured him a furlough to come pick his wife up from the airport with zero notice.

“Elvis!” you holler, ignoring the fascinated way people’s necks swivel to watch two individuals they've only read both filthy and devine things about in the newspapers interacting in real time.

“Mamas! that really you?” a very darling and familiar voice carries over a couple dozen heads in the tubular space and it makes you want to giggle over how desperate he sounds. Like he’s rescuing you from the lion’s den instead of a commercial airline.

Elvis has a massive trust and appreciation for the common man, the set he came from, except when it comes to their treatment of you. Public feeling towards you has been exacerbated negatively by the newspapers stirring up filth and he’s nearly gone nuts with worry in the ten hours it took the plane to arrive in Germany.

“Yessir, it’s me alright.” you yell after a giggle and the rest of the crowd joins in good naturedly.

“W-w-well, well come o-on o-o-out then!” he booms in exasperation.

“Can’t.” you holler, “you’re clogging the drain, daddy.”

“Oh well, I’ll be-“ and then there’s a sudden shuffling and the Captain starts waving people on again.

You make eye contact with a withered little lady who is right up ahead of you, her ancient smile lines craggy and you feel a little validated as she alone beams at you from where she is still pressed against the side of her equally weathered fella. You’ve found it’s this ancient generation, the one before the commercialized, sterilized, American household set, who didn’t really bat an eye upon reading a tapped phone transcript of Elvis assuring you that he’s “gonna stuff your yittle cunt to the brim as soon as you’re back with me again, gonna pump you full, darlin. Yer gonna be gushin out with every rut but I ain’t gonna stop, ain’t gonna stop till we’re half dead the both of us, and you got a gallon of baby gravy leakin outta ya. I swear it lil mama, I’ll get you full again, just hang in there, hang in there, oh goddamn, I hear ya whinin, those tiny fingers of yourn ain’t doin near enough, are they….”

‘Soon as you were back with him. That was the promise, and here he was now, he couldn’t even wait for you to disembark before trying to get to you. And the weathered dame smiles at you, and you wonder if she’s thinking of the times she rolled in the hay with her man, sat on him under a blistering sun when he was working his tractor, maybe made a dozen children in a room shared with two other couples. Back when no one gasped at the notion that married couples must entwine and rut and spew in order to make those “three little curly heads in a row” that everyone still sought after.

She looks happy for you, she looks passed you back at Dodger and you know grandma is proud that someone’s out there not being a hypocrite and just acknowledging, revelling even, in the fact that marriage is a very primal thing.

Elvis, feels close to vomiting as he smiles and waves and even signs a few crinkled napkins as people file past him onto the jetbridge, standing ramrod straight in his uniform beside the rest of the plane crew who politely act as if he’s a member, not an embarrassingly frantic husband. A famous, frantic husband. A husband who keeps spinning his service cover round and round by the bill in desperate need to see his little woman come into view.

He’d left you to fend for yourself at Graceland, still hemorrhaging and fighting a life threatening infection in those pretty tits of yours that he had been so sure would feed his children as dutifully as the rest of you had proven to be. But they’d rebelled, they’d swelled up, they’d grown hard knots and made you sob in pain and still you went down to the Memphis train station and clutched his hand smilingly until the locomotive's gaining speed had torn him from your grip. He’d never been more proud of a human in all his life. And then he’d been worried sick ever after.

Not even married a year and he had inadvertently broken his promise that you’d always have him, always be a family, never be apart if you’d just be his wife. You’re healthy now, you’d assured him over the phone. Been feeding the children like a prize milk cow, even feel well enough to go down to the Graceland gates and stand and chat with the fans, have even stuck your dainty hand down south and played with the previously torn little petals of your cunt. You assure him all is back to normal.

You can be a dirty, dirty liar, though, you don’t know it but Elvis does, he has seen the way you convince yourself you are grand so others don’t worry, when you’re not well at all. Your welfare and wellbeing is hai to ascertain, he’s your husband and he’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. If he could just see you over all these ‘tarnal heads —

—god what a vision. His wife. Twelve hours on a plane and all it cost you was a droop to your eyelids that vanishes the moment you catch sight of him. That old spark in your eyes lights up and your face burns red as a smile splits your cheeks apart and he loves you so badly, loves knowing this ravenous joy hasn’t caressed your face since last time you saw him, he alone provokes that look.

You are easily managing two carriers between the rows of seats and your hat is fetchingly tilted, your hair is curled and your coat is the one he ordered from the magazine and he’s gonna have fun peeling those nylons off your legs and — there’s still an ocean of people between you two but despite your moderate height, you two manage to keep the grinning eye contact as the distance jostles and ebbs closes and he plucks you forward by a outstretched hand, making you trip over your heels for the first time in this whole ordeal and he squats with you to let you set the carriers on the ground and before you can rise back up to your height, he’s kissing you ravenously in front of all the onlookers. My god he is comforting, his hands cup your cheeks with fevered concern and his warm tongue plunges familiarly and without prelude, his powerful embrace engulfs you, crushing you into himself like he’s gonna tuck you inside his heart. He’s your sanctuary and you slump into him, nearly knocking his hat off in your desperation to rake through his growing locks.

“Ma darling” he pants against your cheek and you both rise up from your semi squat.

Below on the tarmac, through the glass of the jetway, a dozen flashbulbs pop to capture this moment, the crowd of fans is screaming and the crew beside him titters. It’s what you signed up for, life and love in the fishbowl of fame, and he gives you an apologetic grin before you smooch it off him, and move to the side so grandma Dodger can pat his face. He gives you his arm and you both swing up a child apiece with ease, shuffling along the jetway to the immense relief of the remaining passengers. He can’t choose where to look, your face or down at the infant swinging at his side, peering over to look at Miss Ella as you carry her. He finally looks straight as the terminal comes into view, a literal light at the end of a tunnel, and he gnaws his lip and slows his stride and squeezes your hand rhythmically.

“I’m sorry it’s so public.” you murmur, knowing a private jet would have spared him all this. “I just couldn’t bare it any more.”

And even if he had been of a mind to begrudge you your rash action, hearing you unabashedly admit you missed him that much soothes everyone little worry he has harbored that now you’ve got these babies you wanted, you may have gone off the idea of a husband. Particularly one as testy and hungry as he can be. He is starving for you and it only grows as he registers in relief that you’re eyeing him up appraisingly, taking in the adjustments that “rigorous army life” has made on his physique and face.

He looks older, he knows that, but not in the way of it being the sad, sulking, pudgy fella of before, he’s chiseled and broad and virulent now and he sees you lick your lips in between smiles. You married a sad boy, you’re returning to a capable man. You knock your forehead against the patch at his shoulder like an interested cat and he snickers happily just as you both walk into the gauntlet of the terminal.

“C'mon Dodger, stick close.” he commands her and keeps craning his neck to make sure she’s not separated by the crowd despite her gripes that she’s quite capable.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, “it’s your wife you should be frettin’ bout, get ‘er a room to relieve them yams of hers, they’re near burstin and she’ll catch another bout of the clogged ducts if she keeps being so damn prudish bout nursin in public-“

“W-what the hell is all this bout y-you, you -?” Elvis comes to a full halt in the middle of the busy thoroughfare and looks frantically from her to you. You want to curse her for her tactlessness in scaring him after all the fretting he’s subjected himself to, but in all honesty, you have not nursed in eight hours and the agony you forgot for a brief moment upon seeing him again comes to the fore at the mere mention of your engorged state. You can feel yourself leaking and each shuffle rubs the fabric pads against your nipples and makes you want to whimper.

“I need a room to feed the babies before we get in a car.” you whisper the plain truth in his ear while standing atiptoe as more flashbulbs go off, capturing his look of recognition and the scarlet flush that burns his face at your confession. The tell tale vein in his neck thumps to life and you aren’t sure if it’s panic or desire sending his adrenaline through the roof. Neither will the captions under the photos in tomorrow morning’s paper.

The thought of his wife’s breasts full and heavy and warm with his hands still so cold from the winter chill makes him want to hold them and bury his chilled nose between them and -he needs to get you a room. Hates himself for being so hungry for you when your eyes are watering upon closer inspection and his children must be close to starving. Oh god, how often do infants eat? Will they be stunted for having to wait? He’ll spank the hell outta you if this little plane ride costs Jesse or Ella a single inch of height or a roll of fat.

You can see all this chaos flit underneath his crimson blush until Dodger grunts in so suggestive a way that it rouses him and suddenly he’s a man on a mission, the same man who got a furlough in record time and arranged your status on the board of the March of Dimes.

Mr- umm, that’s Private now- Presley snaps his fingers and tells a man he needs a room, the man gets him a whole lounge, Elvis gets you all guided through a throng to it, and Elvis thanks the man with such charming profusion the fella downright forgets the brusque order preceding it.

He spins around a few times in the lounge as if he can’t figure out what to fix first and you laugh and make your way to the couch, setting your carrier down and starting to undo your heavy mink.

“Right, right.” he mutters as the obvious hits him, your presence working that old steady calm on him. He feels like he takes his first true breath of German air then and sets to work.

Always, he doesn’t know how you manage it for him, but a soft smile, a head tilt and eyebrow arched in gentle direction and suddenly he’s got his feet back under him, even here as he arranges his children by the sofa -dear god he has kids, those are his kids-

and helps you with your coat. You sit yourself down and he stands ready for the next softly spoken order.

“Could you help me unbuckle them, darling?” your sweet guidance spurs him and he’s squatting, face to face with his baby he hasn’t seen since it was fresh popped into the world.

“Hey lil mister.” he whispers, half astounded to see something so little and fragile with his eyes staring back from beneath a mountain of blankets. He has to will his hands not to shake and has to try about five times to get the buckle undone, he’s being so timid about the clasp and maybe pushing too hard on his baby son’s belly. He swivels around to you after he loses track of time watching his child stare back, but baby boy starts to scowl and of course, of course there’s a point to this, so he swivels back to you and finds you undoing the buttons of your silk blouse and you’re so damn lovely as the inches of creamy skin begins to swell into view and he longs to touch and then there’s a wet patch and those pretty little nipples peek into view and a dribble of white from them startles him, and he makes a noise he hasn’t ever heard himself make.

“Whoops!” you laugh pained, leaking and swiping the flood from the one released breast before popping the wet finger in your mouth.

You reach for the baby and he pulls his gaze from your leaking breast to hand him over, and you smile shyly in thanks, and he wonders if it embarrasses you for him to watch but he can’t help it, you look so perfectly in your element as you tuck Jesse in the crook of your elbow as your other hand guides your nipple into his shiny little mouth. He latches on eager and you moan in pain and relief. Elvis hears his own breath come out in a ragged exhale as if he were sharing your feeling.

“This place sells soft drinks, yeah?” Dodger’s voice shakes him like a rocket going off as he remembers his grandma is here too, he nearly falls back on his ass in his haste to turn towards her.

“Yes’m, reckon they do.” he agrees, “different currency though, and you’ll get mobbed by the press outside.”

“Well, hand me some of them Nazi bills or whatever they use over here.”

“Dodger-“

“Hush boy, I’m in need of a coke and you’re in need of a minute alone with your family, I can handle it.” she makes a motion with her hand and he stands up and digs in his pocket and places enough currency in her palm to buy her a coke and a few mink coats, too.

She rolls her wise eyes and he suddenly hugs her hard, missing her and the home she represents. She strokes his back for a good minute before patting him and disentangling, going straight to the door and exiting without giving the sea of cameras even a sliver of a view of your makeshift oasis.

Poor little Ella has begun to fuss in her carriage and he spins around and drops to his knees to tend her, joints cracking hard against the frigid airport tile.

“No, no, no you’re ok my girl, you’re gonna be ok, oh no, oh shh it’s ok, it’s ok.” his worry for his daughter makes him forget his unease and he collects her out of her own mound of fluffy blankets and hold her to him, rocks her back and forth on his knees, face looking torn between adoration and terror that she won’t be pacified. It’s just a small cry and some baby faced puckering whimpers but you’ve never seen him look more devastated that she won’t respond. “How long’s it been since ya fed her?” he asks, voice raised and tone a little harsh.

“Just a couple hours,” you soothe, running a pacifying foot up the top of his thigh since your hands are occupied, he understands the gesture for what it is and his posture softens and he starts patting Ella more confidently. “I brought formula, Elvis, it’s just me that needed…”

“Course, course.” he swallows and hates how unsure he is, how stilted he’s making everything by this strange brand of insecurity, “I’m sorry for bein’ all -for doubtin your capabilities.” he makes amends and you can’t help but feel terrible for the lost look on his face. “I don’t got any nowhere to speak from, do I? -leavin my wife and children behind after all I promised.”

“You didn’t leave.” you reiterate the point you’ve hammered on him over the phone a dozen times, putting Jesse on your shoulder to burp him as he was so lackadaisical in his nursing he nearly fell asleep, “You were commanded away, and no one here blamed you for that except yourself, and I forbid it.”

“It weren’t right-“ he’s got Ella calmed down now he’s looking down at her with all of the remorse of a man who orchestrated a family for himself and then left them high and dry the minute they came to fruition.

“-really Elvis, I forbid it, that kinda talk,” you whisper and he looks up at you with those big eyes and a curious set to his mouth, like he wants to protest your command but it’s also everything he needs and more, “I forbid it ruining here and now, what we’ve got now -which is us, together, just as you promised. This!” you gesture between his kneeling form and yourself, each with a child you so lovingly made, “This is what your promised me, or nearly, if you could just, just not dwell on it any longer. Be here with me, please?”

He grabs your hand from Jesse’s little back and kisses your knuckles fervently, all that gentlemanly sweetness he showed you on your wedding night when he told you that it would hurt, but he’d give you babies and love and joy and forever in return. You’d sat atop him and done the deed yourself, impaling your virgin body on every hefty inch of him, and in return he had given you those babies you’d always wanted. And love, he gave you that, security, direction and a devotion you weren’t quite sure you had a large enough heart to match, but my god you wanted to try.

“Yes, yes Darlin I - oh god you’re…you’re d-d-dripping all over the place.” the mood shifts towards comic as he watches your neglected breast splutter out sweet milk into your silk shirt and you offer him Jesse in exchange for Ella.

Jesse’s head lolls back alarmingly once his daddy’s got him, his blue eyes half lidded in a mommy’s milk coma. Elvis giggles at it. “Son of mine, you’re plastered.” he takes an elegant finger and traces the tiny nose down to the little button chin, “Guess I should tuck him back in.” he sighs regretfully, hating having him out of his arms for even a minute, but also knowing he needs to get you back to the house in order to have any real and extended privacy.

You hiss as Ella latches on vigorously, and he looks up from his work on Jesse’s carrier in concern.

“All’s good.” you put on a brave smile, the one you gave him as the contractions started to hit, the one you gave him when you sank down on him fully for the first time and tried to be brave about the feeling of a cucumber in your keyhole. He may have not had that much quality time with his family as a whole so far, but he’s been studying you for years. He spots bullshit.

“You’re dirty little liar.” he tsks but he can’t help his smile, you look so bashful and then haughty about it.

“I just, I hope she’s hungrier than him.” you explain, and somehow you have a great deal of elegance about you, he thinks, sitting in your pressed skirt and heels and hat and curls with your shirt open and leaking ripe tits gushing at every mewling sound the infants let out. Its fascinating to him just how, well -full- they look, how it’s like a leaky faucet or a break in the hose or…precum, dribbling and oozing without coaxing and it’s making your whole breast shiny from the mess of it and -he can’t help it, he licks his lips, and you don’t miss it, even as he blushes scarlet at the desire that flashed across his brain.

You don’t out him, the jive of your relationship still feeling somehow precarious, like there’s a old shyness in the air. You pat at Ella’s bottom encouragingly, trying to keep her eager as her daddy still kneels and watches. She’s already starting to slow. And your breasts ache, they ache terribly still despite the munchkin’s having their dinner. You wonder about this shyness, you wonder about the way he’s shifting on the floor, the way his licked lips shimmer and the way you have a sneaking suspicion that the force of both your yearnings is so strong you’re playing safe until it can explode in some contained environment.

At some point he stopped just watching and took to leaning over your lap, the better to watch and stroke little Ella’s cheek as she sucks down what you give her. “A goddamn miracle, she is.” he whispers in awe and you nod in agreement, “We made this.” he states as if in shock, “We made these!” he boyishly exclaims, swiveling back to look at a conked out little Jesse before he turns back to you.

“We did indeed.” you grin warmly and he bites his lip, hands running up and down your thighs atop your skirt.

The familiarity of his old touchiness soothes you, and you lean over to kiss him gently, Ella already having let the nipple slip from her lips, sated with a measly meal after all that formula. You dribble on the cuff of his sleeve during the kiss and his eyes lock on the white stain seeping into the wool. You watch as he impulsively brings the sleeve to his mouth and sucks the moisture. His eyes blow wide, and you suck in a breath.

“I d-dunno what I-I-“ he protests his rash action.

“No, no, Elvis, would you -do you…” you lick your own lips and look down at Ella as she snoozes in a tremptohan dream, your engorged breast neglected.

You gently set her beside you on the couch while he clutches at your legs, waiting breathless to see if your mind is as compatibly wicked as his own.

“I need you, Elvis, I really do, please.” you whisper it so pained that he’s drawn closer as if it were a sirens sing -his woman needs him. “It’s not wrong, is it?”

All you’ve ever learned about any of this has been from him and the good book, and neither said nothin about forbidding anything done between couples in love. His tongue darts out and he shakes his head vehemently, even as his face burns scarlet across his cheekbones.

It’s like a slow movie kiss, the way you both gravitate towards each other, he rising up higher on his knees and leaning over your lap and you inclining yourself towards him.

You lift up a heavy breast and he’s so close to it his hot breath makes your wet nipple burn and tighten impossibly more, he pauses, open mouth puckered right before, eyes flicking up to yours with a wild need for assurance.

You put your other hand to the back of his head, knocking off his army hat and lacing your fingers through his shorn locks, gripping and guiding him that last inch, and then he’s there, his searing mouth engulfing you just as you remember from when you were a milkless maid.

“Please, please.” you gasp out, pushing his head closer and you see the broad line of his sturdy back ripple beneath his army greens in a shudder before he gives you what you need, mouth tightening, tongue dipping, cheeks hollowing. He sucks.

You moan in agonized relief, tugging his hair unconsciously and he moans back as the shockingly sweet deluge of you coats his tongue and slides down his throat. His heavy lidded eyes fly open at the taste, so sweet and refreshing and he finds that it’s not just the heady eroticism of it, or even the soothing closeness you’re both finally managing here and now that makes him float -it’s the truly comforting state of being clasped to your breast like this and being looked down upon so adoringly by the mother of his children. His arms wind round your waist and he locks his hands together at the small of you back. You’re a wonder of creations, an unfairly beautiful creature with a near unbearably impressive use. Rather like your tits, he thinks, and that makes him snicker around you little bud and you “oh ha!“ prettily in surprise at the vibration before settling and stroking his face.

“That’s it, that’s perfect, daddy, please a little more.” you whisper as he guzzles down his children’s sustainance.

He wouldn’t think of stopping, redoubles his efforts just to show you how invested he is, that this is no favor he is doing you. The painful throb between his legs, pressing as it is against your shin, ought to be proof enough to you he finds this nothing less than agreeable. His frostburned nose is warming up, nestled against burning hot flesh as it is, and he takes a chilled hand away from your waist to reach out and grasp your other breast. You gasp in shock and pain as out dribbles more milk, running in rivulets over and between his knuckles, down to his wrist.

“Oh my lord, there’s so much.” he groans in appreciation, greedily switching his spigot of choice and latching onto the other tit eagerly and your head falls back from the overwhelming feel of being taken care of.

“So good to me.” you marvel, dragging your hands through his hair, anchoring him still to you and he hums, his eyes growing heavy and milk settling warm and calming in his gut. “Always so good to me.”

You’re not suprised to feel the hot splash of what must be a tear on your breast, his sniffles just a little audible above the lewd noises of his suction and moans. This is you two, this is back to how it ought to be. You can feel him as he settles back into place with you, his whole body relaxing and leaning in. You flex your foot and it makes your leg brush against where he’s pressed to you and he bucks against your shin helplessly, a hand back on your waist and the other hefting your breast to his mouth. He ruts against your leg, months of absence and abstinence turning him into something no better than a dog in heat as he leans across your lap.

He pulls away with a gasp as if he’s been submerged this whole time. His face is glossy and his lips puffy and the collar of his shirt is wet from some of the milk he couldn’t catch. He looks wrecked and dazed and you thumb at the messy corner of his mouth. He reaches out and squeezes the breast he just deflated and laughs at the way it sags.

“Don’t.” you whine, a little shy but he just giggles harder and keeps jiggling it until you have to laugh, too.

“You all better now?” he asks soft, and your face is swimming in front of him, his hand staggers upwards on its way to clasp your cheek.

“Heavens, are you milk drunk?” you laugh, his whole expression hilariously childlike.

“Feel a lil funny.” he nods, slumping back on his knees but keeping his hands on your knees.

“That is becasue all the blood is down there.” your shiny black shoe toe nudges the tent in his pants and he grins bashfully.

“Well, hang on now!” he speaks up after a moment, frowning at one of your breasts and you look down to find a bead of milk gathering to drip again, “I just drained you!” he protests with wounded pride to your offending breast, “I just drained ya, and you're already drippin, what’s the big idea?”

“Elvis baby,” you laugh merrily, “It makes up to replace what comes out. Nursing encourages more production.”

“Sure but -but this is excessive!” he’s being louder than usual, inhibitions gone out the window the minute he’s sucked titties like a starving newborn while wearing his country’s uniform. “Hell, they ain’t gonna win this time.” he shakes his head and leans in again, “Gonna keep you comfy now you’re here wi’me.” he swears competitively before latching on again to the fuller breast and swallowing down the fresh brewed batch.

You can feel the relief mounting in your chest as that final little bit gets drained, soon there won’t be any more for him to suck out, so while you can, you take the opportunity afforded to you, one you never thought you’d have. You place your hand against his throat to feel it work as he swallows you down, a motion he is familiar with, one he does around your throat every time you swallow his release. It makes him growl in want and he laps around your bud as he ruts and stares deep into your bright eyes. The fan of his eyelashes flutter against your breast and you push back his hair, thumbing at his eyebrows, he goes a tad crosseyed as his pupils blow out and suddenly the desire for a nap is mighty powerful in him. He giggles, nipple falling from his lips, and you giggle too, through your blush, and cradle his head.

A hard knock on the door snaps both this pretty moment and the line of drool from his lips to your nipple. He rolls and scoots out of your lap and back on his ass like a soldier out of his foxhole and you hear Dodger’s voice saying something about the car being ready through the muffle of the partition.

“Right, right, ok.” Elvis hollers, vigorously wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand as he watches you do up your soaked shirt with nimble fingers.

“You’re really drunk, I think. You sure you’re alright?” you murmur, watching as he blinks and shakes his head as if he’s got water in an ear.

“Maybe.” he hiccups and then looks horrified by it, “Lordy, really don’t know what’s wrong with me, I-I-ill be fine i j-just a lil…what’s in that stuff anyway?” he nods at your now (sadly, deplorably, regretfully, criminally) covered breasts.

“Nutrients and sugar, I guess.” you chuckle, choosing to strap Ella in yourself, since he seems a little woozy.

“More like moonshine.” he gripes and then gasps in shock and you see what he does about the same time, a massive wet patch on the crotch of his khakis that he pokes at as if he isn’t sure when he’d spilled a drink in his lap.

“You didn’t!” you exclaim in gleeful shock and he gives you a warning look but you’re too far gone in smug satisfaction at making him blow a load just from tiddy sucking that you keep grinning down at him manically.

“I-i-I didn’t!” he insists, flustered and bewildered, “I don’t remember doin it! Wasn’t even touching m’slef.”

“You looked pretty happy there for a minute.” you tease merciless.

“Hell mama, how am I gonna stand up without makin it run ery’where? Gonna be goddamn humiliatin goin out there with wet pants.”

“Your jacket covers that area.” you soothe, ascertaining that the patch is high enough up.

“Not when I stand up it won’t, whole load is gonna run down ma leg an’drip on the floor. That’s three loooong months worth of cream right there, lil mama.”

Dodger knocks again and he looks up at you half panicked, “I’m coming in, all this press doin my head in.” she hollers in warning.

“Yes of course, come on in!” you encourage her while reaching down into the carrier and snagging the burp cloth, “Here, sop it up!” you hiss at him, extending the cotton cloth and he looks at it incredulous for a brief moment before the door opens and he spins away to shove his hand and the fabric down his pants and collect the mess so it doesn’t streak his pant leg upon standing up.

He has to give ya credit, it sorta works. He pulls the sodden rag out of his waistband and turns around to see his grandmother helping collect the luggage and you smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt. He thinks he sees a shiny patch of fluid on the shin of your nylons. He shivers again.

Dodger makes no comment on your wet blouse, she expected as much and the mink you don again covers it just fine. Elvis she observes with a critical eye and a shake of her head, he’s a hopeless case really. He looks a mess, not in any particularly blatant way, just the dazed light in his eyes and the plump of his lips and the wet around his collar, the glow to his cheeks. He looks like he just enjoyed himself somehow, though the HOW remains a bit nebulous. One can only hope the papers put it down to familial affection.

There are reporters from every paper outside, American and German and British, and then the fans to boot. It’s all rather rude just to plunge ahead through the well wishes and welcomes so you and he walk arm and arm through it all, a baby carrier strategically carried in front of him, and dish out pithy replies to an abundance of questions.

-“You look lovely, Mrs Presley! So glad to see you recovered!”

-“Oh my god I can’t believe it’s them!”

-“Did she really fly commercial?”

-“How do you feel about her going spring unaccompanied, Elvis?”

“She weren’t unaccompanied,” he shakes his head, “she was with my Grandma.”

-“Can we see the babies?”

“Sure ya can!” he tugs the blanket down past Ella’s chin but as the bulbs go off and her eyes crinkle sadly he quickly snaps back the hood of the carrier, “Aww, she ain’t a fan of your lights, man.” he apologizes, a huge smile on his face as the crowd coos and he almost forgets in his pride to not raise the carrier up and expose his accident.

“You look a little, uh, wet, Elvis.” an oft encountered American journalist has the audacity to reach out and touch the soaked collar of his shirt, a shit eating grin on his face.

Elvis tenses and his stride beside you gains speed but the slimey columnist keeps pace, “So much meltin snow out there, man,” uour husband tries to grin for the cameras, “I’m from Memphis, I dunno how to handle that stuff, gets on ma trousers and collar and er’ryrhing.”

“Sure, sure.” the reporter nods, “Bet you’re glad to have your wife on this side of the pond but there’s gonna be a lotta disappointed Frauleins.”

“They won’t be disappointed for long once they get to know ‘er.” Elvis states with jovial certainty. You can’t help but beam.

“You can’t blame them for being sore,” the guy won’t be put off or dislodged from your side as you exit the airport out onto the frigid sidewalk, “not every dame was born to be a cum guzzler.” the guy acts as if he’s agreeing with something Elvis said while throwing this tabloid trash back up into your face.

You positively refuse to flinch at the reference to the bugged phone call but Elvis stalls to a complete halt right beside your shiny ride, looking over at the man with deathly hate in his eyes, “The hell did you just say?” he inquires, terribly quiet.

“I was just quoting you, man.” The guy throws his hands up defensively and you duck and scoot around Elvis to help Dodger load the car, watching your husband coil up for an attack out your periphery.

“You’re quotin a newspaper that coughed up a couple million in damages for illegally tapin’ a private call!” he explodes and if anyone was unaware of what spurs him to grab the fellow by the shirt front and pin him to the hood, they are now informed. “If you ever, and I do mean ever,” he goes on, fist crushing the guy's diaphragm and voice shaking in terrible, hushed rage, “say or repeat or even so much as think of my wife like that again I’ll ruin ya. I don’t mean your job, I don’t mean your life, I mean I’ll ruin ya so bad you’ll wake up everyday wishin your mama washed you out with a douche when she had the chance. You hearin me? Yeah, yeah, what’s that? You’re sorry? That’s reaaalll nice of ya, you should be sorry. Alright, alright, I’ll take your apology but yer gonna apologize to my lil wife, too, you hear me? Go’on now, you scummy sunnuvabitch, you don’t even deserve to look at er.”

You lean against the inside of the car door, straight backed in your heels, family all packed inside the cab and await the windless reporter to get his voice back enough to stammer out a “apologies, Mrs. Presley, I didn’t mean to be inappropriate, I didn’t mean to-“

“We all know what you meant to do, you ungentlemanly bastard,” your husband shakes him by his collar and you glance uneasily at the gathering crowd but they seem mostly sympathetic, “You’re tryin to shame an admirable woman for her God given talent of pleasin her husband -and for likin it while she’s at it. Well you ain’t gettin away with it, not this time.”

When he lets go of the man, the guy nearly catapults into the crowd from the force of the shove. He meets no helpers among them and ends up face first on the cement.

Elvis saunters back and holds the car door open wider and motions you into the cab, you take your seat. He clears his throat before turning back around and dipping his hat to the throng, “Night yall, god bless.” before scooting in beside you and the ride takes off to your new home, your new life here in Germany.

Dodger’s eyes are smiling around her coke as she sits between the babies, watching proudly as Elvis settles next to you and heaves out a long breath.

“Always some bastard tryin to ruin a nice day.” he murmurs but it fades into a happy little sigh as you reach out and take his hand, your head leaning on his shoulder, finally snug beside him again. You smile, knowing he’ll raise your son right, kindly, respectfully.

Elvis’ pant leg beneath your fist is wet and you sneakily pat him there beneath his coat flaps. He nuzzles your hair with his nose and you feel his hot breath tickling your ear as out comes a deep whisper, “Don’t fret o’er that, Elaine, there’s more where that came from.”

[clownflipflops]

In the Building, Prologue

A/N: Been a long time, everyone. A long, long time. I asked myself: what would happen if Austin was actually possessed by Elvis? This is a wild ride, so hold onto ya hats.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Mentions of Elvis's death, and his manner of death: i.e. drugs & addiction. Man's a ghost, y'all, he's contractually obligated to be an angsty lil dude.

Special thanks to:

@precious-little-scoundrel, who did more with one ask reply than she'll ever know. You're the best WD-40 I never knew I needed.

@elvisabutler, for the advice on formatting and being so welcoming. I look forward to screaming about more history with you.

@memphis-mania, for the gorgeous fics you made from my prompts. Your journey back into writing inspired my own.

Without further ado, welcome Into the Building:

The lights were on.

Elvis stirred a little within his portrait, a shudder going through him like the bass of speakers through a stage. He could feel the buzz of the electrics through the walls, one of the things that he supposed came with being dead but alive. The lights were on, but… he didn’t see any people, and that struck him as odd enough that he peered out, down the staircase. Where were the crowds? All the lights were on, the house lit up like an altarpiece, but only two people stood in front of Graceland’s door: a woman and a man.

The woman he dimly registers as "staff", one of the caretakers with her smart pantsuit and carefully curated personage. The man he doesn't recognize. He holds a cloth bag and has a guitar slung across his back. Maybe they doin' more photographs comes to him, a slow molasses-drip of a thought. His mind grasped at their conversation only barely, their voices coming in and out as he let himself float, fully immersed in the paint of his own body. When he was in an object like this he always felt hazy, half-asleep unless he concentrated. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Butler–”

“–It’s beautiful–”

“–can give you the tour–”

“–I’ll make my own way 'round.”

Footsteps, and then Elvis found his painted eyes landing on a blonde man, a boy, who stared up at him like he was seeing the face of the Almighty. It was enough to yank his consciousness into place, that look. 

Elvis hated that look. 

That's when he decided a little trick was in order–as the kid moved on, Elvis had the eyes of his portrait follow. It made the boy pause, then chuckle, “Damn, it’s one of them paintings that follows you!” before he moved along. That irked Elvis enough that he tore himself out of the canvas, ghostly footsteps doggedly shadowing the kid as he moved through Graceland. Oh, he’d show ‘em. 

But Elvis found himself just…following him. Walking, as much as he could walk anymore, and watching. Every room, every hall, the boy dragged his fingers against the walls, or stared in contemplation as he ran featherlight touches over a throw pillow. The touching was new. Normally everyone treated this house as the thing it’d become: a mausoleum. A tomb. A shrine to everything and nothing of his at once, holy and damned. Elvis watched with some long-jaded jealousy the way palms sank into a chair's cushion. 

As the blonde passed a lamp, Elvis used a bit more energy to make it flicker. It barely made the other man's stride falter, and Elvis's frown grew bigger. Tough audience, he grumbled internally. His lips stayed firmly shut. When the boy walked in front of the cases holding his jumpsuits, Elvis found himself expending yet more of himself to melt into the reflection in front of him–one of the few things he could do, aside from fiddle with the lights. He thought it might have to do with how he had lived and breathed in those suits, and he took some amusement in seeing those lanky limbs flail as the man gasped a surprised yelp. But–it was… more of a reaction than Elvis was expecting, truth be told. Like the boy could actually see him as more than a man-shaped blur. “Lordy, this place’s creepier’n all Hell,” he heard the boy mutter. And that–that was. That was his voice. His accent. His tone. It threw Elvis into the air as his concentration slipped and he forgot to pretend. 

They ascended the stairs again, eventually, and Elvis was within his own bedroom soon enough. He normally avoided this place, and an uneasy shiver was vibrating the base of his skull. The boy walked forward and stood a few feet away from the entrance to his bathroom, and Elvis became lost as he stared at the tile. All at once he could feel his own lungs collapsing, the pain in his chest, the sheer horror as he felt himself dying a dog’s death–and he remembered with crystal clarity how he stood over his own corpse, watched some boys in white coats take it away. Watched them wrap him up, his face unmoving and smeared in his own vomit. He didn’t remember a lot of those days in between, not until he found himself standing over his own grave, his body six feet under. It never felt real, not until that moment. He stood above freshly-churned dirt, but his feet never touched the ground, not really. His shoes didn’t make an imprint in the loamy soil. 

He wondered why he was here. 

The cold gravestone, etched with his name, taunted him–and that’s when the fugue broke, the dam shattered. Elvis heard a scream, and it wasn’t until he caught himself collapsing to his knees that he realized it was him making that gut-wrenching howl of agony. He couldn’t feel his throat, couldn’t feel the vibration of his own damn vocal chords. So he screamed harder, hoping, hoping for that familiar sensation.

He clawed at the dirt, at the flowers piled high, but his hands touched nothing. His tears trailed his cheeks only to disappear as soon as they left him. God, why was he here? Elvis gasped desperately, but no air filled his lungs. Raising his head, he wanted to see anyone, maybe someone lingering from the funeral, but no. The entire time Elvis had floated above in a trance, and now he'd missed his chance. He was alone, alone with his grave, right next to his mama’s own headstone, and another wail ripped from his chest because why, why even in death was he alone?

“Mama, mama p-please–please, Satnin, please God Almighty–”

“Please!” he gasped, and he was back in the ensuite bathroom. 

The boy was gone. 

Panic gripped at Elvis, because he couldn’t be alone right now. Not now. A preternatural cold clawed up his spine, and that was the whip that jerked him to his feet. He looked around his bedroom, the hallway–and then he abandoned his little game of pretend, phasing through walls, feet floating inches from the floor as he rushed through Graceland. He hated to do this, but any discomfort was forgotten in the face of that icy terror. Elvis was drowning without air, without water, without anyone to save him. He felt buried alive, and that nearly made a hysterical giggle leave him, because he was certainly buried, just not alive. It wasn’t until he flew through the halls near the Jungle Room that he caught it: music. Whipping around, Elvis shot into the Jungle Room and stopped abruptly because there the boy was, sitting in Elvis’s chair, the bag he had carried a heap on the floor. The guitar case leaned against the wall. Elvis’s eyes can’t help but track the source of the music, because it registers as familiar. A turntable sits on the floor, slivery in the low lights, and–a record with his face spins on it. Elvis feels… he doesn’t quite know what, but that chilled grip has loosened as he watches the blonde boy in front of him bob his head to the record. It’s switching songs, the needle skipping just slightly–and then ”Heartbreak Hotel” comes on, and he abruptly cannot stand the sound, cannot abide by hearing his own voice. It just reminds him–he cain’t sing no more. He can’t feel the rhythm, can’t feel the sound, can’t touch his guitar to strum a tune. But the player is–it’s electric, and Elvis finds that whatever makes it spin bends to his will as well as the lights around the house do, if he gives it enough thought and concentration. He’s used up so much of himself today, he’s not sure if it’ll still work. The hollow emptiness and his own sealed lips make the decision for him, and Elvis reaches. The record stops. 

Elvis feels the gaze of the boy lock onto the player, and hears a grumble of “Damn thing, whassit doin’–” before Elvis has an idea pop into his head that could break him. But he has to–he has to try, God above, he has to try because if he doesn’t he thinks he might go as insane as he once joked he was on the stage of the International in front of MGM cameras. 

The record starts again, and the blonde sits down, but–it skips, and yes, it’s workin’, praise th’ Lord, maybe He’s heard his prayers. Then it continues on perfectly swell, and Elvis is close to screaming, lack of feeling be damned. He’d give anything, even music, to have someone just… just… 

He redoubles his efforts, bullheaded obstinacy and sheer desperation fueling him. The record skips, once, twice:

“Lonely–so lonely–broken…” before it resumes, and Elvis does scream, then, baring his teeth as he collapses to the carpeted floor and shoves his hands into the player, trying to grasp anything he can. His voice goes as unheard as it always has since his death, and that fact burns him worse than any Hellfire. 

So Elvis tries yet again.

“...lovers

To cry there in their gloom

Be so, they'll be so lonely, baby

They get so lonely

They're so lonely, they could die,” “--tears flowin’--look,” and a pause, as those blue eyes stare, wide open, at the player and how the record makes a screeching noise as the needle scrawls back across the vinyl. “Look,” comes again, and Elvis pants, on his knees in agony as those eyes look right through him. They look through him just as every other pair has since 1977. 

“If–you–” and then another squeal of the needle as the turntable goes back to “look”, and Elvis shudders, feeling drained enough he lets the record play. “...back

And they get so, they get so lonely, baby

Well, they are so lonely

They're so lonely, they could die.”

Before the boy takes the needle off the record, and lifts the disc, checking it–and Elvis is met with no mumbled thoughts of ghosts or the supernatural, nothing. Silence, just like what haunts him every night, alone in the house he once called home. And he’s… he’s exhausted himself with that last little stunt, curling over his own knees. He’s so tired, a bone-deep ache that makes him want to crawl into his own damn grave and lay there until he can disappear for good. The boy is so close, and Elvis is feeling that freezing hand return to choke him, so he does something that he hasn’t done since Lisa-Marie was last here laying flowers next to his tombstone: he tries to touch. Elvis reaches out and places his hands on the boy’s–no, this is a man, he admits–shoulders. A beat passes as he waits for the inevitable water-logged sensation he gets from phasing through something. Instead, a tingle shoots up his arm, and he tries to jerk away but finds he can’t remove his palms. Elvis feels a sucking sensation like the first time he touched his portrait, only stronger, and he’s–yanked into somewhere. The confusion tamps down any emotional turmoil for a moment, but that comes crashing back as he blinks. Because he blinks. A shaky inhale, and he feels his eyelashes brush his cheeks, the carpet under him, feels the clothes heavy on his back, the brush of hair on his forehead, the weight of flesh and bone and blood making him queasy because it’s…

Too much. He doesn’t–he can’t– And he’s hyperventilating like he did before the Hayride so long ago, breathing so fast he feels lightheaded enough to subconsciously lift his hands up to touch his face, his chest. All that does is make him jerk his head down to watch the play of muscles in not-his-hands, feeling the panic bubble expand without end. He abruptly shoves himself to his feet, but they’re not his, are they? This body isn’t his own, it’s too long-limbed and he finds himself flailing in an effort to get to somewhere he can see, somewhere he can–can look at what’s happening to himself. He tumbles into the coffee table, the sheen allowing him to see that he’s wearing the boy’s face, but it’s Elvis’s own panic, because he knows that lift of the left side of his face, the eyebrow and lip in unison twisting. He just doesn’t know it on this face. Golden curls spill down this forehead and stubble pricks at the upper lip, handsome but utterly foreign. It's like an ill-fitting suit and he doesn't know what is happening. “What the Hell?” and that’s–that’s not Elvis talking, but he feels and sees the lips of his–not his, dammit–body move, and he finds himself answering with the same mouth, “Ya think I know what in th’ Lord’s name is goin’ on, boy? Aw, Hell,” because he’s not used to breathing and finds he’s winded from the talking. Elvis focuses on that face, traces the brows and every corkscrew curl, makes a conscious effort on inhaling and exhaling. In through the mouth, out through the nose, like his mama taught him. Just as Elvis half manages to wrangle the pair of lungs he’s got under control, not-him is using up that hard earned air yet again to shout, “Get out!–Get out of me, whoever you are–” and that sucking sensation is back, pulling on Elvis, like somebody’s got him by the collar. 

Elvis is shunted back outside of the other man, sprawled on the floor, gasping. And that's still wrong-feeling, so foreign to Elvis he practically hears German chatter in his ears. He grasps his own throat because the whistle of air is still there, and as he looks up he's–he’s met with equally blue eyes. 

The boy is looking at him, and that takes whatever breath he gained in the few seconds since separation away. It's with sheer surprise on his face that he listens to the question posed to him:

"Are you… Elvis Presley?" And that–that makes him crack into hysterical laughter, breaking his silence, because how many times has he been asked that question? How many reporters, fans, celebrities, movie directors, music producers have looked at his face and repeated those same damn words to him? It's the familiarity that settles in his chest that strikes the blow for tears to pour down his face.

"You… You're Elvis Presley," the blonde across from him breathes from where he now kneels, still looking at him. And Elvis can't stop the sobbing laughter ratcheting from his ribcage, because he can feel with his hand the hum of his own vocal chords, and it's so welcome he thinks he may never be silent again. Elvis can't bring himself to care that the first person to see him in nigh on fifty years probably thinks he's a madman as he lays there, sprawled on the floor and clutching his own neck. 

"Oh my God, am I goin' insane? This cain't be real," he hears, and that's–that won't do. Elvis wheezes before clawing himself upright, turning to the boy to finally answer. He leaves his legs sprawled out before him, weighty in a way that’s unfamiliar. 

"Real as can be, my boy, praise th' Lord," and Elvis can't stop the giggle hitching the end of his sentence because he feels the words leave his lips, sees how the person across from him reacts. "Heaven-sent, 's whatcha are,” Elvis whispers, and that quietude delights him almost as much as the uproarious noise of his own laughter. "I ain't alone no more," he mutters more to himself than to the man across from him. 

"Alone? What…" and realization strikes across the boy's pretty face, no doubt coming quicker than a lightning strike as he thinks about just how long it's been since Elvis Aaron Presley's death. Or maybe that's Elvis's own wishful thinking, that old want to be understood coming back with a roar. He can hear him, he can see him, he can know him.

Elvis has been here for so very long. He'd lost his faith and then regained it, he'd written a thousand songs only to lose them to the march of time. He’s seen a million faces come into and out of Graceland to pay homage to a man he didn’t know anymore. He'd screamed and cried and begged on his knees, only to realize that the voice that once gave him so much power failed him for the very first time. Elvis Presley had watched as people came and went for decades, as new fans became old, as his name became history. Elvis had rot within the grounds of Graceland long after his body became nothing more than bones.

"Yeah," Elvis grins now, crocodile eyes manic, "What's ya name, m'boy?" And the person in front of him answers, to Elvis's ever-mounting giddiness. He can hear him.

"Austin Butler," is said with an awed twist to the other man's mouth, a hesitant hand outstretched to Elvis. "It's–it's, ah, a pleasure to–to meet ya, Mr. Presley." The boy, Austin, meets his eyes. He can see him.

And Elvis, for the first time in his unlife, maybe even since he was last on a stage, laughs in joy. He's not alone, not anymore, God Almighty he's not lonesome no more. He can know him.

It feels like music.

[clownflipflops]

Caterpillar, Caterpillar | Dad!Elvis X Reader

Warnings: Fluff!

Word Count: 1.4K

Summary: Elvis woke up early this morning and noticed the grass growing far too tall to ignore. Of course he decides to take it into his own hands and handle it on his own...but he needs partner in crime, of course!

It was early in the morning and the sun had just crested the horizon, spraying the earth in a blast of warm light. Moisture was evident in the air, the blades of grass dancing despite being weighed down by a layer of dew. The gargantuan oak trees loomed over Graceland in dignified whimsy, while flocks of birds chattered from within the boughs. 

“Now baby,” Elvis said, perched on his John Deere beside his daughter. “They say ya shouldn’t cut grass early in the morning or after it rains, but it’s gettin’ so high that we just gotta take care of it.” Mallory sat beside her father, looking around at the lawn below, watching dragonflies and bees landing on the glistening blades of grass, drinking up the drops of water. 

“Daddy,” Mallory asked, her tone pitched high. She swung her head up to her father. “Why isn’t Mr. Bill cutting the grass?” Her eyes were full of innocence, and it was true that Bill Laurie was hired for groundskeeping, but Elvis had given him a month off to be with his family. Little Mallory didn’t know–she was too young to understand–but his wife, Deborah, was diagnosed with terminal cancer in June. 

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with hard work, baby girl,” He said, picking his daughter up and placing her on his knee. “Sometimes it’s a good thing to do hard work by yourself and for yourself. Like yesterday when Mama let you make your own peanut butter and banana sandwich. Remember?” He lowered his head, bending to kiss her on the cheek as he spoke. She nodded proudly. 

“Mmhmm!” She agreed, sitting up perfectly straight with her hands on her hips. “All by myself!” 

Elvis chuckled softly. “I bet it tasted even better than normal, didn’t it?” He asked. 

“It was so yummy daddy! Mommy let me put sprinkles on it!” Her pigtails flopped about her face as she shook her head. She giggled freely about nothing and everything at the same time, the sunlight illuminating the hues of color within her hair. 

“Sprinkles?” He asked, his eyes widening. “Mama’s spoilin’ you…I won’t be able to keep up soon.” He adjusted his daughter in his lap, and he pushed the seat of the tracker closer to the steering wheel. “Hang on, Sweets.”

Elvis rode the tractor with one hand and held his daughter with the other, taking laps around the yard, most definitely digging deep tire marks into the ground. He rounded the trees slowly, pointing at the squirrels running up and down the trees, foraging for food. He reached to pick up caterpillars, slowly inching along on their journey. 

“Ooooh!” Mallory cooed, reaching out her little hand to take the bug from her father. 

“Now, now baby.” Elvis said, pulling his hand away from her. “Remember, this is a living animal. It deserves love and kindness too, right?” He said, returning his hand closer to her. She nodded slowly. “Take your little finger and pet the little guy. Softly now.” 

He watched as Mallory stuck out her tiny pointer finger, running it gently down the back of the caterpillar as it inched along Elvis’s palm. She let out a high-pitched squeal, kicking and giggling. “Ew! He’s so squishy!” Elvis tightened his grip around his daughter. “I wanna touch him again!” Elvis brought his hand back to his daughter. 

“One more time,” He said, allowing Mallory to pet the caterpillar once more. “How about we make a little song?” He asked, turning his head to look at her. 

“I like songs, Daddy!” She responded slowly, her attention captivated by the creature in his hand. 

“You do?” He asked rhetorically. 

“Mmhmm!” She answered, her tone flitting upward at the end. 

“Alright,” he said, pulling and adjusting Mallory higher on his knee. “How about something like this,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“Caterpillar, caterpillar wigglin on a tree,

Well you’re the cutest bug I ever did see.

If I could, I would carry you in my pocket all day. 

But soon you’ll be a butterfly,

And butterflies gotta fly away.”

He sang the tune in an improvised manner, using a familiar rhythm. The words came to him quickly, making him chuckle as he sang them. Mallory couldn’t help but copy her father, her little belly hitching in laughter. 

“Try it with me now, baby.” He said in her ear. 

“Caterpillar, caterpillar wigglin on a tree,” they began together, singing the song for all to hear as the tractor chugged softly in place. “And butterflies gotta fly away.”

“Daddy. I wanna be a butterfly,” Mallory said, watching Elvis place the tiny critter back on a low-hanging branch. 

“So you can fly away from me?” He asked with a wide grin. She shook her head no. “See, I always wanted to fly. Don’t you think that would be fun?” He asked. 

She smiled, her head craning toward the morning sky, watching sparrows flit out of the trees. “You could fly with me, Daddy!” She said, crawling her way to turn on Elvis’s knee to look up at him. He looked down at her, his lips pulled in a beautiful smile. 

“I’ll always fly with you, Little ‘Lory. Where are we flying to?” He asked. 

“Candy Land!” Mallory squealed, covering her face with her hands as she giggled. 

“Candy Land? Whatcha want? Some lollipops?” he said, shooting his fingertips out at her little body, tickling her excitedly. She screeched as his hands flitted about her belly, feet, and knees. “Some gummy bears maybe?” He said again, continuing his attack. “I’m gonna eat your toes! Those are candy!” He said, reaching for her foot, pretending to eat her tiny feet. 

“Daddy no!” She screamed, pushing her father away as best as she could.

“What are you two monkeys up to?” You asked, stepping into the yard, having heard them from the living room. 

“I’m eating Lory's little feets!” Elvis said, bending to place several playful kisses on his daughters feet and legs as she giggled and squirmed. 

“No!” She cried out, her hair whipping about her head. 

“Mommy wants some too!” You said, stepping beside the stalled tractor. You bent down to your daughter’s level, lifting her shirt to spray raspberries on her belly. Mallory wiggled and kicked, throwing her head back in laughter. 

“Baby, mow the lawn later. Can we just watch a movie? We only have two days left with you ‘till you leave for Palm Springs.” You were sure that you sounded whiny, at the same time, you really didn’t care. You wanted to be with your little family and savor the time you had together. 

“Sure baby, but why don’t you just come with me? Stay at Ladera.” 1350 Ladera Circle was a beautiful sprawling Palm Springs home that Elvis had purchased two years ago while he was away filming. You loved being there, but you hadn’t prepared to stay this time. 

“I haven’t gotten anything together,” You said, picking up mallory and hoisting her up on your hip as she reached out for you. Elvis helped lift her to you. 

“That shouldn’t be an issue, baby. I could have you ready to go by tomorrow night and we could all fly out together. Daddy will take care of the house while we’re gone.” Elvis reasoned, turning the tractor off by the key in its ignition. 

“You sure we wouldn’t be a distraction?” You asked, bouncing Mallory, who was rolling pieces of your hair around her fingers. 

“You know I get lonely quick, Satnin,” Elvis said, standing up out of the tractor seat and hopping off of the machine. “Come with me. Please.” He bent to kiss you lovingly on your lips, rubbing the softness of your cheek with his thumb. “Your eye makeup looks beautiful. Keep it like that,” Elvis added, biting his bottom lip. 

“Alrighty Little Lory, How about we fix up a little morning snack?Maybe you can show Daddy how to make one of your famous peanut butter and ‘nanner sandwiches, hm?” He hummed, tugging on her ear softly. 

“Okay, Daddy!” She said, turning to bury her face playfully in your shirt.

“Come on, baby. We gotta get packed.” He said, taking your free hand. He leaned down to kiss you. 

“You’re gonna leave that in the middle of the yard?” You asked, looking at the tractor. 

Elvis shrugged. “Eh, I’ll mow later. I’ve got to take care of my girls first.” You grinned as he walked you back toward the house, Mallory continuing to ask you all sorts of questions about why you haven’t bought her a bunny rabbit or a big ole turtle yet. 

“Baby, that’s a whole conversation for another day.” 

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[clownflipflops]

‘Tomorrow Will Be Too Late’

Part 3

Summary: Elvis Presley x Reader / For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved two things - Elvis Presley and time travel. After seeing the 1968 Comeback Special for the first time, you decide to try and get back to him for one incredible night, by any means necessary.

Author’s note: I’m starting to realize not everyone is as into time travel as me lol I promise you this is very very light on the sci-fi and very heavy on Elvis and reader.

Warnings: NSFW - 18+ only. Language, infidelity, p in v, oral (m. receiving), fingering, spanking, daddy kink, angry Elvis.

Word count: 5,396

TWBTL Masterlist

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Morning sunlight peeks through the curtains and you squeeze your closed eyes tighter against it. You feel a warm presence behind you, legs curled into the back of yours, a heavy arm draped across your middle and a large hand lightly cupping one of your breasts. The events of last night come flooding back to you and your nipple under his hand, Elvis’s hand, stiffens to a peak. After you had lost yourself, first to your tears and then to Elvis, you had lain awake with him into the wee hours of the morning, tangled up in the bedsheets and each other, talking. You heard about his nerves preparing for the Christmas special and his fears about how his fans would receive him - or if they even would. He talked about his worries that he was no longer relevant, just some washed up singer and actor the older crowd was into. You had tried to reassure him, as best you could, that his fears were unfounded. You knew, of course, the end result. But you couldn’t exactly tell him what you knew, because then that would lead to how you knew. And you didn’t think Elvis was ready for that. You told him about yourself, where you grew up and about your family. Those things were fact and you happily shared them, wanting to give some small, true piece of yourself to him. He teased you sweetly about how you had met in the hallway yesterday, saying you were the first girl that truly fell for him. A familiarity had enveloped you both, a camaraderie, as if you were the only two people in the world. A Taylor Swift lyric floated through your head at one point and you spoke it out loud, to Elvis’s delight.

“Have I known you twenty seconds, or twenty years,” you had murmured, laying on your stomach next to him, lightly tracing his features - eyebrows, eyes, nose, lips, chin and back again. His long body was stretched out and relaxed, an arm folded beneath his head as he looked up at you, the fingers of his other hand skimmed delicately across the skin of your shoulder. His eyes had lit up at that and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“I was just thinkin’ the same thing, only not in so many words. But I love the way you put it, honey, very poetic.”

Elvis stirs a little behind you and your thoughts return to the present. You keep very still, enjoying the feeling of his skin on your skin, his body pressed all along yours. You would stay here forever if you could, in this sweet communion, this closeness that rivals everything you’ve ever had with someone else. He’s breathing softly near your ear and his breath stirs a piece of hair that tickles your cheek. You try to ignore the itch that is now begging to be scratched, unwilling to end this idyllic moment. You try and hold out for as long as you can before you reach up and scratch your cheek, causing Elvis to grip your breast tighter. He stretches and sighs before burying his head in the crook of your shoulder and rutting his hips a little against your backside. He’s already semi-hard and you push your rear end back into him and he groans sleepily, moving his hand down to your waist to draw you nearer. You feel the scratch of his stubble as he begins planting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder and down your arm. You reach a hand back and grab a handful of his hair as he continues his assault. A hand trails down your thigh, making you jump a little, before he takes hold of your knee and draws your leg back over his own, granting him access to your soaking heat. He cups your mound and teases your folds with a long, delicate finger.

“Already so wet for me, baby? Mmm,” he hums sleepily against your shoulder and you feel his smile. Your head arches back against him as he makes contact with your sensitive clit for a moment, your breath stuttering. His other hand slips underneath your body to your breast, running his knuckles back and forth over your hard nipple. You buck against him at the sensation and he inhales sharply. He dips one finger, then two, inside of you, his other hand still teasing your breast. He slowly pumps his fingers in and out and all of your concentration zeros in on the feeling of the drag of his digits inside you, as you tighten around him. Your lips fall open and you breathe little sighs that seem to spur him on. His palm finds your aching bud and he gently adds pressure, causing you to buck your hips again. He buries his head in your neck once more and starts to suck, using his tongue and his teeth. It’s almost too much - his hand on your breast, his mouth on your skin, his fingers moving inside you with a steady rhythm, curling up to hit the most delicious spot. The fact that he’s touching you, so intimately, with such familiarity only adds to your euphoria. It sends you hurtling towards the edge, then over it. You clench fiercely around his fingers, sucking them back in and trapping them at the knuckle, keening out his name like a prayer, a curse, a plea. He gathers you to his chest with his other arm, holding you close against him as you ride out your orgasm, finally collapsing back against him, spent.

“Good mornin’ to you too, baby,” he rumbles in your ear, the feeling reverberating against your back as you try and catch your breath, still coming down from your high. He rolls you over onto your back like a rag doll and moves to hover over you, the weight of his body pinning you to the bed. Your legs instinctively open to him and he settles between your thighs.

“Goddamn, Elvis,” you gasp, heart still racing, face flushed and eyes unfocused. He rakes you over with his eyes, hunger burning hotly in them, before trailing kisses across your face, kissing everywhere but where you really need him - your mouth. You try and catch his lips with yours but he’s too quick and pulls back to smirk at you. You focus on his plump, swollen lips before raising your eyes to meet his blue ones, silently pleading with him. He gives you a look that you can’t quite read, like he’s trying to figure something out, his eyes searching yours. Whatever it is must pass because he leisurely lowers his mouth to yours, finally. He’s in no hurry as he nips and licks and sucks at your mouth, your lips, your tongue. It’s the most sensual thing you’ve ever experienced and a fever blooms in your head, your chest, your belly. You feel his rock hard length against your stomach and reach down to take him in your hand, locking your eyes into his. You move your hand up and down at a measured pace, thumb grazing his engorged tip and he hisses through his teeth. He thrusts his hips into your hand and groans softly, his head dropping to your forehead. You kiss him hungrily then move your ministrations to his jaw, his shoulder, biting softly.

“Please…Elvis,” you beg in a whisper, “I need you. Inside me.” He doesn’t make you wait long before he takes himself from your hand, finds your slick entrance and slides home, filling you to the brim as he did last night. You let out the breath you’ve been holding as he starts rocking in and out at an agonizingly slow pace, every time he leaves you empty it seems to take an eternity for him to return and fill you. The pleasure is so unbearable that tears well up in your eyes and you can’t help the strangled whine that falls from your lips. You’re clawing at his shoulders, his back, his hips, needing more than what he’s giving you. This urges Elvis on and he grips your hip, slamming harder into you, driving in and out, his slow movements becoming faster and more desperate now. He draws one of your legs up and over his forearm, bringing you impossibly close to him, the new angle sending you into a tailspin, your head thrashing from side to side on the pillow, your breath all but gone. Your fingers find your clit and almost immediately you’re clenching around him so hard he jerks to a momentary stop, choking out a grunt and then re-doubling his efforts as he keeps pumping into you. You grab his hair, making him look at you, fighting to hold his gaze as you fall apart, wanting more than anything to feel connected to him in this moment. His eyes are wild and sweet as they watch you come undone. Not long after, his eyebrows furrow and he grits his teeth as he finds his release deep inside you, still staring into your eyes like they’re the last thing he’ll ever see. His warmth spills into you as you cling to his broad shoulders, one hand cradling his cheek as he trembles and finally crumples, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him, tucking you into his chest.

Neither of you speak for a moment, too exhausted to to string words together. For your part, you’re feeling emotional and slightly fragile, lost in the innumerable thoughts swirling in your mind. You hadn’t anticipated the actual toll this would all take on you, but it’s hitting like a ton of bricks now and you turn cold at the thought it will be over soon. You can’t stay here forever, as much as you would like to. You start to shiver uncontrollably and Elvis pulls you closer, covering you both with a blanket.

“You ok, darlin’?” He whispers against your head, his lips resting in your hair. He rubs your arm to warm you up and you just lay there shaking, unable to stop, unable to speak. Tears threaten to fall but you keep them at bay, closing your eyes and breathing to try and calm yourself.

“Yeah, baby. I’m ok,” you say, forcing your voice to take on a normal tone. “Better than ok.” You snuggle into his arms, trying to enjoy the moment. “Oh and I was thinking… do you think maybe…” you pause and he looks down at you.

“What?” He says, eyebrow quirking up.

“Maybe you could wear the leather outfit back here tonight?” You’re blushing and he knows it.

He chuckles out loud, deep and amused. “You’re a dark horse, Y/N. Anybody ever tell you that? I’ll see what I can do.”

From there your day passes in a blur. Elvis is needed on set by 11am and leaves you behind at the hotel to get ready, having ordered some dresses to be sent to the suite. You hadn’t brought any other clothes with you, planning on only staying one night. It was easy really, Elvis assuming you were staying at another hotel and choosing to have some options brought up for you from the hotel boutique, it was just easier that way he said. He gives you a quick peck on the mouth and lingers just a little, enough to promise that there’s more where that came from, later. He arranges for a car to pick you up and take to you the studio, where Jerry will ensure you’re seated in the audience for the taping. You end up being close to the stage, where you can see Elvis and he can see you, but far enough away where you don’t draw attention to yourself. It’s one of the most thrilling things you’ve ever experienced. You didn’t expect to actually get to see Elvis, in his element, up close and personal. His connection to the audience is unparalleled, he feeds off their energy and love. You can see it in his movements, his voice, the way his enthusiasm builds with every song. By the end, he’s buzzing, almost levitating off the stage floor. The audience is in a frenzy and Elvis in heaven. He’s made eye contact with you a few times, and every time it happens a shot of adrenaline shoots through your veins, setting you on fire, eating you from the inside.

So when you find yourself back in his hotel room later that night, waiting anxiously for him to walk through the door once more, you practically throw yourself on him the minute he does. He’s clad in head-to-toe leather, hair slightly mussed and a cheeky grin on his chiseled face. You’re so aroused from the events of the day and it feels like it’s been an eternity since you’ve kissed him, felt his soft, pliant lips against yours. He groans into your mouth and wraps his arms around you.

“Every time I saw you in the audience today I was so turned on I thought I might come, right then and there,” he says, unashamed. Your face flames at the very thought and he pulls you in for another kiss. “But I didn’t, I saved it for you, baby. All for you.” The telephone rings and Elvis pulls away momentarily, which annoys you to no end. You just finally got him to yourself again, after having to share him all day with other people, having to keep your distance and wait while he finished things up after filming. You entwine your fingers through his jet-black locks and pull his mouth back to yours, crushing his plump lips with your own. His hands find purchase on your hips and he pulls you into him roughly, slamming you against him, as you wrap a leg around one of his, keeping him locked in your embrace. The phone continues to shrill and he reluctantly breaks the kiss again, removing your leg and untangling your hands from his hair, holding them away from his body. You whine a little and he gives you a smirk, slightly shaking his head.

“Sorry honey, I gotta answer. Could be important, the boys know not to disturb me unless they absolutely have to.” He releases you and walks over to pick up the phone on the sixth ring, and you can tell he’s slightly annoyed at being interrupted right as things are heating up.

“What?” He demands rather harshly into the phone. “Oh, sorry baby…I didn’t realize it was you.” Your heart drops to your stomach as you realize who it must be and for a moment you’re overcome with guilt, sick at what you’re doing. It’s true he would be doing it with someone else if it wasn’t you, he’s no angel and you know this. But still. You never thought you’d be a home wrecker. A hussy. The other woman.

“Honey, I’m sorry, I can’t right now, the guys have me going over the schedule for tomorrow…mm hmm.” He sits down on the side of the bed and listens for moment, holding up a finger to let you know he’ll be a minute. You’re not interested in listening to him though, you’re so needy in this moment and you’re not exactly sure why. You drop to your knees on the plush carpet and slowly start to crawl towards him, unable to stay away for even a minute. He lifts an eyebrow and inhales a sharp breath, then shakes his head once, hard. NO. You suddenly feel possessive of him, like he belongs to you and no one else. Like you have every right to be here, every right to touch him now - when you want and how you want, wife be damned. Even though you have absolutely no right to feel this way, absolutely no claim on this man. But you don’t stop crawling on your hands and knees to him. He lifts a booted foot and places it on your shoulder, trying in vain to hold you back, giving you a look of warning as he does. You look up at him, mouth parted and eyes lidded and place your hands on his leather-clad leg, inching them slowly up to his sturdy thigh, and simply moving it out of the way. You kneel between his legs and lay your head in his lap.

He jerks a little at that, his voice faltering mid-sentence for a moment and he tries to move away from you, to create a little distance but you just move with him. You sit up fully on your knees, running your hands over his chest and nuzzling his neck, taking the earlobe not occupied by the phone in your mouth and sucking. He takes a ragged breath and stands up suddenly, knocking you on your backside, your elbows catching you before you fully hit the ground, and your mouth falls open in shock and hurt. He starts to pace a small distance in the room, taking the phone with him. You look up at him from the floor, glowering, your eyebrows drawn together and a frown on your pretty face. He just looks back at you, equal parts annoyed and turned on.

“Listen, I’m sorry darlin’, I just won’t be home tonight. We’ve got so much work to do for tomorrow,” the lie rolls easily off his tongue and that gives you pause. You knew this must have been something he was used to, something he did often. But to see it so blatantly play out in front of your eyes stirs mixed feelings. You had read about him and all the women he had been with over the years but in that context it was always in the past and long since over. Yet here you were, in the middle of it. A chill snakes up your spine before you’re pulled back to the present, Elvis still on the phone.

You pout on the floor where he left you, shooting him daggers with your eyes. He shoots them right back, still talking to her and more than a little peeved it seems. You know you should have been patient, waited for him to finish his call. With his wife. But you couldn’t help it, you needed him. Needed to be close to him, needed to feel him, to touch him. And he just…walked away. He pushed you off and ignored you. More than that he knocked you over. Accidentally, of course, but that doesn’t stop the hurt you feel. The annoyance. Why? It’s something so minor, technically you’re the one at fault here, but it eats away at you for some reason. This possessiveness you feel for him is new. It’s so unlike you. You’ve always been at ease with yourself - confident, self-assured. At ease with the men in your life - not clingy, not jealous, not caring if they talk to other women. So why are you acting this way with Elvis? There’s something niggling at the corner of your brain but you’re not sure what it is. Your thoughts are interrupted as you hear Elvis begin to wrap up his phone call.

You stand up quickly and walk to the bathroom, looking over your shoulder and shooting him a mean look as you saunter away. His eyes burn into yours and it shoots lightening through your body. You stand in the doorway and as soon as he hangs up the phone, you look him right in the eyes and slam the bathroom door. Loudly. Then you lock it. Let him try and ignore you now.

“Goddamnit!” You hear him roar and that has you shaking a little - from fear or arousal or both, you can’t be sure. His heavy footsteps grow closer and stop outside the bathroom as the doorknob turns uselessly. You hear him growl lowly before a fist lands on the door and makes you jump.

“Y/N, goddamnit, open this door right now!” He bangs again, it shakes the door and for a minute you’re actually scared he might try and bust it down.

“No.” It’s a statement. A refusal. A challenge. You’re being a brat, you know, but you can’t help it. There’s something inside of you pushing you towards the edge of whatever cliff this is and you are powerless to stop it. It’s deathly quiet on the other side of the door. Your heart beats a quick thrum in your chest and you place a hand over it, hoping to slow it down a bit. What the hell are you doing? You’ve never acted like this in your entire life, not once, and now you’re playing some sort of sick game with Elvis? This is not what you came here for.

“Y/N, you better open this goddamn door right now or so help me god… I will break it down,” he says through gritted teeth, control wavering in his words. Your blood runs cold and you know he means it. You don’t know much but you do know that what Elvis wants, Elvis gets. No matter what it takes. Not matter what he has to do to get it. You’ve read enough about him to know this is true. So you believe him when he says he’ll break the door down. You swallow and take a fortifying breath through your nose, your body and mind and soul suddenly buzzing, unsure what lies in store for you now, but knowing it will take all of your willpower to withstand whatever it is. You unlock the door with a click but leave it closed. You sit on the edge of the bathtub instead and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, when your heart is in your throat and you’re shaking so badly your teeth are clattering together and you think you might have a panic attack from the anticipation, the doorknob turns and the bathroom door slowly swings open to reveal Elvis, still clad in the leather outfit you boldly requested he wear home tonight. His face is like a gathering storm, ready to rain down thunder and hellfire on you. His eyes flash a color of blue you’ve never seen before and his nostrils flare just a touch, his jaw clenched and unmoving. His hands though. His delicate, slender hands, rather than being balled into fists, rest easily at his side, one of them drumming a steady rhythm on his thigh.

He smiles though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You open your mouth to say something but can’t think of a thing to say. You want to apologize, truly. You know your behavior was unacceptable, what the hell had come over you? But the words won’t come. You’re feeling stubborn and fragile, your ego and feelings bruised by him. The closeness you felt this morning has all but dissipated. So you close your mouth and look away from his intense gaze and the anger and desire that radiates out from him. It reaches you where you’re perched on the edge of the tub and does funny things to your insides. He steps forward, tired of waiting, and grabs you by the wrist, hauling you to your feet and out the bathroom door. You resist at first, dragging your feet, but that just makes him grip you tighter, his fingers rubbing and burning where they meet your wrist. So you let him pull you into the bedroom where he drags you over to the bed and flings you down on it as he stands over you, blocking your view of anything else. All you can see is him. All you can feel is him. All you want is him.

“I asked you to wait while I talked to her. What part of that didn’t you understand? She is my wife, dammit, and I owe her my undivided attention when she calls, at the very least. What am I gonna do with you, honey?” He asks, breathing hard, his irritation with your behavior unmasked. The fact that he won’t say her name out loud sits heavy in the air. He just stares at you and you realize he’s expecting an answer from you. You gulp and look up at him, vulnerable in your position on the bed. And then you realize that this whole time, this game you’ve been playing, has unconsciously fed right into one of your fantasies. You don’t know if you can say it out loud, not to him. You feel your face burn red and he tilts his head, interested in what’s got you so hot and bothered. His mouth lifts in a half smile and an eyebrow quirks up. He remains quiet, forcing you to speak.

“Spank me, daddy, and call me little girl,” you whisper. Elvis’s mouth falls open in shock, his eyes widening a little and the vein in his neck apparent as he stares down at you. He stands frozen, his chest rising and falling, barely. You can almost read the thoughts that flash through his mind and across his face, his eyes lidded as his tongue snakes out and licks his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth. He abruptly makes up his mind and hauls you up from the bed, pulling you into his arms.

“OK, little girl,” he says, lip curling up into a sneer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “If that’s what you really want.” An involuntary noise escapes your lips, something between a moan and a sigh, and you squeeze your legs together, your core already flush with arousal. He sits on the side of the bed, long legs spread, and you can see the outline of his already hard cock through his leather pants. He clenches his jaw, gripping your wrist as he tries to pull you down onto his lap. You resist, pulling against him, suddenly scared.

“You asked for this, honey. Now, be a good girl and take what I have to give ya. The longer you drag this out the worse it will be,” he says firmly, but not unkindly. You swallow the lump in your throat and nod your head, allowing him to pull you onto his lap and across his knees. He rucks your dress up around your waist, and pulls your panties down around your thighs. You inhale as the cool, air-conditioned air hits your newly exposed delicate parts and contrasts with the warm leather against your skin. His left arm is on your back, holding you down firmly. You feel so foolish perched there, splayed over his legs - what had you been thinking, asking for this? That is until the first smack hits you without warning, bolting you forward a little with the impact. You can’t breathe for a minute, shocked and unprepared as you are, only able to focus on the stinging feeling his hand left on you. You dimly hear him speaking above you and it takes everything in you to focus on what he’s saying.

“Now little girl, do you understand why you’re being punished?”

“Yes, daddy,” you choke out.

Smack. His hand lands on your other cheek and you close your eyes tight with a gasp.

“And why is that?” He palms your cheek softly, warm hand soothing the burning sensation there.

“Because I interrupted your phone call with your - with her,” you say, unable to bring yourself to say her name out loud. Not here, not now.

Smack. “And what happens when bratty little girls interrupt important phone calls?”

“They get spankings,” you whisper, clutching the bed sheets in your balled up fists.

Smack. That one hits decidedly lower, his fingers grazing your slit and you let out a high-pitched moan. You feel him shift under you, his right leg starting to jiggle slightly. It jolts your already sensitive core and has you biting down on your arm as pleasure rolls through you, stifling a whimper. His broad hand rubs your back, pressing down a little more firmly, to steady himself or soothe you, you can’t be sure.

“You know I’m only punishing you out of love, dontcha honey? This hurts me more than it hurts you.” Smack.

“Yes, daddy,” you say through gritted teeth, tears starting to track down your cheeks now. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, the heat growing in your belly.

“One more baby. I think you’ve learned your lesson,” he says as he brings his hand down once more, harder than any of the previous times and you let out a little yelp, slumping lifeless over his knees, the tension gone from your body now that it’s over. You lay there a minute, forehead resting on your arm, vibrating and trying to catch your breath. Elvis runs soothing strokes over your stinging ass and up your back, landing at your neck, massaging it with one hand, stroking your hair. He just lets you stay there for a little while as he calms you and you feel ready to move. He helps you slowly sit up next to him on the bed and wipes the tears from your cheeks, taking your chin between his fingers and looking you in the eyes.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” He truly wants to know, you can tell it isn’t in him to be cruel, ever. Firm, yes. An asshole sometimes, yes. But cruel for the sake of being mean? Never. You nod your head, you don’t trust your voice right now. He smiles and pulls you in for a kiss, which does more to speed up your already racing heart than it does to calm it. You reach between his legs and cup his stiff length, palming him through the baby soft, heated leather. He whines a little which is all the encouragement you need to stand him up and jerk down his pants, a little frantically, his rock hard shaft springing free against his belly. You push him back onto the bed as you slip to the floor between his spread legs. You take his cock in your hand and use your thumb to rub gentle circles around the swollen, leaking head, looking up at him to make sure he’s ok. You’ve never given a blowjob to an uncut man before, but being the girl you were, you had done your research. His blue eyes beg you for more and you lean forward to place tiny licks all around his hyper-sensitive tip, swirling your tongue lightly. He sucks in a breath and leans his head back, stomach muscles already quivering. You savor the way his exposed throat looks as he swallows, the way his long lashes rest on his cheeks, eyes closed in ecstasy. You work your mouth down his shaft, moist lips dragging up and down, lightly sucking and licking as you go. He groans above you, eyes snapping open to look at you as he weaves his fingers through your hair. “Atta girl,” he praises, voice strangled and breathless.

You finally take as much of him as you can in your mouth, using your hand slick with spit to grasp the rest of him. You begin to suck lightly, not too hard, ever mindful of his sensitivity. His fingers grip your hair tighter, sending a tingle down your spine and prompting you to speed up your pace a bit. He’s been excited all day and it doesn’t take long before he’s coming in your mouth, hot and salty, the only warning is his hand clenching a tight fist in your hair and his hips rutting up into your mouth a little.

You hold onto his hips as he pulses in your mouth, again and again, swallowing his seed little by little, until he falls back in the bed, gasping, one hand clutching his chest, the other pulling you with him to lay by his side. You snuggle into him, your fingers rubbing circles through his chest hair, the open leather jacket still encircling his upper body. His hand is around your shoulder and your feel him look down at you and hesitate before speaking.

“Baby…where’d you get the whole “daddy” thing from?” He’s curious and that surprises you a little. “Not that I’m complaining, mind ya. Just surprised is all.”

“Are you kidding me, Elvis?” You say, incredulous, looking up at him and smirking. “With the leather? You fucking deserve it.”

Tags: @aconflagrationofmyown @meladollsims @godlypresley @jelliedonut

[clownflipflops]

until i found her

pairing: Austin/Elvis x f reader

summary: you and Elvis meet at a diner but that is only the beginning of ur epic love story

co writer: the amazing @asshlyyyy

side note: this is the new version of tredici with some light modifications but we love it just as much if not even more!

warnings: none just some light swearing

You were part of the richest family known trough the whole south. But here you were sitting at your local diner in Memphis Tennessee. With two of your friends, you personally didn’t care about your money or your status. Even though you got brought up the same way your friends were.

You couldn’t care about what someone had and didn’t have. You were mindlessly listening to your friends talk about some dress. Not really paying attention to  the conversation.

Until one of your friends spoke, “what do you think white or blue?” scarlet asked. Making you look up from your school work.

“uh probably white” you said flashing a smile at her before quickly turning back to your work, unlike your friends you didn’t go to a normal school. You were homeschooled which caused you to be a bit anti social But you managed.

You heard the bell of the door ring as you turned toward it as your friend Isabella scoffed. “look at that greaser, his hair looks so gross ew.” Isabella stated.

You looked up towards the door as a boy not much older then you walked in. 2 maybe 3 years at most he was handsome he had black hair, a sharp jaw line and blue eyes.

That was the first thing you noticed about him. you looked at the guitar in his hand then looked back up catching his eyes. You quickly looked down at your lap.

When his gaze met yours. After a few minutes or so you walked up to the counter. You smiled softly at the waitress as a sign you’d wait as she helped the boy with his guitar sitting next to you.

“what can I get you sugar?” the waitress asked the boy. He smiled politely at her before answering back “just a coke sweetheart, keep the change ye?” he said. As he paid for his drink.

He turned too you and looked away. Quickly looked away when you catched his eye.  You giggled softly and looked his way “it’s not polite yano…” you smiled.

As he looked your way “i-I uhm I’m really sorry doll just haven’t seen ya here before” he said and gave you a charming smile.

You felt a soft blush creep it’s way up your cheeks. “huh well that could be right, my friends were just hungry”. You giggled and pointed over to your friends in the booth near the window.

He chuckled and nodded his head “makes ‘llota sense…say what’s your name?” he asked and looked up you could tell he was nervous by the way he fidgeted with the napkin that rested in his hand.

“’m y/n…. what about yourself?” you said just loud enough for him too hear. He smiled softly at you , “Elvis honey ma name is Elvis” he said and you two started to engage into a conversation.

Meanwhile your friends were over in the booth trying to get your attention.

“y/n! get back here and stop talking to that goddamn greaser he’s poor!!” Isabella whisper shouted at you. You ignored her as good as good as you could.

Till scarlet threw In a “you’re daddy’s gonna kill you y/n!!” she chimed. You shook your head slightly before turning your full attention back on the boy named Elvis.

Elvis opened wanted to speak up again. As two boys about his age ran in panting and huffing. “elvis?! What the hell man where have you been?!” the taller boy yelled. Elvis looked over at them as you took your pen out of your bag and wrote your name and phone number down on a napkin.

“we were supposed to be down at suns 30 minutes ago?! C’mon don’t just sit there get up we gotta go!!” the other guy yelled nd you chuckled.

“Shit I’m sorry guys I lost track of fuckin time ‘m comin ‘m comin calm your horses” he muttered as you watched him get up.  He turned to you taking a hold of your hand gently. “Will I see ya again?” he asked. Looking into your eyes. You nodded your head and shoved the napkin into the pocket of  his jacket.

“Ye call me” you smiled softly and walked of kissing his cheek. He smiled softly and touched his cheek as you walked of. He got snapped outta his thoughts by his friends yellin at him to hurry up.

You watched him run of with his friends as you went back over to yours.

You smiled softly to yourself as you sat back down with your friends.  You wondered if he’d call and he wondered if maybe just maybe he could be the Romeo to your Juliette

hi i'm still alive have a lovely weekend xx

[clownflipflops]

the face i once held

TW: references to elvis’ death, ANGST, SKIP TO 1:31 FOR THE FULL EFFECT, christmas sadness

when i close my eyes, i can still feel him. he exists in me, he is my unshakeable force. it’s my first christmas without him, and now what? i stand alone at the gates, like i had never known him at all. like i had never taken him into my arms and wept and waited for a soft exhale from his nose to let me know he was here, and he still loved me.

i watch as graceland springs to life; unable to look away from the life i had once lived. a part of me wants to peer through the window and see elvis’ smiling face, wearing a velvet santa cap proudly. i stare ahead of me, and i know he isn’t coming. i can’t move, i can barely breathe without him here. it feels wrong to smile and be holly and jolly or whatever i’m supposed to be without him.

the snow pounds down outside, and i imagine what it would be like to hold him now. a chill runs up my spine as the cold winter wind picks up; without him i doubt i’ll ever be warm again. just to feel him, to be held by him one more time… to rest my chin on his head and coax him to sleep like a child on christmas eve would be the greatest gift of all.

“alright y’all… lights up in 3!” the groundskeeper yells, and the women surrounding me at the gate yell in excitement as we stare.

i’m reminded of our first christmas together, nearly 6 years ago. he was so happy, i used to joke he shouldn’t be decorating the tree, but rather on top of it for all the world to see. he’d giggle and scrunch his nose, and if i try hard enough i can feel the wrinkles under my fingertips; though they’re numb now. he was always so excited to decorate, my sweet boy. i wonder if he’d like the decorations this year, i wish i could ask him.

“elvis?”

“yes babydoll?”

“do we really need six different types of garland?” i’d joke, knowing how tedious he got about decorating perfectly

stepping down from the stool beside the large christmas tree (that he cut himself, but was definitely too big for graceland) he sighed “WHA— baby, of course we do. how else is sandy clause gonna find us?”

“ i don’t know baby, maybe the giant reindeer on the lawn might help!” i joke

“hmmmmm” his eyebrows raise with the smirk i love so well, “sounds like somebody don’t want an early christmas gift…”

at that i turned my head. i hated when he spent money on me. to me, i got the greatest joy from just being with him; just speaking and hearing him speak.

“baby, i thought we weren’t gonna do gifts this year?”

“awh i know we said we weren’t but i was not about to let my best girl wake up on christmas mornin’ without sparklin’… c’mere baby ‘n close your pretty lil eyes”

quietly i walk towards him and close my eyes as he grips the sides of my arms. a beat of silence passes when i feel an aggressive “mwah!” on my lips, and something placed around my neck.

a gorgeous gold locket sits on my neck, dancing in the light of the tree that elvis put way too much ornaments on… but i’d never tell him that.

“oh elvis! it’s gorgeous…”

“ya like it baby?”

“i-i love it.. thank you so much” i tear up and move to open the locket,

“no no no baby! thas for when i go away, whenever ya miss me too much on the road yanno?”

for him, anything. so i ended my curious movement, and smiled in thanks, gripping his hands to my heart.

“thank you baby, but i didn’t get you anything…”

“well thas’ alright puppy i think i know a way you can make it up to me” he jokes, always with that suggestive glint in his eyes.

he pulls me to his chest, flopping backwards onto the couch and kissing me. the wind whistled through the window as he kissed me, holding me flush to him; afraid to let go. the lights of the christmas tree reflect on his face, and i swore i’d never forget how beautiful he looked.

i stare at that same window, half expecting to close my eyes and be back on that couch with him. when everything was good, and he was still mine. and he was still here.

the lights come up and cheers surround me, but i am lonelier than ever before. silently, i look to the sky… i look for him. i’ll always look for him, i think. for the rest of my life i will.

i cup the locket in my hands. it has faded and rusted with time, much like i have. my fingers trace over the inscription of the heart, and i pluck at the latch to open it.

my favorite photo of him sends the tears rolling down my frozen, wind whipped cheeks. he smiles so proudly as he holds the axe that cut down our first tree. the jacket he wears was too big for him, and i laugh slightly, bringing the picture to my frozen lips in a kiss. it’ll never be him, but i kiss it nonetheless, hoping i can feel his kind lips against mine again.

on the other side of the locket, my eyes bore into a little note written in his own messy handwriting.

merry christmas baby, i’m thinking of you always.