#Band: Mississippi Heat

[daddyhausen]

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 PENTAGRAMS IN THE NIGHT SKY 」 ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 BAND/MUSICIAN MASTERLIST 」 | 「 VESSEL MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — he waits in the shadows for your nightmares to paralyse you, to claim you body and soul all for himself.

「 WARNINGS 」 — 18+ [ MINORS DNI ] smut, somnophilia, dubcon, cnc, dom!vessel, sleep paralysis, demon!vessel, forced breeding, forced pregnancy, breeding kink, oral sex [ female receiving ] nipple play, biting, blood, fingering, multiple orgasms, male + female orgasms, internal cumshots, rough sex, unprotected sex, squirting, vaginal creampie

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 3k

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x vessel

「 GENRE 」 — smut

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @bayleymania @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @ripleyswife @selena-tyler-564 @auburnwriter @alyyaanna @nightmare-viper

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

you could feel it, the burn, flames sticking to your skin, melting the flesh and surfacing the bone underneath. the ache, the red of the fire, how it burned angry, vengeful against your fragile, weakened body. in between the flamed streaks laid the remains of what you’d once called a home, only mere smoke and ash now, and in there laid your burning body, trapped underneath rubble, blackened with soot. you could see yourself, outside of yourself as a third person looking in, a most ungodly sight to behold. and the wisps and crackles of the flames did nothing to quell or soothe your panic, only heighten the vicious sight before you.

your eyes shot open in a daze, a shaky gasp parting from chapped, dry lips. trying so desperately to quiet your mind, remove the nightmare from your thoughts, your skin still heated but was not burned, flesh and bone still intact. you let out a small sigh of relief, upon the realisation that you were unharmed, attempting to wipe the sweat that accumulated on your brow, only to find your arm numb, stuck to its position on the bed beside you, no matter how much you jolted and twitched it remained the same. your heart began to race, thumping hard against your chest like the crash of thunder that rang ever so often outside your bedroom window. you were asleep still, you knew that, put something about this predicament seemed far too real even for your standard of dreaming.

the left side of your bed dipped with a foreign weight, a hand came into view. inky jet black fingers met your viewline, palms rough and callouesed, intricate veins flowed like rivers on the back of the palm and up the forearm, pulsing softly as fresh blood flowed through them. it was a strong arm, masculine no doubt. rings adorned the slender fingers of the strange hand, ones of silver that shined against the black obsidian of the skin. you felt them, so gentle as they traced delicate lines across your skin, almost hesitant in their touches, you lay there, numb and unmoving, watching them shake and twitch as a thumb swiped the sweat from your forehead.

“don’t fear little dove, it was only a nightmare”

the voice was deep and coarse, the twinge of a british accent on the end of his words that made your stomach churn with worry. the words rang sinful from his lips, as his hand ran down your cheek, caressing the warm, mortal flesh. a face came into view…more so a masked one. one of pearly white, traced with gold and rubies that of blood red adorned around the maw. slits in his mask covered his eyes, three to be exact on each side, obscuring them from your vision, only the lower half of his face exposed, soft pouty lips outlined a row of sharp teeth, the canines the most prominent. he smiled, showing them off, looking as if he was about to take a bite out of you at any second.

he would notice the subtle twitch in your movements, how your fingers would shudder every few seconds trying to get a better grip on reality, while the remainder of your body laid frozen in place, paralysed by the weight of your own dream, or was this still your nightmare? his hand remained stagnant on your cheek, every few seconds, taking the time to swipe his thumb across the flesh gently, in soothing circles. your eyes welled with tears, in obvious fear, unsure exactly who or why this strange man… or whatever he was, was looming over you so omnipresently, so…domineering.

“now i know you're afraid, little dove, but i can assure you i bring you no harm” he noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks

“no no…do not cry…”

you could see his pupils dilate behind the slits of his mask, how the shroud would fall over the top if it, shielding them from your gaze.

“relax little dove. the paralysis is only temporary”

his eyes darkened momentarily, keeping the outstretched hand stagnant on your cheek, his thumb adjusting itself only to wipe away stray tears, an inky streak leaving stains in the corners of your eyes from where his flesh made contact.

yet you could not relax. how could you? your mind was wide awake yet your body frozen in time, and to make it worse, this large domineering…thing… you could hardly call him a man despite his corporeal form being akin to one, practically levitated above you.

he noticed the ink smear across your cheek, a primal sensation grew in his belly, something about it felt so primative, so raw to him, a piece of him left behind on your mortal flesh. he was only supposed to provide comfort in your weakest hour. to comfort your mind when your body could not. yet…he wanted to provide more, relax where your fingers could not reach, soothe with words your tongue could not provide.

“little dove…forgive me…”

his body ever looming over yours, growing closer as he brought himself in. his lips painfully close to yours, tongue teasing your cupid’s bow with the words he spoke.

“but i must..i need to”

his lips fan over yours before meeting. your eyes widen with the sudden contact, flickering wildly, still trying to adjust the the sight of him under the dull moonlight, just the flicker of his mask, a milky pearl in colour, even more so up close, and the reds like garnets and specks of gold leaf reflect in your eyes.

his maw opened, revealing sharp canines that prodded at your bottom lip leaving indentations in their wake as they parted, tasting the cherry and cream of your lip balm with a shudder. despite the interaction, despite your lack of say or movement in the matter, you couldn't help but melt into the kiss, the stubble wafts of his breath fluttering against your skin as he pulled away, observing the swollen red petals with lustful adoration. how despite parting, your lips still connected by a thin lips of spit. he hummed at the sight, licking the inky blacked-out curve of his cupid’s bow, savouring the subtle cherry flavour on his tongue.

he shifted his weight. his thighs resting dangerously close to your cunt, nestled against your inner thigh. despite your warmth being shielded by your panties, you could still feel the coolness of his skin, touch featherlight, feeling like light snowflakes against your flesh. you let out a small whimper, it was the only thing you could do in your semi-stasis state. vessel’s ears pricked up at the sound, with a soft hum.

“hmm? you like that my little dove?”

his words like velvet in her ears, drawing out any semblance of rational thought you had left. he left you entranced, enraptured, entwined by the silk ropes of his tongue. he pressed his knee against your clothed cunt, swirling against it slightly. your cunt pooled with warmth, slick with arousal for the strange demon that resided above you.

“oh…so wet already…mmm, didn’t think you’d submit so easy, my sweet”

his voice rumbled deep within his throat, evident by the way his throat contorted with a goan. his cock growing hard behind the confines of his shrouds, the appendage pressing, throbbing against the thin fabric. your stomach swirled with desire in spite of your mind resisting, failing to miserably.

“need to feel your flesh on my tongue…” his fingers raked down from your cheek, a hand shaky in their movements. trailing cautiously down, featherlight touches only separated your skin from his by your shirt. he let the fabric mingle with his skin, savouring the sensation as his palm ghosted across the peak of your breast, feeling the supple mound, groping it, squeezing it, eventually revealing them from beneath the fabric.

“so divine…” he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to stifle a moan as your breasts became revealed before him. your nipples perked and stiffened as the winter chill graced them. behind the mask’s vessel’s eyes widened, he’d never witnessed a woman reverared with such beauty before. he felt the need to fall to his knees before, worship your body with his tongue, repent and relinquish himself solely to you.

“a goddess baring herself before me…”

vessel’s throat tightened with a gulp, his breath teased your nipple, tongue barely jutting out to hesitantly lick at the peak, the bud glistening with his spit under moonlight. he noticed the subtle eye roll on your behalf, noticing you could not do more than moan and whine. he smiled. a devilish one at that, one that boarded on the like between endearing and threatening, one that showed his canines on full display. he had you firmly under his tongue.

“my dear…i shall revel in your flesh…i shall show you no mercy”

he gave another lick to your nipple, wrapping his lips around the perky bud, sucking greedily like a fawn feasting at its mother’s teat. his tongue swirled around the bud, a hand wrapped around the mound of your breast, massaging the soft flesh, his cock hardening, standing fully mast in his shrouds, throbbing against your inner thighs.

“i shall not adhere to your cries…and you shall enjoy it”

his free hand was quick with its movements. shuffling past the barrier of your panties, a evident wet spot present. it did not surprise him, you’ve already proven submissive enough already. his inky digits part your folds, slick with your own wetness as he explores deeper.

“mmm” he hums, feeling the stretch of your cunt around his fingers.

“so wet… so warm…”

your eyes widen at the sudden intrusion, your cunt clenching instinctively to forcibly eject him out, although your attempts proved futile, it only aroused vessel further. in response, he sunk his fingers deeper, thumb drawing rough, rigid shaped against your sensitive clit.

“you dare reject me…? oh little dove…” his words mutter against your breast, the flat of his tongue rippled against your nipple with every syllable.

“your rejection only fuels my desire”

he bares his teeth, clamping down around your breast. enough to cause a substantial amount of pain, yet your body’s lack of response and overall paralysis only emphasises his statements. he pulls away with haste, removing his teeth, indentations litter with small specks of crimson in their wake, his teeth stained with that same iron-flavoured sweetness, he licked them clean, savouring the taste.

“you’re lucky, sweet thing, that i did not split your pristine skin more…” he was breathless from the sudden blood-rush.

“but oh gods i wish i did…you’re so…intoxicating…”

his teeth bared again with another sinister smile.

“but i shall hold my tongue…i have plenty of time to sample you again”

the lanky digits of his right hand hooked into your panties, shuffling them down your motionless legs with intense vigour, grool clinging to the fabric, cunt soaked in wait for him. vessel stifled a grunt, his lips parting as his tongue spread across his bottom one.

“gods…” his voice barely above a whisper, muttering subtle curses and praises simultaneously. how you tease and tempt him with your luscious thighs and dripping void, yet he’s so willing to accept the offer, inviting himself into your warmth, drowning in your wetness. he could die happy, your mortal flesh consumed by him.

“now i claim you, for you have presented yourself so willingly to me…”

vessel monologues, the sound of his voice drowned out by other senses. fear and panic overriding your being. he spoke so surely that you were willing to engage with him so frivolously, when in fact he was the one manoeuvring your figure, oddly gentle yet careless at the same time.

“oh and i will enjoy tainting your flesh, my love…” he began to free himself from the confines of his shrouds.

“every waking moment, every dream-filled night, you let your mind drift and you shall warm your loins to the thoughts of me”

his voice, a growl, animalistic and primal. his cock now freed, blackened by the same ink that stained the rest of his body, it prodded at the supple meat of your inner thigh, moving towards your folds, gathering your wetness on the tip of it. he shuddered, the sight almost too much for him, his cock twitching with primal desire. in an instant you felt so full. vessel made no attempt to ease himself inside. the stretch burned, your cunt not fully lubricated to take him with the force and speed he provided. you went to scream, however the paralysis reminded you that your throat had been forcibly shut, vocal chords shredded.

“fuck…” he growled, almost buckling under the weight of the pleasure, your tight cunt clenching around him, once again, trying to force him out.

“oh no… no you don’t little dove.” he panted, already beginning to thrust at a voracious pace. “you let me in now…you just lay there…and take every inch of me”

he bottomed out, his entire length sinking deep within you. his cockhead forcing itself through the meaty ring of your cunt, prodding harshly against your cervix with vicious movements resembling that of a dagger.

“you feel like sin, my love…” his tongue lopped out past his lips, licking hot stripes against your flesh, burying his head into your neck.

“so fucking perfect…so tight…” he gasped in pleasure… “i may not last long if you continue to clench around me like this…”

vessel’s moans ring around your bedroom, his robes now discarded by your bedside, the glow of the moonlight illuminated his obsidian skin, you could not take your eyes from him, not that you had a choice to look anywhere else, he practically eclipsed your figure, manoeuvring your limbs like a ventriloquist would his puppet. allowing you to bend and break, submit to him all at his free will.

“let me position you better…so you can feel me entirely”

he repositions your legs so that they rested atop his shoulders. he lowered himself, pressing his hips against yours so he could fuck you deeper. he had you folded in half, his meaty cock driving into you with full force.

“going to fill you…your womb shall home my spawn”

his grunts grow more feverish by the minute, you could feel the visceral throb of his cock increase.

“would you enjoy that? forced to birth my spawn? to be my subservient queen? to rule the underworld together?”

he paused, giving a rough thrust.

“oh i know you would, little dove. i could tell by the way those eyes bore into mine”

he gave another thrust.

“by the way that pretty cunt clenches around me…you want to be mine…”

vessel grows more feverish at the thought, to watch your womb round and swell, to have to be barefoot and pregnant roaming the halls of his hellish estate. you his queen, subservient to only him. he noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks, his gaze softened slightly, his lips curling downward into a small frown.

“no tears my love…shh…” he whispered against your cheeks. “i do not deserve to have those tears wasted on me…”

in what felt almost heartfelt on his behalf, when you thought the dominant facade was beginning to slip, instead of peppering your cheeks with sweet, reassuring kisses, his tongue lips out of his mouth once more, licking your tears in a final attempt to mock you.

his cock throbbed deeply in your cunt, no revelation that his release was upon him. he was not one to simply let his orgasm arrive unannounced. he increased his speed, the force of his thrusts was almost enough to shatter your pelvis…and you could feel him holding back from doing so.

“little dove…you’re going to take every drop and savour it…”

his grunts grew more animalistic as he progressed, the clench of his abdomen was indicative of his closeness, how it quivered as it slammed into you the close he got.

“mmm fuck…”

he gave a final thrust, your belly immediately swelled with his warmth, so much so that he was dripping from within you. he grew ravenous, blinded by lust and need.

“you’re mine…all mine!”

he pulled out of you, his cock still leaking with cum in the process. some of the feeling begins to return to your limbs as you hesitantly, weakly attempt to move. your toes and fingertips twitching slightly.

“no no…i’m not done with you yet, little dove” he pulled you back by the ankles, positioning himself between your thighs once more. his breath fanned against your clit, as his tongue made teasing movements towards it.

“need to taste myself in you…” he mewled. “need to make sure you don’t waste a single drop of my seed”

vessel’s lips wrap around your clit, the aching pearl overstimulated from the previous abuse of his fingers. he hummed into you, sucking greedily at the nub.

“you taste so good mixed with me, my love…” it wasn’t just lust in his eyes, but pure obsession, one that you would not hesitate to threaten him over. but as he lay face buried between your thighs, devouring you, you could not help but lay back and enjoy it, the wonders he provided, the spells of pleasure he cast with his tongue was nothing short of marvellous.

he let two fingers spread your dripping folds, pushing his seed back into your void in a greedy attempt to secure you all to himself. you heard a low chuckle rip through his throat, the rumble vibrating against your swollen clit.

“mmm…” his. breathing quickened as he felt your cunt begin to pulse around his lanky fingers ebbing closer to orgasm. his words came out in harsh, unintelligible whispers, coercing you to savour his seed. he’ll let you cum eventually, but not until he’s certain that he’s filled your womb. his slender fingers pumped into your void at a rapid pace, curling upwards as he forced his cum deeper into you.

“accept all of me, little dove…that’s it…”

his tongue drew shapes against your cunt, tasting himself. the sweetness of your skin mixed with the vile concoction of his seed did not deter him. if anything it made him more enamoured. he grew feverish, his cock hardening again. his lips clasped around your clit, teeth lightly grinding the sensitive nub between them. his large hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you onto his tongue, letting the appendage sink deeper into your already full void. he moaned into you, devouring you with such violent intent.

“oh?” he mumbled into your cunt. “you enjoy this?”

his arousal spiked, his hips grinding languidly against the mattress, noticing the way your cunt clenched with desire around him, so desperate for your own release, you were chasing it, in hopes he would allow it.

“you enjoy the idea of being full of my seed?”

you could not help but mewl at the idea, despite your current predicament, the paralysis on your throat and voice wearing off slowly, allowing you to make small utterances of pleasure in response to his touches, now featherlight, slowly ebbing an orgasm from your walls. vessel smiles, pearly whites flashing in between the shadowy corporeal buds of his lips. feeling the movement of his mouth between your thighs.

your walls began to throb around his fingers, feeling them curl upward, allowing your arousal to spiral out of control. vessel marvels at the sight, the numbness in your thighs begins to subside with soft trembles, the familiar pulse of orgasm rising, feeling it tingle up your spine, feeling the breath catch in your lungs as you teetered on the edge of pleasure. his voice was soft yet his intention remained the same. he wanted to feel you unravel before him.

“your tainted flesh is mine to consume, mine to control…and i command you to release”

his fingers dug into your core with vicious pumps, controlling and commanding the instinctive clench of your cunt around them. your skin burned, like white hot flames of desire for the strange being, who’d effectively ruined your body for his own pleasure. the bite mark on your breast, the depressions of his teeth circled your nipple already beginning to swell and bruise in splotches. your orgasm hits you like a wave, building and building before finally crashing, your warmth cascading down your trembling thighs. vessel admired the sight, how your skin glistened with your sweetness under pale moonlight, how his taste buds danced with the taste of you. he lets out a guttural moan in response, his cock aching with release as he wastes his seed on your bedsheets, the appendage throbbing and swollen, a fiery red upon orgasm from grinding against the mattress.

he savoured your taste, enjoying how well you mingled with his. his head rested upon your inner thigh while he regained his breath, the intricate spirals of his mask poking the flesh. he sighed contently, placing chaste kisses to the skin, an odd sensation considering how relentless and unforgiving he was mere moments ago. you welcomed it, welcomed the feeling of his tongue swirling hot shapes into the skin.

you finally came to, your muscles still ache from paralysis, the weight of him heavy on your chest as he repositioned himself above you, his head now buried in the crook of your neck, peppering soft kisses to the tops of your shoulders. you felt oddly comfortable beneath him, listening to the shallow wisps of his breath, the dull throb of his hellish heart beating within his chest. his fingers draw shapes in the valley between your breasts, almost as if he was inscribing his name into your skin.

“i shall return tomorrow evening” his words separated by small pants of breath.

“i will not relent until you accept me, my love”

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[thirtysomethingloser92]

Hi hi I was just wondering if ur taking requests could u do a 97!Remy LeBeau x fem!mutant!reader headcanon list of going on a date in New Orleans 👉🏼👈🏼

I don't think I've ever done a headcannon list before so I'LL TRY.

Remy, ever the charmer, surprises you with an invitation in true Cajun fashion—leaving a handwritten note with a single red rose at your doorstep. The note simply reads, "Dinner à New Orleans, chérie? Pack y'self a lil' dress, we gon' have some fun."

Remy picks you up in a sleek black convertible, the engine purring as music plays softly in the background. He's dressed in a tailored dark suit with a hint of his usual flair—a red silk shirt peeking through. He gives you a once-over, eyes sparkling as he says, "Mon dieu, chérie, y'lookin' like a dream come true."

He takes you on a leisurely walk through the French Quarter before dinner, guiding you by the hand through cobblestone streets. Remy points out little historical tidbits and shares colorful local legends, his arm occasionally brushing yours. He loves showing off his city, and his accent grows thicker the more excited and animated he gets. His pride in his roots is infectious, and you can’t help but feel enamored by his passion.

Remy makes sure you stop for a moment to enjoy the vibrant street performers—a lively jazz band plays under the glow of old-fashioned street lamps. Without warning, he spins you into a playful dance right there on the sidewalk, leading you in a few smooth, flirty moves. He chuckles when you stumble slightly, pulling you closer and whispering, "Just follow m'lead, chère."

He takes you to a hidden gem restaurant known only to locals—tucked away, intimate, and filled with the aromas of Cajun spices. You’re seated in a cozy corner, candles flickering softly on the table. Remy orders in flawless French, his eyes never leaving yours. The conversation flows effortlessly between playful banter and deeper confessions, with Remy listening intently whenever you speak.

Remy insists on ordering a variety of dishes for you to try—gumbo, crawfish étouffée, jambalaya—each one more delicious than the last. He teases you about the spices, but when you handle the heat with ease, he raises an impressed eyebrow. "Didn’t think y’could keep up wit’ a Cajun’s palate, chère. Guess y'full of surprises, huh?"

At one point, Remy uses his powers in a subtle yet impressive display. With a flick of his wrist, he charges a small card, letting it glow softly in the dim light before tossing it away, harmlessly discharging the energy. It’s his way of showing off, but also a reminder that beneath the charm and the smiles, he’s got an edge that’s both thrilling and dangerous.

After dinner, Remy whisks you away to a riverboat cruise along the Mississippi. The boat is old-fashioned, with a big paddlewheel and a lively jazz band playing on the deck. He takes you out onto the balcony where the city lights glitter on the water. As you lean on the railing, he wraps his coat around your shoulders and stands close behind, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs about the sights.

Near the end of the night, Remy takes you to a little antique shop that’s open late. He insists on buying you a small keepsake—a delicate locket with a tiny flower engraved on it. He fastens it around your neck, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he gazes into your eyes. "Now y’got a piece of New Orleans wit’ ya, wherever y’go."

He walks you back to your door, the night air still warm and filled with the faint scent of magnolias. Remy leans against the doorframe, smirking as if he’s in no rush to leave. When the moment finally feels right, he steps closer, tilting your chin up gently. His kiss is soft and slow at first, filled with unspoken promises of more nights like this. As you part, he whispers, "Bonne nuit, ma belle. This ain’t gon’ be our last rendezvous."

[tacitoru]

above snakes - kamo choso

pairing: choso x reader

summary: “At your service, ma'am,” he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always.”

rating: explicit

wc: 7.6k

ch: 1/2

You can’t imagine the number of things I had to google that probably don’t matter but would’ve driven me up a wall if historically inaccurate. Idk how to fucking paint so pls forgive me, artists and art history majors.

read on ao3

There was a particular brand of wildness that seemed to touch everything this far west. 

It had to, you surmised, come from the lack of seasonal rain. Something must’ve mixed into the well water with the first wave of settlers. Grown into the dry cracks and crevices of the desert with the rest of the shrubbery. Crept into the hearts of every untamed beast that could endure the sweltering heat, timid or truculent. 

You’d experienced that wilderness in bits and pieces in your short time this side of the Mississippi River. You’d heard it through the stories men traded on bar stools. Felt it in the rough callouses of the hands that traded coin for drink and paint. In the first few weeks after you had settled, you had attempted to capture it yourself. But no matter how long you spent bent over a canvas, painting broad blue skies and looming canyons and bands of wild horses, your brush simply could not replicate that untamed, beautiful something, native only to nature herself. 

It intrigued you. It called to you from the safety of your New England home and the polite society you’d been indoctrinated into all of your life. The desert and its residents were both beguiling and dangerous, in real, tangible ways that tea parties and gossip circles back home couldn’t even begin to compare to. 

On its worst days, the sun and the heat did terrible things to people who linger in it for too long. But for most of your life - and much of your stay thus far - you’d been lucky enough to have never seen that kind of violence up close, not if you could help it. Not if your father could help it.

The unbearable heat, however, is something you had willingly signed up for the moment you rejected your birthright and fucked off into the countryside for good - something you try to remind yourself at the sight of half of your paints gone runny in their cases.

A sudden wave of anger causes your fingers to twitch against the wooden lid. I don’t understand.

“Is…Is everything alright?” You blink and straighten up, taking a second to compose yourself before turning to face your inquirer with an expression as blank as you can muster. You don’t understand how the paints had melted in storage - since you had moved, you had done what you could to keep them cool and out of the sun. For the two years you had taken residency in the ramshackle saloon, your materials had managed to survive the desert heat from the safety of the trunk you kept under your bed.

  And yet today of all days, half of your case is a watery, separated mess.

Had you been back home, this could have been easily resolved within a day with a few silver dollars and a quick trip to an art store - that very same day if you were early and lucky. The largest commission of your life wouldn’t have to be postponed for longer than mere hours, and you and your standoffish companion could be on your way in a few days. 

It’s been two years since you made the journey west and settled in this small haven in the middle of a dry sea. It was a purposeful two-day travel by horse to get to the nearest train station. When you first rode into this tiny town, it had been the perfect place to escape. He was determined and astute, but you doubted that your father and family would follow you this far out into the middle of nowhere. Life here wasn’t perfect or easy, and there were often times (like now) when you longed for the conveniences of modern society.

But it was yours . For the first time, you could confidently say that you were in control of your own life and content - happy, even.

 And yet looking at the mess in your hands, all you can feel is unadulterated rage as you calculate about many weeks it will take for the general store to have black paint again. 

Weeks. Months , maybe. You don’t have months. 

The sheriff had paid good money to have his deputy’s portrait remade, despite his lack of knowledge in your lack of knowledge. That I-don’t-have-to-worry-about-food-or-rent-for-the-cold-season kind of money that you couldn’t just pass up on. All he had heard was that you were a painter from the north - a skill no one had the luxury for this far out west - and all you had heard was the promise of financial security .

 In your turmoil, you’d nearly forgotten about your unlucky patron - a tall, broad, and stolid man with inky black hair and sullen eyes that tracked you about the room as you had prepared to paint him. Deputy Choso sat atop your rickety stool, poised for his portrait to be painted. His impatience radiates throughout the room.

The portrait painting hadn’t been his idea, but his mentor’s. An apology from the sheriff after his original portrait - the one he received after his installation as deputy of your quaint township, conceived by a much older, real artist passing through town - was bullet-whipped in a close call with a gang member turned near - escapee at the station.

While you weren’t there for the initial conversation - or however Sheriff Nanami decided to break the news to his young deputy - judging by the icy demeanor and rigid posture he had maintained since his arrival, you can only imagine that the gift had been met with some measure of reluctance.

The deputy had arrived at your doorstep in the early hours of the morning looking haggard and half-ready to jog back downstairs and escape on his horse, maybe relay some poorly composed excuse to his mentor about why he couldn’t see this through when you first opened the door to greet him.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen each other at all in the two years since that fateful encounter. Your tiny town was exactly that - tiny. The proximity of everything compared to the vastness of the empty desert made it so that no one strew too far from home without the purposeful intent of doing so. You had always seen Choso in passing on the way your way out of the general store, making his survey rounds about town, or on his way into the saloon after a long day, pretending not to see the way you slide from the bar to the furthest corner of the room at his arrival. 

Admired him quietly from afar all the while he seemed to avoid you like the plague. Straight up ignored you, even.

Head down, gaze averted. Worn gallon hat shielding the upper half of his face. Never offering more than a polite nod if you happen to be roped into the same conversation. But seeing each other like this, up close, without the usual buffers of his colleague, your nosy neighbors, or drunken bar patrons, was an entirely different beast.

At the sight of you, the shock on his face was plain as day no matter how quickly he schooled his expression into one of impassivity. You couldn’t blame him, maybe even look at him similarly - overnight, the anxiety leading up to this appointment had crept into your bloodstream and buzzed in your ears like a pesky mosquito. If he ever asked how you had gotten to the door so quickly, or if you had been waiting up on him by the door, you would lie. Profusely.  

After inviting him in wordlessly with a tight smile and excusing yourself to gather your things, Choso had taken a moment to take in your other works littered about the tiny studio - horses, lots of them, racing thunderously alongside dusty mesas and atop desert plateaus. Vivid oranges, murky browns, and brilliant blues dance across his vision.

Snakes too - long, scaly reptiles with cavernous maws bearing thin, murderous, and razor-sharp teeth. Choso feels like he could prick his finger just touching the painting.

You’d taken careful time to mimic the way the relentless desert sun made the scales of the reptilian appear nearly wet and shiny, its eyes glinting soullessly back at him from different angles. No people, though , he notices. No faces.

 He’s in the middle of wondering when the last time you saw a snake this close to town was when he notices you freeze in his periphery, staring into a wooden case.

The deputy shifts in his seat; this is already taking longer than he anticipated, and you have yet to even start painting.

“Ma’am,” he calls out again when you don’t respond, pursing your lips as you struggle to think of what to say. You can hear him trying to bite back the bark of annoyance in his voice. “Are you okay?”

Not at all. “Absolutely.” You offer him a placid smile if only to see him relax a little. 

Recalling the pale look on his face when he first marched up to your little studio above the local saloon, you get the sense that despite his usual impassivity,  this appointment isn’t easy for either of you.

Deputy Choso Kamo is the young gunslinging protege to your town’s sheriff, a champion fighter with his own tall tales from the desert tied to his name. 

In any other situation - if you were anyone else - this would be an honor beyond your imagination for the amateur artist you considered yourself to be. 

There was a time when Deputy Kamo would stroll through the center of your dusty little square in the early morning hours of a Sunday on his brooding black mare, surly and stolid, and the sun would roll in behind him as if waiting for his arrival for permission to set. Women would flock to the windows of the chapel to snag a glimpse of the gunslinger and peak behind their hands at him in passing. Men would amble out onto the deck of the saloon to gawk at him in the guise of appraisal, arms crossed, fingers resting on the hostlers of their guns. 

Of course, that was in the earlier days, when he first took up the position as Sheriff Kento Nanami’s secondhand man. Before you arrived. That was what was told to you after you had already made your own unforgettable first impression.

You knew the deputy as simply Choso, the man who you fucked half senseless the first night you arrived in his small town.

You had been drunk, celebrating your first night of true freedom with as much ale as your silver could carry. And he had been there. Hair long and unruly, observing you from his quieter corner of the saloon. Never looking away when your gaze caught his, finally noticing him looking, watching. Not a belt or badge or holster in sight - just quiet, confident resolve, and enough money to buy you one more drink before you invited him back to your closet-sized rented room.

He had probably figured you were a city slicker just passing through, journeying to the booming mining cities near the coast. It had probably never crossed his mind that you would stay.

And yet here you were, having never spoken to each other again in the two years since that fateful night and clutching your half-melted paint palette between the two of you like it would shield him from you.

Or vice versa.

Choso glances at the wooden case again and then places both hands on his belt with a sigh, arms akimbo. “Look, if you’re going to be weird about this-,”

“No, no, not at all!” You grimace and sigh, flipping the oily mess in his direction, frown growing when the paints slosh in their pans. “I’ve run out of black. That was the last of the only tube I had.”

“So what does that mean? You can’t paint?” You try not to feel a bit hurt at the hint of hopefulness in his voice. You know this interaction is awkward - you’ve been dancing around each other for two whole years, there’s only so many people in this tiny town - but you hadn’t thought your company was that unbearable.

“No, I can still start, it’ll just take a little longer. It takes a while for the general store to order the paint, and even longer for it to get. But maybe I can order the materials to make the paint a little faster if I can just get my hands on some linseed oil…”

At this point, you’re murmuring more to yourself and into the canvas propped in front of your reluctant subject than to the young deputy himself, who has quickly schooled his expression back into one of disinterest. All he hears is that he’ll be seeing you a lot more often than he already had expected, quickly coming to the same conclusion you have.

Much of his appearance and uniform attire were comprised of dark greys and browns - hell, his hair was black. His skin took on a gold tone from long hours in the sun. Tiredness cast a dark shadow beneath his low-lidded eyes. Like many of the men who spent their time out in the wilderness, he seemed to carry pieces of it with him. If you didn’t come into possession of any black paint any time soon, this process would take much longer than either of you had anticipated. 

 “I can still get started.”

As if sensing his uneasiness, you meet his gaze full-on for the first time since greeting him at the door. And then you add, a little quieter, “But we don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.”

His brows shoot up in surprise, contemplative, as if recognizing that this is the closest either of you has ever gotten to addressing the massive elephant in the room. His fingers idly fiddle with the gold plate at his belt, palms curling over the leather at his waist, and you try not to remember the way they felt bracing your hips. Your thighs. The way his grasp had trembled when you touched him.

It was all so long ago, and yet somehow not long enough. The faded memory is now clear in your mind at your forced proximity.

Choso considers leaving. He thinks of Nanami, of how he’ll probably pry the real reason for his reluctance right out of him with little to no effort the moment the young deputy tells him that he’s no longer interested in receiving the sheriff’s gift. He thinks of how the man will most likely march him right back into your meager studio and sit in the corner and watch . He’d rather not have this debacle unfold in front of an audience, much less his mentor. 

The deputy is facing an internal uphill battle of his own as he struggles and fails to repress the memory of your last private encounter with every minute of sitting in your presence. Fighting back a warm blush that threatens to spill over his cheeks when he remembers the last time he was in this room. If he is uncomfortable now, he can only imagine the immense discomfort that would come with the sheriff seeing him so on edge like this. So openly undone by your mere appraisal..

Choso is a grown-ass man who will not run away from a gift just because he can’t unsee you bent over this very same stool two years ago, crying out on his cock.

“I can do this,” he resolves and then reddens with the realization that he has exposed a bit of his inner dialogue when you frown, scrambling to rephrase his words. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

His heart aches a little at the way your expression shutters, closed off, but then again maybe you’re just reflecting his own. “Take as much time as you need, I mean. It’s up to you,” He tries again, but you’ve already returned your attention to your easel with a sharp nod, ducking behind your canvas. 

This way, he can’t see the way your hand trembles when you make your first brush stroke.

Your appointments are sparse and brief. 

At first, the whole ordeal is kind of a burden. It’s not that Choso is too busy to give it much thought - not really . Your town is quiet and picturesque - an unknown speck of nothing smack dab in the middle of nowhere. A watering hole, maybe, to those who wandered across the wild desert in gangs. Choso has done his best to keep the peace in your region, even in the few years before your arrival. Between him and the presence of Nanami - a legendary quick draw -  keeping the unruly at bay, it’s been a while since the young deputy had come across anyone that he could truly consider his rival.

The problem is that he does give it too much thought.

He only sees you maybe once or twice a week. The appointments are brief - there is only so much you can do to add to the portrait when you’re missing such a vital color, and for all of the patience and timeliness rumored to have carried his infamous gunslinging career, Choso is terrible at sitting still for too long.

You being, well, you , doesn’t help his case much either.

When he is not with you, Choso finds his thoughts drifting back to your studio. He thinks back to your many landscape paintings; the snakes and the way you paint their glittering scales. The distinct lack of portraits in your gallery despite being commissioned to make one. There seem to be more iterations of the desert each week he comes to visit as if you’re missing something you can’t quite put your finger on with each new edition. 

He daydreams about the way your bare ankles cross as you sit on a stool of your own. You’ve eventually stopped wearing shoes in his presence (he takes that as a sign of you being more comfortable with him rather than just simply too lazy to do anything about it when he comes through). 

His mind wanders to the pensive look on your face when you tune him out and really get to work. To that scrutinizing gaze you turn on him every so often while he poses, in the moments when you’re willing to pry yourself from the canvas to refresh yourself on the subject you’re replicating. He ruminates on the furrow of your brow, and how the first time he saw it he was knuckle-deep in your wet heat, wringing the sweetest sounds from your mouth.

But worst of all he thinks of your hands. Your fingers more accurately. The digits that wield your brush and paint palette with practiced ease. He imagines the grip of your fingers on the brush and recalls a time when they braceleted his neck and squeezed. The ghost of the delicious pressure of your fingertips against his skin, the band of your knuckles wrapped around his throat, haunts him on the hottest desert nights. 

Choso is reluctantly obsessed with the memory of you choking him, subconsciously chasing that shock of surprise at the sensation, followed by the rush of pleasure that sent him quickly tumbling over the edge faster than he ever had in his life. The feeling had hit him before he had even known was what happening. He remembers with stark clarity wrenching out of the grasp of your tight heat in surprise before spilling onto the wooden floor with a sharp cry. The cocktail of shame and confusion in his stomach at the sight of your pleased smile.

And then, as he makes his way into your modest studio, mentally preparing himself for another round of sitting as still as a statue, he reminds himself that that night was a one-off, one-time thing.

When he’s not plagued by his growing hunger for you, Choso has come to enjoy this moment of silence and stillness away from his usual routine. Typically, his days are filled with patrols about the perimeter of the town or hauling overzealous drunkards from the bar. He has been long familiar with the mercilessness of the desert this far west, the maliciousness that lurks in animals and people alike. 

While the bored bumble of your small town was reprieve itself, the young deputy can’t help but begin to look forward to his afternoons cooped up in your rented room. 

He stares at you from behind the canvas and wonders if you’d sound the same as you remember if he got his hands in the way he’s been itching to. Restraining to. Wonders if he got up from his station and crowded you by your canvas if you’d brace his neck with your small hands again just to keep him at bay.

You refuse to speak to him and yet he craves your presence even in your tense silence. He craves the solace of your company. Knowing he is your singular focus for just a small portion of time. Watching you watch him as you - supposedly – immortalize his face into a masterpiece.

When you finally receive news that the general store has ordered your paint and it will be here before the summer turns to autumn, Choso can’t help but wonder if you’ll paint him with the same quietly murderous black eyes as your snakes. 

He knows now that you are actually capable of painting human bodies, despite his earlier skepticism. Albeit only from the chest up, Choso’s painted double takes on a broad and heroic stance, filling out his deputy uniform with all of the muscle and build of somebody sculpted by hard work and hardship. 

All that’s missing is his face. 

The deputy talks to you now, speaking freely, offering quiet words here and there. There is a shared sense of amicableness between the two of you. A shared, unspoken understanding that you’d both silently chosen to ignore whatever had transpired up to this moment, for the sake of the commission. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice when your gaze lingers on his face for longer than probably necessary. That doesn’t mean his eyes don’t track your hands as you move about the canvas.

 Eventually, every time he comes by, you update him on the last thing the general store told you about the status of your paint order, and he wracks his brain to calculate when he’ll see you next. How long this will last. 

He doesn’t know if he can go back to ignoring each other after this.

--

It wasn’t until Deputy Kamo became a regular fixture in your routine that you would feel the cool bite of the steel and the worn wooden handle between your own two palms.

Guns, the indiscriminate dictators of the lawless West, were not an uncommon sight. Men carried them as casually as cigars. It was a less common occurrence for women, although the wives of cow wranglers were known to be familiar with riffles. Every so often when he would visit, you would curiously watch out of the corner of your eye as he would remove the weapon from his holster and place it gently on your rickety excuse for a kitchen table. When you ended your last painting session by asking Choso if he could teach you how to handle a revolver, he almost whited out at the concept.

He looks at you now as you balance the device in hesitant hands, impassive as ever. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself more than someone else with a grip like that.”

You huff and wordlessly adjust your hold on the weapon, frown furrowing your features. Trying hard to recall the deputy’s earlier patient instruction. The pair of you stand on the outskirts of town, at the lip of his patrol range. As far out into the desert as you’re comfortable venturing. The candlelights of your township twinkle in the distance like little figurines in the fading sunlight. 30 feet away, a beer mug balances on a dead log, perched directly in your line of sight. 

You hope he can’t feel the way you tense when Choso wraps his arms around your frame from behind, readjusting your grip with his own. 

“Breathe,” he admonishes.

“I am.”

“Right.”

His tone is clipped as he takes a step back, and you can’t help but frown a little as he steps away.

“Shoulders,” he corrects you, and you adjust accordingly, rolling them down and back, away from your ears. Not having made your first shot yet, you’re silently taken aback by how cold and still the device is in your hands. Unable to fully comprehend the violence it could administer - loud and quick and unforgiving. Permanent.

The sun sinks. The sound of crickets gets a little louder.

“You’re alright,” the deputy calls from behind you, softly, as though sensing the fear crawling up your throat. “Focus, don’t think. Steady.”

You level the revolver.

“Aim,” your finger rests on the trigger. A slight tremor in your stance. 

“Fire.” 

Too much happens all at once. The crack of the revolver is deafening, the force of the firearm rocking you back in your stance. You cringe. Your ears ring, and your shoulders burn. Tears well up in your eyes on instinct. The once cool metal now radiates with a minacious warmth. Your elbows drop but you keep the weapon extended as far from your body as possible.

“Did I hit it?” You face him rather than your makeshift target, as if afraid to be greeted with the sight of the aftermath of some sort of carnage and not just some shattered beer mug. 

The air tastes like gunpowder when you speak. Choso takes one glance over your shoulder and grimaces.

“Depends on what you were tryna’ hit.”

You whirl around, indignant. “What-,”

A gaping hole now graces the side of the barrel. In your haste to shoot, you’d completely missed your target, the mug having fallen into the shrubbery with the force of your firearm.

Choso is patient and watchful. He slips the revolver from your grasp, easily dismissing your disgruntled look. “Go pick it up. Try again.”

You try not to roll your eyes and gripe at the patronizing tone he’s taken on and fail as you trudge toward your fallen target. Wondering again why you had thought that he of all people would be better to ask to sate your curiosity rather than any of the other gun-totting residents of town. Nanami was just as accessible as his deputy.

He’d probably charge me for the lessons, you muse, take it out of my commission or something.

As you reach for the beer mug, the snake sees you before you see it, but Choso is faster.

A flash of reptilian skin and teeth whips in your direction, sending you startling backward and falling on your ass.

“Shit!”

Two gunshots ring out in quick succession, but you feel the whiz of the bullets go by more viscerally than you hear them. 

The deputy’s gentle hand on your shoulder wrenches you from the shock of your fright.

“Are you okay?” The question is asked with such sincerity you have to look up at him in astonishment. The sight that greets you sends chills up your spine. Choso’s stolidity largely remains the same, but after studying his figure for weeks on end, you can see the cracks in his composure. The tightness of his jaw. The knuckle-white grip on the weapon in the hand not holding you. You zero in on his comfortable grasp on the metal, trailing your gaze up his sun-warm arms and well-toned neck and nearly flinch at what you see when you meet his eyes.

It’s a fleeting look, one you would have missed if you had looked back at him a second too late. That wild thing that is found in all desert things. That violence. It dances in the blown pupils of his eyes, wicked, sharp, and hungry and suddenly you understand the stories. Suddenly you can’t help but marvel that once long ago, there had been a moment when you had a creature capable of such violence crumble beneath your simple touches. You know he can feel the way you tremble a little in his grasp, even as you nod and straighten up, dusting off your skirt.

“Yeah I’m-,”

The snake twitches violently in the dry grass and the deputy is quick to react, drawing back from you to stomp on the beast’s neck with such force and precision it shocks you more than the initial attack. The thing makes a pained, high-pitched wheezing sound akin to a shriek before going limp under his boot as Choso twists his heel sharply. Blood turns the desert floor a murky brown. 

For a moment, the two of you stare at the thing. It’s nearly as long as you. White, reptant eyes stare unseeingly back at you. 

Choso sighs, turning away from you almost sheepishly. He considers asking if this is the snake you’ve been painting. Instead, he shakes the blood off the bottom of his shoe and starts with, “‘Sorry you had to see that.”

He knows that despite your few years here, you’re still not akin to the dangers of the wilderness. You never wander too far from the confines of your township. You are far from the comforts and safety of the city you once called home. He doubts the men of New England are shooting each other willy-nilly in the streets. Knowing this, the guilt he feels is immense. He shouldn’t have agreed to teach, let alone see you outside of your appointed painting sessions.

So it is his turn to be shocked when he registers the look on your face to be one of approval. Admiration, naked and plain on your face. The expression of someone who just experienced a revelation. As you stare up at him in wonder, something hot coils beneath his stomach.

“Don’t be,” you finally say, sneering at the snake and spinning sharply on your heel. The moment is broken. “I’m not.”

--

The day you finally get black paint is more momentous than it really should be. The general store owner has to keep you from nearly breaking down his doors when the morning after the shipment arrives, relieved to put an end to your incessant hounding. If there was anyone else more ready for you to complete your portrait commission than your deputy, it was the store owner. 

Choso tries not to frown at the news when he meets up with you for what would now be the very last time, especially when you seem to have lightened up significantly at the return of this pigment to your arsenal. You’re giddy - you can finally give this man a face. And hair!

Caught up in your satisfaction, you hardly notice the subject of your masterpiece fidgeting in his seat more than usual. He’d rather not admit it now, but the deputy is distraught at the thought of things returning to normal after this. The sense of finality that lingers in the room disturbs him.  He revels in your quiet but stern presence, the passion and dedication to your craft. That odd hunger for danger and risk that reflects in your paintings a craving you seem too embarrassed to put a name to, but too curious to fully ignore.

 Choso would like to consider himself an honorable man of the law - he dons his badge with pride and purpose. But before that, he was a boy in the desert with a gun and enough bullets and anger to strike as deadly and indiscriminately as that snake. That life, no matter how far in the past, sticks with him and reflects off of him in an intangible way that even without seeing his scars and bullet wounds, people just know . Most strangers and visitors, especially women from the city, would turn their cheek to his particular brand of unruliness.

For a moment, you seemed to want to eat him whole despite of it. 

As you meticulously mix the black paint, your movements are precise, almost reverent. Choso watches you work, the evening sun casting long shadows across the room. The air feels heavy with anticipation, charged with an energy neither of you can ignore.

With each stroke of your brush, the likeness of Choko begins to take shape on your canvas. His features emerge from the blankness with startling clarity.

The sun sets, dying your small studio in hues of pink and orange, and you finally step back from your easel with an air of completion. Choso can feel his heart pounding in his chest when you gesture for him to come to look, his breaths becoming shallow and quick. He thinks of taking a glance, granting you a decisive farewell, and never speaking to you again, and his chest aches. 

“What do you think?” you ask as he rounds the canvas. 

Your voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it. Choso silently takes in his painting and tries not to sigh in relief. You have captured his stoic demeanor perfectly. Looking astute in his deputy uniform, you have portrayed him as a figure of pride and power. His face looks back at him with a gaze so steady and confident he’s almost unnerved.

“So?” You ask, trying and failing not to appear anxious.

 “Have you always known how to paint faces?”

You blanch and whirl on the man you’ve spent most of your summer studying in this exact same studio. “Did you not think I could do it?”

Choso shrugs, and nods to the little corner cluttered with your other discarded pieces of work. “Didn’t see any other portraits."

“It’s just not what I’m into painting right now,” you sputter, indignant. “Why didn’t you think to ask?”

The deputy mumbles, aptly studying the heel of his boots. “Thought you’d paint mine in the shape of a horse or somethin’.”

The man admits it so forlornly, you can’t help but chuckle, turning away to pack up your materials and allow him to take a closer look. “Maybe I should’ve.”

He says nothing in response, and you don’t look back to catch his expression. The silence that follows. You’re both hesitating and you know it.

Choso is the first to break.

“I’m sorry for what happened after…after we met for the first time. I shouldn’t have left like that.”

You sigh and put your brushes down, unwilling to turn and face him just yet. “I feel like all you do is apologize to me lately. We gotta put a stop to that.”

You wait for him to laugh you off and excuse himself, trying to offer him an out. Your tone is playful, joking, but Choso can sense the sincerity in your words. You can’t see it, but he shakes his head, adamant. “I was scared.”

The omission weighs heavy between the two of you.

“That I’d hurt you?” You wonder aloud, knowing that’s not the truth but pressing him anyways. You think of how he towers over you easily, how he could probably snap your wrists with two of his fingers, and can't help but laugh at the idea of this death machine of a man finding you physically threatening. But there was something else - 

“No,” he admits, almost a whisper this time, still full of resolve. “That I liked it.”

You finally face him, inching closer, still unsure. Your breath catches in your chest at the sight of his expression. Open and vulnerable, eyes wide and expressive with want.

“We can try something else,” you offer, pouncing on the opportunity. “If you’re feeling brave.”

A challenge. For the first time, he is willing to confront the suffocating something between the two of you - desire . The pure longing and awe on your face after the snake incident is imprinted on the forefront of his mind and haunts him as frequently as this memory of your hands around his neck.

He reaches for those very same hands now, in silent askance. Pleading you to collar that untamed unruliness lurking beneath his skin, quell the hunger that boils in his blood.

Choso has been bored . He loves the slow pace of your quaint little town. The stability and predictability are a welcome change from the life he once lived. But… he misses the thrill of the fight. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, the euphoria that follows the moments after brushing that thin margin between life and death

He feels it again, that buzz, as he allows his odd little painter to guide him back to a seated position on the stool, undo his belt buckle and slide the leather through the loops with delicious intent. Permits you to secure the material around his wrist. Encourages you to free his hips from the denim fabric of his pants. 

He is suntanned beneath his trousers too and the thought of how that came to be makes you feel a little lightheaded. The deputy is completely bare beneath his trousers, and it occurs to you that he had been squirming in his seat originally for reasons more than just impatience. 

“Oh,” you sigh at the sight before you, breath ghosting over his cock, and Choso nearly pitches forward in your grasp at the sensation. He wrenches his bound arms towards his chest, away from where you kneel between his knees before him on the floor.

“You’re so pretty down here,” you murmur absently, thumbs rubbing along where the waistband of his pants press into the tops of his thighs, tucked just beneath his balls, and its true. His erection throbs from where it sits propped up against his tummy, red and leaking under the weight of your attention. A smattering of soft, curly hair runs a trail from his stomach to his groin.

He keens when you press a kiss to the base of his dick, thumbs tracing a new path at the crest of his hips.

“Please, quickly, please-,” he stammers, flush from the neck down and willing himself not to tremble in your hold. “Gotta get back soon and, ah -,”

Choso’s resolve and dedication to his job falls apart at the feeling of your wet mouth on him, warm and insistent. You nod and hum in understanding, wordless, but he feels it all with you pressed this close to where he wants you. The deputy would have half a mind to be embarrassed at the high pitch of his voice if he weren’t so eager to feel you again.

“You remember my first night here, right?” You say, mockingly, pressing a soft kiss to his dripping head. “You were pretty then too. With my hands around your neck.”

Choso’s knuckles are pressed tightly to his forehead as he purses his lips. He can’t respond, can’t even bite back and tell you to shut up when you call him something as silly as pretty. Eyes rolling back as he sinks into the warm cavern. He’s in heaven. He’s in hell.

You can’t help but marvel at how pliant he is in your hold, drawing back to press a quick kiss to the inside of his thighs when they tremble. A warmth and wetness builds between your own legs at the sight.  When you draw him into your mouth again, you have to brace an arm across his hip to keep him from fucking into the back of your throat.

“Please, fuck, hurry ,” 

He’s writhing, throbbing as you swallow him down. You had had your fair share of promiscuity on your journey west - part of the reason you had departed high society - but Choso was an impressive task. You moan at the weight of him in your mouth as he struggles against the slow, relentless suction of your mouth. The patch of hair beneath his stomach grows damp with a viscous mix of your saliva and tears.

When you pull back suddenly, his hips stutter forward, and you have to duck out of the way to avoid being blinded.

“Fuck, sorry,” Choso gasps. “Really sorry.”

He watches with breathless anticipation as you draw two fingers from the hand not braced across his hip to your open lips, coating them in spit until they’re slick and shiny.

“Scoot forward a lil,” is the only direction he receives before he feels rather than seems that same arm wrap behind him, wedged between his legs and the seat of the stool. His ass hangs precariously off the ledge, the seat of the stool digging into his lower back. You’re much closer in this new position, straddling one of his elongated legs he sits with a slight bend in his knees to balance against the seat. 

When he feels your slick fingers brush his puckered hole, Choso lurches again at the foreign feeling, and you narrowly avoid being stabbed in the face once more. You can’t help but grin, all teeth. Choso gets the foreboding feeling like he’s about to be eaten alive.

“Fuck, wait, wait,” he pleads, pitiful, but you are already rubbing slick circles around his rim. “N-not there.”

You coo, "Relax, I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

The deputy shakes a little more in his seat, but doesn’t protest further, not when you’re returning the attention of your hot mouth back to the head of his cock, tongue torturing him with tight circles and light flicks before you press him further into your throat. He rocks his hips into your mouth with draw out pants of ha, ha, ha that only serve to fuel your own arousal. The sight of such a dangerous man, crumbling at your simple ministrations, has you pressing your thighs together You rock back on the deputy’s leg with a moan, subtly shifting so that the tip of his point leather boot presses blissfully into the soak crevice of your undergarments. 

“Huh?” The deputy hiccups, having given up hiding his face in order to lightly balance his bound hands against the top of your head. “A-are you-?”

Your fingers quicken in pace from where they slide around his untouched rim. This time when he bucks into your mouth, you don’t pull away, leaning in further to trap him between the heat of your mouth and the relentless sensation of your fingers. The deputy cries out, feeling helpless.

“I’m gonna, fuck, fuck m’gonna-!”

Choso sobs, his bound arms fully wrapping around the back of your head to thrust fully into your throat until your lips press fully into his abdomen and hold you there. Barely able to warn you before he locks up in your hold, cumming hard and damn near babbling at the sensation as you choke and struggle in his grasp, surprised. He cums long and and hard, gently rocking his hips into your face even as his comes down until you’re slapping profusely at his thigh to release your head.

The gunslinger is silent, eyes tightly shut as he struggles to catch his breath and regain his sense. Distantly, he hears you get to your feet, allows you to pull his hands away from his face so you can unwind the leather biting into his skin. The red marks they leave behind cause the red flush of his cheeks to flare up again.

He sits upright on the stool and peaks one eye open to glance at you, puttering around your small kitchen for a glass of water. Then he glances at his boots. “Did you get off on my shoe?”

He wonders idly if it was the same foot he used to kill the snake. You don’t respond, but the way you slam a glass of water beside him on a work table is answer enough.

--

Not much is said on his departure. You clean up and share soft smiles. He picks up his portrait, makes his way to the door, lingers with his hand at the handle.

“‘Ppose I should get going then.” His tries to keep the resignation out of his voice, but you pick up on it easily.

He makes to head out resolve to bother you any further fizzling at your slow response, but then you’re crossing the small distance to stop him, fingers digging into the thick material of his uniform.

“This won’t be the last time I see you, right?” You ask him. Implore him. “This time?”

The deputy breaks out into a grin, expressive as you’ve ever seen him, before pressing a kiss to your forehead and ducking before you, hand on his hat.

“At your service ma’am," he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always."

--

“Hm.”

The town’s sheriff stands beside Choso, gazing contemplatively at his new and improved portrait from where it hangs in the place of its predecessor. He watches his mentor tilt his head to the side, hand at his chin. “I dunno. Something about it feels very..”

Sheriff Nanami’s gaze flicks between Choso and his replication. “Horselike?”

Choso nearly keels over in his boots. The sheriff waves him off dismissively. “Ask her to do it again, or at least touch it up a bit. We paid good a good amount of money for it.” 

He sighs, pinching his brow, remembering the shoot out and prison escape in the manner parents do when reminded of delinquent children. The deputy gawks at the portrait. Maybe he really didn’t understand art?

As if sensing his subordinate’s hesitation, Nanami clasps him on the back, marching back to his desk. “Can’t hurt to ask, right? Beside, how long could it possibly take?”

[thelarriefics]

CHILDHOOD FRIENDS FIC REC, Part II: Below you will find more fics where they know each other as kids and grow up to fall in love. (Part I)

📖 Come My Love Again by @softfonds (110k)

Harry Styles is handsome, clever, and rich. At least that’s what his friends say of him. He also thinks of himself as a matchmaker in Highbury, pairing people together when he finds the time. But when the arrival of a certain gentleman flips Harry’s world on its head, he starts to question everything that was once all too familiar to him, including his relationship with his good friend, Mr. Tomlinson. An Emma AU.

📖 Sweetest Devotion by @brightgolden (61k)

After his divorce, all Harry wants in life is to provide a stable, loving environment for his three-year-old daughter, Evie. Never in his wildest dreams has he ever considered that life might come with the presence of his teenage crush — Gemma’s friend from secondary school, Louis Tomlinson. Luckily, Harry isn’t still pining over him. Or so he thought.

📖 I'm Resistant but Going Down with a Ship. by @adoremelikeasunflower19 (60k)

When Harry comes back to his hometown for the first time in a long time, he expects to almost drown in nostalgia and longing. What he does not expect, is his path crossing with his former best friend - Louis. It's been years since their goodbye and although most of the wounds have healed and the pain become dull, there is still a lot to unpack and process. They slowly find their way back to each other, talk through undiscussed emotions, and painful memories.

📖 Driftwood by @justanothershadeofblue (51k)

Harry is a lonely and depressed popstar who sailed out of his hometown on Eroda years ago to chase his dreams. He comes back to the island only to find his shining childhood best friend Louis just as cold and dreary as the island they grew up on.

📖 Under the Yellow Roof by @bluejeanlouis (42k)

Colorado, 1972: Louis is a gifted musician spending his days on the wrong side of a drive-thru window. Harry is the lead singer of a band in need of a little talent. Their big break is a thousand miles away. Colorado, 1962: First day of middle school. A lot can happen in ten years.

📖 Here You Come Again by @neondiamond (22k)

A year after taking over his family’s peach orchard, Louis thinks he has it all figured out. His routine on the farm is mundane, yet familiar, and his dog Clifford is more than enough to keep him company. It isn’t until Harry, his ex-boyfriend who broke his heart and left their small town a decade ago to pursue a bigger, brighter future in the city, comes to stay on the farm that he realises just how badly he was lying to himself.

📖 TGIF by @dinosaursmate (20k)

Louis, 13, moves in next door to Harry, eleven. They immediately hit it off and quickly become best friends, but as they get older, things get a little complicated.

📖 i got a heart (but i don't got a soul) by @tempolarriefix (19k)

Or, the one where louis sells his soul before meeting his soulmate, harry is a popstar with a heart of gold, niall is inadvertently responsible for harry's boners, liam is a meddling angel, and zayn is a demon who made a mistake

📖 given a chance by @ialwaysknewyouwerepunk (18k)

Harry and Louis were best friends in elementary school, but grew apart suddenly when they hit secondary school. When they run into each other as adults, those old feelings come flooding back. They decide to grab a drink, but will they ever be able to sort out years and years of misunderstanding?

📖 Restless Lane by @jaerie (14k)

Louis had grown used to his boring life back in Mississippi as a stand-in father figure to his siblings. He never expected his childhood friend to show up on his lawn with the heat of summer or that he would remind Louis how much of himself he'd tucked away and neglected. He also never expected to find himself caught up in a tangled web of feelings or secrets that just might break him. Maybe he had never known Harry at all.

📖 Once The Dark Divides by @zanniscaramouche (14k)

Louis finds out his childhood best friend is a Dom and somehow convinces him it's a good idea to learn about the world of kink with a hands on lesson

📖 All I Want Is You by @polaroidlouis (13k)

harry has a kid from a previous relationship. he and kit come to stay with louis for a while.

📖 Someday My Prince Will Come by @princelyharry (8k)

A handsome boy named Harry Styles, takes refuge in the woods in the little cottage of the two dwarfs with his beloved Huntsman to hide from his father’s brother, King Simon. The evil King is jealous of Harry’s youth because he wants to be known as “the fairest in the land” and Harry’s beauty surpasses his own. Or an AU based on Snow White.

📖 Not Another Lonely Christmas by @haztobegood (8k)

Harry should be more nervous that he’s bringing a literal stranger to meet his extended family, but he figures it can’t be much more awkward than Aunt Sharon’s Christmas parties usually are. Instead, he’s looking forward to having an extra person to buffer the conversation. A knock comes one minute after eleven. He lets out the breath and opens the door. “Hi there— Louis?!” Or, the one where the friend Niall sets up as Harry's fake boyfriend turns out to be Gemma's best friend Louis

📖 1967: not thinkin' 'bout you all the time by @louisandtheaquarian (8k)

It’s September 1967, the flower children have taken over the Haight, The Beatles are learning to meditate, and their American counterparts travel to an ashram on a California cliffside to do the same. Louis just didn’t expect it to be the new home of their old band member—and his ex, Harry. When he’d left home four years earlier, Harry never expected to see his childhood friends again, and even though now they’re writing songs around the campfire in earshot of Harry’s cottage, he still doesn’t have to - he can just stay inside and keep meditating. Except that Louis keeps playing the melody of his song. And one night, Harry breaks.

📖 All at once, this is enough by @lunarheslwt (7k)

Harry, overcome with burn out, wants to nest but he has never nested before, doesn’t know how to. Louis, his best friend, is only happy to help him make a nest and be there for him. Along the way, they find something more.

📖 I'm Always Free To Run Home (No Matter How Far I've Gone) by @fearlesslarrie28 (6k)

Or, the one where Harry and Louis are estranged childhood friends whose friendship would never work out... on many levels.

📖 The President and His Captain by @tommokat (5k)

Childhood best friends turn boyfriends Harry and Louis have kept their relationship quiet for almost a year now, so when Harry's basketball coach enforces a no dating rule for the season, they should have no problem sticking to that rule. Right?

[thatbanditqueen]

No One Walks Out Chapter 2

No One Walks Out On Big Daddy

Chapter 2: Sweet Baby

Summary: Elvis convinces Becky to come out with him and she gets to know him better. Angst and smut and fluff and smut and angst ... historical inaccuracies.... for instance, I know Larry only did hair but he does make-up in this fic for narrative agility.

Warnings: NSFW, Minors DNI, cunnilingus, gratuitous chest nuzzling, sex, cursing, drug use and alcohol, some mild weird mind games and jealousy, a toe suck if you don't blink.

Sorry about the typos I've been agonizing over this since I finished it Friday,not totally happy with how it is but it was fun to write...

Words: 14K

Catch up on Chapter One here

There will be a chapter three, but for the love of big daddy please like, reblog, comment, share with your maiden aunt if you enjoy this fic.

This is playlist of music from 1970 - 1975 that I've been listening to get into the time period because I'm a huge dork.

Monday, June 9,th 1975, Jackson, Mississippi

Approximately 6:10 pm

About ten minutes since we begin in Chapter 1….

You glared at Elvis over folded arms, resolve hanging on by a thread, tempted to give in and go with him, but also, stuck. The heat of irrational anger and competition burned your chest. You weren’t even sure what this contest of wills was about, but you didn’t want to loose. You looked up at the ceiling, the fluorescent light flickered, and you wicked the sweat off your arms, vaguely aware you hadn’t slept, you hadn’t showered, and you hadn’t eaten much in the last 24 hours. A notion poked you at the edge of your consciousness that these factors had probably impaired your judgement, and maybe you weren’t making good decisions. This was, of course, true. All rational thought had been derailed by a night spent drinking, smoking pot and fucking Elvis Presley. Who, unlike you, hadn’t skipped sleep in order to rush home, get a kid to school and then go to work. No, Elvis had spent his day in rock star land where he could sleep as long as he wanted, eat breakfast at 3 or 4 pm and enjoy a leisurely shower. God he smelled amazing.  

You, well, you had started to smell worse and worse and worst as the day wore on.  There was no way you were going anywhere that involved getting naked with him. No. Last night had been the best night of your life, but you know how this ends, rock stars don’t date single moms who manage hardware stores.  They date beauty queens and movie stars, usually all at once. Where could this possibly go? Just be done with him, rip the band aid off now. Stand your ground. What was he going to do, throw you over his shoulder and carry you off into the night? You looked back over. Elvis was leaning  into the doorjamb, his hands resting on the front of his hips, under the slight rotund swell of his belly, fingers spread wide over the sides of his belt. Eyes closed behind tinted sunglasses, you watching his adam’s apple bob up and down as he breathed steadily and stifled rage transformed into an eerie zen demeanor.

A minute ago he had hurled a torrent of swear words your way, it had been terrifying, yet, strangely arousing. You pushed the giddy tingle at the center of your hips down, thinking what the fuck is wrong with you? The guttural  grain of Elvis’ “goddammit” had gone straight from his tongue to your clit, igniting a fire that simmered in your belly. You had never seen such intense masculine emotion. Almost all the men in your life had been tight lipped and stern, yet very passive aggressive when angry. Not Elvis. He was a walking hurricane, unpredictable, impulsive, volatile. It was exciting and terrifying. However, right now, he was completely calm, seemingly meditating and quietly whispering to himself. Someone walking in would never know he had been screaming at you and punching the door frame moments ago. He turned to look at you, opening his eyes. They were dark, piercing, almost a purplish black through the lavender sunglasses. You could feel the air leave his throat as you watched him exhale again, and moved in your direction. The hair on your back stood straight up and you squeezed your arms tighter against your chest. Elvis’ tall frame hovered above you, his gut pressing into you with each inhale, his breath filling the space between you with warmth. Elvis’ entire body oppressively overwhelmed you. The cold metal of his rings caressed your cheek and his voice was now calm and low, yet commanding.

“You don’t know me very well.” He sighed into your neck. “Tell me I cain’t do somethin’, an’ well, honey … that just 'bout guarantees I’m gonna do it….” His lips moved closer to your left ear, he leaned on one hand against the wall next to your head, the other pulled your arms slowly away from your chest. Heat sizzled at the base of your spine as you looked down, his fingers grasped your hand tenderly.

“I can tell you ain’t never been with a real man before…. A man who treated you good …” then he whispered, “took care a’ his baby…. if you know what I mean?” He waggled his eye brows, while his fingers traced along your jaw, then down over your breast to your tummy and hips. “Took care ‘a you so good, you always came when he called.”  

His lips moved closer to your left ear as he spoke, a feverish heat tingling through your lobe, a crooked smirk raised the left side of his mouth. You say nothing, but your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes even closer, his lips almost on your neck, and you shake your head, looking down. Don’t cry you tell yourself, but you exhale with a loud, stilted tremble.

“Shhh, shhhh s’ok honey,” Elvis' left hand moves from gently rubbing your hip to trail up and down your side. ”Cuz I’m gonna show you what s’like to be with a real man.” He leaned closer, kissing the nape of your neck, his soft lips searing into the spot below your ear.  “I always take care a my girl.” You gasped as the warmth from each word hit your neck as he continued.

“I see you. I’m a seer…and I see ya, Becky, I see you. Underneath all this stubborn bitch crock of shit you putting up, you’re just a scared lil' girl… scared of being hurt, scared of being happy, scared of how good it was with me last night.” He paused, breathing deeply through his nose, and you looked down, shaking you head, but he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up into his dark purple eyes and the promise you saw in them to over power you, to break you, to own you completely. 

“S’ok… Cuz I’m gonna fuck ya so good, the only words you’re gonna know to say when I’m done with you are ‘yes daddy.’”  Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes remain locked on Elvis, trying to summon contempt and indifference, even as the spark in your core blooms up your chest. Elvis’ fingers work their way under your shirt, gently soothing you across your belly, and up over your bra before resting on top of your chest. A whimper escapes your mouth, and you look up, your voice cracking as you feel your resolve melting away.

“Elvis… I can’t….”

“Shhh… see, that’s the fear I’m talking’ bout right there… “

He leaned in and nuzzled the side of your cheek with his nose, gently rubbing up your jawline, his right hand over your heart, his left moving down to stroke your side.

“Shhhhh little girl…. Shhhh…. I ain’t gonna hurt ya …”

“It’s not that..” You whisper, your eyes averting his. “It’s just… I’m a mess… I haven’t showered, or ate much, or slept… I’m so exhausted… you deserve a proper date … you should be picking up a beauty queen or a play boy bunny…”

You felt the vibrations through his tummy, pressed further into you, as Elvis chuckled.

“Why, do y’all even have any of ‘em bunnies here in Jackson?” He stepped back, motioning to leave. Another chuckle, and he was flourishing a silk paisley handkerchief from his breast pocket, holding your chin up as he wiped your eyes and your forehead. The apples in his cheek formed as he matched your reluctant grin.

“Go on baby, stick out your tongue.”

You furrowed your brow, twitching your mouth, as he reached in to his pocket.

“Stop a twitchin’, for the love of Jesus. Les try one of those ‘yes daddys’ I was talking ‘bout…”

You scoffed. “I will never say that, specially to someone who tells me to…”

He looked down at an assortment of pills in his hand, and pulled out a single, small white capsule, grinning.

“We’ll see ‘bout that… mean time, just stick out yer tongue, woman!”

With a humpf, you acquiesced, and Elvis dropped the pill on your tongue, pushing it back in your mouth.

“Trust me, you’re gonna feel better in a few minutes… s’like caffeine, but a lil' stronger. ”

Swallowing, you look into his eyes. “What was that, speed?”

“Do I look like a drug dealin’ commie? I’m a federal drug enforcement agent.” You cracked a grin, and his eyes grew serious. “That’s the god’s honest truth. This stuff is jus ‘scription medicine, a diet pill. S'not strong, ain’t gonna get you high. Trust me, I’ve studied this stuff... I’m a trained healer - told you last night….”

“Ok… but I’m still a mess…”

“You’re not a complete mess. Goddamn, check out this fine lookin’ belt. Man, that’s really sumpthin'.” He grinned, amusement in his voice as his hands slowly pulled off your orange work vest from the top of your shoulders, then moved to the buckle of your belt. His belt. The belt you took as a souvenir back when this was just a one night stand. Elvis soft mouth was on your neck again, and your arms somehow found their way over his shoulders. Just as he moved his mouth from your neck to lean in and kiss you, you hesitated and pulled back.

“I - I …. I don’t know if —“

His finger moved up from their efforts to unhook your jeans.

“Hush now… no more guff. I’m here because something happened last night. I know you felt it. S’like we’re vibrating on the same frequency….”

“Elvis, you’re crazy…”

“No, now listen… I … my bed felt so cold when I woke up and you were gone… I’ve been missin' ya all damn day…  wasn’t gonna be able to do anything else til I found ya…”

His timbre was high pitched, and you heard it crack with vulnerability. His eyes filled with unabashed desire. Somehow in the last few minutes, Elvis’ temperament had gone from indignant swagger to sweet and needy. His right hand moved lower to fondle your left breast, his soft lips kissed your ear, and you tilted your head into him. It was freeing in away, to give up pretenses, and you let out a sob, releasing all the tension you were holding in. Elvis moved his hand from under your bosom and kissed your tears away. His face was framed by the soft, plush rounds of his double chin, and you leaned your forehead into them seeking out the warm comfort of his flesh. You would be happy to sink farther and farther into him and loose yourself in his snug, inviting body. 

“Shhhh … s’ok…” Elvis’ arms encircled you, and you buried yourself head forward into his neck, collapsing on his shoulder. His hips thrust forward into you, the swell of his belly smushed up into your breasts. Steady and strong, his hands smoothed you over your back, his mantra of murmured shsshhhhs continuing as he cheekily pulled the hem of your shirt over your head. You helped him, shaking the last sleeve off your arm impatiently and throwing it on the ground.

His lips were now on yours, gently kissing you, then bringing your head towards him, his tongue sliding into your mouth, sweeping over yours, daring you to push back, to resist it. Your hands gripped him at his neck, drawing him down further into your mouth, his finger fervently grabbed your hips and lifted you up, cupping your ass and you wrapped your legs around him. 

You felt him grunt and heave slightly as he carried you to the desk at the back corner of the room, his eyes unyielding, locked on yours, anchored by stormy dilated pupils.

“Gawd darlin’…I’m getting to oooooold to sweep lil’ girls like you off your feet.”

“Next time I’ll sweep you off your feet.”

“Honey, they’d be sweeping us both off the floor if you tried ta carry me across a room….” He grinned a breathy grin as he put you down.

Your bra was on the floor, followed by his jacket, and you squinted for a moment at the gun tucked into his waist. He smirked as he took it out and threw it on top of his jacket.

“There are three more, baby, wanna try to find them?”

Your breasts heave up as a guffaw slipped over your lips, but you forgot about his guns as Elvis pulled down your jeans, slowing to gently take your shoes off. He brought your left foot up to his cheek, nuzzling against your warm, soft skin, kissing the top of your arch, then following suit to take off the other one, reverently, slowly, removing the sock and then stroking the top of both feet as he looked forward into the center of your black cotton panties. You squirmed, suddenly self conscious and he bit his lower lip, hungry eyes meeting yours as his hands moved up your ankles towards your thighs. You shivered when the top of his index fingers delicately traced a line over your knees, clenching as he grasped the sides of your panties. Your hand went to Elvis’ shoulder.

“Hey… wait… why are you doing this? ”

“Figure I wanna do as much of this ‘fore I get too old,” he murmured, grinning up at you.

You smiled back, tousling his hair, exhaling.

“That’s not what I meant …. I meant …. like….… you can just, ya know, I mean we can just…you don’t really have to worry ‘bout, you know, doing this for me.” 

You pulled on his collar, but Elvis resisted, swiping your hands away and slapping your hip, an expression of delight on his face as he watched your side ripple in response. He pulled off your panties, leaning closer to your muff while looking up at you.

“Listen good, this is the last time I’m gonna ‘splain this. I’m a grown man, I don’t do anything I don’t want to. Now, lean back… and jus remember to breathe.“ He winked, a silly grin growing as he lifted your legs over his shoulders, kissing the hair at your entrance before parting you with his mouth and pushing in, tongue first. 

The vibrations of Elvis deep moan reverberated through your pussy, his shoulders heaved up and his whole body moved in rhythm, slowly licking you from your taint to your clit, savoring your soft, slick silkiness. 

He paused, sitting back to remove his glasses, murmuring to himself as his thumb worked in circles around your nub and you found yourself moaning out, uncontrollably. 

“You need to get me some windshield wipers for those…” he looked at you, clearly amused with himself as you giggled. “We coulda been back in my hotel room doin' this if you weren’t so difficult…. never met a more stubborn woman… “

You moan, looking off to the side, as he rounded the bend of your clit, then lowered his fingers, flicking his wrist to slowly push his right index finger inside of you.

“This ok, baby?”

You nodded, you neck arched back as you cried out. Elvis was touching you in a way no other man had ever touched you, had ever wanted to or cared to try.   

“Want me ta keep going?

You nodded your head, breathy whimpers stuttering out.

“Know what I wanna hear…”

“Yes…… Elvis….” You smirked.

“So goddamn stubborn…” he shook his head, leaning backing into your hips, his mouth consuming your pussy, his tongue now stroked you softly and each flick made you shiver with a tingle. A burning fire coiled behind your belly as he moved his index finger in and out in time with the bob of his head, groaning into you. The sensation became almost too intense and your head thrust back, eyes looking up at the ceiling. Shifting your weight onto your wrists, you begin to move your hips forward to meet his mouth, surging to chase the tension building in your core as Elvis’ lapped and then sucked your clit, index finger rotating slowly within you. You found his finger somewhat distracting, and were just about to ask him to stop, when he hit a spongey nerve point inside you and your hips jerked back. You feel Elvis chuckle as he pulled up for air, his left hand holding up your hips to bring you back closer while he crooked his finger inside you. Each time the pad of his finger hit that spot you twitched.

“What is that? Ahhhh! Ughhh…” you cry out, your breath heavy because the sensation is so intense, it terrifies you. Elvis wipes his mouth on your thigh, his thumb is back at it, and he seems to delight in every twitch of your belly as you clench around his finger. 

“That… that’s the magic spot, lil' girl… Can’t believe I’m the first one to find it…” his eyes found yours, and he swallowed, deeply. “Goddamn. You’re blushing like a nun…”

You cannot take your eyes off him, even as his finger flexes and crooks into you and your mouth flinches open with a loud, insuppressible, high-pitched moan. 

“Hff, baby….you look like a scared kitten staring down the mouth of a gator…. ‘fraid he’ll snap ya right up…” he gnashed his teeth together loudly, for effect, exhaling deeply with another chuckle, before returning to lap at your clit, dragging his tongue slowly over it, up it and down it, and then all the way around it.

Your thighs quiver on his cheeks and you let out another squeak, embarrassed. The feeling of impending eruption terrifies you, and another powerful moan emerges unsummoned through your lips, half from pleasure, half from fear. You’re torn between your drive to climax and the almost unbearable sensation his tongue is beckoning from you. The dexedrine begins to take effect, and a wave of energy pulses through you. Every sensation is suddenly ten times more intense. A volcano erupting, your orgasm bursts forth and shocks you as you thrash into Elvis’ nose, crying out while the euphoria sweeps over your body.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD, oh my god…” He leans back, watching with a coy smirk as he thumbs you through it, wiping his mouth again on his right sleeve this time, his left hand holds you steady at your hips.

“Elvis stop, stop! I can’t take it any more.”

“Ok honey, s’ok, now,” he beamed, slowing the flick of his wrist, gently drawing out his index finger. “Man, twitching and clenchin’ so hard thought I might lose my damn finger in there… think I’ll call you Twitch for short. ”

You let out a loud snort, slapping the side of Elvis’ head playfully as he smirks up at you, leaning back on his haunches, now wiping himself on his pants.

“You make my ….  my … my nether regions sound dangerous …” 

Elvis’ right hand smoothes your pubic hair down. 

“Nah, nothing I can’t handle, baby…. just needs to be tamed is all…” he winked.

“So, come tame me…” you offer, laying further back on the desk top, caressing the side of his face with your left toes. He brings them to his mouth, slowly sucking on the big toe and you moan out, not expecting how delicious the soft, wet suction would feel. You can see the bulge of his cock shadowing his thigh as he pulls his mouth off your toe with a pop. 

 “Oh Jesus, take me to heaven now cuz I really am getting too old for this.” Elvis grunts, pulling on the desk to stand up.

He brushes off his knees, then shifts between your legs, and your hands pull him down by his collar to kiss your lips, not sure how you feel tasting the salty tang of yourself there. You think maybe you like it. Feeling your way to his belt, you begin to pull it apart as you kiss him back, but his right hand moves to firmly stop you.

“Dontcha want to fuck me, daddy?” Fuck, what made you say that? You chided yourself, you hated how happy it made him as you watched his grin grow wide. He shook his head, taking your hand and kissing the top.

“Honey, I didn’t come here to fuck you in some dirty, dingy store room… I came here to invite ya to supper ‘after my show, which I might miss on account of you being a spoiled, no count brat…. so we better pop to it.” He looked you in the eyes as your smile faded and self-conscious guilt swept over you. He pulled you in tight and pressed his forehead against yours. Your noses touched, and his breath was warm and comforting.

“C’mon sugar, course I wanna fuck you, fuck you so silly all ‘a Jackson can hear you call out my name.” He chuckled. “But… this is not exactly the romantic setting I like to make love in…. know what I mean? Let’s get back to my place, get you all fed and cleaned up.” He bent down and handed you your underwear and pants. “Want you down in front at the show. Imma have Joe run out and grab you a proper dress….” Now he was handing you your bra, then your shirt. “But we better scoot, I go on at 8:30.”

He looked over at the clock, and you followed his gaze, it was 6:35.

You turned, buttoning your jeans.

“Not Joe…..”

Eyebrows tensed, Elvis’s eyes were sharp as he looked up from tucking his gun back into his waist.

“What you got against ol' Diamond Joe?”

“I… ugh… let’s say we didn’t hit it off exactly, last night…. “

 Elvis pulled you in front of him, and then took a step back, grabbing a comb from inside his coat, then brushing your hair, clucking his tongue when your hair flipped back the wrong way. Content after fixing your part, he tucked the sides behind your ears.

“That’s better… looks good down, jus like that….” He bit his tongue in apt concentration. Comb in pocket, he put his arm around you, and led you out of the room, down the hall and towards the front of the store.

“Wanna wash your hands?”

Elvis stops, and takes his right hand off you, then brings his index and middle finger up to his lips.

“What, this hand baby?” He sucks on his fingers, his eyes dancing. “Not ever gonna wash this hand again.” He chuckles as you swat him and his hand returns to your side, continuing to walk you to the front of the store.

“So why didn’t you and Joe, uh,… ‘hit it off’?”

You pause, then look up as Elvis walks you into the store front.

“Yeah, well…. he couldn’t take a hint and was kinda being … pushy…  last night …. right before you started lobbing pretzels at me …  He told you my name was Rachel, cuz that’s what I told him…. I don’t know, I guess didn’t want him to know my real name … I…”

“Huh… I see… alright, honey, don’t worry about Joe… I’ll take care a him.”

You paused outside, locking the front door before pulling it shut, and then gasped when you saw the long, black car in front of the store with three guys waiting in it.  How long had they been there, an hour? A large man sat at the wheel, another skinny one next to him, and then there was Joe frowning in the back seat. He looked out the window after making eye contact with you. Elvis opened the back door, and barked at Joe to jump in front, motioning for you to get in. 

“C’mon Becky," Elvis helped you.

“Becky?” Joe asks, turning as the car takes off.

“Yeah, well it’s Rachel to creeps who can’t take a hint, but it’s Becky to every’un else.” Elvis barked at Joe, who started to turn. “I don’t want ta hear it, Joe, just keep your head forward an do as yer told,” Elvis said, palming a few pills out of his pocket and swallowing them dry. Joe huffed and hit his hand on the door.

The younger man in the middle seat turned, and shook your hand.

“Hey Becky, I’m Jerry.” Then he looked at Elvis. “What took you so long?”

You blush and look down. 

Elvis smirked. “Yeah, sorry to keep ya fellows waiting, decided to have a snack.”

Jerry’s eye brows bent in confusion.

“I thought it was a hardware stor—-“ The driver jabbed Jerry in the ribs and he grimaced, turning back around.

“Yeah, s’its a hardware store alright, but they have a bunch of peanuts, pretzels, jerky… what was that honey? Cold beaver ya got out for me in that ice chest in the back? Tasted pretty good once we warmed it up.” Elvis put his right arm around you, chortling as your cheeks turned bright red and you buried your head in his shoulder. “I’m sorry baby, these guys have been working for me for over fifteen years, ain’t nothin' to be embarrassed about…”

Somehow, the idea that Elvis might make his entourage wait around regularly while he was off fucking random women didn’t make you feel any better. Groaning the groan of someone who suddenly feels like a cheap, anonymous, whore, you leaned into Elvis’ armpit, and he responded by patting your back. You react to his tender rub and chortle by slapping his belly. He laughed harder, and pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket, lighting it up and humming as he rolled down the window.

“Hey, Lamar, what’s that department store downtown Jackson? The good ‘un we went to back in May?”

“Kennington’s.”  The driver in front responded, adjusting his sunglasses.

“Jerrah, you’re gonna go run in and get Becky here a few dress options, Lamar’ll come back for you after he takes us to the hotel.”

Joe let out a loud sigh.

“That a problem for you, Joe?”

Joe shook his head. “Have better luck for her at the Dress Barn, they ain’t gonna have her size at that place, nothing over a 10… she’s a 14 if she’s a day…”

You shifted, sinking further into the seat and blushing again.

Elvis hit him in the back of the head.

“Lamar, pull the goddamn car over.” Elvis gritted his teeth as the vehicle came to a stop. “GET OUT! Dammit, Joe, must have lost yer damn mind… if ya can’t be polite to my guests, you can walk yer happy ass back to the hotel.” Joe scoffed and looked over at Jerry in disbelief. “Don’t look at him, ya can file your complaints wit me.  Rude mother fucker, I swear…  forgettin’ your manners. Forgettin’ who the boss is ‘round here.” Elvis slapped Joe on the side of his head again, and Joe swore under his breath as he jumped out of the car and slammed the door. 

“Right.” Elvis murmured as the car drove off again. “Where were we? Oh right, let’s drop Jerrah at that store.  You know what kind of dresses would look good on her, right Milk?” Jerry turned around, looking you up and down. “Now, go ahead sweetheart, tell him your dress size, and shoes too… Jerrah, write this down.”

You look Jerry in the eyes. “Um…. dress size is a 12… 9 in shoes…” 

Jerry smiled at you, writing it in a small notepad, and hopping out as Lamar drove up to the curb at Kennington’s, yelling at Jerry, “The hotel’s just a few blocks away, I’ll be right back.”

———————————

Lamar flashed a broad smile at you as he helped you out of the car, and walked you and Elvis to the service elevator, opening doors and smiling at the staff you passed coming in through the back of the hotel. You ran your hand through your hair on the ride up to the pent house, imagining Joe walking backing in the summer heat cursing your name with each step. Great. Noticing your far off look, Elvis squeezed you into to him, bringing your other fingers up to his mouth to kiss them. 

“Nice fingers… that’s a French manicure, so you can’t be a mess all the time.” Your face softened as you look up at Elvis’ profile, flapping his left cheek with your fingers.

“Well, unlike some people, I usually don’t spend my nights awake at rock concerts followed by one nights stands. Getting my nails done, it's one the few things I do just for me. You’re welcome to admire them all you want, but…. they’re not for you.”

Elvis chuckled, lowering his arm from your shoulder to slap your ass as you get off the elevator, and you turn towards him, mock hurt through a smile as you walk backwards.

“There’s that back talk again, thought I knocked that outta ya…” he smirked, licking his lips.

“Ha! Never! You may have temporarily dazed me, but no man will ever tame me!” you announce, and shriek as Elvis raises an eyebrow and steps toward you.

“Oh, we’ll see ‘bout that…” he calls out, and you giggle, shrieking as you turn to run down the hallway, rounding the corner past the hallway you made out in last night and towards the pent house door. You can feel the thud of Elvis jogging behind you echo through the entire passage way. You sigh out as you get to the door and realize you are stuck, you don’t have the key, and you squeal out as you feel strong, hefty hands grab you at the waist and turn you around. 

“Gotcha!” He smiles, panting. “Man, what’s with you… this ain’t the Kentucky Derby baby… that’s the fastest I’ve run since I was in the army… back in 19… 19… 1916…” 

You  laugh out a “Ha, ha ha!” then feel his chest heave as he lifts you over his shoulder and starts to spank your bottom lightly. “Just you wait til I get you inside!” You slap him on his back, yelling out “Put me down you big brute,” through playful gasps and giggles. His fingers fondle your butt and thighs as he walks into the hotel room, and they glide over your backside as he helps you slid off his shoulder.

“You are a thick girl, aintcha?” He draws you into him, and you respond slapping the top of his belly.

“Ha, I’m ‘bout average… you should talk, you’re thicker than I am …” The laughter in your voice stops as you notice Elvis’s smile tighten and fade, his belly tenses up. You notice the hurt in his eyes, instantly shifting to sooth his chest. “The unfair thing is, though, men just get sexier the thicker they get.” Elvis’ eyes warmed as you played with his collar, talking into his chest. 

“Huh, that right? Well you should know honey, this layer right here,” Elvis patted the paunch protruding at his abdomen. “S’just an extra layer I keep around on purpose, as protection, it’s my bullet proof padding… really, that’s the truth.” His grin returned.

“Mmmhmmm… I feel safer already…” you bent your chin into the opening of his shirt, nuzzling his warm chest hair. “I know I’m thick, the opposite of the pretty women you usually date… Joe warned me last night, I’m not your type…”

Elvis grabbed your hips, kissing the top of your head.

“Well honey,” he laid another kiss on your hair, “ya ain’t particularly nice,” another kiss,  “ya don’t have particularly good manners… or any for that matter…” his finger traced along your neck to your collarbone. “Sneakin’ out of a man’s bed room without sayin' good bye, like a thief in the night…” you felt his fingers turning your chin up to him. “An' I do like it when my dates show up already dressed nice, wid their hair an' make-up already all done up…” he was trying to play it straight, but he couldn’t stop himself from breathing out a faint giggle through his nose. “But trust this, Joe don’t know shit, and he don’t tell me what to do or who to screw.” 

Elvis’ other hand stroked the side of your body with the back of his knuckles, the cool of his rings following as they trailed up from the top of your hip to the flap of flesh at your bra, where his knuckles lingered, tenderly rubbing that spot back and forth. Your heartbeat quickened, there was that lightening bolt rising up your spine. Elvis whistled out and you feel him stiffen against you. “Hell, you might be the most ornery, stubborn lil' girl here in Jackson… but there’s something about you -  God put you in my life for a reason - the lord works in mysterious ways. ”

“Like, through your dong?” you smirked, your hand moved down his chest to brush over his inner thigh, his hard, extended length spasmed under your touch. 

Elvis guffawed, then groaned.

“Sometimes… yes. Course. Lil Elvis is an implement of the lord, baby, just like the rest of me.” He looked pretty amused with himself, a humorous lilt intoned his words, and his voice rose up in jest like a preacher. “Wouldn’t feel so good if we weren’t supposed to use it…” 

You quirk your eyebrow. “That’s a bunch of bullshit… God does NOT care about your hard ons… ”

“Oh ye of little faith. How would you know, anyhow? He sent you to me, didn’t he? And suddenly I’m in hard-on town! Honey t’weren’t no accident. Everything happens for a reason. I really believe that. He brought you to my room last night for a reason, you caught my eye for a reason. There are bigger machinations at play that you and I can’t even begin to understand…”

“So I’m just a pawn in some celestial sort of plan to help you to get your mojo back?” 

Elvis’ hand left your arm pit and moved to slap your butt, then pulled you closer.

“Now woman, see here, my mojo is just fine. It’s just... selective… You always have a smart retort, dontcha.”

You nodded up at him. “I mean, I have a brain and I know how to talk, if that’s whatcha mean.”

He pulled you even closer, clutching you from your back.

“Know what I think?” He asked, and you raised your eyebrows, stroking his sideburns. “You talk too much.”

You huffed and pulled on his collar.

“So you want me to shut up and just be, what, some sort of snake charmer, huh? Doin’ the lord’s work to bring your python out?”

“Huh,” he grinned, his hands now pulling on the cushiony curves at your hips. “By George, I think you finally got it.  Now come-a here and be quiet.” He leaned forward, you felt the softness of his mouth on yours, your upper lip caught between his, and his nose crushed into your cheek. Elvis’ fingers grip your sides as he mumbles low. “You’re not bad looking when you hush up….  Not bad feeling’ neither... s’nice to have somethin’ to hold onto…”

Elvis was just beginning to pull your shirt up when you hear a cough behind you, and look over Elvis’ jacket to see Charlie jump up off the couch, rubbing the back of his head anxiously. Charlie must have been sitting there the whole time. Elvis’ arms dropped to his sides, and he spun around.

“Charlie, goddamn it boy,” he laughed. “Why didn’t you make yourself known, huh?”

“Well, EP… I … I …”

Elvis mocked him, “I ….? I…? I what? ‘I’m a big ol’ pervert?’” He sad the last part in a high falsetto voice. “Go on, git outta here.” 

“Yeah, sure thing, boss.. ummm… it’s just that its 6:45…. probably head out to the Coliseum in an hour… wanted to check in with you ‘bout —"

Elvis held his hand up to Charlie to stop him, and grabbed you by the hand, walking you through the suite, into the master bedroom and over to the bathroom. “There’s the shower, Twitch —“

“Twitch?”

“Yeah, member? That’s my new nickname for ya… cuz you twitch so much, and so prettily too….”

You groan and put your face in your hands. 

“Oh god…that’s why I never feel comfortable letting men do that…”

“Honey, you didn’t let me do nothin'… I do what I want….sides, nothing more natural, nor more beautiful…” 

“Ughh..” 

Elvis took your hands from you face, and kissed you. 

“I wish you didn’t blush so hard, might make me tease you less….” He stroked your cheek. “We better put the breaks on for now. Gotta get me to the show on time. Go take yerself a cold shower an’ get all scrubbed up…” 

You bobbed your head in assent, turning to walk to the shower. Elvis hung on the door frame watching you undress, winking as you look back at him over your shoulder and blowing you a kiss before he closed the door. The top of your head tingled, you felt wide awake, probably the pill Elvis gave you, but your forehead ached and the back of your eyes throbbed as if they were pushing up into your skull. The hot water soothed you and your muscles relaxed as you exhaled into the steam. You started to feel human again, washing the grime and sweat and sex from the last 24 hours off. You heard the bathroom door open, the last of the soap swirling down the drain as you finished rinsing out your hair, and you peeked through the glass door to see Elvis back, an approving smile on his face and a towel in his hands. You step out and his smile widened.

“Just how I like ya, naked and quiet.”

You reach for the towel but he shakes his finger and starts to dry you off, beginning with your breasts.

“Maybe you should go find a foxy mute to date… hmmm?”

“Now there’s an idea, ya know any?” The towel moved to your shoulders, and Elvis spins you around, gently rubbing the terrycloth over your back, bottom and legs. Then he spins you back to face him and wraps the towel around you, using it to draw you into him for a kiss. 

“Charlie and Jerry are grabbing my suit, I’m about to go get ready. I have your dress,” Elvis gestured for you to follow him back to the bed room, where he handed you a gold lame evening gown with a cowl neck. “There’s a hair dryer under the sink, honey, do you have any make up with you?” 

You shake your head.

“Man, you really didn’t do a good job planning for our date tonight…”

“Ooh, you mean my kidnapping? No, sorry…”

“Never met a more willing victim…”

“Ha!”

“S’ good thing you got kidnapped by someone who has a hair dresser, I’ll have Larry do you after me.”

You hear the door at the front of the room, and Elvis pats you on the bottom, again, as you turn back into the bathroom.

“Hey guys, back here!” You hear his voice call from the adjourning bedroom. “Becky’s in the john gettin’ ready…  Black Phoenix, good. Tell Lamar, I want supper laid out up here after the show, fried chicken, meatloaf, potatoes, maybe something healthy, like potato salad? Have ‘em fix it up good. Some snacks, you know, for us to pick at. Drinks. And I don’t want half of Jackson up here again…. just family.”

You tune them out, looking around for the hair dryer, eventually finding it next to a stack of boxed enema kits under the sink, an amenity that struck you as somewhat odd for a hotel to provide. But Elvis was only in town for a few days, why would he need so many? You didn’t want to think about it. Hair dry and somewhat straightened, you exhaled, taking a moment to look at yourself in the mirror, breathing slowly and trying to get your heart rate to slow down. Straining to get the gold dress over your bust, you suspected it is a size too small. The top was like a corset, constraining as it sucks you in, pushing your breasts up and almost out of the loose, cowl neckline. You snapped one of the thin gold straps, wondering if it would hold out for the night or break under the pressure your curves were exerting on it. Luckily, the gown fell looser at the waist, and the sleek, lame felt cool and silky over your bare legs. The shoes, at least were the right size, a set of matching gold platform sandals with a thick heel. A thick three or four inch heel. A thick heel that would mean walking may or may not work out for you, so you would need to go slow.

“Good, cuz you can’t breath anyway…” you tell your reflection.

Sucking in and moving slowly, you opened the bathroom door, finding Elvis sitting at the vanity decked out in a white jumpsuit with a black, zebra belt that has looped chains draped around the bottom. The silhouette of a large black bird in flight was stitched in black sequins on the back, and when he turned to look at you, you see the same silhouette on the front, black shiny wings rising along either side of his open chest. An older white guy stood behind Elvis, combing his hair out with his fingers and a spray bottle.

“There she is! Larry, this is Becky.” You nod at them, smoothing your hands over your belly, pulling up at your neckline.

“I think Jerry got me the wrong size… feel like I’m busting out of this dress…”

Elvis chuckled as he stood, walking over to you, hands on your waist, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as they stared down at your heaving breasts.  “Nah, you look just right.” You cocked an eyebrow as he led you to the vanity and told Larry to get you ready while he sat back in the large, leather chair on the other side of the bedroom and smoked a stogie. Your eyes met through the reflection mirror as Elvis watched in amusement while Larry made small talk with you.

“Nice to meet you, Becky…  is it short for Rebecca?” You nod. “Beautiful name… a Biblical name.”

“Hmmm, I s’pose, if you go in for that sort of thing…”

“Yeah, well, I go in for all sorts of things … you don’t?”

You purse your lips slightly. “No, I stopped believing in fairy tales when I grew up…” Elvis cocked an eye brow, exhaling his cigar and smirking as he shook his head, as if to warn you that you had no idea what you were getting into.

“Oh Becky, oh man, that really hurts me to hear you say that,” Larry dusted over the top of your cheeks with blush. “Gosh, if that’s your definition of growing up, I hope I never do… what’s the meaning of life without the deeper, spiritual mysteries of the world… how do we achieve a higher plane of existence?”

You sighed, “Life has no meaning, Larry, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it’s all just chaos and I guess… I guess we just do our best to enjoy the way things get thrown together and figure out how to survive…”

“Oh man, oh man, in some ways, what you’re saying is very - close your eyes for a second, I’m gonna dust a finishing powder here - is almost existential, from a philosophical perspective, but I… well, I’ve experienced too many coincidences, too many psychic exchanges, almost too many dimensions to be able to even start to come back down to where you are.”

You were trying not to squint as he did a second coat of mascara.

“I didn’t go to college," you mutter, "So I’m not sure I really understand everything you're saying… but, its not like I’m miserable. I like my life, I guess...Sure I wish somethings were different, but… I don’t think I’m part of some bigger, coordinated plan… "

Larry clucked his tongue.

“What’s your birthday?”

You were startled for a moment, then responded. “July… July 26, 1948… why…?”

“8 …. You hear that EP? Just like you, her day of the month adds up to an 8!” He whispered to you. “Birth dates that add up to 8, well, they’re quite powerful… what, you don’t believe in numerology either, huh? Don’t you feel hopeless wandering around this beautiful earth, thinking like that? Were you raised with any religion?”

“Sure, yeah, my folks are Jewish, I still think of myself as a Jew - I.. um…it’s more of a.. um cultural thing, I guess…  if I had kids, I’d raise them the way I was, but I’d be honest with them about how things really are….”

Larry’s face lit up, as he turned to his bag to pull out a bottle of hairspray.

“Oh, I should have known you were mishpacha, look at those dark brown eyes… Oy Rivka, it makes my heart break hearing you talk about life so cynically…. Where did you find this one, anyway, EP? She’s cute, she’s smart and I can sense that you’ll have a real positive effect on her, bring some spiritually into her life... if she’ll just open up her mind …”

Elvis smiled devilishly, standing. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t think I’ll have any probably getting her to open up for me… found her at the party last night, she’s just some groupie hanging round, wouldn’t let me be… practically begged to spend another day with me…”

Elvis stalked toward you, a smug look plastered on his face, his hand was on your shoulder as he looked into your reflection. Larry stepped back, pleased with his work. Looking at your reflection, it was a lot more makeup than you ever wore, gold eye shadow shimmered almost to your eyebrows. But you smiled, embracing the utter absurdity of it all and giving yourself over to the pleasurable of feeling glamorous. Not recognizing the tired, disheveled workaday Becky who walked into this pent house in jeans and converse an hour or so ago.

“Groupie…mmhmmm.. that’s me…” you smiled a broad, fake smile as you rose, grasping Elvis' shoulder to steady yourself. “This week it’s the great Elvis Presley, next week, Aerosmith is in town. Fingers crossed I can sneak into their party…”

Elvis grunts as he pulls you in front of him, hands on your waist.

“Ha! Not if I have anything to do with it….”

You playfully slap his shoulder, meeting his eyes.

“Told you Presley, no man can tame me…”

He grips your butt, then smacks it.

“I ain’t just any man, Twitch… mmhmmm… you’ll see…”

You turn to  Larry, saying in Yiddish, “How do you stand working with this asshole, huh?” Larry laughed, and Elvis crooked an eyebrow.

“Hey, now… what she say?”

Larry looked over at him, “Oh just how lucky I am to spend all my days with you.

———————————

Heading to the coliseum in a caravan of long black limos, you realize it’s past 8 o’clock, and you are anxious for Elvis when you arrive only 10 minutes before he is supposed to perform.

“Isn’t this cutting it close?” You murmur, taking his hand out of the limo and hanging on to his arm for dear life as you stumble alongside him through the stage door.

“Nah, honey, this is how I like it… otherwise I’m a caged animal, prowling around the dressing room. No, it’s better this way... I walk right from the limo onto the stage. Keeps the momentum going.” He looked over his shoulder. “Jerrah! I want Becky up in front, in the middle, and have someone keep an eye on her. Don’t won’t her gettin’ smashed in the stampede of women running up to get me.”

He looked down at you and winked.

“And Jerrah, I’m gonna need you to do better with the gatorrrr - ade tonight, last night my throat was so dry I thought I was Bob Dylan.”

He grinned down at you to see if you got his joke. You rolled your eyes, and he slapped your left butt cheek playfully. Again. Your butt was getting more attention in the last few hours than it had in the last ten years.

“Now, that was a good one… shudda laughed... most stubborn audience in Jackson, guys, right here. Look at how hard she has to work to frown at my jokes. ”

You lean into his shoulder, relishing the coziness of his body enclosed around you as long as you could before you arrived at the backstage curtain. Elvis hands began to tremble slightly as he stepped away from you. Caught off by how cold and alone you suddenly felt without his arm around you, you noticed that Elvis’ breathing became shallow and panicked as he let go of you and walked toward the curtain, mumbling to himself.

”You can do this boy, you can do this….you love this…. you do this ev’ry night.”

“Is he ok?” You ask Jerry, who is now walking you around to the front of the stage. Jerry looks at you, a soft smile.

“Yeah, this is good, every once an a while we have a hard time getting him out of the dressing room. Crazy, huh? Think he’d have gotten over stage fright by now…”

Jerry pats your back, leaving you at center stage, thirty or so feet closer than where you had been last night. Tonight’s performance was similar, though it was rougher being in the eye of the storm. The music was louder, and the blare of the horns hit you in the face the moment they began. You watched Elvis propel himself on stage, where he was instantly transformed from nervous school boy to a charismatic rock star strutting and dancing and karate kicking himself across the platform. Exuding a cheerful, roguish vitality, he playfully bantered with the women who ran up to kiss him, joked with the audience, or stopped the music to ask a little girl about the drawing she brought up for him to sign. The restrictive, tightness of your dress and your unsteady heels all faded away as you were taken captive by Elvis’ showmanship. He stopped to wink down at you throughout the night. You were paralyzed when he strode over to center stage and bent his left leg back in a karate stance, then proceeded to thrust above you several times, grinning like a teenager and laughing as he sang. It brought a swarm of butterflies to your tummy, and they flew up your stomach to take permanent residence at the top of your rib cage for the rest of the show, fluttering around while you quivered. You felt yourself blush, and you knew Elvis had noticed it when he walked downstage and paused to fan himself with his own hand.

“Wheweee, this June weather is heating us up, ain’t it lil girl,” and he looked over at you. You didn't think your cheeks could get any redder, but you were wrong. Elvis grinned, then looked back out at the thousands of people behind you. “But that’s alright, that’s just the kind of show ya do on a Monday evening. We came here to be with y’all and to sweat and to hand out scarves.” 

He winked again, and you swore he was about to bend down and kiss you when he stopped just short of your position and kissed the blonde next to you, looking over at you with a smirk and an eyebrow waggle after wrapping a white scarf around her.

—— ----------

Thirty minutes after the show, and you were still sitting next to Lamar in the dressing room, waiting for Elvis to finish signing autographs by the stage. Lamar offered you a Pepsi and M & Ms from a bowl, and you crunched them angrily. 

“Five more minutes, and I’m fixin’ to just take myself home,” you whine, leaning your head back. 

Lamar chuckled. “Don’t let him hear that, EP’ll intentionally make us wait another hour just to show you what happens when you’re impatient… “

“I’ll be long gone before I spend two hours twiddling my fingers back here…”

Lamar looked at you, and shrugged, you guessed he’d seen worse. You stood up to go out to the stage. Lamar looked up from his newspaper.

“You’ll  wanna fix your lipstick.” 

You raised your eyebrows in disdain. “I wasn’t wearing any make-up when I met him last night?”

Lamar hit his knee, ”Well, I’m not gonna say it never happens… but its rare… I’ve been with him for almost twenty years, off an on, and I’ve seen Elvis go out with women of all shapes an sizes, older, younger, married, divorced, single moms, business women, sisters - one right after the other … but they’ve been … they’ve pretty much always … attentive to their appearance… let’s just say he’s never been shy to tell a girl, or any of us, I s’pose, what to wear, how to do our hair, how to look. He knows what he likes, and he almost always gets it, sonabitch… I mean, look at you now ….”

You looked at your self in the full length mirror. Lamar was right, you looked like a different person. An almost pretty one, like those old money debs who you were making fun of last night. You pulled at your neckline, vainly attempting to cover your breasts more.

“Do you think he told Jerry to buy my dress a size down?”

Lamar chortled. “Ha, at least! If not two… partly because he knows he likes the way it shows off your figure, no disrespect meant. But also partly to fuck with you. He likes to turn the screw a bit… it's subconscious, like, sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”

“Yeah, well, he definitely knew what he was doing when he made Joe get out of the car on the other side of town…”

“Oh, “ Lamar popped some candy in his mouth, “that’s nothin’, he once fired Joe and left him in the middle of the Mojave dessert…” 

You gasped and shook your head, wondering if you should just go home. Fixing some stray hairs, you wiped your mouth, realizing you didn’t have lipstick with you, or anything, so if you did decide to leave you wouldn’t be able to get a cab. Maybe Lamar would take pity on you and drive you home? Or you could find a phone and beg someone to come get you. Maybe you should, the allure of the concert was starting to dissipate, the fatigue was coming back, it was 10:30 and seeing Elvis through Lamar’s perspective was making you question your decision to come out tonight…. For the thousandth time. Your pulled at your neckline once again, and gave Lamar a salute as you hobbled out to the stage to take another look at your date before deciding whether to sneak off, determined not to let these heels take you down.

Elvis’ face lit up with boyish glee when he saw you meander out. Just that quick exchange made you giddy and your desire to leave evaporated. You ambled over to lean against the stage from the grassy field, looking up and watching him where he stood ten feet away, surrounded by people waiting for him to sign their photos, stuffed animals, panties, or take a picture. Elvis bathed in their admiration, laughing and joking and pulling faces with them, while Jerry and five tired men moved them through the line. About every fifteen minutes, Elvis would turn to where you now sat on the tip of the stage, swinging your feet, and holler.

“Hang loose darlin’, just be another five minutes.”

It was 11:37 when you observed Elvis kiss the last pair of women goodbye and stomp over to you with an effected, stilted gait. A damp towel around his neck, his eyes still twinkling from the unfiltered love he’d been basking in over the last few hours. From where you sat, head leaning on your arms over the stage floor, he seemed fifteen feet tall. You gasped when Elvis suddenly plopped down on his knees about an inch from your face and poked your nose, his voice sweet and light.

“So how you doin?”

You smiled, to tired the fight his charm. Any lingering impatience or resentment you felt from waiting the last two hours melted like a popsicle in the glow of his radiance. Head still laying to the side, you responded in a breathy, dreamy voice.

“Hmmmm… just fine and dandy…” 

“Good… still wanna come have dinner with me?” 

You nodded, and Elvis took your hand to help you up.

“C’mon Becky Butt, let’s go get something in that sweet mouth ‘o yours …”

“You’re worse than a teenage boy, you know that?” You scowl, but nevertheless, can’t help your visceral need to seek out the warmth of his body and plunge into his side.

——-----------

You did find something to stick in your mouth. Potato chips, cheese and crackers, grapes, fried chicken, roasted potatoes, little bites of key lime pie. Sipping your second beer, you walk over to the couch and settle down. Looking around the room, you consider that, while there are certainly less people here tonight, this is hardly what you would consider a small gathering. The suite is filled with the men of Elvis’ entourage, a handful of band members, a handful of women, maybe wives, girlfriends, lovers? Your dress, thankfully, had given in to the roundness of your body and stretched out a bit, so you can at least breathe, although your breasts were still mounting their rebellion. You pulled up the neck line again, and shifted toward Charlie, who was tuning a guitar on the other side of the couch. 

“Hey, I heard Elvis during the show, he said you’re from Alabama?’

Charlie looked up at you, his fingers playing a few unorganized chords, and he nodded, then looked over towards the kitchen. You followed his eyes to Elvis, who’s back was turned. You noticed Elvis’ hand seemed very cozily wrapped around the waist of one of his backup singers, what was her name, Kathy? You watch his fingers rub her back. You sighed, he was a handsy guy and you were not into jealous drama, so you turn back to Charlie, who seemed to relax.

“Mhmm, where are you from … Becky is it?”

“Birmingham…. but I’ve lived here in Jackson, gosh for 10 years…. So,” you looked back over at the kitchen, and whisper. “Charlie, why are there 1000 enema kits in the bathroom?”

Charlie belted out a surprised guffaw, and shook his head.

“I’m not even gonna start with that….”

“Ok,” you grinned. “So, how many women you reckon big man over there has slept with?”

Charlie chuckled into his guitar again, and just shook his head.

“Too many… but I’ll tell ya what…I’ve been hanging out with that man these last 17 our 18 years or so, and I’ve eaten meatloaf and fried chicken so often I cain’t barely stand ‘em.” Charlie fooled around strumming the guitar a bit more. “Sometimes he just wants meatloaf, every night, like for six months at a time…. Sometimes he wants all his favorite dishes buffet style, all at the same time, see? He might go for somethin’ new, but even then, usually, it’s cuz its similar, like… shepard’s pie, that’s a lot like meatloaf, jus with mashed potatoes on top… then that becomes his favorite dish for a while, and he has to have it ev’ry night til it's not new any more…  see, EP, man ….he takes comfort in the familiar…”

You nodded, smiling, getting what Charlie was trying to say. I guess I’m the shepard’s pie of Jackson…

“So, where y’all headed next on this tour?” You smooth you dress as you bend your knees up behind you on the couch, and giggle as a nipple pops up and you push it back into your dress.

“Oh, well, we’re goin’ back ta Memphis tomarra, for—" all of a sudden one of the other guys was in front of Charlie, bending in his ear. 

“Crazy over there wants to talk to ya,” you heard him whisper.

“Sure, Dick,” Charlie nodded back, and looked over you, handing you his guitar. “Hold this for me, won’t ya?”

You lean across him to put your drink on the side table, and you feel Charlie tense as your breasts graze his lap, you’ve never seen anyone hop up so fast as he alights and hands you his instrument. Taking his guitar, you flip your legs back on the ground, and eyes following the two men as they walk over to Elvis, who is now very much turned toward you, a grimace clouding his face. Kathy has been replaced by another man who’s talking to him. You wonder what upset him? But you are distracted by the guitar in your lap, and start to strum a few notes, smiling up at Elvis as you start to sing an old folk song from one of your Joan Baez records that popped into your head, you don’t know why. You’re not in love with Elvis, you’ve only known him 24 hours, but he does have black hair…

Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair

His face so soft and wondrous fair

The purest eyes

And the strongest hands

I love the ground on where he stands

Closing your eyes, you let the buzz from the drinks and the show and the energy of the party creep over you and you give yourself to the song, singing softly. You open your eyes to see Elvis strolling over to you while you sing, and he takes a seat next to you where Charlie had been, leaning back into the armrest. There is wonder and affection in his eyes, and you push your leg into him as he rubs you knee while you warble out the last verse of the song.

“Where’d you learn to sing these sad sack songs, mhmm?” He scoots you closer to him, his hands snaking around your waist. You lean your head onto his chest, appreciating the way your head fits under his chin, strumming the strings casually.

“Summer camp… as a teenager …. it’s actually not far from here... just outside of Jackson.”

The warmth of his fingers trace up the side of your body, and you absentmindedly lift one hand to stroke his right sideburn, pulling on the curly, rough hair. His breath is hot on your ear when Elvis murmurs.

“Not bad, for an amateur I guess…”

“Ha…. most stubborn audience in Jackson, guys, right here.” You call out, your voice is playful and loud, and Elvis pulls you on to his lap.

“Hmmm… you’re funny, ya know that?” He kisses your lips, and you dangle the guitar down by its neck, your other hand on Elvis’ shoulder to return his kiss, and then nuzzle back into him. “Go on now, play me a ‘nother one…” he cooed.

You turn your face up to his, and nod.

“K, here’s another from camp.” And you start to strum the chords to the folk version of an old Hebrew prayer, your head against his while his arm wraps around you. Your feet now dangle over the edge of his lap and his other hand rests over you, thumb rubbing your thigh as you sing.

Hashkiveinu Adonai 

Eloheinu l’shalom

V’ha’amideinu Malkeinu 

l’cha--yim 

Spread the shelter of your peace over us 

Guide us in wisdom, compassion, and trust

Hashkiveinu Adonai 

Eloheinu l’shalom

V’ha’amideinu Malkeinu 

l’cha--yim 

Save us for the sake of your name 

Shield us from hatred sorrow and pain 

Elvis lips kiss your neck.

“That’s beautiful honey, what’s it mean?”

You look down, still cradling the guitar. “I guess its a call out to God to lay us down with peace when we go to sleep at night, and give us peace when we wake in the morning… a call for protection.”

Elvis stroked your thigh, then moved his hands over yours on the guitar. “Go head, teach me the chords… I wanna learn this.”

You feel a firm rod hardening underneath you as you show him how the song goes, fingers over fingers, his lips on your neck, repeating the words. You laugh at his Hebrew pronunciations and he slaps your hip, laughing with you.

“How can you sing this music honey, and then say you don’t believe in God?”

You thought of your conversation earlier, and looked up to see if anyone heard what you and Elvis were saying. The crowd had gotten smaller, but those remaining seemed to be paying very little attention to the two of you.

“Of course you believe in God, Elvis, cuz your life is a fairy tale… handsome, talented, successful… but it’s really just random chance… why would God make some people beautiful and others ugly? Why would he make some poor and others rich? There’s no rhyme or reason to our lives…”

Elvis’ knuckles trailed across your cheek. 

“Ya don’t really think life is pointless?”

You hesitate. “Not pointless… but any meaning it has is meaning we give it, while we deal with all the bullshit we get dealt…”

“This…” Elvis murmured into your ear. “This is why he brought you to me. We’re meant to help each other… I’m going to help you seek him out…”

“Elvis…” you whisper, “what if I’m meant to help show you that there is no God?”

“Oh baby, I know there’s a God… I’ve seen ‘im….” 

You roll your eyes, and Elvis pulls you tighter, chuckling.

“Hmmm. So you’re bringing me to the light, how am I helping you?”

“Thought we already covered that… you’re using those snake charmin’ skills to remind me how God works in mysterious ways.” You feel him thrust his hips up into you a few times. His erection is undeniable, and you cough out a guffaw as he smirks, then lifts you up, one hand under your knees, the other around your arm. You shriek and drop the guitar.

“Oh no!”

“Don’t worry, baby, jus Charlie’s guitar, don’t matter one bit.” He smiled deviously over in Charlie’s direction and kicked the instrument out of his way, before bellowing out over your lifted frame. “Alright y’all, quitting time, s’been a long day, time to hit the hay.” You giggle, blushing again, its obvious that he is about to carry you to the bed room and you burrow into his chest to hide.

——-----------

Emerging from the master bathroom, face clean, hair brushed back, you’re wearing a slinky, pink silk nightie Jerry must have bought and put out for you on the bed. You shiver, seeing Elvis in his own blue pajamas already in the bed. He pats the space beside him, and you scurry over, launching onto the bed with a jump.

“Slow down, lil' girl, this ain’t the Grand Prix…”

You nod, breath shallow and nervous as you get under the covers and lay down next to Elvis. He turns, fingers slowly stroking your tummy, his face hovering an inch above yours. You shiver, breathing in more deeply, taking in his distinct musk of sweat, tobacco and spice. His lips softly skim over yours.

“Have a good time tonight?”

“Mhmmm,” your hands move up his chest and around his neck. 

His fingers trail down your belly, you feel the flames crackling at your core burst into a fire, and you bite your lip. Elvis grins, his cheeks expanding. His fingers are under your nightie, and he grins wider as he notices you aren’t wearing underwear, growling as he pushes your nightie up. You gasp as those fingers work their way down, running through your pubic hair. He raises his eyebrows, you feel his cock twitch against you, and you nod your chin, a slight moan escaping you as you lean up into his mouth and move your hands from his neck to pull down his pajama bottoms. He chuckles into your kiss.

“OK, woman, ok…. Now let a man take his own drawers off….”

You sit up against the pillows and Elvis rolls over on his back to pull his pajamas off and throw them to the floor first, pants then shirt. Why did we even get changed? You think as you turn to him, hand on his chest, mouth on his neck, his moans joining yours as you move to straddle his thighs. Looking up at you with awe, he pulls your night gown off and you slowly grind against him. Elvis’ hands move to your waist, grasping your soft, cushy handles, and you arch your head back when he lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks over it, then lowers it to your clit. Each stroke is deliberate, soft, slow, and you buck forward with a tremor, moaning out. His stiff length rubs between your ass cheeks, and you thrust against it. You halt your movements forward and rise up, using your hands to guide him inside you, then grunting out as you bear down on him, the friction and the stretch a welcome thrill as you slowly plunged further. Elvis grunts and sits up, responding to the magnetic electricity that had been building between you all night. Neither of you can get close enough, you pull each other as tight as possible, surging your hips down into him while he grips your handles. Your arms wind around his neck and his forehead is damp against your chin and his voice speaks into your neck high and breathy.

“Oh baby, sweet baby, where ya been all my life? Huh?”

Your chest heaves into him, and you ride him further, crying out with a twitch when his cock hits that new magic spot. Your G spot. Your E spot. Moaning, you kiss down on the top of his head, grasping him closer when his arms tighten around your waist. You feel the sweat dripping down through his chest hair as it chafes against your nipples, the sensation brings a gasp out of your mouth. You meld together with each clap of thunder as your hips meet his over and over, your skin is electrified and the sensation seems more intense than the previous night, your bodies seem more in tune with each other, so much so that they seem to fit together. You follow where he leads, and he responds to each movement you make, lips seeking out the nape of your neck, sending shivers through you until his soft kisses become aggressive and you try to consume each other before the flames rise up out of the bed to devour you both.

“Oh GOD, Elvis! Fuckkkkk….”

You call out, your whole cunt is vibrating with anticipation, you can feel electricity coiling behind your belly button.

“See honey? Its workin’ already… I’m bringing you closer to God.. ugghhhh....” he grunts as you bear down on him. You try to roll your eyes but then have to squeeze them closed when his hands work your hips up and down again and you spasm.

Another minute, and you are screaming out through the waves of pleasure emanating up your core, your rolls into each other slow, and there it is, you can’t help it, you’re sobbing again as a feverish warmth spreads over you. Elvis’ fingers are on your face, clearing away your hair, wiping your tears with his thumbs.  His hips are stilled, and he kisses your chin, your lips part with a deep exhale.

“Ugh, oh, God, I don’t know——“

“Ssshhh,” he pulls you into him. “S’ok...” He murmurs into your neck, you wrap yourself further around him from above, and begin to move again. “You wanna keep goin’?

“Mhmm” you breath out, clenching around him and you feel as if he’s gone even deeper inside you, like Elvis is probing so far into you he might burst right through you. The rhythm resumes, your bottom hits his knees as you lunge up and down and you feel him gasp in a soft, weak high voice.

“Oh darlin’, let me be your baby… just take me in you and let me be your lil’ baby….?” His eyes beg you, and his mouth contorts into a pinched expression of shock and pleasure. Hands on your hips, Elvis pulled you forward onto him and you increase your pace, pushing faster into him, wet skin slapping against his chest while he holds you close, your hands smoothing over his hair and you whisper.

“There’s a good boy, ahhh! ….. course you can be my baby… my good baby... my bubbleleh…” you murmur, smoothing the top of his hair. You have never talked the way during sex, it just comes out in the moment and you go with it as you both inhabit the roles you play in all the different aspects of your life at once: mother, father, lover, child.

Elvis’ eyes look up at you from below, with his chin jutting and the innocent expression lighting up his face, he looks ten years younger.  His eyes plead for release, connection, recognition, and his eyebrows are pushed up by desire while his left hand cups your neck. Jerking back, he pushes you off him and down on the bed, pulling out just before he explodes on to your abdomen with a stuttering growl. He pumps himself with his hand one, two, three more times, then exhales loudly as your bodies still. He coughs and grunts again, shaking his head, hands rubbing your sides up and down.

You look up, a dizzy smile on your face. “I’m on the pill, just so ya know…”

“Oh?” Elvis looked down at you, moving to get off the bed, presumably to get you a towel, but you pull him back, instead wiping your self off on the duvet. You push him down on his back, straddling him once more, this time to cuddle on top of him. You lean forward over him and relish the way his chest hair tickles your breasts. He fluffs a pillow as you rest your head over crossed arms and look up in delight at the goofy grin spreading across his face. His neck swells forward, and now his mouth sits above a tower of meaty jowls. His baritone voice reverberates up into your arms.

“Is that cuz you already have a daddy here in Jackson?”

You shake your head. “Nooooo. Just cautious, like you.”

Elvis bows his chin forward. “Yeah, well, I already knew you didn’t have a man, I could tell… I know things,” he grinned, pointing his index finger at his head. 

You lean up, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Yeah… I know…. You’re a seer…. what we just did was definitely a spiritual experience…” You giggle. “I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything… anything like that…” you tuck your head into his chest, your fingers tousling the damp, sweaty curls they find. Elvis runs his fingers through your hair absentmindedly.

“Hmmm, s’always better the more you do it together, isn’t it… bodies get used to each other… I’ve… I’ve had some good rolls in the hay, but it’s been a while… boyoboy…” He gently pulls your hair back so you are looking up at him, his profile limned by the soft bedside lamp. “Come back to Memphis with me tomorrow.” 

You purse your lip. “Elvis… I…”

He shakes his head. “Uh uh, I don’t like the sound of that… woman, you just told me you had the best sex of your life. I ain’t asking you to marry me, jus come spend a few days an' have some fun… can’t tell me that store won’t get along with out you?”

You sit up, next to him, crossing your legs on the bed. 

“Elvis, you just met me… this is moving tooo fast..”

“Honey, fast is the only speed I know…”

“Elvis, I can’t go to Memphis with you.”

He pauses, brow furrowed. “This cuz you thought you were going out with THE Elvis Presssley, then ended up with me?”

You grab his shoulders, leaning over him to kiss his face as he turns in a huff, pouting.

“What the fuck are you even talking about? You think I’m disappointed because I got to see you up close? The real you?” You turn his face back to look at you and the hurt in his eyes dissipates. “No baby… no…. Look, I’ve had the best time with you. Ever. I mean it. You are…. Well, ‘m not one for making a fool of myself an tellin’ a man how foxy I think he is… you know you are…” you slap his shoulder. “And you’re actually better than I thought you’d be… you’re funny… and brilliant…. and.. ugh… I stole your belt last night because I wanted to remember this forever …. When I’m with you I… I … feel like a teenager again… all my cares and responsibilities, they melt away. And that’s nice, cuz I had to grow up kinda of early … so feeling free again… its been a dream —”

“Then why don’t you wanna come with me, baby?”

“I do. I want to. But I can’t… I have people who depend on me, people who need me… I’ve been taking over the management of my uncle’s store… I live with my aunt and uncle, they’re in their 60s…” and I have a kid I don’t want to tell you about because this is just fun and I don't want to bring the baggage from my life into this one night - two night  - stand …. “I have to go back to reality tomorrow… or today, depending what time it is?… I guess that doesn’t matter… I have to go back to my life and so … so do you…”

Elvis takes your hand, drawing you into the crook of his arm, his other hand caresses your shoulder, you can see the wheels in his head turning.

“Hmmm… let’s get some sleep, we’ll talk about this in the mornin’… jus promise no sneaking’ out this time without sayin’ good bye?”

You assent with a bow, and he kisses the top of your head, then sits up to take a pill bottle out of the side table drawer. You shake your head no when he offers you some, and watch as he gulps a handful down, no water, and turns off the light. Ten minutes later Elvis’ ragged snores lull you too sleep.

——----------

The room is black when you wake up in a naked embrace with Elvis, your hair matted down from the warm sweat of his chest. The windows are still covered with aluminum, but the bedside clock tells you it's 6 am. You gently lift his arm so you can get up, and as you swing your feet off the bed he sits up with a start, grabbing you from behind.

“Don’t leave me Satnin, don’t leave me in the dark… I can’t be alone in the dark…” his soft voice trembles with fear, and you push back into the pillows, taking Elvis’ head in your lap and sooth his brow, hushing him with a promise that you aren’t leaving, just going to the bathroom. 

Once he falls back to sleep, you get up and, finding your nighty, make your way to the en suite toilet. Looking over at him as you come back, you tip toe out of the bed room to call home and talk to Ruth in the living room. You had snuck off to a phone after the show last night, and had a long, apologetic conversation with Aunt Ida, who was, honestly, too enthusiastic about the fact that you wouldn’t be coming home for the second night in a row. You met someone, girlchik, I told you that you would, she had gushed. You had just been grateful that neither Danny nor Harriet had told their parents whom that someone was. Harriet had stayed over to help, as promised, and was going to open the store today, but you hadn’t had a chance to talk to Ruth. You leave the lights in the living room off, relieved that Joe or one of the other guys is not sitting in the living room to greet you this morning when you make your way to the phone near the pent house kitchen. You sit on a bar stool and have the operator call your house, then ask Ida to put your daughter on the phone.

“Hey baby, you’re not mad at me for staying out with friends?”

You can hear Ruth roll her eyes. “Mom… why would I be mad? You should do this more, Harriet lets me have as much ice cream as I want. For breakfast too.”

“What?”

“Just kidding…” Ruth giggles.

“Ok, good… hey, after today, only three more days of school left til summer?”

“Mhmm, mom, yeah. I know….”

“Ok, ok, I just called to tell you to have a good day at school, and I’ll see you tonight, ok, sweet baby?”

“Ok, love ya mom.” 

Just as Ruth hangs up, you jolt at the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut and turn to see Elvis in a robe, rubbing his eyes with a befuddled expression on his face.

“Sweet baby? Thought you didn’t have a man…. “

Hanging up the phone, you throw your head back and look at the ceiling, then return to meet his gaze.

“I don’t… I wasn’t talking to a man…” you mutter.

Elvis’ brow creases, as he rubs his eyes again. 

“Well then, who were you…..ohhh…” he walks over to you, and sits in the bar stool next to you “How old?”

“9.” You look down.

“You must a been a baby yer self when you had ‘em?”

You just nod, as he takes your hand.

“An that’s why you can’t come to Memphis.” He drops your hand, getting up and pacing back towards the bedroom. 

You stand to follow him, but stop, you can tell he’s upset, but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s mad at you for not telling him you had a kid, or mad because his psychic powers didn’t show him this information, or mad because he’s not going to get what he wants, or mad because he thinks you’re some sort of tramp horrible mother and can’t believe he was attracted to you. Your worst insecurities assume its the latter one, the energy in the room has turned bitter and you want to run out of the door. You fight this, realizing clothes would be good first.

“I should go,” you offer, and he turns, hand on the bridge of his nose as he stands in thought.

“What? No… I mean.. Yes.. honey, do what you gotta do…”

You walk up and kiss Elvis on the cheek, then move to get dressed in the bedroom, finding your old jeans and shirt and converse in the closet. Elvis follows you, and perches at the edge of the large, leather chair watching you dress. He stands to grab something out of his black dress jacket, and pads over to you as you finish tying your shoe. The belt and ring he gave you are on the bed next to where you finish getting dressed, and you aren’t sure if you should leave them. He seems to read your mind.

“Take ‘em… go ahead, I want ya to have ‘em…” Then he hands you a wad of money. “And this too, for all your troubles.” 

You count it, $500. A sinking feeling starts in the pit of your stomach. Whore. You feel like a cheap whore. You crumple up the cash and throw it on top of his things, slap him in the face, and then walk out through the bedroom and leave without looking back.

Elvis rubs his stinging cheek, and turns to follow. No one has ever rejected his gifts. 

“What the devil in tarnation… crazy woman…” he mumbles to himself, still drugged and half dead from the sleeping pills and lack of sleep, his mind and body are moving slow. He hears the front door slam and he jogs after you, sticking his head out of the door to call you back, only to find the hallway empty. All that remains of your presence is the faint sting from your hand still burning his cheek.

taglist:

@woundmetender @powerofelvis @butlervol6 @ab4eva @whositmcwhatsit @richardslady121 @dkayfixates @azzawrites @searchingforgravity @sharebearkk @18lkpeters @elvispresleywife @moonchild-daniella @bisexualwvtson @eliseinmemphis @avengen @father-of-2cats @lillypink @notstefaniepresley @stylespresleyhearted @godlypresley

Read Chapter Three Here

[wub-fur-radio]

Scott Pilgrim vs. The Daleks

Soundtrack for an imaginary pop culture mashup of epic proportions (where everyone’s favorite 23-year old Canadian indie rock slacker saves Toronto from almost certain doom by taking on the baddest aliens in the Whoniverse with his unstoppable 8-bit video game-style fighting technique). Featuring 23 of 2023’s top indie/power pop/garage/punk/noise pop acts including Dot Dash, Versing, Alien Nosejob, the Exbats, Be Your Own Pet, Uni Boys, Guided By Voices, Bass Drum of Death Jacuzzi Boys, Woolen Men, and 13 more bands who know how to put the screw into a sonic screwdriver.

Apologies to Bryan Lee O’Malley, Kim Pine, Plumtree, The Doctor, the Daleks, and the Beeb.

▶︎🎶 Listen on Mixcloud

Running Time: 1 hour, 11 seconds

Tracklist

Tense & Nervous (2:02) — Dot Dash | Washington, DC

Distractions (1:56) — Versing | Seattle, WA

Flakin’ Out (3:27) — The Ific | San Francisco, CA

I'm Lost (3:13) — Alien Nosejob | VIC, Australia

I Don't Believe in Love (3:10) — Uni Boys | Los Angeles, CA

Brain Shock (1:39) — Pheromones | Italy

Rock 'N' Roll Boy (2:58) — The Mudd Club | Bristol, UK

Imaginary Girlfriend (2:14) — TV Party | Ventura, CA

Where Have All the Good Times Gone (2:29) — The Grip Weeds | Highland Park, NJ

Workin’ Too Hard (1:58) — Woolen Men | Portland, OR

Better At Love (2:49) — The Exbats | Arizona

Big Trouble (3:02) — Be Your Own Pet | Nashville, TN

I Used to Be Fun (2:36) — Teen Jesus and the Jean Teasers | Canberra, Australia

Everybody's Gonna Be There (2:13) — Bass Drum of Death | Mississippi

Local Master Airplane (2:16) — Guided By Voices | Dayton, OH

Hot! Heat! Wow! Hot! (3:33) — Psychedelic Porn Crumpets | Perth, Australia

What Does Moon Think (2:57) — SIZ | Bordeaux, France

No Plan (2:42) — The Arrogants | Lille, France

Orange Juice (2:59) — Pop Crimes | Paris, France

Is It Really Any Wonder (1:44) — Strange Magic | New Mexico

On the Ropes (1:48) — Jacuzzi Boys | Miami. FL

Dead Cities (3:04) — Scream | Washington, DC

1999 (2:46) — Avions | Lyon, France Outro: Scott Pilgrim [Radio Edit] (0:38) — Plumtree | Halifax, Canada

All tracks released in 2023 except the last, which is from 2022, and the Outro, which was originally released in 1997.

[bullet-prooflove]

Slow - Joe Velasco x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @kimm4710 @ednastvincent @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @cycat4077 @crazy4chickennuggets @cixrosie @themisunderstoodblackswan @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @kabloswrld @xoxabs88xox @legit9thlunaticwarrior @mydarkestsecretlol @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @giuls-ver @wooshwastaken @janeaustenlover @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @im-just-a-mississippi-girl

Joe had never been one to laze around between the sheets. He rose when the sun did and packed his days with flurries of activity. Only now you were in his life, and he had been spending his nights in your bed, holding you close. You were the perfect fit.

He was tucked around you, his face pressed into the hollow of your neck. His body was responding to you the same way it usually did when he woke up in the morning. The erection he was struggling to hide within his sweats was growing more insistent by the second as his large hand settled on your waist, his thumb lightly caressing the line of your rib cage. His nose chased up the curve of your throat followed by the warm sweet kisses he planted upon your flesh. He loved feeling you against him like this, it felt so right.

You stretched out along the length of Joe's body, your ass coming to rest right against his pelvis creating a delicious friction against Joe's aching cock. He moaned into your ear as you arched just a little more against his hips. Joe's fingers skated across the hem of the large T-shirt that you were wearing. It was his own and it gave him a sense of pride to see you adorned in it. His heated palm caressed your bare thighs.

He was only just getting used to touching you like this. It had been so long since he had been anywhere near intimate with a woman he actually cared about, who brought reassurance with the simplest of gestures. You were used to showing affection, you never hide your emotions and Joe was learning by example. He found it hard to reach out, he shirked away from intimacy because he feared rejection but now he was changing, adapting once more.

You brought Joe's fingers up to your lips, they brushed over his fingertips like tiny butterflies, leaving him quivering with anticipation as your tongue flicked out and teased his large digit. His fingers trailed down the line of your throat, tracing the shape of your collarbone before it glided into the swell of your breasts.

Your hand covered his own, guiding it further down your body. His fingertips grazed over your clothed mound. He could feel the heat emanating from your sweet core, his finger dragged over your clit feeling that delicious moistness through the material. Your entire body arched into his as you let out a whimper. Joe thrust against you gently, grunting into your ear as the fabric rubbed across his leaking cock.

He wanted you so badly it hurt. You hand reached back, threading through his hair and guiding his hot, sensual lips back to the curve of your throat. You were burning up inside, desperate and wanting for him. However, you sensed that you needed to move a little more slowly. Joe wasn't ready for such a full-on emotional experience.

His thumb traced over those rosebud nipples, toying with them as your breathing hitched with delirious excitement. He explored you with agile fingertips and the noise you made when he rolled your nipple between his fingertips, almost made him come right here and then.

His fingers crept underneath the waist band of your panties, his mouth gracing your skin. You tasted like honey, every inch of you was fucking perfect under his tongue.

"Do you want this?" his voice rough with that dynamic sizzling tension as his fingertip tapped your clit, sending waves of ecstasy vibrating through your sensitive nerve endings. "Do you want me to touch you here?"

"Yes." You cried out, your head tipping back onto his broad shoulder. "God yes."

His fingers were already seeking out your most intimate opening, his thumb skated over your clit, stroking the erogenous nub as he listened to the sound of your breathing turn into ragged little pants. The change excited him in ways he could never have imagined, he was showing you how devoted he was to you with each and every single little touch he bestowed on your body.

He slipped a finger inside of you causing her whimper in pleasure as he entered her. His teeth grazed your skin with a love bite as he nuzzled your throat lovingly, moving his finger in slow teasing motions until he found that sweet spot.

Hearing you drawl his name like that ignited every single aspect of Joe's furious possessive instincts. He needed to make you come, he needed you to know that your pleasure was important to him. It turned him on having you wrapped up in him like this. You were riding his finger now, your moans growing louder with the loss of your inhibitions as he stroked you into a frenzy.

Every single thing about you heightening his own arousal. Your movements were getting more and more frantic and knew exactly what you were doing when you ground against his erection. He could barely hold back the tidal wave of euphoria that was building up inside. He was on the edge already, this simple non penetrative contact between your body and his groin was more than he could bare. His grunts were getting louder as he moved in time with the rhythm of his fingers. He was on the pinnacle of pleasure; he could feel it stealing away his breath as he buried his face in the nape of your neck and came with wild abandonment.

Your synapses were blazing at the sound of Joe's climax, exploding like billions of tiny little stars as you called out Joe's name, your body stretching taut against his as the climax built up like the crest of a wave. It hit you hard, your entire body quivering ecstasy as it consumed you.

Joe removed his hand from between your legs, his kisses were gentle now and tender. You rolled onto your back, your gazing seeking out his. There was a world made just for you in those wonderful green eyes.

Joe smiled down at the blissful expression on your features he placed a butterfly kiss upon the tip of your nose before whispering against the soft, flushed apple of your cheek.

"Love you."

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[starstuddedevents]

A city for the senses, from the enticing scent of a hearty gumbo to the energizing beat of a jazz band. At The Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans located on the edge of the French Quarter, the experience of the city comes to life as soon as guests cross the threshold of the historic luxury hotel. Set within the 1908 Beaux Arts Maison Blanche building, our hotel highlights traditional Southern ambiance with an elegant interior that reflects the graciousness of Garden District mansions. Immerse yourself in the opulent ambiance of The Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans suites, adorned with exquisite furnishings and plush bedding, and breathtaking views of the city, creating an oasis of tranquility in the heart of the Crescent City.

＊ROOMATES ARE LISTED AT THE END OF THIS POST

HOTEL FACILITIES:

SPA.

Everyday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM

The experience at The Ritz-Carlton Spa, New Orleans is about more than relaxation; it is a way to connect with the French Quarter's mystical spirit, charming warmth, and defining essences. Signature treatments at our hotel day spa include a New Orleans-inspired Voodoo Ritual and an indulgent couple’s experience in a specially designed Couples Suite. Spread across 25,000 square feet, our hotel's spa is the largest in New Orleans and is appointed with 20 treatment rooms, a café and a boutique.

Featured Wellness Treatments:

Awakening Bamboo Massage

Channeling an uplifting, rhythmic

blend of free-flowing movements,

this enlivening and healing

treatment instills a sense of complete

wellness with the mind settled in a

sanctuary of calm and positivity.

Spa Dream Elemental Massage

This unique massage begins with

your choice of dry essential oil to

induce deep relaxation. Atop a

warm water massage table, gentle

rocking and stretching increases

joint mobility and releases

deep-seated tension.

Natural Resilience Facial

This specialized facial is the

complete approach to skin health.

Powerful age defying techniques

along with cool jade rollers facilitate

lymphatic drainage and leave the skin

firm, lifted, and beautifully radiant.

FITNESS CENTER.

Open 7 days a week, 24 hours a day.

With 24/7 access available with room key, work out in the state-of-the-art Fitness Center. Our fitness center, located adjacent to the spa, offers state of the art cardiovascular machines and weight equipment as well as a spinning studio, complete with a Wexer virtual coach. The studio features a variety of classes reflecting the industry’s hottest titles and trends with more than 600 workouts from top brands such as Zumba, Virtual Active, and FitFusion. Each of these classes can be tailored to guests’ specific needs. Virtual spin bike courses allow guests to travel to destinations such as The Swiss Alps or West Coast from the comfort of the Ritz-Carlton New Orleans gym.

Equipment Available:

Cardiovascular Equipment

Elliptical Machines

Exercise Bikes

Free Weights

Strength Equipment

Treadmills

Weight Machines

SWIMMING.

Mon : 12:00 PM-9:00 PM

Tue-Sun : 9:00 AM-9:00 PM

Resistance Pool and Whirlpool

Indoor

Towels provided

Heated

DINING:

Local dining and musical traditions live on at The Ritz Carlton, New Orleans. Farm-to-table Louisiana cuisine, including shrimp and grits and bouillabaisse, is showcased at M Bistro restaurant. At Davenport Lounge, light fare and cocktails are served to the sounds of live jazz.

M BISTRO.

M bistro’s New Orleans cuisine features a menu with the finest ingredients from farmers in Louisiana, Texas, Mississippi and Alabama.

Breakfast Mon-Fri 7AM-11AM

Breakfast Buffet Sat-Sun 7AM-12PM

Lunch Daily 11AM-2PM

Dinner Daily 5:30PM-10PM

Dress Code:Smart Casual

DAVENPORT LOUNGE.

Enjoy cocktails and light fare, as well as the sounds of resident musician Jeremy Davenport and his band Wednesday-Thursday 5:30PM - 9:30PM, Friday- Saturday 8:00PM - 12:00AM. In addition, Afternoon Tea is offered Saturday 11:00AM and 2:30PM.

Opening Hours:

Mon-Thu,Sun:

11:00 AM-11:00 PM

Fri-Sat:

11:00 AM-1:00 AM

SUITES.

Hotel rooms and suites at The Ritz-Carlton, New Orleans feature commissioned artwork inspired by New Orleans's heritage, smart TVs with streaming apps, and spacious layouts with executive work desks.

PREMIUM QUEEN/QUEEN SUITE.

Premium Suite with 2 Queen Beds, Living/sitting area, Dining area, Separate living room, Wireless internet, for a fee, Coffee/tea maker

2 Queen Beds

Rollaway beds not permitted

Cribs permitted: 1

Pillowtop mattress, Duvet, and Frette luxury linens

EXECUTIVE SUITE.

Executive Suite, 1 King, Living/sitting area, Separate living room, Wireless internet, for a fee, Coffee/tea maker

1 King Bed

Rollaway beds permitted upon request

Cribs permitted: 1

Pillowtop mattress, Duvet, and Frette luxury linens

ROOM SERVICE IS AVAILABLE EVERY DAY 24/7.

FEATURES:

Terraces

Third Floor Upper Lobby

Courtyard & Fountain

ROOMATES:

Nina Dobrev & Andrew Hozier Byrne

Alycia Debnam-Carey & Matt Smith

Selena Gomez & Sabrina Carpenter

Joe Burrow & Dua Lipa

Taylor Hill & Jenna Coleman

Lily James & Glen Powell

Olivia Cooke & Anya Taylor-Joy

Gigi Hadid & Amelia Dimoldenberg

Madison Beer & Callum Turner

Taylor Swift & Daisy Edgar-Jones

Andrew Garfield & Emma D'Arcy

Emila Clarke & Nicholas Galitzine

Florence Pugh & TBD

[dustedmagazine]

Rail Band — S-T (Mississippi)

“Marabayasa” is a groove that transcends time and geography, a monstrous monolith of funk that follows a pied piper’s sax through strutting, swaggering, stop-motion syncopation. The singer, Malian legend Mory Kanté leads an exuberant call and response, his fluid, note-bending salvo met with an echo so rhythmic, so hip swaying that it commands motion. The guitars are high and golden-toned, the piano insistent on the offbeats. When Kanté launches an instrumental break with a reverberating “waa-aa-aah,” you feel that you’re there in the heat of it, sweating and grinning.It’s the standout track on the Rail Band’s 1973 debut, a record of scorching power and body-tingling joy, performed train-side at the Buffet Hotel de la Gare. The Rail Band, you see, was the state-sponsored musical outfit of the Malian railroad.

That 1970s band included both Kanté and Salif Keita singing, Tidiani Koné on trumpet and saxophone, Djelimandy Tounkara on guitar and numerous drummers, merging traditional African sounds with mambo from Cuba, and funk, soul and jazz from America. They played five nights a week at a café in the rail station in Bamako to locals, expats, visiting businessmen and travelers. To judge by this album, it was a hell of a way to while away the hours until departure, much better than airport CNN feeds, so good that you might decide not to leave.

Consider, for instance, the fluid big-band wallop of “Moko Jolo,” this one with Koné on trumpet and sax both, both horns floating in a haze over an impacted, side-shifting beat. Percussion, on the kit and played by hand, takes the foreground in “Nantan,” setting a wandering rhythm for guitars to snake through, a shifting, phantasmagorical foundation for shadowed group vocals, the sound of distance, heat and longing baked in. It’s all very fine, intricate but physically stirring, full of skill but inflamed with feeling. Still after a while, you might find yourself turning to “Marabayasa” again, because it cooks so hard.

Jennifer Kelly

[myhauntedsalem]

THE 27 CLUB

The untimely deaths of famous musicians at age 27 may be coincidence, but it is tragic coincidence. The mythology of the 27 Club gained prominence with the death of Kurt Cobain in 1994 since he died at the same age as iconic rock musicians, including Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, when they died in the 1970s. The premature death of Amy Winehouse at age 27 in 2011, again renewed interest in the age's apparent curse. This is a list of some of the artists and musicians who died at the far too young age of 27.

Robert Johnson (1911-1938) Born 100 years ago in rural Mississippi, the blues singer and guitarist Robert Johnson garnered little attention during his lifetime but was rediscovered in the 1960s, influencing numerous rock and roll pioneers. According to legend, Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his mighty talent, which he demonstrated on street corners throughout the Mississippi Delta and in the 29 songs he recorded between 1936 and 1937. Famously partial to women and whiskey, Johnson was allegedly poisoned by a lover’s jealous boyfriend or husband.

Brian Jones (1942-1969) A founding member of the Rolling Stones along with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, Brian Jones developed a severe substance abuse problem that by the mid-1960s had taken a toll on his health, landed him in jail and alienated him from his bandmates. He was forced out of the group in June 1969. The following month, Jones was found dead at the bottom of his swimming pool; police reported that he had drowned while under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Recently, new evidence has suggested that foul play may have had a hand in his death at age 27.

Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson (1943-1970) Known as Blind Owl because of his poor vision, Alan Wilson (first on left) headed up the American blues band Canned Heat, which performed at Woodstock in 1969. A songwriter, guitarist and harmonica player, he famously re-taught the aging blues legend Son House, who had been living in obscurity for decades, how to play his own songs. Wilson, who struggled with mental illness and had previously attempted suicide, succumbed to a drug overdose in September 1970, becoming the first of three acclaimed musicians to die at age 27 that year.

Jimi Hendrix (1942-1970) Remembered as one of the greatest electric guitarists in history, Jimi Hendrix revolutionized rock and roll as both an artist and a producer during his brief four-year career. He died in London in September 1970, asphyxiating on his own vomit while sleeping. His girlfriend claimed that Hendrix, a heavy drug user who was particularly fond of LSD, had washed down a handful of sleeping pills with red wine before going to bed.

Janis Joplin (1943-1970) Born in Texas, Janis Joplin won over the San Francisco music scene with her bluesy vocals and powerful stage presence, first as the lead singer of Big Brother and the Holding Company and later as a solo artist. Despite multiple attempts to get clean, she became increasingly addicted to heroin and alcohol as her career skyrocketed. She died of a heroin overdose in October 1970, less than three weeks after the death of fellow rock icon Jimi Hendrix.

Jim Morrison (1943-1971) A poet and avid reader of philosophy, Jim Morrison rose to prominence as the lead singer and lyricist of The Doors, a band he founded with a friend in 1965. By 1969, his drinking had become a problem, making him late for performances and fueling raucous onstage behavior. In July 1971, Morrison died of a heart attack apparently caused by a heroin overdose while living in Paris. It is thought that he mistook the drug for cocaine and snorted a fatal amount.

Ron “Pigpen” McKernan (1945-1973) A founding member of the Grateful Dead, Ron McKernan, who went by the nickname Pigpen, did not share his bandmates’ predilection for LSD and other psychedelic drugs. However, his heavy drinking caused him to develop cirrhosis in 1970, and by 1972 his health had become so fragile he could no longer tour. He died of an internal hemorrhage in March 1973.

Kurt Cobain (1967-1994) An icon of the Seattle grunge scene, Kurt Cobain formed Nirvana with a friend in 1985; the band achieved mainstream success in the early 1990s. Under a glaring public spotlight, Cobain struggled with mental illness, chronic health problems and heroin addiction. He committed suicide in April 1994, leaving behind his wife, the musician Courtney Love, and their baby daughter.

Amy Winehouse (1983-2011) An English singer-songwriter whose powerful voice and unique style won her numerous awards and honors, Amy Winehouse battled drug and alcohol addiction for years. Her substance abuse problems were frequent tabloid fodder and inspired some of her songs, most notably the hit “Rehab.” On July 23, 2011, Winehouse was found dead in her London apartment, becoming the latest musician to have their career cut tragically short at age 27.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Some Language, Smoking, Death, Drinking

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: City of the Dead

The streets are packed shoulder to shoulder as Lucie steps out of the cab and onto Decatur.

With the worst of hurricane season behind and the oppressive summer heat fading, the French Quarter is in full swing to prepare for Halloween. Beneath the wizened, watchful eyes of St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square is a veritable menagerie of excitement. Tourists pose for photos in front of the manicured gardens while artists, street performers, and fortune tellers seek to alleviate their heavy wallets by a buck or two. The honeyed notes of a corner brass band reverberate off the walls of the red, pink, and purple Spanish-style buildings, rising above the bustle to join the music coming off Royal and Bourbon, mixing into a cacophony of jazz that floats overhead like a cloud. 

Lucie hates the French Quarter. It hits her in full force as she squeezes between feverish bodies and dilapidated storefronts, the air thick with the miasma of sweat, seafood, and alcohol. The colors are too bright and the smiles too broad, both painted and polished for the out-of-town crowds. 

But Lucie knows the truth. The sugared confections, clinking plastic beads, and the curated romance of wrought-iron balconies and Spanish oaks, are a mask. Like a corpse sewn and rouged for the wake, they hide the telltale signs of decay. 

In a land below the water table, the earth spits out its dead in a final act of rejection. Above-ground burials are hot real estate, dotting the landscape like ant hills. Yet even in death, all is not equal. Towering over regular “ovens,” the grand mausoleums of Lafayette and St. Louis are monuments to the elite. 

New Orleans is more mausoleum than city. 

She weaves through a sea of people crossing the square. Her feet travel the well-worn flagstones of streets where victims of Yellow Fever were once left to molder in the heat until they could be dumped into the Mississippi. There had been too many to bury. 

It’s only one of many gruesome moments in the city’s long history. Stories of not only apparitions, but the atrocities that humans commit against each other were enough to make even the most skeptical of locals harbor a healthy fear of that which lurks in the dark. 

Even they don’t know what Lucie does, don’t know what monsters make their beds on the banks of the delta. 

A chill radiates through Lucie like long, bony fingers running down her spine. The cathedral’s shadow amplifies the ice in her veins as she slips into one of its quiet side alleys. 

The air is lighter here. She fills her lungs and finds her bearings against the faded white-washed facade. Only when she retrieves the box of cigarettes from her purse does she notice her trembling hands. 

It’s not surprising. Not when she passed through two state lines, including the entire width of Texas, in the last eighteen hours. That’s saying nothing of the half day spent on some roadside trying to find a tow company to haul her and her sedan out of the bayou. The ride here alone had cost her close to a week’s old wages. 

And Violette is dead. 

The sentence plays on an endless loop in her head. Like if she only tells it to herself enough times, it’ll make it seem real. But all she can muster is a dull acceptance and sharp edges of a distant pain. 

She’ll have to deal with it eventually, but for now, presses a cigarette to her lips and lights it. Her eyes close against the familiar harshness as the smoke slides down her throat.

“That’s a terrible habit, you know.” A voice says and Lucie jumps out of her skin. Smoke catches in her throat. She coughs and scowls at the intruder with stinging eyes. 

The first thing she notices is the tattoo on his chest. It’s eye-level, peeking out from beneath the collar of a light-colored Henley. The shirt is tucked into a pair of jeans so meticulously distressed they must have cost a fortune. She doesn’t need to look at his face to know this isn’t the average LSU frat boy. But she does anyway. 

What she finds is blue eyes beneath sandy locks of curly hair and a smug smile. She realizes he’s smirking. At her. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” she says, flicking the end of the cigarette. She watches the ash flutter to the ground before taking another drag, despite her burning chest. Irritation flickering, she adds, “So is sticking your nose in other people’s business.”

If she thought it would humble the strange man, she was wrong. His smile broadens in a way that can only be described as wolfish. 

“Then I suppose we’re both in need of a little self-improvement.” His accent is unmistakably English. That in and of itself is surprising. Usually, foreigners opt for more well-known travel hubs, the Gulf Coast or Floridian beaches. But there’s something in his tone, too. Like he’s laughing at a joke she’s not in on. 

She hums in a non-committal response, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave her alone. She’s never been particularly lucky. 

“Shouldn’t you be out with your friends, enjoying all that the French Quarter has to offer?”

She exhales, watching the smoke swirl and dance in the space between them. “Needed some air,” she shrugs. 

If he’s fishing for personal details, he has the wrong girl. And she certainly isn’t going to let on that she’s here alone. Despite her more melancholy tendencies, she doesn’t have any desire to end up at the bottom of the Mississippi. 

“Well, filling your lungs with poison seems a strange way to get it,” the man drawls. The amused sparkle in his eyes sets her teeth on edge and tests the limits of her already strained nerves. 

“Are you bad at picking up hints or just a dick?”

The man laughs.

“Easy, love,” he says, hands up. “Your point is clear enough. I’m just passing through. It’s a free city, after all.”

Lucie feels the tiniest flicker of regret. Exhaustion and stress and years away had eroded her manners. 

“I’m sorry,” she says reluctantly. “It’s been a long day and crowds make me edgy. Do you need directions?”

His lips flicker in the faintest of smiles. “Oh, I think I can find my way.”

And with that, he steps out of the alley and into the bright daylight, disappearing into the crowd beyond. 

Well, that was weird.

_____

She’s hit with a blast of cool air as Lucie steps off Chartres Street and into Rousseau’s. She blinks a few times, eyes adjusting from the abrupt transition from bright autumn sunlight to the dim ambiance of the bar. 

A handful of patrons drink at tables scattered across the room. Nobody raises their voice above a whisper. The soft sounds of conversation only seem to add to the sleepy atmosphere. It’s a far cry from the world outside its doors. 

The bell jingles as the door shuts behind Lucie and a blonde head pops up from behind the polished bar top. 

“Hi!” the breathless bartender says. “Take a seat wherever and I’ll be around to take your order in a sec.”

Lucie nods, but the woman has already returned to rummaging around behind the bar. 

Framed art and candles cover the walls. It’s an odd mismatch, but it works somehow, giving the place a quaint, hole-in-the-wall sort of charm, Lucie thinks as she slides into a seat at the bar. 

“Alright,” the bartender says after a few minutes pass. “What can I get for you?”

‘Camille ’- according to her nametag- peers at her from the other side. Dark blonde strands escape the confines of her loose ponytail, framing her angular cheekbones. She seems a little frazzled, but her lovely hazel eyes shine with curiosity, and her smile is friendly. And even though her nose wrinkles in disgust when Lucie orders the cheapest domestic on tap, she doesn’t say anything. 

She turns away to pour her beer, and it’s then that Lucie realizes that she’s not alone at the bar. 

She watches the man at the other end, with detached observation. She traces the sharp lines of his profile, from the meticulous coif of his dark hair to the strong jut of his jaw. The perfect tailoring of his suit accentuates the broad span of his shoulders and the curves of his biceps in a way that makes him seem more fit for the pages of an Armani catalog than an empty French Quarter haunt. 

What are they putting in the water here?

When his eyes, dark and arresting, lock on hers, she realizes that she’s been caught staring. His lips quirk at the edges and she turns her head to inspect the patterns in the wood grain, cheeks hot. 

It’s not until she has a beer in hand and some of the initial embarrassment has faded that she dares another glance. To her relief, he’s looking down into the amber contents of his glass. If she had to put a name to his expression, she’d call it pensive. 

“So, how long are you in town for?” Camille asks.

“Hmmm?” Lucie tears her gaze from the man in the suit to look at her. “Oh, just a week.”

Camille’s lips quirk as she rubs at the wood with a washcloth. “Is it your first time in the city? I’ve got a laundry list of recommendations if you need them.”

“Thanks, but they’d be wasted on me.” When the bartender gives her a curious look, she adds, “I grew up not too far from here.”

“I thought I smelled a local,” Camille says wryly. “Irish Channel.”

“Garden District,” Lucie replies with a soft smile. Her eyes wander about the room as she searches for a friendly topic. “Do you still have family nearby?”

It’s the wrong thing to say because the bartender’s smile slips and her eyes go blank. Then she plasters it back on, though more lackluster than before. “Just an uncle, but we don’t really talk.” 

Lucie gives a sympathetic hum. “Families are tough.”

The bartender snorts. “You can say that again. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Lucie.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucie. I’m Cami.”

“Likewise,” Lucie says, sipping at her beer. “You can’t be that much younger than me, but I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Cami says, tensing to a stack of empty glasses. “Catholic school until I left for college. I’ve only been back for a couple of months. I didn’t plan on being here this long.” 

Lucie swallows the foamy liquid, only wincing a little as it goes down. “This place has a way of dragging us back, kicking and screaming.”

Cami huffs in agreement, leaning against the bar top. “Good to know it’s a universal experience. What brought you back? -No wait, let me guess, a wedding?”

“Funeral, actually.”

She expects the stilted silence that follows, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she asks gently. “Can I ask who it was?”

“My great-aunt.”

“I take it you were close?” She pauses at the stunned look on Lucie’s face. “Actually, you know what? It's none of my business. I’m going to shut up now.” Cami’s cheeks flush and she returns to wiping at the counter with renewed vigor. “Grad degree in psych. I need to learn to shut it off.”

“Impressive,” Lucie laughs. “Maybe you should lean into it. I bet a drink-slinging therapist could make some pretty amazing tips.”

“You know, I think you might be onto something there.” Cami smiles at her, cheeks still pink, but seemingly relieved she’d been let off the hook. “Maybe we can be business partners.”

She reaches under the counter to the distinct sound of clinking glass.

Then a bottle of bourbon lands on the bar, followed by two shot glasses. Cami pours both and slides one to Lucie. “Here, on the house.”

Lucie gives her a questioning look.

Cami shrugs. “Let’s say I know what it’s like to come back to say goodbye.”

The expression she gives her is so sincere that Lucie finds herself at a loss for words. 

She lifts the glass, locking eyes with the beautiful bartender. “To goodbyes.”

“To goodbyes,” Cami echoes, clinking their glasses together before knocking the whiskey back. 

Lucie does the same. The amber liquid burns her nostrils and sears down her throat, but settles like a warm blanket in her belly. It almost feels like home. 

When she steals a glance to her side, the man in the suit is gone. 

____

A light breeze tugs playfully at her hair, but her body is liquor-warm as she steps out of Rousseau’s. A reluctant smile forms on her lips. It’s late. She had stayed at the bar far longer than she’d meant to. But Cami was easy to talk to, and it had been a long time since she’d been in the company of women her own age. They’d swapped stories and numbers, sharing more than a few drinks. 

A couple of squandered hours and a long walk on a nice night seemed a small price to pay to find a kindred spirit here of all places. 

Nearly a mile of clubs and bars stand between her and her hotel. She knows the streets like the back of her hand. The walk should take her twenty minutes except she opts to detour down to St. Peter. It’ll add another ten minutes to the trip, but at least it’ll keep her a safe distance from the east side of Dauphine. 

The last thing she wants is a run-in at the Jardin Gris. So she commits to enjoying the extra long walk that allows her to bask in the peaceful balmy night and ignores her aching feet.

The streets are mostly empty, though a few individuals are out enjoying the evening. She sidesteps them as she passes, deftly avoiding uneven slabs in the sidewalk. 

The trees rustle as another gust picks up, carrying the rich scent of gumbo and soft brass.

When she was a girl, she used to wile away autumn evenings like this at Violette’s. She and the other girls would park themselves on the front stoop with glasses of lemonade and listen to the music. Inside, the older women chatted in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and taking turns stirring the pot. 

Now and then, one of them would step out of the hot kitchen to catch the cool air. Bastiana would chide them for their laziness and, more often than not, Violette would shoo them away to do some chore or another. But she always liked it when Agnes came to join them. She was quick with a smile or a gentle pat, and she always had the best stories.

Her chest constricts. It’s a past that’s no longer hers. No one lives in the old house in the Garden District and Agnes would be more likely to drive a knife through her heart than tell her story if they were to cross paths now.

She shakes off the pain like a chill. It’ll still be there in the morning, but for now, the night is too lovely to let old ghosts ruin it. The sun has long since dipped beyond buildings and the French Quarter comes to life. Neon signs and gas lamps glitter like stars from every corner, casting Chartres in an ethereal glow. 

She watches a group of girls stumble out of a bar, leaning on each other for support as they amble along in their heels like drunken gazelle. Their laughter jingles like bells as they pass her in a gaggle of hooked elbows and hairspray. 

Cool air wafts off the river, bathing the neighborhood in a crisp shroud. The street lamps glow and fairy lights twinkle from balconies overhead.

Bewitched, she follows rows of picturesque balconies block by block. Laughter and music trail behind her. 

The Ursuline Convent looms a few blocks ahead, but even it can’t dampen her spirits. For a moment, she wonders if she ever truly thought she could hate this place.

Then, she turns the corner and finds Jane-Anne Deveraux dead on the pavement.

[daddyhausen]

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 PEARL ROSARY 」 ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 MUSICIAN/ BANDS MASTERLIST 」 | 「 HOZIER MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — blowjobs in the backseat of andrew’s car in the church car park

「 WARNINGS 」 — 18+, [ MINORS DNI ], mentions of religious procecussion, catholic!reader x catholic!hozier, oral sex [ male recieving ], facials, cumshot male orgasm

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 987

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x hozier

「 GENRE 」 — smut

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @bayleymania @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @ripleyswife @selena-tyler-564 @alyyaanna @nightmare-viper

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

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the night had always brought peace in your life. it was the one time where you felt you could be your most authentic self, free from the pressures of the church, fromm the llering eyes of parishioners, of their judgemental stares and gossip. not that you were one to even stir any trouble or anything that would warrant their stares. why you, the church girl, the innocent doe with rosery in one and and veil shielding your eyes from any scrutiny.

yet, they still stare, still shun you for your love. despite your devotion to christ, your devotion to andrew outweighed it in thousands. he was the first to not judge, to not stare with glaring hate in your direction, but affection, the muddy green of his irises bore nothing but adoration. his hands gentle in their caresses of your skin, even in passing in the pews, always respectful, always gentle.

even now, positioned on your knees as you were so commonly used to in the church pews, however your lord was not looking down on you with praise, for in his place was andrew,. mouth agape with shallow breaths, as your lips worked magic around him. he knew the church would shame him, you moreso. for without the sanctity of marriage the two of you were engaging in nothing but common sin, the two of you knew that, however, the feeling would not stop, nor did you want it to.

with your lips wrapped around andrew, taking him inch by inch as he delved deeper into sin, fingers tightening in the soft strands of your hair, entangling him like a wicked serpent.

“oh darlin’” he hummed, head thrown back in a fit of pleasure. he adored it. he adored you. the mossy green irises flickered down at you every so often, watching as you swallowed his length with a soft mumble and a moan, avoiding his gaze with a heated tint rising on your cheeks

his hand would fall from your hair, smoothing down your cheek, trailing down your jawline until gingerly resting under your chin, tilting up your head ever so slightly to meet his eyes. He bore adoration and love for you, for this pleasure he was so happy and grateful to receive from you. in this moment you did not care what the church was to think, in this moment your lord held no power over you. andrew;s completely overshadows any presence your lord ever had.

the moonlight, hidden through cracks in the treeline caressed his skin so wonderfully, a glossy sheen of sweat and rain reflected off his skin and through the windows, he looked ethereal bathed in the moonlight, the harsh shadows of night obscuring his features aside from his lips and the tip of his nose whenever he’d let out a pleasured moan.

how he’d throw his head back, lips parting with a moan as you could see the bob of his adam’s apple ripple with his throat as the euphoric sound pared his lips. you’d sink your lips lower around him, feeling him nestle comfortably in the back of your throat, his cock throbbing against the flat of your tongue on the verge of release

“darlin’ please i…i’m so close”

his teeth gritted, grinding together as pleasure courses through him. as your cheeks hollowed, drawing him in deeper, taking all he had to offer.

“oh fuck-” he pulled out with a soft grunt.

his cum adored your face and neck, pearlescent under the moonlight. the sight only accentuated your beauty even in such a state of undress, you looked like an angel, sent down from heaven just for him. he couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty for corrupting such a beautiful, innocent creature such as yourself. he couldn’t bare to think of the scrutiny you’d face if the church were to ever find out. Even if they were, andrew would not allow them to shame you, for he would bare the brunt of it to save you from ridicule, save you from the jeers and jusdgement.

“c’mere, love…” he pulled you from the floor, gingerly placinging you into his lap, his softening cock prodding the back of your thigh with dull pulses. the familiar irish twang of his voice echoed in your ears, accompanied by a subtle, content groan that rumbled in his chest.

his chin resting upon yours, silence befell the both of your as your breathing started to shallow, content in listening to the rhythmic beating of eachothers hearts. his thumb, docile in it’s movements, prodded at your bottom lip, swiping away the pearlescent streak of his cum from your skin, doing so until your flesh was “pure” to the untrained eye.

“what if they find out about us?” your voice barely above a whisper, a mere squeak like that of a field mouse.

“hmm?” andrew hummed. not so much that he wasn’t listening, moreso his voice was hoarse from pleasured moans. his hand wrapped around your thigh with a protective grip, thumb smoothing across the skin in gentle circles.

“the church? what if they find out about us?” you reiterated, repeating you question as if he hadn’t heard you the first time, with more desperation and worry to your voice.

“they won’t” he replied simply. almost nonchallontally

“you don’t know that-”

“and how do you know that they will?” his question rhetorical, cutting your sentence off in the process.

it sounded rude although that was defintely not his intention. andrew’s jaw tightened for a moment, the protective grip on your thigh still evident. he was contemplating his next words, carefully, evidently. you could see the cogs turning in his head as his eyebrows furrowed, chewing the inside of his cheek in though.

“i will not let them shame us for giving in to our basic instincts.” he responded cautiously, mind still in thought.

“i will not let them shame us for being human”

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[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley: "It's Never Over"

Jim Irvin, MOJO, August 1997

JUST BEFORE 9PM ON THE EVENING of Thursday, May 29, Jeff Buckley and his friend Keith Foti realised they were lost.

They'd just left a Memphis restaurant and were on their way to a nearby rehearsal studio. Work was about to commence on Jeff's long-delayed second album. Band members Mick Grondahl and Michael Tighe were arriving at Memphis airport and tour manager Gary Bowen had gone to meet their plane. Jeff was looking forward to jamming with his band again. But he couldn't remember where the studio was. Neither could Keith. They'd been there once before and knew it was round here somewhere...

But what the hell, it was a nice night and they were both in good spirits. They had an acoustic guitar and a ghettoblaster. Jeff suggested they go down to the riverbank to hang out and play a little music while they pondered their next move.

A few yards downriver from a bridge that takes tourists on the Memphis monorail across to a peninsular known as Mud Island (attractions include a miniature Mississippi in concrete), was a spot where Jeff had swum before. It wasn't exactly picturesque – the shore of the wide commercial channel turns into slimy mud, dotted with sharp rock, broken bottles and twisted junk – but Jeff decided to go in. He didn't bother to take off his jeans or the black and white T-shirt with the crossed rifles and the word "Altamont" printed upon it. Because of all the debris, he didn't even remove his heavy boots. He simply waded into the muddy water up to his knees. Keith tried to dissuade him. But the headstrong Buckley kept on walking – laughing and singing as he went. Staying at the water's edge, Keith strummed the guitar while Jeff kicked back in the shallows.

They struck up one of Jeff's favourite songs: "You need cooling, honey I'm not fooling/I'm gonna send ya back to schooling" – Led Zeppelin's ‘Whole Lotta Love’. Jeff joked about how like Robert Plant his voice sounded echoing around the harbour. Enjoying the water, he lay on his back and began to swim further out, singing as he went. Some small boats went by in both directions.

By this time, dusk had faded. Only the glow of the city illuminated the water. Jeff had been in the river for about a quarter of an hour when Keith spotted a large tugboat passing. He saw Jeff begin to head back towards the shore as the tug's heavy wake approached. When the wash threatened to surge up the bank, Keith turned around to move the stereo so it wouldn't get wet. When he turned back Jeff had gone.

For a moment, Keith thought Jeff was messing around. He began to call out for him. The heavy undertow must have dragged the singer beneath the water where the riverbed drops. His waterlogged clothes and boots would have kept him there. Keith thought about going in after him, but didn't know where to start. He began to shout for help. A passer-by heard him and alerted the Memphis police at 9.22pm.

Within half an hour a full-scale search was in place. A patrol scoured the bank, scuba divers went into the water, and a helicopter fitted with heat-imaging equipment and a searchlight circled overhead. The Mississippi's spring tides are famously treacherous. Sergeant Dale Simms of the Memphis Police (Homicide) told MOJO that this stretch of river is not a recognised accident black spot for swimmers, simply because no-one who lives there would dare go in. Local lore has it that, at certain times, if you were to heave a heavy log into the water it would not only sink but would be as likely to reappear upriver, travelling against the current, as downriver. After three hours, the police had found no trace of the singer. At 1am the search was abandoned.

The following morning Buckley was pronounced missing presumed drowned. Jeff's mother Mary Guibert later issued a statement: "It has become apparent to me that my son will not be walking out of the river. It is now time to make plans to celebrate a life that was golden. I ask people who cared about Jeff to please be honourable and faithful to his memory, to send their best wishes to Jeff and to all of us who are mourning his passing."

IT WAS JUST ANOTHER REFERRAL FOR MUSIC BUSINESS attorney George Stein on a New York spring morning in 1992. The kid had a development deal with a small record company and he wanted a lawyer to give it a look. "I just kind of rubber-stamped it for him, another client among hundreds, but it wasn't a good deal and I had to tell him that." It might have been a routine meeting, but Stein was intrigued enough to go and see the young man play at a club called Tramps on a bill with guitarist Gary Lucas.

"I was blown away"

Stein's epiphany is typical of a first sighting of Jeff Buckley. Everyone who spoke to MOJO for this article described their initial experience of his incredible voice in similar terms. Particularly if they saw him in the intimate spaces he loved to play.

Simon Raymonde of The Cocteau Twins remembers Jeff being introduced to them as Tim Buckley's son while they were touring America in 1991. Having recorded an ineffably beautiful version of Tim's ‘Song For The Siren’ (as This Mortal Coil) they were pleased to meet the young man, who was in turn awestruck by their music, especially the spectral voice of Elizabeth Fraser. Three years later it was their turn to see him perform. Simon and Liz went together to a small bar in Atlanta. "It was just Jeff and his little Fender guitar and amp. He sang for two hours and he knocked me sideways. Liz and I spent some time with him over the next few days. He had tremendous energy and was completely into music. He carried this ghettoblaster every where to play all his favourite CDs: mostly by people with amazing voices, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Aretha Franklin, Dylan. And he could mimic them all. He could do Liz too. I loved him. He was an energising sort of person; if it was a choice between being infected by his zest or a night on the tour bus, well, you didn't want to go to bed."

JEFF BUCKLEY, A BEAUTIFUL, UNFAILINGLY CHARMING MAN, with a heaven-sent voice, could identify the emotional core of any kind of song – from Led Zeppelin to Benjamin Britten, from Mahalia Jackson to Mahler – bring it to an ambitious, eclectic repertoire and sing it full of soul.

There was hardly any precedent for a rock performer of his potential, perhaps only Jimi Hendrix had such velocity of promise, maybe only Marvin Gaye brought such a daring voice to pop. But, unlike Marvin's, or that of Tim Buckley, Jeff's story was not one of a gifted young man leaning on the self-destruct button. Though he often sang about sorrow or death – almost every song on Grace alludes to it – Jeff Buckley loved life. His approach to it bore no resemblance to his father's and, when he finally stepped into the spotlight in his mid-twenties, he wanted to avoid any comparisons.

Yet the first time he came to public attention was in a New York tribute to his father, Greetings From Tim Buckley, organised by Hal Wilner and staged at St Anne's Church in Brooklyn on April 26, 1991. Wilner asked local guitar luminary Gary Lucas, an alumnus of Captain Beefheart's band, to accompany Jeff that night.

Lucas recalls his first sighting of Jeff at rehearsals: "He had an electric presence and a look on his face like he was about to burst out of his skin. We were immediately simpatico musically, both big fans of Led Zeppelin, The Doors and The Smiths. I invited him to my flat and we worked out one of his father's songs, ‘The King's Chain’, from Sefronia, which Hal Wilner had suggested. I had an arrangement where I created a loop with an Eastern sound and played some chords behind it. Jeff just started singing over this and it was overwhelming."

SCOTT MOORHEAD HAD A NOMADIC UPBRINGING AROUND Orange County, California. He was born on November 17, 1966, a few months after his estranged father, a folk singer, had released his debut album. His Panamanian mother, a pianist, remarried, to a motor mechanic. For a few years the family was stable; but when mother and stepfather split, Scott got used to a life being bundled between trailer parks and cramped houses. Aged eight, he went to stay with his dad for a week. It was the first and last time they met. Two months later his 28-year-old father was dead from an accidental overdose.

In a young life full of flux, one constant was music. West Side Story, Joni Mitchell, Hendrix, Nat King Cole, The Beatles – when the TV wasn't blaring, music of all kinds was playing wherever the family settled. When he was 12, Scott's stepfather bought him a copy of Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti. The album inspired him to play the guitar and harmonica. When his mother and stepfather finally divorced, he opted to take the name on his birth certificate: Jeffrey Scott Buckley

Jeff's friend Roy introduced him to Benjamin Britten and opera in his mid-teens. In the '80s he became bewitched by punk and the new British bands, including The Smiths and, bizarrely, The Toy Dolls. After high school, rather than attend college, he studied for a while at the LA Musicians Institute. Though this, he'd declare later, was "the biggest waste of time".

At about this time, Buckley demoed a batch of his own compositions. Among them were nascent versions of ‘Last Goodbye’ and ‘Eternal Life’, highlights of Grace. They weren't enthusiastically received in LA: "I was around an environment that thought they were loser songs," Buckley told college radio interviewer Gayle Kelemen when Grace appeared. "I put them on the album to prove to the songs that they weren't losers. Sort of like finding kids that have been told all their lives that they're pieces of shit, and finally [showing] them they're worth knowing and loving."

Jeff thought he might get more attention in New York.

ON THE NIGHT OF THE TIM BUCKLEY TRIBUTE, JEFF WAS first on after the interval. "He came out and sang ‘I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain’," recalls Lucas. "It was electrifying." For the encore he sang ‘Once I Was’, a song he remembered his mother playing him as a five-year-old, while his stepfather was out. On the last verse he broke a guitar string and finished the song a cappella. "It destroyed everybody," says Lucas. Jeff described this performance as paying his last respects to his father. From then on he'd avoid the subject.

Gary Lucas soon asked Jeff to front his band Gods And Monsters, an amorphous, occasional outfit which Lucas envisaged becoming something permanent with a Led Zeppelin feel. Buckley accepted. While Jeff took a summer trip home, Lucas sent him demos of guitar pieces called ‘And You Will’ and ‘Rise Up And Be’. Jeff arrived back in New York and extracted lyrics from a large notebook that he carried everywhere. He re-christened the songs ‘Mojo Pin’ and ‘Grace’.

On August 17, 1991, Lucas went into Krypton studios in New York's SoHo district with the Gods And Monsters rhythm section, Jared Nickerson and Tony Lewis, to cut demos of the songs. Buckley came down in the early evening to add vocals, having been reluctant to reveal in rehearsals exactly what he was going to sing. But when the hour came, he shone. "I just heard magic happen," says Lucas, still moved by the memory. "He'd worked up a sinuous vocal arrangement, all these intricate parts with Eastern influences. He surpassed my wildest expectations. We were playing rough mixes as we were packing up, and some jazz musicians came in for the next session. I remember the look on their faces: Wow, what is this stuff?!"

Lucas decided this was the most stunning music he'd ever worked on. "I felt it could shake the world." He got his lawyer to send round tapes. A scout came to see the two play in Gary's flat, and a development deal was quickly drawn up. On November 1, Lucas took Jeff with him to the CMJ New Music Festival. "This was effectively the debut of the new band. John Cale was in the audience, Nick Cave. We did three numbers, ‘Grace’, ‘Mojo Pin’, opening with another song we wrote called ‘Bluebird Blues’. The first line of that was, 'I have an angel, her eyes are the ocean blue.' But when Jeff came on, the first thing he sang 'I am a stone cold loner.' A little thing went off in my head. That was Jeff's first statement of intent appearing with the group!"

In the new year, Jeff planned to move permanently to New York (where he now had a steady girlfriend, artist Rebecca Moore). He and Lucas were to work on new material and showcase the group at St Anne's Church on Friday, March 13. New songs – now arranged to include Jeff playing guitar too – came thick and fast: ‘Cruel’, ‘In The Cantina’, ‘Malign Fiesta’, ‘The Harem Man’, ‘Story Without Words’, ‘No One Must Find You Here’ and ‘She Is Free’. They also worked up covers of an old ska tune – ‘How Long Will It Take’, Van Morrison's ‘Sweet Thing’ and Dylan's ‘Farewell Angelina’. But Jeff became unhappy during rehearsals and told Lucas he couldn't work with Nickerson and Lewis. His vision of the group in tatters, Lucas "reluctantly let them go". Ten days before the gig they hired Anton Fier and Tony Maimone. "In fact, the show was really good," conceded Lucas. "Jeff was magnificent. The next day I said to my wife, He did it again. He sang his ass off. This is as good as any music out there...I was elated, jumping up and down. And then I got a call from Jeff saying he was leaving."

Lucas was devastated, but realised that Jeff was determined to control his own future. The nomadic Buckley may also have remained uneasy about permanence. Later he'd admit as much to Rolling Stone, talking of "ways I've grown up with: moving from place to place, grabbing on to people, making fast friends and letting them go." Lucas had a few more bookings to honour and Jeff guested. Their final date together was at Tramps. This was the show George Stein caught.

Stein was soon encouraging record companies to check out his new find. They were reluctant: Jeff was singing mostly covers, and weird ones at that. Stein persevered. "You've just gotta see him, trust me, you'll get it."

EAST VILLAGE SINGER TOM CLARK WAS PISSED OFF WHEN he noticed that his regular Monday night slot at The Sin-e Cafe on St Mark's Place had been moved. And for a guy he'd never heard of, some Jeff Buckley. "I found out who he was soon enough," Clark laughs. "I went to see him and it was like seeing someone going out with your girlfriend. He was doing 98 per cent covers – though in his own way – and as a musician I knew who did every song, but there were a billion girls there who thought he wrote them all!" Buckley became a regular and Clark became a friend.

"He got on with everybody," recalls former Sin-e proprietor, Shane Doyle. "I gave him the gig without knowing anything about him. Sin-e was this laid-back place where musicians just showed up and played, and he liked that atmosphere." Jeff would sing all night, from nine at night until two in the morning, with a few breaks, trying everything he knew and honing his own style.

Stein's persistence paid off and A&R men began to frequent Sin-e. Jeff wouldn't allow them to reserve seats. They had to get there early and sit with the Village eccentrics Jeff encouraged, people such as Tree Man, a tramp who festooned himself with twigs. "He had a kind of disregard for the idea of being 'on' for certain people," confirms Doyle. "He didn't like pressure. There'd be days when there were only 15 or 20 people in the room, yet he'd be at his best. All the major labels showed up. Steve Berkowitz at Columbia was the guy I got to know, and he was very mindful of Jeff's attitude – that it wasn't about pushing him or getting everything out of him."

The Sin-e shows developed Jeff's desire to take risks. His confidence in his singing grew. He left mimicry behind and sculpted a vast repertoire – Edith Piaf ballads, MC5 songs, Asian laments, classical lieder – into something unique. (Friends testify that Jeff had only to hear a song once to memorise it completely. He could also uncannily mimic sounds and old TV shows.) You can hear him stirring the vocal crucible on the subsequent Live At Sin-e EP when he stretches Van Morrison's ‘The Way Young Lovers Do’ over 10 minutes, moving from lovelorn moan to soulful croon to an impossible scat segment that climbs into a Robert Plant-on-helium climax. All Buckley's future shows would be marked by their unpredictability as he went in search of these extended episodes of rapture.

As summer warmed up, so did the bidding war. "Everybody wanted to sign him," says Stein. "But he was fearful of the industry, afraid of being chewed up and spat out. He had to work out whether it was possible to work with a major label and keep his integrity. Sometimes he and I would go out to City Island, a little boating community outside New York, to cool out by the water and talk. Driving out there I'd try and start the conversation about his future, his goals and his thoughts – you know, the deep stuff – and all he wanted to do was hunch over the car radio. He was like a primitive that had discovered a new device for making magic, he would jump from pop to reggae to rock to classical, humming along and so involved, like he'd never had a chance to hear music before and if he didn't listen to it now, in this half hour, he was going to miss something."

Stein also recalls a revealing moment when they were talking to record companies: "We were sitting there with one label president and he was asking Jeff what he was looking for from them and Jeff said, 'Well, if I went with...' and he paused. He couldn't remember which label it was! Everybody knows which label you're at because it's so important. But Jeff just looked at me and said, 'Where are we?' And it was guileless. He wasn't being disingenuous. The label president shrugged and loved Jeff even more because he realised that the kid just didn't care about that stuff."

Finally, in October 1992, Jeff signed with Columbia. The deal allowed him time to write without rushing anything out. Everyone was happy. The brass went down to Sin-e to checkout their new boy. Stein laughs at the memory; "Jeff asked the audience, What do you want to hear? And someone in the crowd shouted 'Nusrat!' Jeff proceeded to play, not a riff, not a minute, not two, but about a quarter an hour of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. I thought I was having an acid nip – I couldn't believe that my artist, just signed, was singing a 15 minute Pakistani cover song. That was Jeff. He didn't pander. It was just about the music he loved."

Andy Wallace, who'd mixed Nirvana's Nevermind, was hired to produce the debut album. Jeff decided to hire a band to toughen his sound and expand his options. His method of finding the perfect players being simply to try and attract like-minded souls rather than advertise for virtuosi. "Who wants to tour with a bunch of muso pricks you can't stand?" notes Tom Clark. "Jeff went for people he liked."

He'd met Mick Grondahl at an after-show party in March 1993. Grondahl, an increasingly disillusioned member of various New York bands, was impressed with Jeff's musical daring, and shared his vision of a band that could mix great songs with freefalling improvisation. "Here was a person who wanted to just fall into the abyss and trust that he'd land on his two feet," Grondahl told Gayle Keleman in 1995. A bass and 12-string jam in Jeff's flat that summer cemented the relationship. Six weeks later, after they'd found drummer Matt Johnson, Grondahl found himself heading up a mountain in upstate New York to record.

To keep Jeff out of the city, Andy Wallace had suggested the residential Bearsville studios in Woodstock. "Jeff had quite a crew of fans and friends hanging around. While he was very driven, he was not the most organised person and easily distracted." Pre-production had revolved around jamming while the band became comfortable with each other, so knocking the material into shape was slow, exacerbated by Jeff's constant desire to improve everything. "Jeff never stood still," Wallace recollects. "Whatever he was working on, he was torn between finishing it so he could move on or not finishing it shoe could update it. He'd never sing a song the same way twice. Or even close. We'd go in to fix a line and he'd sing a whole new verse." Experiment became the norm as they tried numerous routes to the best performances. Wallace would also get Jeff to do hour-long, after-dinner Sin-e style solo sets in the studio. "We recorded four or five of those. He did a lot of covers and a couple of very funny things, a take off of old Delta blues that had us cracking up."

Gary Lucas was invited to Bearsville to add guitar to ‘Grace’ and ‘Mojo Pin’, and witnessed Jeff laying down the startling vocals to the album's title song. "He came out of the booth with this sheepish, little boy look, like, Did I do it good? He knew it was fucking great."

AS WORK ON GRACE WOUND DOWN AND LIVE AT SIN-E WAS being released, Dave Lory, former manager of Greg Allman, came on board as co-manager with Stein. His first sighting of Jeff on-stage was when he took the singer on a two-week solo tour of tiny North American venues, early in 1994. "Just him and me puffing into bad truck stops and buying bad cassettes and talking about music," he remembers. "The first couple of nights in Vancouver were kinda rough. He could do anything he wanted in New York at that point, but now we were getting into the general public who didn't know who he was, but this was how he wanted to learn his craft."

The solo dates brought Buckley to Europe for the first time. His British premier was on March 11, 1994 at Ratners, a tiny bar in Sheffield. After three London dates that week, he was the talk of the town. This writer won't ever forget seeing Jeff Buckley sing ‘Hallelujah’ at the Borderline club and hearing a stunned hush descend over the usually clamorous music-biz crowd. It was the start of a mutual love affair with European audiences. The French fell hard for him, eventually awarding Grace the Grand Prix Internationale Du Disque, a prestigious gong previously handed to the likes of Edith Piaf, Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell. A French EP, Live At The Bataclan caught the controlled hysteria of his Parisian shows (Jeff advised friends not to buy "that fucking record", however). British publicist Jacquie Rice recalls a large, enthralled, almost entirely male Italian audience singing along to ‘Lilac Wine’ like some love-struck football crowd.

A second guitarist Michael Tighe, who'd never played in a band before, was recruited for a pre-Grace tour. During rehearsals he came up with a guitar line that transfixed Jeff. They quickly wrote the haunting ‘So Real’. Excited by the new composition, Jeff insisted they cut it live in an LA studio, initially to use as a B-side. The results were so good the song was added to Grace, usurping one called ‘Forget Her’ which, according to Wallace, was "a simple, three chord thing with a great bluesy vocal, recorded in one take. He felt it didn't say much about him as a songwriter, which I certainly don't agree with. A wonderful song."

Grace (finally issued in August 1994) received ecstatic reviews but didn't ignite any charts or garner much airplay. Buckley was happy, however, to tour behind the album for the next 18 months and let his following grow naturally. Audiences all over the world began to swell. With only one official single, ‘Last Goodbye’, and hardly any interviews, word of mouth was doing the bulk of the promotional work.

"Jeff was the type of artist whose instincts you trusted," states Dave Lory. "We used to laugh about it. He would call up and want to do something unconventional, and the joke was, 'We're gonna jump off the cliff and the parachute always opens.' Whether it was setting up his mic on one side of the stage – other managers would be all, 'Oh no, you gotta be right in the centre' – to when he first started with the band, they didn't rehearse, just jammed, and didn't play the songs until the first night. And they were great. And ‘Kanga-Roo’ [Buckley's wild, super-extended version of the Big Star song] – others would say, 'He's playing that song too long.' But I saw it as the only way the band could really grow together, so I'd fight to let 'em do it. That was the fun of managing Jeff Buckley, jumping off that cliff."

The gigs veered between delicate acoustic sets and full-scale sonic onslaughts; Jeff becoming increasingly interested in the harder end of the sound and the power of a band. But in spring '96 in Sydney, Australia, drummer Matt Johnson announced his intention to leave, finally enforcing a hiatus in which Jeff could start writing the follow-up to Grace. But the rigours of touring and the pressure he felt to improve upon his debut initiated a long spell of writer's block. "Columbia wanted the second album out faster," notes Stein. "But if the record company had a timetable and Jeff Buckley had a timetable, Jeff's won out. He wouldn't put something out if it wasn't ready."

Slowly, the songs came, many of them dark and strange.

On October 26, 1996, Jeff posted a rambling message on his website telling fans that his next album, due in the spring of '97, would be called My Sweetheart The Drunk. Wallace remembers the title being discussed: "He described the album to me as a guidebook for losers in love." Tom Clark heard some of the demos: "The new stuff sounded pretty rocking, but he also had some incredibly beautiful things. One song was a hit record, I swear."

In December, Buckley decided to develop his new material by airing the work-in-progress on a string of solo dates, appearing under pseudonyms such as The Crackrobats, Possessed By Elves, Topless America and A Puppet Show Named Julio. When fans complained that they hadn't known about these shows, Buckley replied via the Internet, in January this year: "[The shows] are simply my own way of survival, self-assessment and recreation. If they don't happen...nothing else can. I can be all alone with nothing to help me save myself.

"I'm in the middle of some wild shit right now," he continued, "but I'm coming soon to a cardboard display case near you, and I'll come out of my hole and we'll make bonfires out of ticket stubs come the summer."

A new drummer, Parker Kindred, debuted on February 9 at Arlene's Grocery in New York before the band relocated to Memphis at the invitation of The Grifters, a band Jeff had befriended who were based at nearby Easley Studios. Buckley rented a house on North Rembert Street and work started at Easley with Tom Verlaine as a guest player and co-producer. A few songs were recorded but the sessions fell apart, though Buckley and Verlaine remained friendly. The band returned to New York and Andy Wallace was asked to produce again. Work was due to begin on June 30.

Jeff elected to stay in Memphis. He even made enquiries with his managers about buying the house on Rembert Street. Every Monday night, in an echo of the Sin-e days, he'd perform in a bar called Barristers. MOJO writer Robert Gordon witnessed some of these sets: "It was very informal and as much about working stuff out as playing complete songs. He'd talk a lot between songs, saying funny stuff and just having a good time."

On May 27, Jeff called his old Sin-e buddy Tom Clark, who was recuperating after a bad fall. "I'd not heard from him for ages so it was great to talk to him. We talked about the usual things: girls, guitars and music. And he spoke about his frustration making this record. He'd got over the writer's block. Bam. He had about 30 songs ready."

DAVE LORY CALLED GEORGE STEIN AT TWO IN THE MORN-ing on May 30. "Jeff's missing."

"I was groggy but I thought, He'll show up. He's gone underground before," says Stein. "But then Dave said he was in the Mississippi and there were divers. My heart sank. I knew he was gone."

On the afternoon of June 4, passengers on the American Queen riverboat sighted something caught in branches floating in the Mississippi. It was the body of a young man in an Altamont T-shirt.

Two weeks later, medical examiner Tammy Ruth declared that Jeff Buckley had tested negative for drugs and that his blood alcohol level was less than half that required for a person to be declared drunk. "The official cause of death is accidental drowning," she concluded. "We're not investigating anything," confirmed Lieutenant Richard True of the Memphis Police.

"HE WAS A COMPLICATED PERSON," DECIDES GEORGE Stein, when asked to sum up his charge and friend. "He had a lot of sides to him. But he had a musical soul. He was a musical soul."

September 1, 1994, The Garage in London's Finsbury Park. Jeff Buckley removes his shirt. The first three rows – entirely comprised, it seems, of smitten women – swoon en masse. The room ripples with sweat and electricity throughout the heady song which follows. As it finishes, one girl yells in a desperate, yearning tone, "Have my babies!" "And mine!" shouts another. Jeff laughs. "Hey, I gotta show to do."

"He didn't let too many people in. Even his good friends," concludes Tom Clark. "No-one really knows what his private life was like. But he was great to be with and so funny. The minute Jeff walked into a bar he'd be singing, the theme song to The Jeffersons, anything. I feel bad for his band. They're really hurting right now I am too. I really miss that fucking guy."

[fashionbooksmilano]

Branded Youth and other Stories  by Bruce Weber

designed by Dimitri Levas. Lyrics by Sammy Cahn, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, and Patti Smith; Poems by Charles Bukowski, A. E. Houseman and Allen Ginsberg; and essays by Ingrid Sischy, Martin Harrison, and Charles Saumarez Smith.

Bulfinch Press/Little Brown and Company, Boston New York 1997, 278 pages, 28 x 22 cm., ISBN  9780821225257

euro 110,00

email if you want to buy :booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

“Branded Youth And Other Stories” was published in conjunction with Bruce’s exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery London in 1997. The title refers to a story of some wild-child teenagers he met in Montana, who in an act of teenage bonding had branded each other on the shoulder with the heated blade of an army bayonet. The reckless romance of this band-of-brothers fable sets the tone for the photographs of this volume–images that evoke youth, freedom, adventure…and the ties that bind. This book opens with a portfolio of Hollywood’s brightest lights, actors of todays’ A-list like Leonardo diCaprio, Christina Ricci, Natalie Portman and Mark Wahlberg, all caught at the moment just before their biggest breaks.  Their innocence stands in stark contrast to the “Court TV” chapter that follows, Polaroid stills from the time when when cable crime reportage became a national fixation, the lurid underbelly of fame represented by the Menendez brothers, Amy Fisher, and Lorena Bobbitt. “Branded Youth” is very much concerned with a search for lost innocence, that “big fantasy life” only dangerous because of its elusiveness. The book traces Bruce’s travels and adventures over the course of several years, from Vietnam to South Africa, Mississippi to Montana. Everywhere he witnesses and documents families celebrating together, children, elderly folks, life-long friends, enchanted landscapes. The prevailing feeling is of possibility and love and faith, the desire people share to build communities and live in harmony with one another, regardless of the injustice or violence of the past. In these photographs, Bruce captures an openness to life as it presents itself to his lens–the pictures resonate, above all, with hope. The book ends as it began, with a study in contrasts. Youthful friendship and loyalty are celebrated in photographs of athletes (at Dan Gable’s Wrestling Camp in Iowa) and Boy Scouts (specifically, Troop 1426 of Virginia). Adolescence and sexuality get their due in a series of figure studies which end the book. But even with its prevailing exuberance, Bruce Weber closes “Branded Youth” with a thoughtful essay expressing the ephemeral nature of such joy. 

09/03/23

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[freudianslumber]

Tiger Man

Summary:  The year was 1941, bandmates and secret lovers Scotty Moore and Elvis Presley got caught red handed by Scotty’s fiancée, and this led to the young men being thrusted headlong into the China-Burma-India theater of World War II as members of the first American Volunteer Group (The Flying Tigers). 

Author’s Notes:  This is my second Elvis fan fic, a WW II AU.  Since I was born and raised in China until teenage years, I have a personal connection and fascination with this slice of history.  Notice since the time frame of this story is set in the 1940s, I’ve made adjustments to certain things such as Blue Moon Boys being a hillbilly band and not a rock n’ roll band, and all songs that appeared had to be from before 1941, etc.  Obviously, Elvis fans would also know that some happenings in Humes High mentioned here were really a composite of experiences of Elvis’ actual high school friends such as Red West and George Klein. 

Chapter 1. Caught in the Heat

Pairing: Scotty Moore x Elvis Presley (m/m)

Word count: 3.4k

Warning: 18+, kissing, foreplay, light bondage, fingering

For a moment, Scotty felt he was on top of the world. The view beneath him was mesmerizing: A pair of half-lidded sapphire eyes looking up at him with unspoken desire, cherubic lips parting slightly in an invitation, luscious golden chestnut hair framing that uniquely handsome face.

Elvis Aron Presley, the owner of those ravishing features, gave him a small insecure smile followed by a meek and hesitant whisper: “S-Scotty? Do you still want me tonight?” This snapped the other young man out of his temporary catatonic state, his right hand reached down and gently caressed Elvis’ cheek, causing a hint of a blush there: “Sorry honey, I just had to make sure this was real, that was all. We’ve come a long way, I promise I’ll make you a man tonight.” With such a forthright declaration, Scotty took the initiative, lowered his upper body onto Elvis in a smooth and confident move, and covered the boy’s soft alluring lips with his mouth.

Scotty's mind rolled back to his last year at Humes High. As the popular class president, already skilled guitarist, envied by all the boys and pursued by all the girls, Scotty only noticed awkward freshman Presley at the school talent show for the first time. The desperately shy boy who moved from the small town of Tupelo Mississippi not long ago sang a soppy tune about a dog called “Old Shep”, while accompanying himself with rather laughable amateurish acoustic guitar. But somehow the freshman’s slightly trembling vocal struck a chord with an unsuspecting audience, and surely left an impression on one particular upperclassman. The voice was untrained and unrefined, but exuded a purity and raw emotion which were so rare and entirely captivating. Unsurprisingly the most lauded performance of that night came from Scotty and his well-rehearsed band The Starlite Wranglers, without a doubt the most technically proficient and experienced musical act Humes High had ever spawned. However, the much-celebrated senior found it impossible to erase the kid with the strange name from his mind ever since then.

Scotty’s thoughts were brought back to the present as a more grown-up version of Elvis let out a little whimper, arching back as the burning manhood within Scotty’s underwear rubbed against his own bulge through thin layers of cotton. Scotty growled, attacked the exposed delicate skin on that tempting neck with lips and plenty of teeth. In one swift move, Scotty grabbed both wrists of his younger partner and held them above his head. Met with little resistance, a smirk appeared on Scotty’s face as he casually reached for his tie in the pile of clothes on the nightstand. “Hold still!” Scotty commanded with authority to the squirming and panting mess beneath him. "Sorry, Scotty. S-Sorry, sir…” Elvis stopped squirming, bit his bottom lip nervously and tensed up all over, as if anticipating some type of reprimand. The guitarist’s dexterous fingers tied Elvis’ wrists together with ease and made a secure knot. “Baby are you ready?” Scotty’s icy blue eyes twinkled. Elvis’ cheeks grew even rosier, “yes, ready as I’ll ever be…” With that bashful affirmation, the one in charge made quick work of their briefs, sliding them off and tossing them aside. As he went on to spread open Elvis’ legs, Scotty added with a cocky flick of an eyebrow: “I bet none of them fangirls of yours would guess how you'll lose your virginity, huh?’’

In the years since Elvis had first broken into Scotty's realm of existence singing a mournful song about a dog at Humes talent show, many things changed, but some things did not. Elvis gained a few friends and some supporters at school through his musical talent, but at the same time attracted a number of haters. Some boys at school were clearly resentful of the amount of attention the awkward misfit seemed to be getting. One time they sabotaged his instrument, broke all the strings on Elvis’ beloved guitar which he brought to school every day. The graduating class president stepped in then and mended Elvis’ heart by gifting him with a set of even better guitar strings. Unfortunately, the bullying did not stop there. Elvis continued to be seen as an outsider, being mocked frequently about his clothes which he couldn’t afford to change very often due to poor family background, his acne scars, his self-styled hair, and his singing between classes. The bullies called him names such as “squirrel”, threw rotten tomatoes at him when he was playing on campus, finally culminating in one incident which Scotty walked in on. The group of delinquents cornered Elvis in the bathroom, roughed him up a bit and held him down by force, one of them waved a razor in hand menacingly and talked about teaching “Presley and his precious hair” a lesson and “shave it all off”. This plan was derailed when Scotty and his buddies intervened and scared away the punks. The freshman’s face turned red from shame and embarrassment from having to be rescued, tears sparkled in his eyes as he murmured “I owe you one” to Scotty before running away.

What Scotty did not know was that Elvis had been secretly idolizing him ever since he came to Humes. The popular senior was perfect in every way in the newcomer’s eyes. His effortless charm, good looks, confidence, poise, leadership and musicianship all made him so attractive but completely out of reach. Scotty was even kind to Elvis when many others shunned and derided him in school, which made the whole bathroom debacle feel that much more humiliating to the boy from Tupelo. Even prior to that, he already couldn’t help being self-conscious around Scotty, akin to how inadequate a newly joined boy scout would feel next to a Eagle Scout.

Soon however Elvis found that he didn’t need to worry about how he felt around Scotty anymore. Graduation came around and Scotty disappeared after that for five long years. The rumor around town was that the former class president did not go off to college as others had expected, instead he joined the Naval Academy and then the Navy Air Corps. As a naval aviator he followed his training with military tour of duty in the far east. Elvis’ mind wandered off to the sea and distant shores many a time along with his high-flying hero during the extended intervening years. Meanwhile, his biggest accomplishment was becoming the first member of his family to graduate from high school. Elvis got a job at Crown Electric as a truck driver while trying to audition for various local bands. He never gave up on his dream to make it as a singer despite disparaging words he had received.

Once again it was Scotty to the rescue. The accomplished pilot was back in town after he left active duty from the Navy and formed a hillbilly band right away without missing a beat. As a virtuoso guitar player with local renown Scotty would have been a hot draw on his own, but he was looking for a charismatic front man to complete the last piece of the puzzle. Elvis couldn’t believe it when Scotty picked him out of scores of contenders for the lead singer position. No one had ever given the high school grad so much encouragement and put so much confidence in his ability to carry a band vocally. The high-spirited combo that resulted became known as the Blue Moon Boys and almost an instant sensation on the Memphis music scene. Teenagers all around the region soon got words of the cool new act and began flocking to their gigs to see it for themselves. The Blue Moon Boys’ songs were starting to get radio plays despite the material being mostly covers of Hillbilly artists such as Bob Wills and Roy Acuff.

Although Elvis did not consider himself a good singer and attributed his recent popularity mostly to luck and Scotty, the guitarist knew this couldn’t be farther from the truth. As a more experienced musician and aspiring producer, Scotty saw great natural talent in his younger friend. The ability to take any song and spin it on its head and transform it into something new and unique, was an intangible that could not be taught or trained. The boy’s strength was in interpretation and performance, and despite his shy personality, on stage he was magnetic and exciting. Scotty did not realize how much he was smitten by the new lead singer until he inadvertently acted upset and jealous over Elvis’ flirty closeness with all his female fans. That was when Elvis broke down and confessed that he had been head over heels for Scotty ever since high school days.

“Please, Scotty! I need your loving!” Elvis begged as Scotty’s lubricated finger teased around his rim. He wanted to hold Scotty impossibly tight, but his hands were tied together above his head, so he had to wait for the other to move. Scotty’s left hand moved to pinch the young man’s nipple while he inserted his right index finger carefully and began exploring unknown territory. The gasps and moans that came out of Elvis’ mouth felt like they were tickling Scotty somewhere he couldn’t describe. The knowledge that his parents were out of town and they had the house all to themselves was certainly reassuring to Scotty. Over the preceding years, Elvis had matured into a strikingly attractive young fellow, with a gothic flavor derived from his mother Gladys. His face and figure filled out in all the right places, and gained more definition elsewhere, no doubt chiseled by the Lord himself. No wonder he drove all the girls hog wild, Scotty thought to himself as he marveled at the incredibly long eyelashes and soulful cerulean eyes at close range. He added a second finger down below as he captured the irresistibly delicious looking lips in front of him.

“Winfred Scott Moore!” A high and shrill voice pierced through the sensual and erotic atmosphere all of a sudden. The lovers’ bodies quivered in unison out of panic. Scotty quickly withdrew his fingers and turned his head back while his naked figure continued to cover the one beneath him. Only a few feet from them, a petite but voluptuous young woman with blonde bob was staring daggers at Scotty. “MaryAnn!” Scotty yelled in recognition, grabbing the nearest blanket to hide behind while he separated himself from Elvis. “I KNEW IT!” MaryAnn stomped her high-heels and shrieked, “you said you had rehearsal tonight and no time to see me, and here you are sinnin’ and screwin’ with your singer! Some rehearsal you have!!!” Scotty started to put on his clothes as fast as he could, trying to defuse the situation: “MaryAnn, don’t be mad, it’s not what you think, honey…” This was interrupted with another angry retort: “Don’t Honey me!! Winfred Scott, do you still remember your engagement? I swear I’ll tell your mama and daddy everything if you don’t break up with that slut boy right now!!” The angry blonde started to wipe tears from her eyes as Scotty had seen her do many times before when she wanted things her way.

MaryAnn and Scotty knew each other from a long way back. She was his senior prom date. The couple was unanimously crowned king and queen for that night. MaryAnn had always had her eyes set on marriage, with her ultimate goal in life being the title of Mrs. Moore. On the other hand, Scotty never took their relationship so seriously, thought of it as nothing more than casual school dating. He never felt a close connection or had common interests with the gal. Scotty also thought her personality was a little overbearing and over-dramatic. However, the blonde vixen never gave up and had successfully burrowed a space in Scotty’s life for herself. She visited enough times to get in good graces of Scotty’s parents and even his brothers, convinced everyone in the family that she was the natural choice for a life partner for the guitarist. At some point she was given the house key and MaryAnn started sauntering in and out of the house as if she was already part of the family. MaryAnn’s folks were more well-to-do, which would come in handy to help the struggling Moore family dry-cleaning business if the marriage went ahead according to plan. Scotty did not fight the engagement initially because quasi-arranged marriages like this was kind of common, and he did not find enough reasons to oppose the idea. Not being in love certainly was not a strong argument to bring up since that was never a big part of the consideration in these discussions.

However, this infatuation he was having with Elvis was making Scotty rethink things. What they had together was more than physical attraction. Their personalities complimented each other so well both professionally and romantically. Suddenly, the boring, predictable, but safe path of marrying MaryAnn seemed to be not good enough for Scotty anymore. The Presley boy was so sweet and beautiful, musically gifted and madly in love with him, at the same time he was from a dirt-poor family, lived in government housing projects, and was of the wrong gender to have a real future with him as a legitimate couple. These days Scotty’s brain was regularly filled with wild and foolish thoughts, for instance: If Elvis were a girl I would marry him in an instant; or wonder if Elvis and I could run off together and live happily ever after.

“I’ll leave.” Elvis’ eyes turned a little moist from unshed tears as Scotty untied his wrists. He slipped on his pants and threw on his shirt in quick succession, clenched his teeth in silence as he endured some more insults directed at him from his love rival. “I don’t know what kind of witchcraft you cast over Scotty boy, but it’s time for you to get out of his life altogether…” MaryAnn added triumphantly. This was interrupted by Scotty, who couldn’t believe what he heard: “Wait a minute, hold on right there! What do you mean get out of my life altogether? You ain’t saying you want Elvis out of the Blue Moon Boys, right??”

“Yeah, you heard right! I ain’t gonna tolerate the two of you hanging out under the cover of a band! I’ve had enough! I swear he’s the devil in disguise, and you were under his spell. I want nothin’ less than a clean break!!” The little blonde scowled and screamed unrelentingly, face turning red from all the exertion.

“Is that so?!” Scotty yelled back, jamming a fist into the nightstand, making a loud noise. “Well then, I’ve got news for you! I’m gonna get back into military action soon, this time as a volunteer fighter pilot to combat the Japanese. We will be deployed to the Far East by summer!! Elvis can join me if he wants! You’ve just helped me make the decision. If you think you can tie me down, woman, think again!”

This unexpected announcement shocked everyone else in the room. MaryAnn’s mouth was agape until she finally recovered and countered: “You gotta be mad, Scotty! Half of the world is at war, Eurasia is war-torn right now, and the U.S. is on the verge of entering the war directly against the Axis countries any day! Everyone is trying to get away from the armed forces, and you are volunteering to fight in Asia? Are you trying to get yourself killed??” She looked up at her fiancée incredulously, hoping against odds that he still had some common sense left in him.

Scotty sounded even more emboldened in his reply: “Maybe I am, MaryAnn. Or maybe I just wanna get outta this place and get away from your smothering old self!! If you got your eyes set on destroying my band, then there’s nothing left around this town to keep me attached here! I know how to be a soldier; I’ve done it for years. It’s a helluva simpler than being at your beck and call!!”

“Mama is probably gonna strangle me for saying this, but Scotty, I’ll go wherever you’re going.” The mostly silent young singer suddenly interjected. “You!!” MaryAnn pointed a finger at him and spewed out, “shut up, you white trash, go find someone else to sin with!” She then looked over to her fiancée, squeezed a few lines out threateningly in a last-ditch attempt to salvage her engagement: “Scotty listen, don’t make me play dirty. Forget all this happened and replace the singer, come back to me and I’ll let it slide. If you go off with that slut boy, then neither of you can ever come back to this town with your reputation intact ’cause I swear I'll air your dirty laundry all over the place!”

“No, you won’t! I’m glad you’re showing your true colors now before I fall into your trap! I’ve had enough of your conniving ways, now get out of my house or I’ll throw you out!!” Scotty shouted while taking a few steps forward. The blonde retreated at the sight of that, trembling with rage: “Winfred Scott, just you remember. You’ll regret this and crawl back to me one day. If you survive the war, that is.”

Those were the last words from the crossed young woman before she rushed out the door. The bandmates now looked at each other in a different light, both knowing they were making a huge decision that would completely change their lives.

Scotty started after a brief silence: “Elvis, I appreciate what you said. But you really don’t have to follow me into foreign battle zones during wartime. You’re an only child and your mama needs you at home and away from harm. I totally understand.” The young singer’s expressive eyes exuded concern and affection as he hurried to respond: “If it’s gonna be that dangerous, then I’d rather go with you than staying here and worrying days and nights about you.” He walked over and held Scotty’s hands, sat down on the couch next to his older partner, “Anyway my singing career would be over since MaryAnn will definitely drag our names through the mud and she does not even need to make things up. We’ll lose all our fans and won’t be able to get a gig anywhere. I don’t want to stay here and live the life of scorn and derision. Maybe if we get away and come back in a year or two, we'll get a chance of having a new start.”

Scotty looked into those innocent and hopeful eyes and his heart practically turned into mush. He leaned over and gave the young man a hug, “But honey, you are barely 20, you haven’t even reached the legal drinking age. Your Mama will never let you go!”

“Well, I’ve passed the voting age, so I’m already old enough to make my own decisions.” Elvis’ face turned sadder then, “as for Mama, I guess I’ll just have to confess everything to her and beg for her forgiveness. She loves me, so eventually she’ll look past everything and let me go.” Elvis tried to sound confident, but it did not quite come across as that. “I’ll leave all my savings to her and Daddy, also send them money while abroad. They will be proud of me when I come back from war.” Elvis spoke as if he was trying to convince himself about this idealistic scenario.

“Are you really sure, Elvis? You’ve never even been out of the South before.” Scotty felt like Elvis’ father now. “Yeah, that’s why I need to go out and see the world for myself. And you’ll teach me, right? Scotty?” Some eagerness and excitement started to replace apprehension and uncertainty in the young singer’s tone and demeanor. Scotty cupped the lovely, flushed cheeks in front of him and placed a soothing kiss on that smooth forehead. Pulling Elvis into a warm embrace, Scotty spoke reassuringly: “That’s right darlin’, I’ll show you everything I know and try my darnedest to keep you from harm, it’ll be us against the world from now on…”

[dreamy625]

Wild oats - one-shot

Words: 1620

Content: Inspired by make-me-your-animal’s chapter, I wanted to write a slutty Steve fic, but not a smutty one (though if anyone else fancies writing some slutty Steve smut I wouldn’t complain too much 👉👈) and this is what my brain delivered. So content warning for crude language and sexual references, but no actual smut. 

Grateful thanks to @thiswatch-lepparddef-werehi for language advice, and the aforementioned @make-me-your-animal whose ‘Who did Phil do?’ line I have slightly borrowed.

—-----------------------------

-8th May, Dallas, Texas-

Despite the 80-degree heat, Steve is wearing a scarf wrapped twice around his long skinny neck when he joins the rest of the band in the front lounge for a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and a carefully measured portion of their secret Heinz beans stash. No one else takes any notice but, after studying him curiously for a minute, Phil everso casually queries the reason for this sartorial statement.

“Just felt like it. Scarves are my thing,” mumbles his bandmate, not meeting his eye.

Phil doesn’t challenge it, but when he stands to put his plate in the sink, he reaches over Steve’s shoulder and, in a quick swirling motion, whips off the scarf before its wearer can catch hold of it. 

“Hey!” protests Steve, one hand grabbing at the fabric held just out of reach and the other pressed against the side of his neck. 

But he wasn’t quick enough.

“Love bite!” shriek Phil and Rick in unison, the other two guys craning around to see what they’re pointing at.

“Oh sod off! You’re like a bunch of teenage girls!”

“So, the woman you were chatting to in the bar last night?” 

“Lisa.”

“You got on well then?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” replies Steve primly.

-10th May, Houston, Texas-

When Steve arrives for soundcheck twenty minutes late, out of breath, and with his shirt buttoned up wrong, Phil needs only one word for his question:

“Lisa?”

And Steve needs only one word for his answer, “Yvonne.”

Phil grins and slaps him on the back.

-13th May, Biloxi, Mississippi-

Biloxi, Mississippi brings a night off and the rare treat of a hotel stay. Sav had left the rest of the guys after the third bar, dreaming of a long soak in the tub and a deep-conditioning treatment for his increasingly travel-worn coiffure. Thoroughly pampered, he’d finally settled into bed accompanied by Nightline and an acceptable gin and tonic from the minibar. A perfect evening, until he was jolted from sleep an hour or so later by the rhythmic banging of a headboard against the wall of the neighbouring room. He groaned - he knew it had been a mistake to take the room next to Phil’s. Mercifully, the pillow he clutches to his head muffles the worst of the gasps and moans, and proceedings seem to reach a crescendo relatively quickly, but after mere moments the blissful silence is broken once more by the squeak of bedsprings from the room on the opposite side. So that will be Steve then, and a companion who is either very religious or highly appreciative of the guitarist’s… talents. He switches the TV back on, but even MTV can’t entirely drown out the sounds of enthusiastic enjoyment from nextdoor. And then, when that finally seems to be quietening down, the amorous percussion on the other wall starts up again. Sav resolves to buy earplugs at the next rest stop. 

-16th May, Nashville, Tennessee-

“And where have you been hiding? You missed Malvin balancing a barstool on his head.”

“Oh, I just went back to the bus for a… nap.”

“Uh huh. And was it restful, this ‘nap’?” asks Phil, eyeing the smudge of something suspiciously like lipstick on the other man’s chin.

“It was… very refreshing,” answers Steve judiciously, downing the vodka placed in front of him and signalling the barman for a refill. 

-18th May, Chattanooga, Tennessee-

As Joe and Phil walk across the parking lot, the reason for Steve’s absence from another after-show party becomes clear - he is bidding a fond farewell to her on the steps of their bus. Phil slows his pace and grabs Joe’s arm to encourage him to do the same.

“What? Why are we…?” He follows Phil’s gaze to the scene ahead of them, “Really? Again? What’s got into him lately? He’s worse than you! It’s obscene!”

“Nah, he’s just finding himself, that’s all.”

“It’s not him finding himself that’s the problem, it’s him finding half the female population of the tri-state area and shagging them on our tour bus that I object to!”

“You’re just jealous,” accuses Phil jovially as they watch their guitarist’s latest conquest depart, blowing kisses back towards the bus as she totters unsteadily across the crumbling tarmac in four-inch heels, and Joe just growls in response. 

-20th May Hollywood, Florida-

“...so apparently it’s a very bad idea to mix Guinness and Creme de Menthe…”

“...and when the lift door opened, all these chickens burst out…”

“...he wasn’t laughing quite so much when the bra hit him in the face…”

Another hotel breakfast, another session of comparing war stories from the night before. Steve is silent, but his spectacular bedhead and the bags under his eyes tell their own tale.

“Do I even need to ask what you were doing last night?”

“More apropos to ask who he was doing!”

“Err…,” surreptitiously the sleep-deprived blond peers at some biro scribbles on the back of his hand, “Kathy? No, Katy.”

“I’m gonna have to get you a little black book to keep track of them all!”

-21st May, Jacksonville, Florida-

“Jesus, you look like a bus ran over you!”

Steve gives a sheepish smile and flops down in the nearest chair.

“And who was the lucky lady this time?”

“Err… Katy…”

“Again?”

“...and Jenny.”

Phil’s mouth drops open. “One after the other, or together?”

“Um, together.” He ducks his head bashfully, but doesn’t quite manage to hide a grin.

“And it didn’t occur to you to share with your poor lonesome mate?”

“They were… kind of particular about it.”

Shaking his head, Phil pushes his glass of orange juice across the table. “Here, you need the vitamins more than me.”

-22nd May, Lakeland, Florida-

After soundcheck, during which the band and crew all referred to Steve as ‘Casanova’, making it clear that tales of his adventures had now spread far and wide, the guys gathered around the newly-revealed lothario in the hopes of extracting some salacious details.

“I… don’t really know what’s happening? I’m not even really trying and I’ve doubled my lifetime total in two weeks!” he exclaims, his face displaying a mixture of embarrassment and just a touch of boyish glee.

Rick punches him on the shoulder, “Duh, you’re a rockstar now!”

“Also your lifetime total was seven,” notes Phil.

“Seven?” Sav’s expression is kind but pitying.

“Some of them were more than once!” retorts Steve defensively. He glares at his fellow guitarist, “Note to self, don’t divulge personal information to Radio Phil.”

-5th June, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania-

“You are being careful, right?”

“Yes, Dad. After the number of times I’ve driven Rick to the clap clinic, I’m definitely a ‘no shirt no service’ kind of guy.”

“Good boy.”

“But… is it…”

Phil looks up from his cereal and catches the blush creeping up his friend’s cheeks. He makes what he hopes is a supportive and encouraging face.

“Is it possible to… wear it out?”

“Well, there was that singer in the seventies who said his exploded…” Steve’s expression has switched from discomfort to horror, so he hurries on, “but that was multiple times a day, probably without a rubber.” He scoots his chair closer and drops his voice, “Is it red or… sore… or anything?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just… wondered.”

Phil snickers, “Only you would be having the best time of your life and start worrying about that. Just think how much wanking you did as a kid…”

“Speak for yourself!”

“... and that didn’t break it, did it. Just relax and enjoy it while it lasts. I mean,” he adds doubtfully, “you can’t be irresistible forever?”

“You reckon?”

“Either that or you’ll run out of women! Come on, let’s get to that interview before any more fling themselves on your poor knackered todger!”

-13th June, Buffalo, New York-

“So what are you going to do with your two weeks off?”

“Sleep,” says Steve with a groan, laying his head on the table and covering his bloodshot eyes with his arm.

“Alone or accompanied?” asks Sav archly, and receives a raised middle finger as his only reply.

-27th June, Allentown, Pennsylvania-

As Steve emerges from the bunk area in boxers and a faded Aerosmith t shirt, yawning and scratching his armpit, Phil gives him an appraising look. Noting the new, livid purple bruise joining the fading collection on the side of his neck, the older man smiles indulgently and leans over to make another checkmark on the chart stuck to the fridge.

Steve considers the paper with a slight frown creasing his brow as he takes out milk for his coffee, before sitting down opposite his bandmate and sipping silently.

“Hangover?” enquires Phil sympathetically.

“No, not really.” He takes another gulp of coffee. “Phil? Am I… am I a slut?”

“Absolutely! And I could not be more proud!”

“Phiiil, I’m serious. I know groupies are part of the whole scene… it just feels a bit… I dunno… sleazy.”

“But you’re enjoying yourself, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And the ladies concerned, they’re having a good time too?”

“I guess so… I mean, it sounds like it. I haven’t asked for marks out of ten or anything…”

“No stalkers, no broken hearts, no angry husbands?”

Steve’s eyes widen - he had not considered those potential side-effects - but he shakes his head. 

“Then it’s all good. You gotta sow your wild oats while you have the chance. And if you think you’re a slut, man I could tell you some stories. When I was in Girl there was this one bird who…”

“Ugh, stop, I don’t want to know.”

“See, that’s because you’re still a nice boy really. Now go and take a shower, you smell like a bordello!”