#Opulent tubs

[nopizzaaftermidnight]

[rebeltoreherdress]

[faithandarisadventures]

Mr. Vanderbilt's Bathroom February 17, 2024 The Breakers Newport, Rhode Island

[pucksandpower]

Unfinished Business

Ghost!Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you arrive in Monaco expecting a once-in-a-lifetime vacation and you certainly get one — a fairytale romance with a Monegasque Prince … from the late 19th century

The gentle hum of a luxury sedan fades as you and your three best friends step out onto the sun-drenched streets of Monaco. The air is thick with anticipation and the salty tang of the Mediterranean. Your eyes widen as they trace the elegant facade of the Palais Grimaldi, its pale stone walls gleaming in the afternoon light.

“I still can’t believe we’re actually here,” Mia breathes, her voice tinged with awe. “An all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco? It feels like a dream.”

You nod, unable to tear your gaze from the intricate architecture. “It’s even more beautiful than the pictures,” you murmur.

Zoe hefts her designer luggage. “Well, ladies, shall we see if the inside is as impressive as the outside?”

As your group approaches the grand entrance, a smartly dressed concierge greets you with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Palais Grimaldi. You must be our contest winners. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

“That’s us!” Olivia chirps, practically bouncing with excitement. “I’m Olivia, and these are Mia, Zoe, and Y/N.”

The concierge, whose name tag reads ‘Philippe,’ bows slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your suite.”

As you trail behind Philippe through opulent hallways adorned with priceless art and glittering chandeliers, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve stepped into another world — or perhaps another time. The weight of history presses in around you, whispering secrets from centuries past.

“The Palais Grimaldi has quite a storied past,” Philippe explains as he leads you up a sweeping marble staircase. “It’s been home to Monaco’s ruling family for over 700 years.”

“700 years?” You echo, your mind reeling at the concept. “That’s incredible. Has it been a hotel for long?”

Philippe chuckles. “Oh no, mademoiselle. The palace only opened its doors to the public a few years ago. It’s still used for official state functions, but the family decided to share its beauty with the world.”

Mia leans in close, her voice low. “I bet these walls have seen some scandalous things over the centuries.”

“More than you can imagine,” Philippe says with a wink. “If these walls could talk ...”

As you reach the top of the stairs, a long corridor stretches before you, lined with ornate doors. Philippe stops before one and produces an old-fashioned key with a flourish. “Your suite, ladies.”

The door swings open, revealing a space that takes your breath away. Soaring ceilings, silk wallpaper, and antique furnishings create an atmosphere of timeless luxury.

“Holy. Crap.” Zoe’s usual composure cracks as she takes in the opulence. “This is insane.”

Olivia immediately flops onto one of the plush sofas. “I’m never leaving. You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming when the week is up.”

You wander to one of the tall windows, mesmerized by the view of the sparkling Mediterranean. “I can’t believe we get to stay here for a whole week.”

Philippe clears his throat. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything at all.”

As the door closes behind him, your friends erupt into excited chatter.

“Did you see the size of that bathroom?” Mia gushes. “The tub is practically a swimming pool!”

Zoe is already examining the ornate writing desk. “Look at this. It’s probably worth more than my entire apartment.”

You run your hand along the silk-covered walls, feeling a strange thrill as your fingers trace the intricate patterns. “It’s like stepping back in time,” you murmur.

Olivia bounces on the bed, giggling. “Well, I for one plan to enjoy every modern amenity this place has to offer. Who’s up for raiding the mini bar?”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of unpacking, exploring every nook and cranny of your suite, and planning your itinerary for the week ahead.

As evening falls, you find yourself drawn back to the window. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of pink and gold. The principality below comes alive with twinkling lights, promising endless possibilities.

“Earth to Y/N!” Mia’s voice breaks through your reverie. “We’re thinking of heading down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. You in?”

You turn from the window, smiling at your friends. “Absolutely. Just let me freshen up a bit.”

In the bathroom, you splash some water on your face and reapply your lipstick. As you study your reflection in the ornate mirror, a strange sensation washes over you — almost as if someone is watching. You shake your head, dismissing the feeling as jetlag-induced imagination.

Rejoining your friends, you make your way down to the restaurant. The maître d’ leads you to a table with a stunning view of the moonlit gardens.

“I propose a toast,” Zoe says, raising her glass of champagne. “To friendship, adventure, and a week we’ll never forget!”

You clink glasses, the bubbles tickling your nose as you sip. As your friends chatter excitedly about their plans for tomorrow, your gaze drifts to the gardens below. For a moment, you could swear you see a figure in old-fashioned dress moving among the hedges. You blink, and the apparition vanishes.

“Y/N? Hello? Anyone home?” Olivia waves her hand in front of your face.

You snap back to attention. “Sorry, what?”

“I was asking what you wanted to do first tomorrow. Beach or shopping?”

You consider for a moment. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a tour of the palace. I’d love to learn more about its history.”

Mia grins. “Ooh, good call. Maybe we’ll run into a handsome prince.”

You laugh, but something in your chest flutters at the thought. “I don’t think that’s very likely.”

As the evening wears on and the wine flows freely, you find your thoughts continually drifting back to the palace and its centuries of secrets. By the time you return to your suite, a pleasant exhaustion has settled over you.

You bid your friends goodnight and curl up in your luxurious bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets cool against your skin. As you drift off to sleep, the last thing you see is the moonlight streaming through the window, casting ethereal shadows on the walls.

In your dreams, you wander the halls of the palace. Everything is hazy, like looking through frosted glass. You turn a corner and come face to face with a young man dressed in 19th-century finery. His eyes, a startling shade of green, seem to pierce right through you.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. A profound sadness radiates from him, tugging at your heart. You reach out, wanting to comfort him, but your hand passes through him like smoke.

You jolt awake, heart racing. The room is bathed in the soft glow of pre-dawn light. You sit up, running a hand through your tousled hair.

“What was that?” You whisper to the empty room.

As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, you can’t shake the feeling that your dream was more than just a product of your imagination. Something about this place, about that mysterious figure, calls to you in a way you can’t explain.

You slip out of bed and pad to the window, watching as Monaco comes to life below. Whatever secrets the Palais Grimaldi holds, you’re determined to uncover them. Little do you know, this is just the beginning of an adventure that will change your life forever.

***

The Monégasque sun beats down relentlessly as you and your friends lounge by the hotel’s exclusive rooftop pool. The glittering Mediterranean stretches out before you, a canvas of blue punctuated by gleaming white yachts.

“Now this is what I call a vacation,” Mia sighs contentedly, adjusting her oversized sunglasses.

Zoe nods in agreement, not looking up from her book. “I could get used to this kind of luxury.”

You smile and close your eyes, trying to focus on the warmth of the sun and the gentle lapping of the pool water. But there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t shake off.

Olivia notices your furrowed brow. “Y/N, what’s up? You look like you’re solving world hunger over there.”

You hesitate, unsure how to explain the strange occurrences of the past few days. “It’s nothing, really. I just ... have you guys noticed anything weird happening in the palace?”

Mia perks up, always ready for gossip. “Weird how?”

“Well ...” you start, then falter. How can you describe the way your hairbrush moved across the dresser on its own? Or the whispers you heard in the empty library? “It’s going to sound crazy, but I think there might be something ... supernatural going on.”

There’s a moment of silence before Olivia bursts out laughing. “Supernatural? Come on, Y/N. I know you’ve always been into that ghost hunter stuff, but this is a five-star hotel, not a haunted house.”

Zoe looks up from her book, her expression skeptical. “Are you sure you’re not just jet-lagged? Or maybe it’s all that rich food we’ve been eating.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I know how it sounds, but I swear, strange things keep happening. Last night, I saw a man’s reflection in the mirror, but when I turned around, no one was there.”

Mia sits up, suddenly interested. “Ooh, was he hot?”

“Mia!” Zoe admonishes, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.

You sigh, realizing how ridiculous you must sound. “Never mind. You’re probably right, it’s just my imagination running wild.”

But as the day wears on, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Every shadow seems to hold a secret, every creaking floorboard a whispered message.

That night, as your friends snore softly in their beds, you find yourself wide awake, staring at the ornate ceiling. The moonlight filtering through the curtains casts eerie shadows on the walls, and the silence of the night seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

Unable to bear it any longer, you slip out of bed and into a robe. Your bare feet are silent on the plush carpet as you make your way to the door. You pause, hand on the doorknob, heart racing. Are you really going to do this?

Taking a deep breath, you step out into the dimly lit hallway. The palace is different at night, the opulence muted, shadows deepening the corners. You walk aimlessly, letting your instincts guide you through the maze-like corridors.

As you round a corner, a chill runs down your spine. At the end of the hallway, you see a figure. It’s only for a split second before it vanishes around the next bend, but you’re certain it was the same man you saw in the mirror.

“Wait!” You call out, breaking into a run. You turn the corner, but the hallway is empty.

Breathing heavily, you lean against the wall. “I’m losing my mind,” you mutter to yourself.

“I can assure you, mademoiselle, that your mind is quite intact.”

You whirl around, heart leaping into your throat. There, standing before you, is the man from your dreams and glimpses.

He’s of average height, with wavy dark hair and piercing green eyes. His clothes are old-fashioned — a tailored suit that wouldn’t look out of place in the late 19th century. But the most shocking thing is that you can see right through him to the painting on the wall behind.

You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. The ghost — because what else could he be — holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm.”

His voice is gentle, with a slight accent you can’t quite place. Despite your terror, you find yourself oddly calmed by his presence.

“Who ... what are you?” You manage to whisper.

The ghost bows slightly. “I am Prince Charles of Monaco, at your service. Or at least, I was Prince Charles. Now, I’m not entirely sure what I am.”

You blink, trying to process this information. “Prince Charles? But that’s impossible. The current Prince of Monaco is Albert.”

Charles smiles sadly. “You are correct. I’m afraid my time as prince was cut rather short. I died in 1894.”

“1894,” you repeat, feeling light-headed. “So you’re ... a ghost?”

“It would appear so, yes.” Charles looks down at his translucent hands. “Though I prefer to think of myself as ... temporarily disembodied.”

Despite the absurdity of the situation, you feel a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Temporarily disembodied? That’s one way to put it.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle with amusement. “I find a touch of humor helps in most situations, even death.”

You shake your head, still struggling to believe what’s happening. “Why can I see you? Why now?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Charles admits. “I’ve been bound to this palace since my death, unable to move on. Most of the time, I’m invisible to the living. But occasionally, someone comes along who can perceive me. You, mon chérie, seem to be one of those rare individuals.”

You take a step closer, fascinated despite your lingering fear. “So all those strange things that have been happening ...”

“My apologies,” Charles says, looking sheepish. “I’m afraid I got a bit ... overeager when I realized you could sense me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Well, mission not accomplished,” you say dryly. “I’ve been terrified for days.”

Charles’ expression turns contrite. “I am truly sorry. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to interact with anyone. I forgot how alarming it might be.”

You study him closely. Now that the initial shock has worn off, you’re struck by how young he looks — no older than his mid-twenties. And there’s a sadness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“How did you die?” You ask softly.

Charles’ face clouds over. “That, I’m afraid, is a rather long and complicated story. One that I’m not entirely sure I understand myself.”

You’re about to press further when a noise down the hallway makes you jump. Charles holds a finger to his lips and gestures for you to follow him. He leads you to a hidden door behind a tapestry, revealing a narrow servants’ staircase.

“Quick, in here,” he whispers.

You hesitate for a moment before ducking into the passageway. Charles follows, closing the door behind you. In the dim light filtering through cracks in the wall, you can barely make out his ghostly form.

“Why are we hiding?” You whisper.

“The night guards,” Charles explains. “They wouldn’t take kindly to a guest wandering the halls at this hour. And I’d rather not have to explain why you’re talking to thin air.”

You nod, seeing the logic. “So ... what now?”

Charles gives you a mischievous smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, since you’re already up and about, how would you like a private tour of the palace? I can show you things no living guide knows about.”

The sensible part of your brain is screaming that this is insane. You should go back to your room, crawl into bed, and pretend this was all a vivid dream. But the adventurous part of you, the part that’s always longed for magic and mystery, is practically buzzing with excitement.

“Lead the way, Your Highness,” you say with a grin.

Charles’ smile widens. “Please, call me Charles. I think we’re a bit beyond titles at this point.”

He starts up the narrow staircase, and you follow close behind. As you climb, Charles begins to speak in a low, melodious voice.

“This palace has been the heart of Monaco for centuries. Every stone, every timber holds a piece of history. There are secret passages like this one crisscrossing the entire building — escape routes, trysting spots for illicit lovers, hiding places for treasures.”

You emerge from the staircase into a small, circular room at the top of one of the palace towers. The view of Monaco at night is breathtaking, the city a glittering jewel box beneath a canopy of stars.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, moving to the window.

Charles stands beside you, his presence cool but not unpleasant. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Even after all these years, it still takes my breath away. Well, metaphorically speaking.”

You turn to look at him, struck by the wistfulness in his voice. “It must be hard, watching the world change around you while you stay the same.”

Charles nods slowly. “It is ... challenging. But it has its compensations. I’ve witnessed history unfold, seen my beloved Monaco grow and flourish. And occasionally, I get to meet fascinating people like yourself.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks and are grateful for the darkness. “I’m hardly fascinating compared to a ghost prince.”

“I beg to differ,” Charles says softly. “You saw me when no one else could. You followed me up here without hesitation. That takes a special kind of courage and openness to the extraordinary.”

For a moment, you’re lost in his intense gaze. Then you remember that he’s, well, dead, and clear your throat awkwardly. “So, um, what else can you show me?”

Charles seems to shake himself out of a reverie. “Ah, yes. Follow me. There’s so much to see.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur of hidden rooms, secret passages, and Charles’ stories. He tells you about the palace’s construction, about the triumphs and tragedies of the Grimaldi family, about the small, everyday moments that history books never record.

As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, you find yourself back in the hallway near your suite. You’re exhausted but exhilarated, your mind whirling with everything you’ve seen and learned.

“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, a note of reluctance in his voice.

You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. My friends will be wondering where I am if I’m not there when they wake up.”

Charles nods, then hesitates. “I ... I hope this won’t be our last conversation. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart. “Of course not. I still have so many questions. Like how you ended up ... you know.”

“Another time,” Charles promises. “For now, sleep well, Y/N.”

As you watch, his form begins to fade. Just before he disappears completely, you could swear you see him wink.

You slip back into your room, your mind racing. As you crawl into bed, you wonder how on earth you’re going to explain any of this to your friends. But one thing’s for certain — your vacation in Monaco just got a whole lot more interesting.

***

The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. You stand on the balcony of your suite, outwardly admiring the view, but your mind is elsewhere. Your friends’ voices drift out from the room behind you.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Mia calls. “Are you coming to dinner or what?”

You turn, plastering on a smile. “Actually, I think I’ll skip it tonight. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

Zoe frowns, concern etching her features. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange all week.”

“I’m fine,” you assure her quickly. “Just ... taking in all the history of this place, you know?”

Olivia rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Only you would come to Monaco and spend all your time geeking out over old buildings instead of hitting the beach.”

You laugh, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

As your friends file out of the room, Mia lingers behind. “Seriously, Y/N, is everything alright? You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”

For a moment, you’re tempted to spill everything. But how could you possibly explain Charles? “I’m fine, really,” you insist. “Go enjoy dinner. I’ll see you later.”

Once they’re gone, you wait a few minutes to ensure the coast is clear. Then you slip out into the hallway, your heart racing with anticipation.

You make your way to the library, which has become your usual meeting spot. As you enter, you see Charles materializing near the fireplace, a warm smile lighting up his translucent features.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he greets you, his voice as smooth and rich as aged whiskey. “I trust you’re well?”

You can’t help but smile back. “Better now,” you admit, then immediately feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I mean, you know, because ... history and stuff.”

Charles chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah yes, the fascinating history and stuff. Shall we delve into more of it tonight?”

You nod eagerly. “What do you have in store for me this time?”

“I thought we might explore the east wing tonight,” Charles says, moving towards one of the bookshelves. “There’s a passage behind this Voltaire that leads to some rather interesting places.”

As he speaks, Charles reaches for the book, his hand passing right through it. A flicker of frustration crosses his face.

“Allow me,” you say softly, stepping forward to pull the book. The shelf swings open, revealing a narrow passageway.

Charles bows slightly. “After you, mademoiselle.”

You enter the passage, Charles’ cool presence right behind you. As you walk, he begins to speak, his voice low and melodious in the confined space.

“This passage was built during the reign of Prince Charles III — my grandfather,” he explains. “It was meant as an escape route in case of invasion. Monaco’s sovereignty was often threatened in those days.”

“But not anymore?” You ask, ducking under a low-hanging beam.

Charles sighs. “Monaco’s position is more secure now, but it wasn’t always so. In my time, we were constantly navigating a delicate balance between France and Italy, trying to maintain our independence.”

You emerge into a small, octagonal room with windows overlooking the sea. Moonlight streams in, casting everything in a silvery glow.

“This was my private study,” Charles says, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I spent many hours here, dreaming of what Monaco could become.”

You turn to him, curious. “What kind of dreams?”

Charles’ eyes light up with passion. “I wanted to modernize Monaco, to bring it into the new century. We were so dependent on the casino for revenue — I wanted to diversify our economy, improve education, and implement new technologies.”

“That sounds incredibly progressive for the time,” you say, impressed.

Charles nods. “Some thought too progressive. There were those who resisted change, who wanted to cling to the old ways. But I believed — I still believe — that progress is essential for survival.”

As he speaks, you find yourself drawn in by his enthusiasm, his intelligence. This isn’t just some stuffy old royal — this is a man with vision, with dreams that were cut short far too soon.

“What stopped you?” You ask softly.

Charles’ expression clouds over. “Ah, well, dying tends to put a damper on one’s plans.”

You wince. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no,” Charles interrupts gently. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”

An awkward silence falls. You move to the window, looking out at the moonlit sea. “It must be hard,” you say eventually. “Watching the world change around you, unable to participate.”

You feel Charles move closer, his presence cool at your side. “It has its challenges,” he admits. “But it also has its joys. I’ve seen Monaco grow and flourish in ways I never could have imagined. And now ...” He trails off.

You turn to look at him. “And now?”

Charles’ gaze is intense, making your heart race. “And now I have the pleasure of sharing it all with you.”

You swallow hard, acutely aware of how close he is, ghost or not. “I ... I’m glad,” you manage to say. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Charles.”

He smiles, a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Nor I you, Y/N. In life or in death.”

The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken emotions. Then Charles clears his throat (do ghosts need to clear their throats?) and steps back.

“Come,” he says, his tone lighter. “There’s much more to see.”

The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind of secret rooms and hidden treasures. Charles shows you a concealed vault where the crown jewels were once kept, a forgotten ballroom with faded frescoes on the ceiling, even the old dungeons deep beneath the palace.

Throughout it all, Charles regales you with stories — some historical, some personal. You learn about the political intrigues of 19th century Monaco, about Charles’ childhood pranks, about the hopes and fears he had for his country’s future.

As dawn begins to break, you find yourself back in the library, reluctant for the night to end.

“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, echoing his words from your first meeting.

You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. But I don’t want to go.”

Charles’ expression softens. “Nor do I want you to. But your friends will worry if you’re not there when they wake.”

You sigh, knowing he’s right. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be here,” Charles promises. “I’m not going anywhere, after all.”

As you watch him fade away, you’re struck by a realization that both thrills and terrifies you. You’re falling in love with a ghost.

The next few days pass in a blur. During the day, you go through the motions with your friends, trying to show enthusiasm for the beaches, the shops, the nightlife. But your mind is always elsewhere, counting down the hours until you can see Charles again.

Your friends notice, of course. How could they not?

“Okay, spill,” Mia demands one afternoon as you all lounge by the pool. “Who is he?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What? Who’s who?”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “The guy you’re obviously sneaking out to meet every night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed you coming back to the room at dawn.”

“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer.

Zoe puts a hand on your arm. “Y/N, we’re your friends. You can tell us anything. We’re just worried about you.”

You look at their concerned faces and feel a pang of guilt. You hate lying to them, but how can you possibly explain the truth?

“It’s not ... it’s not what you think,” you say finally. “I’ve just been exploring the palace at night. It’s quieter then, easier to imagine what it was like in the past.”

Your friends exchange skeptical looks.

“Right,” Mia says slowly. “And this has nothing to do with the ‘supernatural occurrences’ you were going on about earlier?”

You force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just my imagination running wild. I’ve just been ... really into the history of this place, that’s all.”

Olivia shakes her head. “If you say so. But Y/N, this is supposed to be a fun vacation. Don’t spend the whole time with your nose in a history book, okay?”

You nod, grateful they’re not pushing further. “You’re right. I’ll try to be more present.”

But that night, as your friends sleep, you find yourself slipping out once again, drawn to Charles like a moth to a flame.

He’s waiting for you in the library, a book hovering open in front of him. As you enter, he looks up with a smile that makes your heart flutter.

“Ah, Y/N,” he says warmly. “I was just refreshing my memory on some of Monaco’s more obscure laws. Did you know it’s technically illegal to wear stiletto heels in the palace?”

You laugh, some of the tension from earlier melting away. “Seriously? Why?”

Charles grins. “Apparently, they damage the floors. It was enacted in 1898, four years after my ... departure. I always wonder about the story behind laws like that. What outrageous incident prompted such a specific prohibition?”

You settle into a nearby armchair, tucking your legs underneath you. “Maybe a scorned lover stabbed someone with a stiletto?”

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up. “My, what a violent imagination you have. I was thinking more along the lines of a clumsy debutante wreaking havoc on the ballroom floor.”

“Boring,” you tease. “My version is much more exciting.”

Charles chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Your mind is a constant source of fascination to me.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Oh? How so?”

Charles moves closer, his form shimmering slightly in the moonlight streaming through the windows. “You see the world in such a unique way. You’re not bound by the conventions and expectations of my time. It’s ... refreshing.”

“I could say the same about you,” you reply softly. “You’re nothing like I would have expected a 19th-century prince to be.”

Charles’ smile turns wry. “Ah, but I’ve had over a century to adapt and learn. Though I must admit, much of modern life still baffles me. Perhaps you could explain to me the appeal of this ‘Instagram’ your friends keep mentioning?”

You laugh, launching into an explanation of social media that leaves Charles looking both intrigued and mildly horrified. The conversation flows easily from there, jumping from topic to topic with the effortless rhythm you’ve come to cherish in your nightly meetings.

As the hours pass, you find yourself moving closer to Charles, drawn in by his warmth (metaphorical, of course — he’s actually quite cool to be near) and charm. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every fleeting expression that crosses his face.

At one point, Charles reaches out as if to touch your hand, then seems to catch himself, pulling back with a flicker of frustration crossing his features.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Sometimes I forget ...”

You swallow hard, your heart aching. “It’s okay. I ... I wish you could too.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with unspoken longing. Charles’ eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the impossibility of your situation crashes over you like a wave.

“Y/N,” Charles begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I-”

But before he can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching the library.

“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Hide behind the curtain.”

You scramble to conceal yourself just as the door opens. Through a gap in the heavy fabric, you see a security guard sweep his flashlight around the room.

Your heart pounds in your chest as the beam of light passes inches from your hiding spot. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.

You wait a few more moments before emerging, your legs shaky with leftover adrenaline.

“That was close,” you breathe.

Charles nods, his form flickering with agitation. “Too close. Y/N, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting you in these situations. If you were caught ...”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, don’t say that. I don’t care about the risk. Being with you, learning about you and your time — it’s worth it.”

Charles’ expression softens, a mix of affection and sorrow in his eyes. “You’re extraordinary, do you know that? But I fear ... I fear I’m being selfish, keeping you to myself like this.”

You take a step closer to him, wishing more than anything that you could take his hand. “You’re not keeping me anywhere I don’t want to be.”

The words hang between you, charged with meaning. Charles opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, conflict clear on his face.

Finally, he says, “It’s nearly dawn. You should go, before your friends wake.”

You nod reluctantly, knowing he’s right but hating to leave. As you reach the door, you turn back to look at him one last time.

“Charles,” you say softly. “I ... I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

He smiles, but there’s a sadness in it that tugs at your heart. “I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

As you make your way back to your room, your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. You’re falling hard and fast for a man who’s been dead for over a century.

It’s impossible, it’s insane, and yet ... you wouldn’t trade these moments with Charles for anything in the world.

But as you slip back into bed, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains, a nagging doubt creeps in. How long can this go on? What happens when your vacation ends? And most troublingly of all — what aren’t you seeing in your infatuation with this charming ghost prince?

***

The musty scent of old books fills your nostrils as you hunch over a stack of historical tomes in the palace library. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. You’ve been here for hours, your friends long since departed for a day of sunbathing and shopping.

“Find anything interesting?” Charles’ voice makes you jump. You look up to see him materializing near the bookshelf, a curious expression on his translucent face.

You sigh, rubbing your tired eyes. “Nothing concrete yet. There’s frustratingly little information about your death in these official histories. It’s always just ‘Prince Charles died tragically young’ with no details.”

Charles moves closer, peering at the book you’re reading. “Ah, Gustave Saige’s ‘Monaco: Ses Origines et Son Histoire’. A rather dry read, if I recall correctly.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “You’re not wrong. But I thought it might have some clues.” You hesitate, then ask, “Charles, why don’t you just tell me what happened? How you ... died?”

A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “I wish I could. But the truth is, my memories of that time are ... fragmented. I remember tensions rising, arguments with the council, and then ... nothing. Just waking up like this, bound to the palace.”

You reach out instinctively to comfort him, your hand passing through his arm with a chill. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.”

Charles gives you a sad smile. “It’s been my reality for over a century now. But I must admit, your determination to uncover the truth has given me hope I haven’t felt in a very long time.”

Your heart swells at his words, even as a pang of guilt hits you. Are you really doing this for Charles, or for yourself? The thought of him finding peace and moving on fills you with a complicated mix of emotions you’re not ready to examine too closely.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you turn back to your research. “Well, if these books aren’t giving us answers, maybe we need to look elsewhere. You mentioned arguments with the council. Were there records kept of those meetings?”

Charles’ brow furrows in concentration. “Yes, there would have been. Minutes were always taken. But they would have been considered sensitive documents. Not something you’d find in the public library.”

You lean forward, excitement building. “So where would they be kept?”

“There’s an archive room,” Charles says slowly. “Hidden behind the throne room. It’s where the most confidential state papers were stored.”

You’re already on your feet, shoving books back onto shelves. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Charles holds up a ghostly hand. “Not so fast, Y/N. That room has been sealed for decades. It’s not somewhere a tourist can just wander into.”

You deflate slightly, but your determination doesn’t waver. “Then we’ll have to find a way in after hours. You can get me there, right?”

Charles looks conflicted. “I could, but Y/N, if you were caught ...”

“I won’t be,” you insist. “Please, Charles. This might be our only chance to find out what really happened to you.”

For a long moment, Charles studies your face. Then he sighs, a sound tinged with both resignation and admiration. “Very well. Meet me here at midnight. I’ll show you the way.”

The hours crawl by as you wait for night to fall. You make a show of going to bed early, claiming a headache to avoid your friends’ plans for a night out. As the clock strikes twelve, you slip out of your room and make your way to the library.

Charles is waiting for you, his form glowing faintly in the moonlight. “Are you sure about this?” He asks one last time.

You nod firmly. “Let’s do it.”

Charles leads you through a maze of corridors and hidden passages. Your heart races with every creak of the floorboards, every shadow that might be a security guard. Finally, you arrive at an ornate door hidden behind a tapestry.

“This is it,” Charles whispers. “The archive room.”

You reach for the handle, but it’s locked. “Damn,” you mutter. “Any ideas?”

Charles frowns, concentrating. “There used to be a spare key ... ah!” He points to a small crevice in the intricate woodwork. “Try there.”

You feel around and, to your amazement, your fingers close around a small key. With trembling hands, you insert it into the lock. It turns with a satisfying click.

The door swings open, revealing a room packed floor to ceiling with shelves of documents. The air is thick with dust and the smell of old paper.

“Where do we even start?” You whisper, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information.

Charles moves to a section near the back. “The council records from my time should be here. Look for anything dated 1894.”

You begin sifting through stacks of yellowed papers, careful not to damage the fragile documents. Minutes pass in tense silence as you search.

Suddenly, Charles’ voice cuts through the quiet. “Y/N, over here. I think I’ve found something.”

You hurry to his side. He’s pointing at a leather-bound ledger. You carefully open it, coughing slightly at the dust it raises.

As you scan the pages, your eyes widen. “Charles, this ... this is incredible. It’s a record of council meetings leading up to your death. Look at this entry from two weeks before: ‘Prince Charles continues to push for radical reforms. Concerns raised about stability of the principality if plans proceed.’”

Charles leans in, his face a mix of emotions. “I remember that meeting. It was ... heated. Keep reading.”

You flip through more pages, your heart pounding as the story unfolds. “There’s more. ‘Prince’s proposed changes to casino regulations deemed unacceptable. Alternative measures must be considered.’ Charles, this sounds like ...”

“A conspiracy,” Charles finishes, his voice hollow. “They were plotting against me.”

You reach the final entry, dated the day before Charles’ death. Your blood runs cold as you read it aloud. “Situation untenable. Drastic action required to preserve Monaco’s interests. God forgive us.”

A heavy silence falls over the room as the implications sink in. Charles turns away, his form flickering with agitation.

“They killed me,” he says softly. “My own council ... they murdered me to stop my reforms.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes. “Charles, I’m so sorry. This is ... it’s unthinkable.”

Charles is quiet for a long moment, then turns back to you with a determined expression. “We need to take this ledger. The truth needs to come out, even after all this time.”

You nod, carefully closing the book and tucking it into your bag. As you do, something catches your eye. “Wait, there’s something else here.”

Behind where the ledger was sitting, you spot a small leather pouch. You open it carefully, gasping as several folded papers and a small object fall out.

“What is it?” Charles asks, moving closer.

You unfold one of the papers with trembling hands. “It’s ... it’s a letter. From you.” You begin to read aloud:

“To whoever finds this, I fear my time may be short. I write this in haste, knowing that forces within Monaco seek to silence me. My efforts to modernize our beloved principality and free us from our dependence on gambling have made me enemies in powerful places. If anything should happen to me, know that it was not an accident. The proof of their treachery is contained within these documents and the vial of poison they intend to use. I pray this never sees the light of day, but if it does, may it bring justice and push Monaco towards the future I envisioned.”

You look up at Charles, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. “You knew. You tried to protect yourself.”

Charles nods slowly, his own eyes shimmering with ghostly tears. “I ... I remember now. I wrote this the night before ... before it happened. I must have hidden it here, hoping someone would find it.”

You carefully gather up the documents and the small vial, adding them to your bag with the ledger. “We have to make this public, Charles. Your murder, the cover-up ... people need to know the truth.”

Charles looks at you with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “You’re right, of course. But Y/N, you must understand what this means. If the truth comes out, if justice is served ...”

“You might be able to move on,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. The thought sends a dagger through your heart, but you force yourself to continue. “That’s ... that’s a good thing, right? It’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time.”

Charles moves closer, his hand hovering near your cheek as if he could wipe away your tears. “It is. But I find myself reluctant to leave, now that I’ve found something — someone — worth staying for.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Charles, I ...”

Before you can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching.

“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Behind that cabinet.”

You scramble to hide, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure it must be audible. The door to the archive room creaks open, and a beam of light sweeps across the space.

“Hello?” A gruff voice calls out. “Is someone in here?”

You hold your breath, pressing yourself further into the shadows. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.

You wait a few more moments before emerging from your hiding spot, legs shaky with adrenaline.

“That was too close,” Charles says, his form flickering with agitation. “We need to get you out of here.”

You nod, clutching your bag with its precious cargo close to your chest. “How do we get back?”

Charles leads you to a hidden panel in the wall. “This passage will take you directly to the guest wing. Hurry, before the guard comes back.”

As you step into the secret corridor, you turn back to look at Charles. “What happens now?” You ask softly.

Charles’ expression is a complex mix of emotions — hope, fear, sadness, and something that looks a lot like love. “Now, mon chérie, we bring the truth to light. Whatever comes after ... we’ll face it together.”

You nod, your throat tight with unshed tears. As you make your way back to your room, your mind races with the implications of what you’ve discovered. You’ve found the key to setting Charles free, to bringing him the peace he’s been denied for over a century.

But as you clutch the bag containing the proof of his murder, you can’t help but wonder: at what cost? The thought of losing Charles, of never seeing his smile or hearing his laugh again, fills you with a grief so profound it takes your breath away.

As you slip back into your bed, the first rays of dawn peeking through the curtains, you know that the hardest part of your journey is yet to come. You’ve uncovered the truth, but now you face an impossible choice: keep Charles with you in this half-life or set him free and lose him forever.

***

The golden light of a Monaco sunset streams through the windows of your hotel suite, casting long shadows across the room. You stand before the mirror, adjusting the elaborate 19th-century gown you’ve rented for the evening’s ball. Your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten a delicate necklace, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

“You look absolutely stunning,” Charles’ voice comes from behind you. You turn to see him materializing near the balcony, his eyes wide with admiration.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your heart aching at the sight of him. “I wish you could really be there tonight, dancing with me.”

Charles moves closer, his form shimmering in the fading sunlight. “As do I, ma chérie. But I’ll be with you in spirit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as tears prick at your eyes. “Always with the jokes, even now.”

“Well, one must maintain one’s sense of humor, even in the face of ... impending departure,” Charles says, his light tone belied by the sadness in his eyes.

The word hangs heavy between you. Departure. In just two days, you’ll be leaving Monaco, returning to your life back home. The thought fills you with a grief so profound it’s almost physical.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you blurt out, the words escaping before you can stop them. “I could stay. I could find a job here, an apartment. We could-”

“Y/N,” Charles interrupts gently, “we’ve discussed this. You can’t put your life on hold for a ghost.”

You turn away, blinking back tears. “But what if I want to? What if being here, with you, is the life I want?”

Charles is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. “My dearest Y/N, you cannot imagine how much I wish things could be different. But I am tied to this place, to this half-existence. You have a whole life ahead of you, full of possibilities and adventures. I won’t let you sacrifice that for me.”

You whirl back to face him, frustration bubbling up. “Shouldn’t that be my choice to make?”

“Perhaps,” Charles concedes. “But it is also my choice to refuse to be the anchor that holds you back. You deserve so much more than stolen moments with a specter.”

The truth of his words cuts deep, even as you want to rail against them. You slump onto the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling the weight of your elaborate costume.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

Charles moves to sit beside you, the mattress not even dipping under his non-existent weight. “Nor I you. But perhaps ... perhaps this is why we found each other. Not for a lifetime, but for this moment. To bring truth to light, to right an old wrong, and to experience a love that transcends time itself.”

You look up at him, struck by the depth of emotion in his ghostly eyes. “When did you get so wise?”

Charles grins, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “Well, I have had over a century to work on my philosophical musings.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as a tear escapes down your cheek. Charles reaches out, his hand hovering just above your skin in a gesture of comfort.

“Come now,” he says gently. “Let’s not waste our last evening together in sorrow. You have a ball to attend, and I, for one, am eager to see how the modern world interprets the grandeur of my era.”

You nod, standing and giving yourself one last look in the mirror. “You’re right. Let’s make tonight a night to remember.”

As you make your way down to the grand ballroom, you can feel Charles’ presence beside you, a comforting coolness in the warm evening air. The sounds of music and laughter grow louder as you approach.

You pause at the entrance, taking in the transformed space. The ballroom has been decorated to recreate its 19th-century splendor, with crystal chandeliers, elaborate floral arrangements, and guests in period costumes whirling across the dance floor.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“Indeed,” Charles agrees, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Though I must say, some of these costumes are rather ... creative interpretations of the fashion of my time.”

You stifle a giggle as you spot a guest in what appears to be a mash-up of Victorian and Edwardian styles. “Well, not everyone can have a ghostly fashion consultant.”

You make your way into the crowd, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Your friends spot you and wave enthusiastically.

“Y/N! Over here!” Mia calls out. “You look amazing!”

You join them, smiling as you take in their costumes. “You all look great too. Are you enjoying the ball?”

Zoe nods enthusiastically. “It’s like stepping back in time. Can you imagine living in an era like this?”

You feel Charles’ amusement radiating beside you. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say airily. “I think it might have its charms.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourself swept up in the festivities. You dance with several partners, all the while acutely aware of Charles’ presence, watching from the sidelines.

During a lull in the music, you manage to slip away from the crowd, finding a secluded alcove near one of the large windows.

“Having fun?” Charles asks, materializing beside you.

You nod, a bit breathless from dancing. “It’s wonderful. But I wish ...”

“You wish I could truly be here,” Charles finishes for you. He holds out his hand in an old-fashioned gesture. “Well, my lady, may I have this dance?”

You glance around, making sure no one is watching, then place your hand over his incorporeal one. As the music starts up again, a slow, romantic waltz, you begin to move together.

It’s a strange sensation, dancing with a ghost. You can’t feel Charles’ hand on your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, but somehow, you move in perfect synchronization. For a few precious moments, it’s as if the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of you, swaying to the music.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Charles’ eyes widen, then soften with an emotion so deep it takes your breath away. “And I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible.”

As you gaze into each other’s eyes, lost in the moment, a sudden chill sweeps through the room. The lights flicker, and a murmur of confusion ripples through the crowd.

Charles stiffens, his form becoming more translucent. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters, looking around warily.

Before you can ask what he means, a commotion breaks out near the center of the ballroom. Guests are backing away from a spot on the dance floor, pointing and gasping in shock.

You push your way through the crowd, Charles right behind you. As you reach the cleared space, your blood runs cold. Three ghostly figures have appeared, dressed in outdated formal wear, their faces contorted with rage and fear.

“Impossible,” Charles breathes beside you. “It’s them. The council members who ... who murdered me.”

As if hearing his words, the three ghosts turn towards you. Their eyes widen in recognition as they spot Charles.

“You!” One of them snarls, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stunned silence of the ballroom. “How are you here?”

Charles steps forward, his own form becoming more visible to the shocked onlookers. “I could ask you the same question, Lord Beaumont. Or should I say, murderer?”

A collective gasp runs through the crowd. Hotel staff are rushing about, trying to maintain order, but everyone’s attention is fixed on the supernatural drama unfolding before them.

“We did what was necessary,” another ghost, a portly man with a walrus mustache, blusters. “You would have ruined Monaco with your radical ideas!”

“Ruined?” Charles’ voice rises in indignation. “I was trying to save our principality, to secure its future beyond the whims of fortune and gambling!”

The third ghost, a thin man with a pinched face, sneers. “And in doing so, you would have destroyed the very thing that made Monaco unique. We couldn’t allow it.”

You find your voice, anger overcoming your fear. “So you murdered him? Your own prince?”

The ghosts turn their baleful gazes on you. “And who are you to question the affairs of state from a century past?” Lord Beaumont demands.

“She,” Charles says, moving to stand beside you, “is the one who uncovered your treachery. The proof of your crimes has been found.”

A murmur runs through the crowd. You see hotel management huddled in a corner, speaking urgently into phones. In the distance, you can hear police sirens approaching.

“It doesn’t matter now,” the portly ghost says dismissively. “We’re long dead, beyond the reach of earthly justice.”

“Perhaps,” you counter, your voice stronger than you feel. “But the truth will be known. History will remember Prince Charles as the visionary he was, and you as the small-minded murderers who cut his life short.”

As you speak, a strange energy begins to build in the room. The three ghosts start to flicker, their forms becoming less substantial.

“What’s happening?” The thin ghost cries out, panic in his voice.

Charles steps forward, his expression a mix of pity and righteousness. “You’re facing judgment at last, gentlemen. Your unfinished business is complete. The truth is out.”

With a howl of despair, the three ghosts begin to fade away. In moments, they’ve vanished completely, leaving behind a stunned silence.

As the implications of what’s just happened sink in, chaos erupts in the ballroom. People are shouting, phones are out recording, and security is trying desperately to maintain order.

But you only have eyes for Charles. His form is starting to shimmer, becoming more translucent by the second.

“Charles,” you gasp, reaching for him. “What’s happening? Are you ...”

He looks down at his fading hands, then back up at you with a sad smile. “It seems my unfinished business is complete as well. The truth is out, justice, in some form, has been served.”

“No,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Please, not yet. I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Charles moves closer, his hand hovering just above your cheek. “My dearest Y/N, meeting you has been the greatest gift. You’ve brought light to my long darkness, and given me peace I never thought I’d find.”

“I don’t want you to go,” you sob, your heart breaking.

“Nor do I wish to leave you,” Charles says softly. “But perhaps this isn’t truly goodbye. I don’t know what lies beyond, but I do know this — a love like ours transcends time and death itself. Somehow, someway, I believe we’ll find each other again.”

You manage a watery smile. “You promise?”

“I swear it,” Charles vows. He leans in, and for the briefest moment, you swear you can feel the ghost of a kiss on your lips. “Until we meet again, mon amour.”

And with that, Charles fades away completely, leaving behind nothing but a lingering chill in the air and the memory of a love that defied all boundaries.

As the commotion swirls around you, police and hotel management trying to make sense of what’s happened, you stand still in the center of it all. Your heart is breaking, but there’s also a sense of peace, of completion.

You touch your lips, still feeling the echo of that impossible kiss, and whisper to the empty air, “Until we meet again, Charles.”

In that moment, surrounded by the trappings of a bygone era and the chaos of the present, you know that your life has been forever changed. Whatever comes next, you’ll face it with the strength and love Charles gave you, carrying his memory in your heart until, somehow, someway, you find each other once more.

***

The Mediterranean sun bathes Monaco in a warm glow as you climb the steps to the Palais Grimaldi. Five years have passed since that fateful summer, but your heart still quickens as you approach the familiar facade. You adjust the strap of your messenger bag, filled with research materials for your graduate thesis on 19th-century Monégasque politics.

As you enter the palace, now partly converted into a museum, you’re struck by how much has changed. Plaques and displays line the halls, detailing the history of the Grimaldi family. But your eyes are drawn to a new addition: a whole wing dedicated to Prince Charles and his progressive vision for Monaco.

You pause before a large portrait of Charles, your breath catching in your throat. The artist has captured his piercing green eyes perfectly, that hint of mischief in his smile that you remember so well.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” A voice beside you says, startling you from your reverie. “How much history these walls have seen.”

You turn, a polite response on your lips, but the words die in your throat. Standing next to you is a young man who could be Charles’ twin. The same wavy dark hair, the same chiseled jawline, and most strikingly, those same intense green eyes.

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. “Charles?” You whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

The young man looks at you curiously, a small smile playing on his lips. “Well, yes, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”

You blink rapidly, reality reasserting itself. Of course this isn’t your Charles. It can’t be. You clear your throat, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, you just ... you look remarkably like someone I used to know. I’m Y/N.”

The young man’s smile widens, and he holds out his hand. “Charles Leclerc. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

You shake his hand, trying to ignore the jolt of electricity that runs through you at his touch. “Leclerc? As in the Formula 1 driver?”

Charles nods, looking slightly sheepish. “The very same. Though today I’m just a tourist like anyone else, enjoying a bit of home between races.”

“Home?” You ask, intrigued despite yourself.

“Born and raised in Monaco,” Charles explains. “Though I admit, I haven’t spent as much time in the palace as I perhaps should have. It’s quite fascinating, especially this new exhibit.”

You nod, turning back to the portrait of Prince Charles. “It really is. The prince was quite a remarkable figure. His ideas were so ahead of their time.”

Charles steps closer, studying the portrait. “You seem to know a lot about him. Are you a historian?”

“A graduate student,” you explain. “I’m here on a research grant, studying 19th-century Monégasque politics at the International University of Monaco.”

Charles’ eyes light up with interest. “Really? That sounds fascinating. I’ve always been interested in history, especially the history of Monaco. It’s a small place, but it’s played such an outsized role in European affairs.”

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “It really has. Prince Charles, in particular, had some revolutionary ideas about diversifying Monaco’s economy beyond just gambling. If he hadn’t died so young, who knows how things might have turned out?”

A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “Yes, his death was quite tragic. And mysterious, from what I understand. Wasn’t there some recent discovery about the circumstances?”

You nod, your heart racing as you remember that night five years ago. “Yes, documents were found that suggested he was actually assassinated by members of his own council who opposed his reforms.”

Charles shakes his head, looking troubled. “How terrible. To be betrayed by those closest to you, all for wanting to make positive changes.”

“It was a different time,” you say softly. “Change is always frightening to those in power.”

Charles nods thoughtfully. “True, but it’s also necessary for growth. Monaco has come a long way since then, but I sometimes wonder if we couldn’t be doing more to realize Prince Charles’ vision.”

You look at him in surprise. “That’s ... that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking in my research. The prince had ideas about sustainable development and diversifying the economy that are still relevant today.”

Charles grins, and for a moment, the resemblance to your Charles is so strong it takes your breath away. “Great minds think alike, it seems. You know, I’ve been looking for ways to use my platform as an athlete to promote positive change in Monaco. Perhaps we could compare notes sometime?”

Your heart skips a beat. “I’d like that,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m always happy to discuss history with someone who’s genuinely interested.”

“Excellent,” Charles says, pulling out his phone. “Why don’t we exchange numbers? We could meet for coffee and continue this conversation.”

As you input your number into his phone, you can’t help but notice a small charm dangling from it — a miniature racing helmet. “That’s cute,” you comment.

Charles looks at it and chuckles. “Ah, yes. It was a gift from my mother. She says it’s for luck, but I think she just worries about me on the track.”

The casual mention of his mother sends a pang through your heart. This Charles is very much alive, with a family and a life of his own. You have to remind yourself that he’s not the same person you knew, no matter how similar he might seem.

“Well, it seems to be working,” you say lightly. “You’ve had quite a successful season so far. Won your home race, if I’m not mistaken.”

Charles looks pleased. “You follow Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not really, but it’s hard to miss the news when you’re living in Monaco. The Grand Prix is quite an event.”

“That it is,” Charles agrees. “You know, if you’re interested, I could give you a behind-the-scenes tour of the circuit sometime. It’s quite fascinating from a historical perspective as well. The race has been run on essentially the same streets since 1929.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Are you always this charming with strangers you meet in museums?”

Charles grins, a mischievous glint in his eye that’s achingly familiar. “Only the ones who can discuss 19th-century political reform with such passion.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well, in that case, how can I refuse? A tour sounds lovely.”

As you continue to chat, moving through the exhibit, you’re struck by how easy it is to talk to Charles. He’s knowledgeable and curious, asking insightful questions about your research and offering his own perspectives on Monaco’s history and future.

At one point, you pause before a display showcasing some of Prince Charles’ personal effects. Among them is a small, ornate pocket watch.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Charles comments, leaning in for a closer look.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat as you remember your Charles checking a similar watch during your midnight explorations. “It’s a shame it’s not working anymore.”

Charles tilts his head, studying the watch intently. “Actually, I think it is. Look closely at the second hand.”

You peer into the display case, and to your amazement, you see the tiny hand ticking away steadily. “You’re right! How did you notice that?”

Charles shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ve always had a thing for timepieces. Comes with the racing territory, I suppose. Hundreths of a second are everything on the track.”

You shake your head in wonder. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I try to keep things interesting,” Charles says with a wink. Then his expression turns more serious. “You know, it’s strange. Being here, learning about Prince Charles ... I feel an odd connection to him. Almost as if I knew him somehow.”

Your heart races at his words. Could it be possible? You push the thought away, reminding yourself that such things only happen in fairy tales. “Well, he is your ancestor, in a way. All Monégasques are connected to the Grimaldi family, aren’t they?”

Charles nods slowly. “True, but this feels different. When I look at his portrait, it’s almost like looking in a mirror. And his ideas, his passion for progress ... it resonates with me in a way I can’t quite explain.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Maybe some things are just meant to be. Some connections transcend time.”

Charles looks at you intently, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? That the past isn’t really gone, just ... waiting to be rediscovered.”

You’re saved from having to respond by the chiming of the palace clock, signaling the approach of closing time.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “I should probably get going. I have a meeting with my advisor in the morning.”

Charles nods, looking slightly disappointed. “Of course. But we’re still on for that coffee and circuit tour, right?”

You smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Charles touches your arm lightly. “Y/N, I know this might sound strange, but ... I feel like we were meant to meet today. Like some force in the universe brought us together.”

You look into his eyes, so familiar and yet new, and feel a spark of hope ignite in your heart. “I know exactly what you mean.”

He smiles, and in that moment, you see not just the Charles of the present, but echoes of the Charles you knew and loved. “Until we meet again, then?”

The phrase, so similar to your Charles’ last words, sends a shiver down your spine. “Until then,” you agree softly.

As you walk out of the palace and into the warm Monaco evening, your mind is whirling. You can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary has happened, that a promise made long ago is somehow being fulfilled.

You pause at the top of the steps, looking back at the palace that has played such a pivotal role in your life. As the setting sun gilds the stone facade, you allow yourself to imagine, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, some loves really are strong enough to transcend time and death itself.

With a smile on your face and hope in your heart, you descend the steps, ready to embrace whatever new adventure awaits. After all, in a world where ghosts can fall in love and centuries-old mysteries can be solved, anything seems possible.

And, as the promise of a new beginning beckons, you can’t help but feel that the best chapters of your story are yet to be written.

***

The sun-drenched streets of Monaco buzz with excitement as Sofia, a die-hard Scuderia Ferrari fan, makes her way towards the Palais Grimaldi. Her red Ferrari cap and matching team shirt make her stand out among the tourists, but she doesn’t mind. She’s here on a mission: to soak up every bit of Monaco’s rich racing history.

As Sofia enters the palace-turned-museum, her eyes widen in awe at the opulent surroundings. “Wow,” she breathes, spinning slowly to take it all in. “Talk about living like royalty.”

She wanders through the exhibits, pausing occasionally to read plaques or admire artifacts. But her mind keeps drifting to thoughts of sleek racing cars and the roar of engines. That is, until she rounds a corner and comes face to face with a large portrait that stops her in her tracks.

“No way,” Sofia mutters, stepping closer to the painting. Her brow furrows as she studies the face of the young prince depicted. “That’s ... that’s impossible.”

Just then, a tour group passes by, led by an enthusiastic guide. Sofia catches snippets of the commentary.

“... Prince Charles, one of Monaco’s most progressive rulers ...”

“... tragically died young under mysterious circumstances ...”

“... recent discoveries suggest he may have been assassinated ...”

Sofia’s head is spinning. She pulls out her phone, quickly pulling up a photo of Charles Leclerc, her favorite driver. She holds it up next to the portrait, her jaw dropping at the uncanny resemblance.

“Excuse me,” she says, tapping the tour guide on the shoulder. “This Prince Charles, when exactly did he live?”

The guide smiles, always happy to share historical tidbits. “Prince Charles ruled briefly in the late 19th century. He died in 1894 at the young age of 26.”

Sofia’s mind races. “And has anyone ever noticed how much he looks like Charles Leclerc? The F1 driver?”

The guide’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Ah, you’re not the first to notice that similarity. It’s become quite a popular topic of discussion lately. Some even joke that Leclerc is the prince reincarnated.”

Sofia laughs nervously. “Right, of course. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.”

As the tour moves on, Sofia remains rooted to the spot, her eyes darting between her phone and the portrait. It’s more than just a passing resemblance. The shape of the eyes, the curve of the jaw, even the hint of a mischievous smile — it’s all pure Leclerc.

Lost in thought, she doesn’t notice someone approaching until a voice beside her says, “Fascinating portrait, isn’t it?”

Sofia jumps, turning to see a young woman standing next to her. The newcomer is dressed casually in a flowing sundress, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

“Oh, um, yes,” Sofia stammers. “It’s quite ... striking.”

The woman smiles knowingly. “Let me guess. You couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to a certain Formula 1 driver?”

Sofia’s eyes widen. ���You see it too? I thought I was going crazy!”

The woman laughs, a warm, genuine sound. “Trust me, you’re not crazy. I’m Y/N, by the way. I’m doing some research here for my graduate thesis.”

“Sofia,” she replies, shaking your hand. “So, what’s the deal? Is Leclerc secretly a time-traveling prince or something?”

You chuckle, but there’s a strange look in your eyes that Sofia can’t quite decipher. “I’m afraid the explanation is probably much more mundane. Many Monégasques have some connection to the Grimaldi family. It’s likely just a case of strong genes persisting through the generations.”

Sofia nods, but she’s not entirely convinced. There’s something about the way you’re looking at the portrait, a mix of fondness and melancholy, that piques her curiosity.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Sofia probes gently. “Are you a big history buff?”

You smile, turning away from the portrait. “You could say that. I’ve been studying Prince Charles and his era for my thesis. It’s a fascinating period in Monaco’s history.”

Sofia’s about to ask more when she notices someone approaching over your shoulder. Her eyes go wide, and she has to stifle a gasp.

You turn to see what’s caught her attention, and your face lights up. “Charles! I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

Sofia’s jaw drops as Charles Leclerc himself joins you, greeting you with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. He’s dressed casually in jeans and an oversized hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but there’s no mistaking that face — especially not when it’s right next to the portrait of his doppelganger.

“I had some free time between meetings and thought I’d stop by,” Charles explains. “How’s the research going?”

You launch into an explanation of your latest findings, and Sofia watches in fascination as Charles listens intently, asking insightful questions and offering his own thoughts. It’s clear this is far from the first time they’ve discussed the topic.

Finally, Charles seems to notice Sofia’s presence. “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Sofia manages to close her mouth, which had been hanging open in shock. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m Sofia. I’m a huge fan, Mr. Leclerc.”

Charles grins, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Charles. Always nice to meet a tifosa.”

Sofia gestures weakly to the portrait. “I was just ... I mean ... has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like ...”

Charles and you exchange a look that Sofia can’t quite interpret. Then Charles turns back to her with a wry smile. “Once or twice, yes. It’s quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

Sofia nods, still feeling like she’s stepped into some kind of twilight zone. “Coincidence. Right.”

You clear your throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “So, Sofia, are you here on vacation?”

Grateful for the change of topic, Sofia launches into an enthusiastic description of her plans for the next week. As they chat, she can’t help but notice the way Charles and you interact — the casual touches, the inside jokes, the way your eyes continually find each other. There’s clearly a deep connection there.

At one point, Charles excuses himself to take a phone call. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sofia turns to you with wide eyes. “Okay, you have to tell me. What’s the real story here? How long have you two been together?”

You laugh, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. “Is it that obvious? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. We met right here, actually, in front of this very portrait.”

Sofia’s romantic heart melts a little at that. “That’s so sweet! But come on, you have to admit, the resemblance is freaky. And the way you two were talking about history ... it’s like he lived it or something.”

You get that strange look in your eyes again, a mix of secrecy and wonder. “Charles has always had a deep connection to Monaco’s past. It’s one of the things that drew us together.”

Sofia’s about to press for more details when Charles returns, slipping his arm around your waist with casual familiarity.

“I hate to cut this short,” he says apologetically, “but I’ve got to run to a sponsor meeting. Y/N, we’re still on for dinner tonight?”

You nod, smiling up at him. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you at eight.”

As Charles says his goodbyes and leaves, Sofia watches him go with a mix of admiration and lingering confusion. She turns back to you, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

“Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy,” Sofia starts, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but is there any chance ... I mean, has anyone ever considered the possibility that Charles might be, I don’t know, the reincarnation of Prince Charles or something?”

You pause for a long moment, and Sofia holds her breath, half-expecting you to laugh in her face. But instead, you give her a small, enigmatic smile.

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” you say softly. “Sometimes, the past has a way of coming back to us in forms we least expect. Who’s to say what’s possible and what isn’t?”

Sofia’s mind reels at the implications. “So you’re saying ...”

You hold up a hand, your expression turning more serious. “I’m not saying anything definitively. But I will say this: getting to know Charles — the Charles of today — has been like rediscovering a part of history I thought was lost forever. Whether that’s due to reincarnation, cosmic coincidence, or just the magic of human connection, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that it feels like a second chance at something extraordinary.”

Sofia listens, enthralled. It’s like something out of a movie or a romance novel. “That’s ... wow. I don’t even know what to say.”

You laugh, the sound tinged with wonder. “Trust me, I know the feeling. Life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.”

As you chat a bit more, Sofia can’t help but feel like she’s been let in on some grand secret. The way you talk about Charles, about history, about the strange twists of fate — it’s all so fantastical and yet, standing here in the shadow of that eerily familiar portrait, she can’t quite bring herself to disbelieve it entirely.

Finally, you glance at your watch and sigh. “I should get going. I’ve got to prepare for dinner soon. It was lovely meeting you, Sofia.”

Sofia nods, still feeling slightly dazed. “You too. And ... thanks. For sharing all of that. It’s given me a lot to think about.”

You smile warmly. “Just keep an open mind. You never know what kind of magic you might encounter, especially in a place like Monaco.”

As you leave, Sofia turns back to the portrait of Prince Charles. She studies it intently, trying to reconcile the historical figure with the modern-day race driver she admires so much.

“Second chances,” she murmurs to herself. “Who’d have thought?”

With one last look at the portrait, Sofia continues her tour of the museum. But now, every artifact seems to pulse with new significance. The weight of history feels more present than ever, intertwining with the present in ways she never could have imagined.

As she steps out of the museum and into the bright Monaco sunshine, Sofia finds herself looking at the city with new eyes. The sleek modern buildings and ancient narrow streets no longer seem at odds, but part of a continuous, living history.

She thinks of Charles Leclerc, of the mysterious Y/N, of a long-dead prince whose legacy seems to echo through time. And as she makes her way towards the harbor, where she knows the Monaco circuit snakes through the city streets, Sofia can’t help but feel that she’s stumbled upon a story far greater and more magical than any single victory.

With a smile on her face and a newfound appreciation for the mysteries of the universe, Sofia sets off to explore more of Monaco. After all, in a place where princes can become race drivers and love can transcend time itself, who knows what other wonders she might discover?

[corruptedcaps]

Bathtub Bitch

Miriam had worked for the Nox family for over a year, enduring the icy glares and sharp words of Chelsea Nox. The beautiful, affluent couple resided in a sprawling mansion, filled with opulence that poor Miriam could only dream of. Chelsea’s cruelty toward her staff was notorious, but she reserved a special disdain for Miriam, her personal maid.

Miriam had wanted to quit for so long but couldn’t afford it. Apart from that though, Chelsea seemed to have an almost supernatural grip on the staff. When it seemed like one of them was about to crack and brake she would take them into a private room and minutes later they would return hopelessly devoted to their mistress.

William, Chelsea’s husband on the other hand, wasn’t as bad as his wife with the staff but he definitely didn’t respect them either. His sex life was strained with his wife and he loved to mess with her by using the staff to get under her skin. She in turn would berate, punish or fire the staff, which would inevitable turn her on allowing the two of them to finally be intimate. Luckily Miriam had been able to avoid being used as a pawn in their sick games but that was about to change….

One afternoon, while Chelsea was out shopping, her husband William called Miriam into the drawing room. He sat behind his large oak desk, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Miriam, I have a task for you." He drawled.

"Yes, sir?" Miriam replied, her voice trembling slightly.

"I want you to clean Chelsea's bathtub." He said his eyebrow raised.

Miriam's eyes widened in shock. "But sir, Mrs. Nox strictly forbade me—"

William waved a dismissive hand. "Chelsea forbade you because she's a control freak. I want you to clean it. Do a good job, and I'll make sure she doesn't know."

Miriam hesitated, the fear of Chelsea's wrath warring with her desire to please Mr. Nox. "If you're sure, sir..."

"Absolutely. Go on, now. I want it spotless." He said, a wicked smile curling his lips.

With a nervous nod, Miriam gathered her cleaning supplies, bracing herself for whatever consequences might come.

Miriam entered the private bathroom, her heart pounding. The room was a sanctuary of luxury, with marble floors, gold fixtures, and an enormous clawfoot tub that gleamed under the soft lighting. As she approached, she realized the tub was already immaculate, looking as if it had been freshly polished.

“It doesn’t look like it needs cleaning at all.” She murmured to herself, but William’s instructions echoed in her mind. She couldn’t afford to disobey him. She was already drowning in her student loans WITH this job.

Determined, she gathered her courage and stepped into the tub. She began scrubbing the pristine surface, her movements careful and precise. The scent of lavender cleaner filled the air as she worked, the repetitive motions slowly calming her nerves.

Suddenly, a loud hiss broke the silence. Miriam froze as the taps turned on by themselves, water gushing out in a torrent. Panic surged through her. She twisted and turned, trying to shut off them off, but they seemed stuck.

“What on earth?” She gasped, her hands shaking as she struggled with the faucets. As the water quickly rose, Miriam’s clothes clung to her, heavy and wet. Only a few inches deep, it was already up to her knees, soaking through her skirt and making her movements clumsy. But then she noticed something strange. The water made her skin tingle wherever it touched. It felt good.

A peculiar sensation spread over her legs and up her body, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on turning off the taps. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to be settling in her mind, but the tingling was growing more intense.

“Ohhh mmmmm what is happening to me?” She moaned, her voice barely audible over the rush of water.

The water rose steadily, now reaching her waist, washing over her panties. The tingling turned into a pleasurable wave as the water soaked her pussy. It spread through her body, making her muscles relax involuntarily. Her fingers slipped off the taps as her strength waned, her thoughts becoming hazy. She couldn’t resist it any longer as her body went limp she slipped under the water.

Beneath the water’s surface, Miriam felt an unusual pressure enveloping her body. Uncomfortable at first but then morphing into a warm hug. It was a hug that seemed to be molding her, reshaping her form.

Her waist began to shrink, becoming slimmer and more defined. She could feel her muscles tightening, her body becoming more toned and athletic. The strange sensation moved upward, and she felt her breasts swell, becoming fuller and perfectly round.

Every inch of her skin tingled as body hair melted away, leaving her skin smooth and flawless. Her fingers, previously calloused from hard work, transformed as her nails grew longer, becoming perfectly manicured.

Her mind drifted in a haze of pleasure and confusion. She was aware of the changes, but they felt distant, almost dreamlike. She touched her new form with trembling hands, the sensations heightened by her newfound sensitivity. She couldn't help but slip her hands into her panties to touch her new hairless pussy.

Were she not underwater, the sounds of her moans would have echoed through the halls of the mansion. Her only annoyance was her uniform which was heavy on her. As if to accommodate her desire, the maid uniform started to dissolve, the fabric melting away like mist. In its place, delicate lace and silk materialized, wrapping around her body to form a set of elegant lingerie. Tall high heels strapped to her sleek feet.

As Miriam floated in the water, fingering herself vigorously the transformation continued. Her hair began to change, each strand thickening and lightening until it became a luxurious mane of blonde. The tingling spread to her face, and she felt her lips plump up, becoming fuller and more inviting.

As her orgasm came to it's climax the water finally started to dissipate down the drain. She watched as remnants of her brown hair colour, her dirty maids uniform and her sensible shoes flowed down with the water. She felt as though it took her identity with it.

She felt new emotions bubbling up inside of her, ones of vanity and superiority. Why should a beauty such as herself be stuck at the lowly station of maid? The water had given her a rebirth and she was not about to squander it. She grinned a wicked grin as she ran her fingers over her remarkable dry body, as if the water had simply pulled off an exterior shell.

She slowly sat up, her movements graceful and fluid. She examined her reflection in the mirrored wall, barely recognizing the stunning woman staring back at her. Her hair was now a cascading waterfall of blonde, her lips full and inviting, and her body perfectly sculpted and adorned in delicate lingerie. She was perfect.

She was so lost in her reflection that she didn't even hear the door creak open and William enter. When he stepped into the bathroom, his face alight with a triumphant grin. However, the expression quickly faltered as he took in Miriam’s new appearance.

“My God, Miriam, I knew the waters would change you, I was banking on it to annoy my wife, but Jesus, you are stunning.” He said his mouth agape.

Miriam turned to him and posed, her confidence radiating. “Aren’t I just?”

William’s awe turned to concern. “But we have to change you back. Chelsea will be furious seeing you like this. In all her years of using the magical tub she has never looked so... so... captivating.” He said, almost lost for words staring at the beauty before him.

A sudden fear ran through Miriam. She didn’t want to lose what she had just gained. She felt better than she had ever felt in her life, powerful and beautiful. Moreover she felt she deserved it, more than that cow Chelsea. She just needed to convince William how superior she was.

Miriam approached him slowly, her movements seductive. “Oh, so it’s you I have to thank for my goddess-like new body,” she said sultrily. “Such a gift deserves a reward.”

Each clop of her heels send a pleasurable shiver down William's back. He gulped as she came up to him, her body emitting a sweet perfume. She smirked at him as she undid his belt buckle, his pants sliding to his knees.

She wrapped her elegant fingers around his erect cock and began to stroke it while maintaining eye contact with him.

"Now William I think that it would be best if we didn't reverse the water's effects on me, don't you agree?" She said with a wicked smile as she worked his dick like a pro.

"Mmmmhmmmm." Was all William could muster.

"After all, think of all the fun it could be to have me as your mistress. That wife of yours has been blue balling you for years hasn't she?" Miriam said stroking his face with her free hand.

"Y-y-yesss she h-h-has. That bitch." He groaned.

"You deserve a woman who can satisfy your needs, who can fulfil every desire." She said in a whisper, leaning into his ear.

"Yes oh god yes!" He said nearly vibrating.

"It's a shame I will only be able to please you when she is not around." She purred feigning sadness as she stopping stroking his cock and turned away.

"N-no wait, there must be something we can do! Please I need you!" He said begging. Miriam loved the sound of his lust for her. She could get used to it.

"Well there is one idea I have." Miriam said turning back around to face him.

"Tell me! I'll do whatever it is!" William pleaded. Miriam grinned and sunk to her knees in front of him.

"Make me your wife and all of this can be yours." She smiled as she ran her tongue up the shaft of his cock making him shiver.

"I-I don't know. That's a lo....otttt ohhhh fuck me!" He moaned as Miriam took his full member in her mouth and began to pump.

"Oh god! Oh fuck yessssss, whatever you say! I'll do it!" He said finally succumbing to her wants. Her lips turned into a smile despite being wrapped fully around his cock.

Miriam had been holding back until now but with his devotion to her locked in she sucked so perfectly that he came within seconds. She swallowed every last bit of his cum down her throat, making him fall to his knees out of pleasure. Miriam stood tall above him, physically representing a shift in their dynamic now.

“Now dear it’s my turn, and I warn you I’m not as easy as a cum as you are.” Miriam said with a smirk as William wrapped his hands around her soft legs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make you gushing in no time Miriam.” He grinned and was about to dive in but Miriam pushed his head back out.

“Ugh I don’t like that name. Miriam. Sounds so common, so poor. From now on call me… Mercedes.” She said her grin widening. William grinned back and dove straight in.

Mercedes moaned softly as William played her pussy like an instrument. For the second time today she was so engrossed that she didn’t hear the door open.

“William! Who the hell is this slut!” Said a voice they both recognized but when they looked to see the source they were shocked to see the person.

Chelsea was shorter, fatter, and older than either them had ever seen. Mercedes couldn’t believe it, the waters must limit the amount of people it could change at once. With Chelsea changed back to normal it was going to be even easier to take over but no less fun. Mercedes rose to her feet and clopped over to Chelsea who seemed to shrink the closer she got.

“Hello Chelsea, you’re looking positively dreadful. I’m Mercedes and ‘this slut’ as you so elegantly put it is William’s new wife and your new boss.” Mercedes said with a cold smile.

“Excuse me? Wife? Boss? Who do you think you are bitch? Hang on a minute… you’re Miriam aren’t you? You are so fired-” Chelsea said before Mercedes cut her off short as she wrapped her hand around Chelsea’s throat and lifted her off the ground with ease. Mercedes had expected the super strength but she wasn’t going to complain.

“How dare you! You insolent little worm! You shall only address me as Mistress or Mistress Mercedes, understand?” Mercedes said, fire burning intensely in her eyes. Then a strange thing happened, Mercedes watched as all of Chelsea’s resistance began to fade. She lowered her back down and let go of her.

“Of course Mistress, anything you say.” Chelsea said with a small bow. Mercedes felt her pussy tingle with the power of control she had now. She would enjoy making all the staff into devoted slaves. Chelsea’s biggest mistake was never doing it to Miriam.

“Good. Now get out of my sight and get back into uniform. This isn’t your day off you pathetic loser!” Mercedes says with disdain for her new employer.

Chelsea quickly made herself scarce and Mercedes smiled to herself triumphantly. Turning on her heel she approached William with a new plan in mind.

“William dear, I think it’s time we talk about the hierarchy of this relationship.” She grinned evilly as she closed in on him.

---

“Billy! Shelly! Over here at once!” Mercedes yelled into her cavernous home from her deck. Her Valet and Maid arrived within seconds. No matter how many time Mercedes laid her eyes on her old employers it always gave her immense joy to see them so devoted to her. However in this moment she was furious.

“What the hell do you call this?” She angrily said kneeling next to the deck’s glass rail guards.

“I’m sorry Mistress, I don’t understand the question.” Shelly replied fearfully. Mercedes rolled her eyes and grabbed Shelly by the hair and pulled her over to the glass.

“See this spot? It’s unacceptable. What did I say I wanted?” Mercedes growled as she dropped Shelly who scurried back to Billy.

“You wanted it spotless Mistress.” Billy answered quickly.

“Then why the fuck isn’t it?” Mercedes yelled, her voice making the two of them tremble.

“We’re sorry Mistress, we’ll clean it right away!” Shelly said jumping to action with a bucket and sponge.

“See that you do! I have a party tonight and everything has to be perfect! Now I’m going to have a bath and wipe the stink off disappointment off of me. Do not disturb me.” Mercedes said clopping away towards her private bathroom.

Slipping into the waters she felt her bitchy powers rise once again. She was up to nearly 3 baths a day and each time she would emerge feeling even more powerful and bad. She would need it for the party tonight. She had invited all of high society’s biggest players and if everything went as planned tonight she would control the city by morning. She was lucky to be in the bath as the mere thoughts of complete and total control made her pussy gush generously.

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

Royal Protocol

This has been in my drafts for even and has gone through so many rewrites, I'm finally happy with it.

Contains: Fluff, so much fluff, smut (oral sex F receiving, fingering, P in V)

Masterlist

1.9K

Some rules were made to be broken

You thought your brain was going to melt out of your ears, each second going over protocol for your meeting with the crown was torture. Say this, do that, don't ask about the events they put on while people go without food. Price groaned as he read the next item from the list. "For fucks sake, y/n, make sure you wear stockings."

Simon chuckled beside you, and you elbowed him. "Yeah yeah, laugh, I'm not the one who's going to have to wear dress greens all the time."

He looked down at you and sighed. "I fucking hate this shit."

You shrugged. "I'm just a translator, I don't know why I have to come."

"Because you're a part of the team, now stop whining and go home and get ready." Price sounded like he was going to punch someone or jump out of the window in hopes that a broken leg would get him out of this.

"Sorry sir." Simon shot you a look, you didn't sound sorry at all.

****

The only floor length dress from your wardrobe that the royal liaison deemed acceptable was the most uncomfortable thing you owned, but Simon didn't seem to mind, he had been glancing at you since the second he helped you zip it up. "You ready to go Lovey?"

You nodded. "Sure, I just gotta fix my hair one last time."

He shook his head softly and chuckled. "Don't know why, you look perfect."

"Because if I have one single hair out of place, Price will have a heart attack, and one of those lizards we're meeting will have a conniption." The knock at the door made you both flinch. "That will be them now, I'll be two minutes."

You entered the bathroom and fixed the single hair out of place as your brain filled with everything else you could be doing tonight filled your head. Then a thought came to you, sure, it would go against the rules, and Price would be mad if he found out, but no one would know, so what would the harm be.

****

Curtsy, smile but not too wide, eat at their speed, be agreeable.

The meeting didn't go well. The threat against the crown was real, and the government wanted the 141 to stay with them until it had been dealt with. You were placed between Simon and Soap; the opulent decor of whatever palace you were in was blinding, and the thought of staying here until the threat passed was the last thing you wanted to do. "We set up the couple's room for you and Lieutenant Riley. It's in our beautiful east wing, there's an ensuite with a sunken tub so you can soak before bed."

You smiled. "How kind of you, thank you."

Simon nodded. "Yes, thank you, your majesties."

It was a hollow statement, Simon would be spending most of the night walking the halls of the east side of the house with Konig so you'd be spending your nights in the massive bed alone. Dinner wound down slowly and mercifully, the food was filling and enjoyable. Price followed you as everyone left for their rooms, his neutral expression doing little to hide his displeasure from anyone who knew him. He spoke to you as Simon ready himself for patrol. "We're going to get a car and go around to everyone's home to collect some things for them, because it looks like we'll be here for a while. I've already got a list."

You nodded. "Ok."

He left, and Simon came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your body and resting his head on your shoulder. "Make sure you check the fridge Lovely, I don't want anything to go bad."

You spun in his arms and he pressed you to his chest. "Alright. Do you want me to bring you anything special?"

He shook his head. "You're all I need Lovey."

You sighed. "Don't be silly, you also need socks and boxers and clothes."

He chuckled and squeezed you tightly. "That I do." You could tell by how he was holding you how tired he was and you split from him when you heard Konig's solid knock. "I gotta go."

"I know, me too." You walked towards the door together, Simon with his gun slung over his shoulder, before he opened the door, you tapped him on the arm and lifted your skirt, showing him your stockingless legs and sockless feet.

His face split in a grin and he pressed his hand to his mouth like someone trying not to encourage a dog to misbehave by laughing. "I will deal with you later."

"Oh yes please."

He shook his head and pecked your cheek. "Don't let Price get into trouble and say hello to Mama Gaz for me."

"Will do." He was still grinning like an idiot when he greeted Konig and walked down the hallway.

****

You returned to your room in the very early morning after dropping everyone's luggage at their door. Simon was still on patrol, and you could hear his footfalls pause at the door each time he passed by it. Sometime after you fell asleep, you felt Simon slide into bed next to you, his bare skin warm on your flesh as he wrapped his arms around you. He pressed his lips to your ear and nuzzled into you as he made himself comfortable, seemingly unaware that you were half awake. "I love you y/n."

****

You were awoken by someone dropping the breakfast cart at the door, the sight of Simon wheeling it in wearing nothing but a pair of boxers well and truly waking you up. "What do you want Love?"

He stood there, the fancy plate in one hand and tongs in the other, looking at you expectantly, but you were too busy staring at the hard lines of his body to answer. "If you don't tell me I'm just going to have to give you a little of everything."

You nodded. "Whatever you want."

He began to fill your plate, pausing to taste the baked beans before making a face. "They're a little sweet, you still want them."

You shook your head. "No, but I'll have more fruit."

He smiled and continued, making sure to give you extra golden syrup on your crumpet before fixing himself a plate and bringing everything to the bed on a tray. He passed it to you and lifted the blankets, moving in next to you with a sigh as he took his plate from the tray. He sat with his leg pressed against yours and switched on the large TV attached to the wall, smiling as you linked your hand in his.

You enjoyed your breakfast, talking about the things he saw in the hallways during his patrol until your plates were clean. "About last night." His tone had that crackle at the end that was telling you he was trying to keep his composure.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He looked sideways at you and you giggled. "Oh right, no one got hurt and they didn't find out so there's no harm done."

He snorted, managing to hold back for a moment before bursting into laughter. "If that's your idea of rebellion the anti royalists are in trouble."

You shoved him to no effect and he smiled as he leaned in to kiss you. The empty plate was lifted off your lap and placed on the side table before he rolled on top of you, resting his weight on you as he deepened the kiss. You wrapped your arms around him, throwing your legs over his waist as he ground his half hard cocking against your clothed centre. "Here?"

He paused, resting his forehead against yours as he spoke. "If you want to."

"I do." He smiled and continued to kiss you, taking his hand and sliding his boxers off before removing your underpants.

He rested back on his heels and grabbed the edge of your shirt, licking his lips at your bare skin as he removed it. "You are so pretty." He gestured for you to pop and then lay down on the bed, grinning as he waved you over. "Hop on Lovey."

You blinked. "You want me to…What if I squish you?"

He chuckled. "You won't don't worry." He smirked. "Anyway, if you do, I'll enjoy it."

You exhaled and settled over him, and he ran his hands up and down your thighs as you slowly lowered yourself over his mouth. You flinched at the first brush on his tongue as he gripped your thighs harder and held you to his mouth. You held tight to the fancy headboard as he sealed his lips over your clit, and he let out of moan as you relaxed down so he was supporting you. He moved from sucking your clit to licking you in long, wide stripes, stopping to circle your clit each time before starting his journey again.

He wrapped one arm around your leg as the fingers on his other hand joined his tongue. He found you G-spot like a heat-seeking missile, not hesitating to apply pressure as you began to rock against his mouth. He seemed to be enjoying it as much as you were, moaning and grunting with each movement of his mouth as you began to squeeze his fingers. Your legs locked up as you came, your shoulders curling as the high took over your body. It came in waves, your vision fading as the sensations only seemed to grow.

He didn't stop but he let you pull away from him with a groan of disappointment. "What's wrong my love?"

He sighed. "I wanted to make you cum again."

You moved over his hips, rubbing yourself up and down his cock as his muscles grew tense. "You can but I'd like it if you could too, does that sound good to you?"

He smiled and placed his hands on your hips. "Yeah, it does."

You reached back and grabbed him, sliding down slowly as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. "Fuck Lovey, you feel so fucking good."

His grip only hardened as you picked up the pace, and he watched with lust filled eyes as you slid your hand down your body to rub your clit. He didn't know where to look; part of him wanted to fixate on your face as it filled with pleasure, but his eyes kept drifting to your breast and the point where he kept disappearing inside you. He bucked his hips to meet your pace, and you folded at the waist, resting your free hand on his firm chest. "Come on pretty girl, you gonna cum for me?"

You nodded desperately, your fingers speeding up as each of his thruts joltedyour your hold body. You all but collapsed on top of him when it hit, and he grasped your flesh like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet as each contraction on your core around him pulled him into bliss with you.

You relaxed on top of him as you both caught your breath, and he wrapped his around you as he pressed his cheek to yours. "You know that wasn't a reward for your poor behaviour."

You sighed. "Really, because it sure felt like one."

He chuckled and slipped out of you, pecking your lips hard as he brushed your hair from your face. "Well it wasn't."

You propped yourself up on your elbows, smiling as his loved filled eyes gazed into yours. "Going forward, I promise I'll be on my best behaviour."

He smiled. "I'll love you even if you're not."

Fin

@chaos-4baby @candy616 @avidread3r

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Private Dances [4]

Club!Blue Jones X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info • series masterlist •

A/N: A huge thank you to the epic @lonelyisamyw-0love for tipping my ko-fi, this series is especially for them💚

Warnings: Oh dear, not beta read, overuse of italics, sub!Blue, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a dancer (but like Blue is so lovesick), swearing, p in v sex, cream pie, Blue being all soft and crying, Blue having nightmares, Blue being a little shit, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

There are 5 main ‘stars’ in the club: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal. Crystal is usually the favourite but is currently in Blue’s bad books for reasons unknown to the reader. Reader is a backup dancer that Blue has nicknamed Lion.

Word Count: 2252

Only One Step Away

“Come to bed with me, Lion.” He mutters, his voice soft and eyes closed as he presses you against the door. His hands stroke your cheeks softly, almost soothingly if you let yourself sink into the sensation.

You tense ever so slightly despite how hard he’s just made you come. His eyes open as he feels it, giving you a long look from under his thick lashes. 

“I’m not going to bite, Lion. I’d expect you to be the one to do that.” He smiles a wicked grin, but swallows when he senses your uncertainty. “I’m not forcing you, I’m just asking.” He traces the line of your jaw with his fingertips. “I want to shower and sleep… with you next to me.” 

“You’re not worried I’ll strangle you the second you're unconscious?” You tease and the gleam quickly returns to his eyes.

He presses his chest close to yours, “Oh, promises, promises.” He bites his lip. “Don’t distract me with a good time.” 

You chuckle, unable to stop yourself. And to your surprise he beams, the expression lighting up his whole face as the giddy thrill of amusing you races through his veins. 

You lightly touch his cheek, mirroring his caress on your skin. Blue closes his eyes, pressing his head fully into your hand and breathing in deeply. 

“Alright.” You whisper. 

.

You’ve never been in his private rooms, the ones that are sealed behind the locked door in his office. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting, they’re opulently decorated yes, but not as much as his office, not as showy. More focused on comfort than status. There’s a reasonably sized living room with a plush sofa and a large dark wooden bookshelf lining the walls. There’s a book open on the coffee table, bent in half face down. 

The bathroom, all black tile and a fancy white and gold tub that is surely big enough to swim in, is ensuite to the bedroom. 

You know he doesn’t stay in his rooms all the time, he has a home somewhere outside of the club. But you also know he rarely spends time there. 

He kisses you in the shower, running his hands all over you in the soothing warm water, barely talking other than asking if he can wash your skin. 

It’s oldy nice. His gentle touch, the soft look in his eyes. The way he nuzzles against you and holds you close like he is clinging onto you, not pulling you near, not demanding, but pleading. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully naked. The first time you’ve seen his chest and back completely bare. 

Your line of sight lingers on the scars that litter his skin, the series of lines and burn marks across his shoulders. The criss cross of cuts along his ribs. They’re old, well healed but obviously deep. There’s a newer scar on his right side where a bullet went clean through just above his hip, you knew about that one, had heard the stories and gossip from the other dancers. Somehow that one doesn’t seem as stark as the others. 

When Blue notices you looking he smiles, but it’s a small thing. An almost shy twitch of his lips. He stays closer to you after that, trying to keep his body hidden from you without it being bitterly obvious. 

The second he turns off the shower he wraps you in a fluffy towel before he gives you a soft bathrobe to wear and ushers you into the bedroom.  

His bed is lavish, dramatic. But it’s obvious which side he sleeps on, the books and clock, notes and pens and knic knacks all stacked on the right hand side bedside table. Quickly he pulls on a t-shirt and boxers, which makes you smile for a moment. You were sure he would have opulent silk pyjamas hand stitched in gold, a plain white cotton t-shirt seems… off. 

He guides you into bed a little nervously, suddenly drawn in on himself and looking down. 

“Blue?” You stroke his cheek before you sit, looking over his face carefully, scrutinising for any clue of his distress. Part of you screams in your head, yells at you for caring, for worrying. 

“Hmm?” His eyes meet yours when you tilt his chin upwards. 

“Are you okay?” 

He nods, but the action isn’t sure of itself. You realise this is probably the first time anyone other than himself has been in here. 

He seems… softer now. Less sharp at the edges with his make-up washed away and short hair damp. You run your thumb over his moustache. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

His breathing hitches, eyes widening at your words. A light flush creeps along his cheeks. “I…” He swallows, “I should be saying that to you, Lion.” 

You lean forward and kiss him lightly, “Well, I said it first.” 

His throat bobs, the glazed, love sick look he gives you is piercing. Somehow cutting you deeper than any expression you have ever seen him show before.

He nods after a moment, trying to push down an emotion you can’t quite place. “Here,” he holds out his hand, waits for you to take it before he climbs into the bed, pulling back the covers for you to join him and encourages you to lie down. 

Blue snuggles next to you the second your back hits the mattress, wrapping his arms around you and shuffling close. He breathes deeply, a little shudder running through his chest. 

“Lion, Lion, Lion.” He mutters, the sound low and soft, more for his own ears than yours. 

You expect it to be difficult, if not impossible to fall asleep. How could it possibly be comfortable with him next to you? How could you not be on edge? 

Instead, you find yourself slipping into dreams the second you close your eyes. 

.

It’s dark when you wake, still early morning. Your shoulder aches ever so slightly from where you’ve been laying oddly. 

At first, you don’t remember where you are and that alone is enough to fill you with the purest panic. But then the sounds of Blue talking in his sleep filter into your groggy mind. 

You sit up slightly, there is just enough light to see him curled up on his side shaking. His words are indistinguishable, nonsense. But he’s crying, his face pinched together and crumbled. 

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t give a flying fuck. 

But you do.

And it hurts.

“Blue,” you say softly, putting your hand on his shoulder gently. His skin is cold, clammy, and for a second you wonder if he’s ill. 

He stays asleep, his eyes closed, still mumbling. 

“Blue.” Your voice is firmer this time, but calm. Safe. And you shake him ever so slightly. 

He jumps as he wakes, freezing as his eyes snap open in panic. 

“You’re okay.” You swallow. “You’re-”

“Lion?” His voice is crocky, weak. 

You nod and he grabs hold of your hand on his shoulder, turning around and shifting closer to you. 

“I…” There are tears on his cheeks, still budding in his eyes. 

You move closer to him, wiping at the wetness on his face and whispering soothing words. “It’s okay, you’re alright. We’re safe here.”

He nuzzles closer, wrapping his arms around you desperately and squeezing. His grip is strong despite how his hands tremble. 

Blue shakes his head, pulling you closer and grabbing at your right hand. 

You frown, unsure of what he’s doing at first, but then he spreads your fingers and presses your palm to his throat. 

“Please.” He whispers, hardly above silence. 

Your hand flexes automatically, and he whimpers swallowing hard and pressing his head back against the pillow.

“Thank you.” He closes his eyes, lighty stroking your bicep and trailing his other hand to your hip. 

He gasps, his eyelids fluttering as you squeeze. His heartbeat echoes in his neck, but to your surprise you can feel it slowing, calming as you increase your grip. 

His lips part as he lets out a shuddered breath. His muscles tense and squirm as he lets the sensation of your hand on him overtake his mind. 

You can’t help yourself, unable to resist the urge to lean forward and trace your thumb of your free hand over his bottom lip. 

He gasps, his eyes opening as he darts the tip of his tongue out and flicks in against your fingertip. 

The way your breathing hitches surprises you, you can see the adoration shining in Blue’s eyes in the dark. 

Heat pools in your stomach, twisting around your muscles. It shouldn’t be so enticing, him looking like that. So soft and pliant and laid out for you like a feast. Your wetness rubs against your inner thighs as your body practically begs to take him and break him into whatever shape you wish.

“Ride me.” He mutters, almost looking embarrassed to be asking. “Just…” He takes your hand on his face and guides it down to his heavy cock, hard and ready. “Use me to get off, please.” He swallows, his voice timid. “Keep squeezing my neck and I’ll be quiet and still for you.” 

He gives you a nervous glance from under his eyelashes, the uncertainty of his gaze cracks into your ribs and weakens any resolve you could possibly hope to have. 

You nod, keeping your right hand around his throat as you pull up his shirt slightly and tug his boxers down to his thighs. You stroke him once, slow. More for your own amusement than his. He stays quiet as you run your fingers over his velvet soft skin, but his muscles tense and twitch under the strain. 

Blue swallows as you climb on top of him, his throat bobbing under your grip. He closes his eyes when you line up with his length and sink down, his back arches for a second before he regains control and pushes him back back flat to the bed, his hands at his sides. 

As you swallow more of his cock you gasp, rocking your hips to ease the stretch and help the glide. It’s like you can feel him in your chest, pushing your lungs and trying to pierce your heart. 

He pulses with the beat of his heart, spearing you open and making your clit throb with the deep stretch. 

You moan softly, hardly able to move, to do anything other than take more and more of him as your knees slip wider and he sinks deeper. 

He whines, gasping as you finally sheath him inside, his balls pressing against your ass. 

You rock slowly, trying to adjust to him and squeezing his throat rhythmically. 

Blue tries to stay as quiet as possible, his breathing turning into quiet pants when you finally find the right rhythm. 

His thighs quiver as you ride him, rolling your hips so that his tip strokes devastatingly inside. You gasp, biting your lip. You don’t want it to be good, you don’t want it to feel so right. Him balls deep and you soaking his cock and chasing your pleasure like you are possessed. 

“Blue,” you groan, your fingers digging into his neck.

He looks at you instantly, focusing on you. The look on his face is palpable, the strain of holding back. 

“Blue,” you mutter again, your voice raising in pitch and he gasps. 

You lean forward, changing the angle so you can grind and roll and- you sob as he brushes so perfectly inside. The sensation burning and cracking up your spine like electricity. The cry that leaves your throat has him tensing, shaking from the effort to hold himself back. 

Fresh tears fill his eyes from the strain, the long drawn out edge of being so close. His toes curl as you moan, taking your pleasure completely from him. 

You squeeze his neck harder, biting at his bottom lip possessively. “Come with me.” You growl, your mind burning hot and too far gone to think of anything else. 

He shakes his head with a sob, “I want you to feel good-”

“Are you questioning me?” You snarl, nipping at his jaw and he whines, gasps. His body follows your order without a second thought as he shakes. His hips snap upwards once, his soft, sweet, desperate cries tipping you over the edge. 

You come hard, all thoughts dissolving and focusing only on him as your orgasm rolls over you. 

Your hips move on their own as your keep coming, the pleasure pushes further and further as he pumps hot, thick cum deep inside you. 

You breathe hard as you come back down, aftershocks twisting along your muscles. There are fresh tears on Blue’s cheeks, and even in the poor light you can see the bruising on his neck. 

“Oh,” you touch his skin softly, your stomach dropping, suddenly horrified. 

He looks up at you in a panic, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come,” he flinches, “please, don’t-”

You kiss him deeply, stroking his sweaty skin before you pull his t-shirt off completely. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m sorry, I’ve…” you stroke his neck, “it looks…”

“Feels good.” He says softly, pilant and small. “I don’t want you to be sorry either.” 

You nod. 

He presses his forehead to yours, whimpering when you stroke his hair and kiss his nose, closing his eyes as he tangles himself up in your embrace. 

This isn’t right. This shouldn’t feel so comfortable. 

Thank you for reading!

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[shalotttower]

Characters: Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader Summary: You died and became a ghost. Now you can’t leave Chrollo, but at least there’s satisfaction in taunting him. Notes: yandere!Chrollo, ghost!Reader, past nonconsensual relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

"Do you ever wonder what it's like," you ask, watching Chrollo flip the pages of his book, "to be dead?"

He doesn't reply.

Of course he doesn't, it's simply not possible. Most conversations you have now are one-sided, monologues with occasional questions sprinkled in between which always stay unanswered. Because he can't hear you. Or see you. Or touch you, unless he accidentally walks through you, and it's probably the only time when Chrollo feels something.

Maybe that's why you keep doing it, walking right through him. Just to make his skin crawl like he once made yours.

But Chrollo only closes the window and gets a warm cardigan. Cold drafts are coming in more often these days, since fall is nearing its end.

It annoys you how meticulous he is.

You float above the tub while he brushes his teeth, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling that weren't present three weeks ago.

"It's chilly here," your fingers sink deep into your thigh, like through butter, and yet it sends no signals down the nervous system to let your brain know. Strange, this body you have now ─ translucent like a jellyfish.

Chrollo rinses his mouth, you push the towel off the hook.

"I could use a cardigan too."

He doesn't get scared. Doesn't get uncomfortable, doesn't...anything, really. All Chrollo does is fix the towel and turn the bathroom lights off.

Fallen things get picked, switched objects ─ put back to their respective places, and doors locked shut. He goes about his day, sometimes drawing two mugs instead of one from the cupboard.

You could leave.

You sit on the balcony railing where Chrollo drinks his tea, and swing your legs in the air. Below your feet, cars move on the pavement like toys lined up in neat rows. People cross busy intersections, and the wind doesn't rustle your hair anymore.

Could. Could leave.

If only you knew how to do that. If only Chrollo wasn't attached to you, like a string tied to your wrist ─ invisible, but still so thick that it tugs you back whenever you try going further than a few blocks away.

You don't know why it's like this, but suspect it might have something to do with unfinished business.

Stuck here, you watch him read and brush his teeth, drink fancy tea and shake the snow globe he stole two weeks ago; the dancing fairy inside looks a tad much like you and you're debating whether pushing it off the shelf would be childish or not.

Sometimes it's frustrating being around him.

But sometimes, sometimes a door creaks and Chrollo stops in the middle of the opulently decorated space. The wallpaper has little fleur de lis printed on it, and heavy red curtains frame large windows.

This is when you go so, so still and stare.

"Dear?" he asks quietly.

There's nothing behind the door.

Just an empty hallway bathed in dim lighting.

You never reply. Because this is why you keep hanging nearby, even when there're many empty rooms in the penthouse, barely there, barely lingering ─ for the greatest and most profound pleasure of making him believe, just once, that perhaps, there's something else besides himself in this furnished apartment.

[rfxiii]

Can u do one where Trevor and fem reader r in a hot tub together and things get spicy? 🥵🌶️ had this idea for a while now!!

(ty for the request! I absolutely loved this idea, so I hope you like how I wrote it!)

TW: Smut

Word Count: 2821

Trevor Philips and fem!s/o in a hot tub:

This could get you both in so much trouble.

You should have known better than to mention something like this, even offhandedly, to someone like Trevor. It was your own private fantasy, something you’d never thought you’d get to act on, until tonight.

Nearly a week ago you’d seen a commercial on Trevor’s staticky old television advertising some upscale new hotel in Los Santos. You weren’t normally one for the fancy, fast paced lifestyle of the city, but once you’d watched the ad showcasing the hotel's state of the art pool room, complete with a large hot tub, you couldn’t help but perk up a bit. And of course, Trevor had noticed.

He’d nagged you mercilessly about your reaction after that. He had picked on you about your “fancy taste”, he’d asked if you wanted to stay a night there despite how badly he would have hated it. It wasn’t until he’d begun to spiral down a rabbit hole, thinking that maybe you were unhappy with your rural situation out in Sandy Shores, that you’d finally confessed to what had caught your attention.

That damned hot tub.

He’d been confused at first. It was just a large bathtub with jets. Right? He didn’t get what the big deal was. You had a bathtub at your house, so why didn’t you just go home and use the one you already owned? It didn’t make any sense to him. At least, it hadn’t, until you’d broken down and further explained your private little fantasy.

You wanted him to fuck you in that hot tub, more than anything.

And that confession had quickly changed his tune.

Which is how you found yourself here. It’s not the fancy hotel from the tv, but to Trevor any hot tub he got to fuck you in would do just fine. And conveniently enough, he knew just the place for the two of you to act out your little fantasy.

“You’re sure he’s gone for the weekend, right?” you whisper to Trevor softly, eyes darting around in the dark as you wait to be caught.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Don’t worry about it, sweet cheeks. He left yesterday. The house is totally empty!” Trevor replies confidently, striding ahead of you across the opulent, stone tiled, backyard.

You’d been to Michael’s house a few times- a beautiful, expensive property that you and Trevor had no business breaking into. But once he had his mind set to something, Trevor was an unstoppable force. And after assuring you that Michael and his family were away on vacation for the weekend, he’d insisted that this would be the perfect spot- private, with no one to bother you no matter what you both got up to. And you couldn’t argue that he was wrong.

You come to a stop at the edge of the large pool, the underwater lights casting an almost ethereal glow around the backyard. And connected right to the pool, set aglow by the lights reflecting in the pool, is the hot tub. It’s large, and clean, with the hot water bubbling quietly as it’s expelled from the jets. And you can already feel your mind wandering to the things you and Trevor could do out here, uninterrupted without fear of being disturbed.

“So, good enough for you, sugar?” he teases, a smirk on his lips that sends a jolt of anticipation directly between your thighs.

You bite back a scoff, feeling more than on the spot now that you’re actually here. And so, before you have a chance to think too hard about this and back out, you begin to undress. You’ve never really had occasion to go swimming; Trevor does his best to avoid the beaches of Los Santos- and Los Santos altogether, and you certainly weren’t going swimming in the waters at Sandy Shores. So, without the proper attire, you’d opted for a pair of underwear and a sports bra instead.

You kick your shoes off by the edge of the pool, shimming out of your shorts and pulling your thin tank top over your head, tossing it aside to join the pile of your other clothes. It’s then that you feel Trevor’s predatory gaze already locked on you. His wild eyes rake across your body without restraint before just a hint of dissatisfaction flashes in his eyes.

“You’re wearing clothes still?” Trevor’s question sounds incredulous. And frankly, the way he’s looking at your last remaining bits of clothes makes it seem like he’s almost offended by them.

You fumble for an answer. You know this was your idea, you know why you’re here, but starting off the night by stripping naked to get into Michael’s hot tub felt far too presumptuous still. “I- Well, I didn’t have anything else to wear, so-“

He’s still fully clothed, and it feels unfair of him to be nagging you. But then he closes the distance between you with long strides, stepping in until he’s pressed flush against your nearly naked body. “So? Why’re you wearing anything at all, sugar? It’ll just get in the way.”

You can feel his hot breath against your cheek, and you swear you just felt the outline of his hard cock pressing to your hip through his jeans. And just that brief contact is enough to have you forgetting why you were so anxious in the first place.

Your lips press to the tight muscles of his neck, and your fingers wander down his chest until they connect with the hem of his stained tee shirt. He chokes on a smug chuckle when your teeth nip gently at his throat, and when you push the fabric of his shirt up his chest, he helps you pull it over his head and toss it aside to join your pile of clothes.

His lips find yours in an aggressive kiss seconds later, his hands groping and grabbing to touch every bit of exposed skin he can reach. In the fumble to touch each other you somehow manage to unbutton his pants, which he gracelessly shoves down his narrow hips. And by the time he pulls away from your damp, abused lips, he’s kicking off his boots and now stands in front of you completely naked.

He’s fully hard, his tip flushed dark red and leaking. All of this just from the kissing and anticipation. If you’d ever been insecure before, the way Trevor always reacts so instantly to you is enough to push any uncertain thoughts from your mind.

He catches your gaze locked between his thighs, and a sly, yellowed smirk grows on his lips. His hands grip your waist possessively, slipping down into your underwear and against your ass to push the fabric off your hips and to the ground. His thigh finds its way between your legs, pressing firmly and watching you squirm against him while he works your sports bra up and over your head until you’re just as naked as him.

“Now that’s.. much better. Don’t ya think, sweetheart?” Trevor purrs at you. His hands graze against your skin, his rough palms leaving a trail of warmth against your flesh.

A soft chuckle tumbles past your lips, and you gently take his hand in yours. You lead him toward the hot tub, making a show of swaying your hips and batting your lashes at him until you find yourself at the edge of the water. You dip your toes into the hot tub, finding the water pleasantly warm. And without further hesitation, you pull him along behind you until you’re both sunk into the bubbling heat of the water.

You hear Trevor utter a nearly inaudible sigh, and you’re not surprised. He makes little to no daily effort to take care of himself, and with countless old injuries and constant stress, you’re sure the hot water is doing wonders in relaxing him. Which is exactly what you’d been hoping for.

The calm quiet only lasts a little longer, as most peaceful moments usually did with Trevor. His head lolls toward you, a lazy grin on his lips as he tugs on your wrist, “Come’er,” he mutters, softer than usual.

You’re already pressed up to his side, and it’s not until you watch his dark eyes dart toward his lap that you understand his request. You move carefully in the water, closing the small gap between you both and climbing atop him to straddle his hips. His hands fall instantly to your waist, pulling you closer and pressing hot, open mouthed kisses against your damp chest. Your hands fall to his head, combing your fingers through his thinning hair and holding him closer.

The feeling of Trevor’s lips on your skin is almost soothing, lulling the constant buzz of daily stress into nothing but silence in your head. Suddenly, a gasp lodges itself in your throat when Trevor drags his tongue against one of your nipples. Your back arches at the sensation, pressing your chest closer to Trevor’s devilish lips and tongue. Your gasps and quiet whines escape into the cool night air, and you find yourself unwilling to put forth the effort to muffle them.

You hear Trevor chuckling softly, and feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin. And then there’s his hands, grasping at your hips and pulling you closer until his hard cock grinds roughly against your clit. A higher pitched whimper forces its way past your lips, startling you a bit before you lose yourself in the pleasure Trevor is so eagerly providing.

“Yeah? That good, sugar?” Trevor snickers against your chest.

You’re seconds away from firing back something sarcastic at him when you feel the rough pinch of his fingers replacing his lips on your nipple. His hips continue to thrust his cock between your thighs, grinding against your sensitive clit. And every sardonic reply you’d concocted for him dies instantly on your tongue.

Trevor’s breathing picks up, and you feel his jagged nails biting harder into your hip. This feels amazing, but you want more. And if you don’t stop him soon and get to the point, you know he’ll finish just like this.

Your grasp at his wrist, trying to stay the hand he’s using to toy with your nipple. Your words tremble, and you have to fight back a moan tickling at the back of your throat, but finally you manage to gasp out your request. “T,-.. Trevor, please.. Don’t- don’t cum yet. I need you to fuck me, please.”

You find yourself shamelessly begging. He’s always had a way of making you crave him, but like this, finally fulfilling the fantasy you’d had running through your thoughts, you almost can’t contain your excitement. And he loves to see you desperate for him like this. He’s never hid his desire for you, after all.

An almost relieved grin graces Trevor’s lips, his eyes wide and full of unbridled yearning to be as deep inside you as he can get. “Fuck yes. That's a good girl!” he praises through a choked moan, “why don’t you let Uncle T make your dreams come true tonight, sugar tits?”

The line is almost comically bad, but you’re too caught up in the anticipation to even give it a giggle. And his acceptance to give you the pleasure you so desperately crave has you frantic to receive it.

His split nails dig harshly into your soft skin, lifting you right where he needs you. You feel the press of his hard cock against you, and it takes everything you have not to sink down on him in one fluid motion. You let him lead this time, realizing the dominant role seems to be appealing to him tonight. And despite how badly you need him, you don’t rush him further. You need the build up just as badly as you need him inside you.

His fingers stroke your clit in rough, jerky motions; his touch is always erratic, but you’ve grown to love the way his irregular movements push you to the edge. His hips twitches up into you, pressing the thick head of his cock inside your needy cunt. He’s not especially long, but he is thick, and the stretch of him entering you forces an unrestrained moan past your lips. His fingers still rub at you haphazardly, and when you arch against him he takes the opportunity to trail his tongue against your nipple. And with another firm thrust of his hips, he bottoms out inside you.

Trevor lets out a pitchy whine against your chest, his fingers biting into your skin to ground himself. He’s not going to last long after the build up you’d been engaged in. It feels like the heat of the water, and the excitement of trespassing on someone else’s property, heightens every sense you have. And when he sets an erratic, desperate pace, you find that all you can do is hang on for the ride.

You do your best to meet his thrusts, rolling your hips and bouncing on his cock while the warm water splashes around you both. Your fingers tangle in his thin, damp hair, pulling him up into a desperate kiss that you only break to cry out for him.

“Fuuuck, that’s it, sugar!” Trevor groans, his voice trembling as he already grows close to his end, “so fuckin’ good! This is the best fuckin’ idea you’ve ever had!”

His pace grows haphazard and almost violent, his nails biting into the skin of your hip while his free hand gives all its attention to your clit. Between the water and the pleasure, you feel like you’re on fire, and his frantic thrusts are only making you that much hotter; you’re not going to last much longer either.

“Trevor! M’ close, please!” you find yourself begging, writhing on his lap for just the little bit of extra friction you need to push you over the edge.

Trevor chuckles breathlessly at your desperate display, his lips curled back into a yellowed smirk. He’s smug but very clearly holding himself back from finishing before you get a chance to cum. His chest is heaving, his skin is slick with sweat and water, and his hips jerk and twitch into you with no rhyme or rhythm. “Then fuckin’ cum for me, sweetheart,” he orders, before leaning in and suckling roughly at one of your nipples, giving you the final push over the edge.

You’re here alone, there’s no one to disturb, and you make no effort to suppress your screams of pleasure. You cum around his cock, clenching tight while you yank almost painfully on his hair. And the pain, paired with the sounds you make for him, has Trevor spilling his release deep inside you, warming your insides with the same heat as the water on your skin.

You both finally still with heaving gasps; the exertion and warm water leaving you dizzy, boneless and flushed. You cling to him, with his face still pressed to your damp breasts. Trevor pulls out of you slowly, muffling an overstimulated groan as he slips from inside your still twitching cunt. And then he pulls away from your chest and looks at you with those chocolate, puppy dog eyes and gives you the biggest grin.

“That..was fuckin’ amazing. Holy shit!” Trevor snickers, pulling you closer again and nuzzling into your bare chest.

You let out an exhausted sigh, melting into him and holding him close. “Y-yeah, it was,” you giggle softly.

“Everything ya hoped for, sugar?” he teases, peppering messy, wet kisses across your skin between low chuckles.

You relax atop him with the warm, bubbling water soothing the burning in your muscles, “It was so much better, baby,” you grin, shooting a glance at the house behind you, “Michael should stay gone on vacation longer. I’d love to do this again.”

“Actually, about that,” Trevor starts tentatively, “we should probably, uhh-“

Before Trevor fumbles out the finish of his sentence, you find yourself nearly blinded as the outdoor flood lights flicker on and brighten the backyard like daylight. You jump in shock, blinking hard to focus with the additional light. And not but a moment later, the large back doors swing open where you’re both greeted by Michael, standing in only his underwear, looking confused and irritated.

“Trevor!?” Michael shouts across the yard, his cheeks flushing red in annoyance, and embarrassment at your state of undress, “what the fuck are you doing in my hot tub?!”

“Well, sugar,” Trevor snickers with a manic grin splitting his lips, “it sounds like that’s our cue to get the fuck outta here!”

You quickly snag your discarded clothes, stumbling with Trevor to frantically dress, a scowl of disbelief plastered firmly on your face, “Trevor, you’re the fucking worst!”

“I love you too, sweet cheeks!” Trevor cackles, ignoring your fury, and Michael’s, while he takes your hand and hauls you off across the lawn.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 94

Part 1 Part 93

Will can’t tear his gaze away from Steve. Even as Carol flutters around him, frantic and worried, and Eddie just cries.

Will’s shivering. Mom’s rubbing her hands up and down his arms in quick movements, like she can warm him up. But he is warm. The Harrington’s water heater’s working as good as advertised; the bathroom’s downright sweltering. 

He’s just shaking. 

“We should get him to the hospital,” Barbara says, crouching down beside Steve and settling her fingers against his pulse. She looks over at Eddie, grimacing, “Probably get all of us looked at.”

Eddie’s sopping wet and bloody, cheekbone swelling, and he’s sitting hunched strangely like something inside him aches. Perkins is similarly scuffed up and bruised, if less bloody. Collectively, they look like a group of disaster victims that barely managed to crawl their way out of the rubble.

Eddie pulls Steve further into himself, hauling himself up with a painful-sounding grunt, Steve cradled in his arms. 

Mom lets go of Will, rushing forward to flutter her hands around him. “You shouldn’t be holding him, sweetie,” she cries. “You’re hurt.”

Eddie’s already listing to the side, nearly falling back into the tub until Barbara curls her own arms around Steve, hefting him up. 

“I’ve got him,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re three seconds away from keeling over dead,” Carols scoffs, leading the way out of the bathroom with sloshing footsteps.

Eddie and Barbara shuffle after her, awkward like they’re hauling an old couch out to make room for a new one. They luckily fit side by side on the stairs, but Carol still walks in front of them, hands raised to catch anyone who tumbles, somehow maneuvering each backward step with ease. 

Mom and Will hold up the rear, taking awkward stilted steps to try to stay out of anyone’s way at the slow pace. 

The house is lit, fluorescent and quiet, and warm against his cooling skin from the heat Carol had clicked on when they’d arrived. He feels like an ant walking through its opulent, barren rooms, leaving wet, muddy tracks into its pristine carpet. 

The gulf between him and Steve seems like a trench. It’s hard to imagine Steve here, small and alone in his nice clean sneakers and his clean, fresh clothes. Everything’s so white, any careless movement could leave a smudge. Will’s house is a second-hand storage bin.

But then again, Steve had left this house hadn’t he? He’d made himself as at home in the Munson’s trailer as Uncle Wayne’s recliner or Eddie’s guitar. 

Will’s throat hurts when he swallows, like that time he’d gotten strep and hadn’t been able to go to school for a whole week. He raises his fingers to the tender flesh, feels them like Steve’s hand around his throat. 

He wants his Mom, even with her standing right there. He wants Steve even though he’s passed out in front of him and it was his hands–

No. He can’t think like that. He can’t.

The house is the graveyard of Steve’s life. Had he toddled down these stairs as a teenager? Settled onto that couch as a teenager? Hosted parties in that kitchen? It’s hard to picture the rooms full of people, even when he knows it's true.

The rumors of his parties had trickled down even to the middle school.

But it’s so quiet now. Too quiet.

“Mike?” Will calls as they stagger their way into the living room. 

No one answers.

“Kids?” Mom calls, rushing around where Barbara and Eddie are clogging up the living room. “Where are you?”

She frantically searches the living room, then kitchen, then opens doors at random, calling through the house for no one who can hear her. Will can almost hear his own disappearance echoing through her desperate words. “Where did they go?” she cries as she dashes back into the living room, eyes frantic and wide. 

Barbara snorts. “Doing something stupid would be my guess.” She adjusts her hold on Steve, doing a little jump to shimmy him back up into her arms from where he’d been slipping.

Will bolts out of the house, ignoring everyone’s calls in his mad dash to the van. Harrington's security light turns on, blanketing him in sharp light, briefly blinding him before his eyes adjust. 

Max’s step-brother’s car is gone, the only proof that he was ever there a splash of blood on concrete. 

The van’s gone too. 

Will fishes his walkie talkie out of his pocket, hands fumbling with wet jeans. It’s damp when he pries it free. He wipes it off on his partially dry shirt and compresses the button with baited breath, sighing in relief when the tell-tale crackle of an open line filters through. 

His voice is breathless and croaking as he asks, “where are you, are you okay?” all in one breath, finishing with a quick, “over.” 

It’s Lucas who replies. “Did it work?” 

“He’s back,” Will replies, choking on tears he didn’t realize were flowing. 

It’s silent for a moment before Mike’s voice comes through. “What about El?”

Will’s gut churns, throat clicking as he says, “We don’t know yet,” he turns back toward the house, noticing for the first time that the garage door is open, shelves ransacked, odds and ends tossed haphazardly all over the floor. “We have to get Steve to the hospital; did you take the van?”

Everyone else is shuffling out of the house, cries of dismay and alarm coming from them all as they take in the lack of transportation. Barbara asks, “should we call an ambulance?” as she stares dubiously at all of them, frowning at their bedraggled states. 

Before anyone can reply, there’s the murmur of too-many voices for the walkie to pick up before Dustin’s voice cuts through it with a vehement “shit,” Max’s own shouted “we’re almost back!” barely intelligible, like she was speaking from too-far away. 

“Who’s driving?” Mom cries, running up to Will and looking down at the walkie clutched in his hand like it’ll open its mouth and answer her questions despite the button not even being compressed.

It doesn’t matter – the van comes careening around the corner, and onto the street too fast. It takes the turn into the driveway too wide, running over the Harrington’s perfectly cultivated rose bushes before it screeches to a stop alarmingly close to their fleshy bodies.

Carol laughs when she catches sight of Max sitting in the driver’s seat, looking out at all of them like she belongs there. “I like you, red,” she calls, even as she opens the driver’s side door and shoves her out of the way despite her protests. “You’ve got guts.”

Dustin wrenches the door open, eyes widening as he catches sight of Steve. “What the hell happened to you guys?” 

Barbara bullies her way past him, losing her footing and her grip on Steve enough that his head thuds alarmingly into the hard floor of the van despite Eddie’s fumbling to help. They all end up sprawling, Eddie on the van’s ground, Barbara only partially in, feet dangling awkwardly out the open door. 

“Be careful,” Eddie snarls, glaring up at where she stands. She doesn’t spare him a glance as she helps get Steve fully into the van. Eddie pulls Steve away from her, almost growling. It’s incongruent with the picture he paints as places Steve’s head gently in his own lap, smoothing his wet hair back from his face. 

Barbara ignores the whole thing, moving past them all to claim the passenger seat, brushing past where Max is still crouched by the driver’s seat. Barbara settles into the seat like she owns it, foot up on the dash, knee bent as she turns to lock gazes with Carol.

Dustin’s hovering by Steve and Eddie, hands flitting around like he wants to touch but can’t figure out where it won't hurt anyone further. 

Mike and Lucas both stay seated, looking down at Steve with furrowed brows. “Is he going to be okay?” Lucas asks. No one answers because no one knows. 

“How’d you even start it?” Carol asks Max, fiddling with the trailing wires Eddie’d used to spark the thing to life. 

Max snorts derisively and crosses her arms, dropping to sit criss cross on her butt. “You morons never cut the engine.”

“Enough!” Mom yells, brushing Will’s shoulders gently and easing him forward until he has no choice but to crawl into the van himself. She climbs in beside him, shutting the door with a slam that makes everyone jump. “Carol, dear? Drive.”

She does, pulling out of the driveway with only slightly less reckless abandon than Max used to enter it. 

It’s quiet as the van trundles down the road, save for Eddie’s quiet, unintelligible murmuring in Steve’s ears. His ribs must hurt with the way he’s hunched over Steve, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Will stays where he is, sitting on his hands even as he feels Eddie’s gentle pulling, like he needs to know that Will’s still there. 

“Did we turn off the water?” Carol asks, cutting through the tension with relaxed ease. 

Barbara snorts, “Did we close the front door?”

Will pictures that empty dollhouse with its absent family. He pictures it filling with water, like a fishbowl, like the Titanic. A shrine to all the cruelties that happened there. 

“Do we care?” Will asks. Steve’s face looks peaceful in sleep. Almost serene the way it never is when he’s awake.

Carol laughs, manic as she speeds up, van bumping along the road at reckless speeds. “We do not,” she calls vindictively before laughing again. 

Will doesn’t take his eyes off Steve. 

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Part 95

[lazysload]

This is a thought not mine, but my friend's, and I think it is worthy of voicing.

Have you ever thought that Astarion's tent is a reflection not only of his way of life, but also of his inner world?

At first glance, it is quite a prosperous dwelling: red awning, carpets, a flower tub, velvet cushions, a bowl of wine, a mirror, candles, and jars of blood.

The facade of the tent resembles the very facade of Astarion's very personality - just a sexy, hedonistic, and dangerous vampire elf. He puts all this effort into putting on the appearance of opulence, and then the moment you move just a little bit closer it's all smoke and mirrors.

And we look inside and, my goodness, what do we see? Jars of blood, dirty rags. And what's this? He's sleeping on a board instead of a cot? Is he? This place definitely needs a bit of tidying up and cosiness. Reddit users also noticed that he carries those filthy rags even on the bed of the Elfsong Tavern. It could be a habit from his slave past, but there's more…

The contents of the tent are very similar to his inner world. I mean, he's actually an emotional mess who without realising it himself needs security and care more than anything else. He has sexual trauma, problems with personal boundaries and understanding his own needs.

And I'm not saying: Poor Astarion, he needs to be fixed!

If we fix his tent, he's still living in a mess. He needs to learn how to keep order on his own.

He will learn to trust the world on his own a little bit in a personal quest and already more off-screen, during his own story. He just needs to be supported in that.

I just love symbolism and I like to admire the details that the game designers leave us with. In my opinion, little things like this reveal Astarion's character as going beyond his mask of sexy badass vampire. And the multi-layered nature of his character is the most interesting thing about him.

[suguwu]

the bathwater has gone lukewarm.

you swish a hand through the fading bubbles and sink lower into the water. it ripples, soft waves lapping at the edge of the opulent tub. you close your eyes.

the door whirs open, a soft mechanical hiss. clothing rustles; someone settles on the edge of the bathtub.

"you've been in here a long time," aventurine says.

you crack an eye open. the bubbles sting. "it's been a long day."

he beckons to you; you slide closer, the water sloshing around you. you hook your arms over the edge of the tub, pillowing your chin on them. your skin glimmers, a few crystalline beads of water rolling across the plane of it.

he runs a gloved hand over your wet hair. then he tugs you closer, until your head is pressed against his thigh. he's warm, like sun-baked stone. you turn into him, ignoring the rasp of his clothing against your skin. he stiffens, then relaxes, the tension melting away like candlewax.

you've never been so close to someone so far away.

aventurine sweeps his thumb over the apple of your cheek, tracing up to your temple. he lingers there for a moment. you wait for him to decide.

he nudges you away from him gently. you go without a fight, settling back down into the water. you gaze up at him.

he's smiling, a smug, pretty curve of his lips. it reminds you of the fabric flowers in the cheap markets, eternally in bloom. an echo of the real thing. it's hard to look at.

you flap a hand at him. "let me finish up my bath. go away."

"what if i don't want to?"

"go away anyway."

"you're always so sweet to me."

you snort. "get out, aventurine."

"alright, alright," he says, standing with a graceful flourish. the door hisses open again. "i know when to call it quits."

your smile drops, but he's already out the door.

you sink back down into the water.

"no," you murmur. "you don't."

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Shrinking Violet - Part II (Rhysand x Reader)

Here's Part II of this (finally)! Took me a while but I got there. I really hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: SMUT ✨🌶️

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

There was a female in Rhysand’s lap.

A pretty female, with long, cascading blonde hair and eyes like a cerulean sky.

You didn’t care.

You’d seen her around the Hewn City before; males and females alike tended to turn her way when she passed. Tended to gape at the beauty in their midst.

You didn’t care.

And now she’d found her way into the High Lord’s arms.

You did not care.

Except that you obviously did.

You hadn’t seen Rhys since his last visit two months before. And that was fine — that was normal. The whole time you’d known him, he’d always dipped in and out, sometimes absent for months and months at a time. Sometimes visiting every few weeks. It had always been the case, and it had never bothered you before. 

But it was his words from the last time that had stuck with you. Like a damn thorn in your side.

Come back to Velaris with me.

No.

Come back to Velaris with me.

No.

Come back to Velaris with me.

No.

He’d never said anything like that before. And, of course, you’d saved face — had joked and jested to brush off the weight of those words.

But they’d left you in a strange headspace. Left you wondering, for two months, if he’d meant them. Why he’d suddenly said them after years of the two of you fooling around.

So you hadn’t had even nearly as much confidence tonight as the night you’d worn a dress to match the shade of his eyes. You’d found yourself unsure, nervous.

You didn’t like being unsure and nervous.

And then you’d spotted Rhysand on his throne. And the female — Nyrinn, her name was — on his lap. And your nerves twisted into…something else. 

The night wore on, your tolerance for being there dwindling by the second. Especially as Nyrinn’s giggles seemed to grow louder and more shrill as time rolled on, and no amount of wine could drown them out. 

After two hours, you decided you’d had enough.

You drained your glass and set it aside, gathering up the skirts of your gown. You only attended these things because your father was a high-standing member of the Hewn City council.

But you’d shown your face — there was no rule that said you had to linger.

So you’d hastily exited the throne room, ignoring the feeling of gazes burning into your back. You didn’t care who noticed as you began to make your way back to your residence. 

It was only when you were back within the walls of your opulent home that you realised how truly restless you were. You’d torn off your gloves and called to your maidservant that you didn’t wish to be disturbed, before skulking up to your bedroom with an ever-growing twist in your gut.

You didn’t want to read, or journal, or play an instrument, or think. You didn’t want to sleep or to be awake. You wanted…

You wanted to scream. 

Ridiculous, for Rhysand to have such a profound effect on you. You were not a person who got churned up over males. You were not a female who simpered and sulked in her bedroom after being ignored.

But it wasn’t just that he’d ignored you, no. It was the point he’d blatantly made, by seating that female on his lap. 

Come back to Velaris with me. Such pretty, useless words. 

It was in pure, unwanted frustration that you tore your dress off and strode into your bathroom. You ran your bath far too hot, simply wanting the burn to take your mind off the High Lord. Pouring a concoction of oils into the water, you lowered yourself in, hissing in satisfaction at both the heat and the scent. You were relaxing blissfully in the luxury of a sunken tub whilst Rhysand sat with a frilly, giggling female on his lap—

No. You would not think about him any longer.

You closed your eyes, resting your head back against the tub and savouring the feeling of the hot water blanketing your skin. You took slow, deep breaths, allowing your body to loosen up, your muscles to relax—

Come back to Velaris with me.

Block it out, block it out, block it out. 

My father used to tell me to stay far away from you.

Breathe. Breathe.

I think about you, you know.

Come back to Velaris with me.

You launched up in the bath, water spraying as you growled in frustration and grabbed the closest object — a soap bottle — and hurled it across the room. 

You hated this. Being mixed up and restless. Being unsure of where you stood. How dare Rhysand plant such thoughts in your head. How dare he make you feel like this.

It wasn’t part of your game. It was always supposed to have been a game.

Sick of your bath already, you climbed out of the tub and towelled yourself off. Your skin felt too tight on your bones, too restricting. You threw your hair up, grabbed your pretty little robe from where it hung on the back of the door, and tied it around yourself, wandering back through to your bedroom.

“Do you always spend your bath time launching things across the room?”

You started, a yelp leaving you as you whipped around—

And found Rhysand lounging on your bed like it was his. One leg crossed over the other. Arms propped behind his head. 

He surveyed you — the thin, silk robe that barely covered you — and his full lips twitched into a smirk. “Oh, that’s positively indecent.”

You clenched your jaw, pulling the robe tighter around yourself. “What are you doing?”

He tilted his head up to the ceiling. “I was trying to write a poem, but I don’t think I have a calling for it. I’m trying to rhyme with gyrating—”

“No, Rhysand. What are you doing in my room? Or my house?”

“As I said — trying my hand at poetry. Vibrating? High rating?”

“I did not invite you.” You marched over to the door. “Get out.”

Only then did he meet your gaze, and he finally sat up on your bed—but made no further move. He propped himself up casually. “I’m your High Lord. I invited myself.”

“Well uninvite yourself. Leave.”

You didn’t like the assessing gaze with which he looked at you. Like your tone and demeanour intrigued him, and he was trying to puzzle out its source. His eyes narrowed, head falling into a tilt, and he stated rather pointlessly, “You’re annoyed.”

Yes. “Why should I be annoyed?”

“You tell me. You couldn’t have left the throne room quick enough.”

“I didn’t realise that you’d noticed my presence.”

Rhysand’s eyes flashed at your response, the swimming violet shifting into a churning sea of something deeper — and you could have cursed yourself. You knew you’d shown your hand and exposed the bitter thoughts that were pawing at your mind. 

His lips kicked up into a smirk. “I’m sorry. Did I not pay you enough attention?”

You turned to your dressing table, taking a seat in front of the mirror. “I don’t care what you do, Rhysand, unless it involves you leaving.”

“I don’t think that’s strictly true, is it?”

You didn’t deign to respond. You stared at your flushed reflection, wishing you could wipe away your terse expression as easily as the makeup you’d painted on earlier that evening. You didn’t want to be this affected by him. You wanted the ease of your game. 

But your mind kept dredging up that image of Nyrinn on Rhys’s lap. And the rage that filled you was certainly not in keeping with the games that you played.

When it was clear to Rhys that you had nothing more to say to him, he finally rose from your bed. You waited to hear the click of the door, or feel the telltale sensation of him winnowing out of the room, but he instead traipsed around the bed until he was hovering behind you, close enough that the heat of his body seemed to permeate your thin robe. 

“I’ve never seen your home before.” He stated unexpectedly, his fingers beginning to toy with a pin in your hair.

You shrugged, the movement causing your robe to slip down your shoulder. “Why would you have done? You don’t need to see my home to fuck me. Empty corridors were enough. I wonder if Nyrinn would echo that sentiment.”

Rhys’s hand paused, hovering in your hair. “I’m starting to think you’re jealous.”

You wanted to scowl. Were you jealous? Yes. No. You didn’t know.

You knew you didn’t want to be. You knew that you didn’t like what that must mean. That Rhysand had power over you that went beyond that of a High Lord and his subject. Power over your heart. 

It was just…the words he had spoken the last time you’d seen him. They had been weighty and thrilling and terrifying. You’d turned them over in your mind every night since.

And Rhysand boldly sitting with another female on his lap was a message to you and you only. One that screamed, I didn’t mean what I said.

But that was fine, wasn’t it? You’d never promised each other anything beyond finding pleasure in each other’s bodies. Rhys owed you nothing. You owed him nothing.

You straightened yourself up in the mirror, schooling your expression into neutrality. “Of course I’m not jealous.”

Rhys studied you in the mirror for a moment. And then his fingers drifted from your hair, down to that shoulder that had been exposed by your robe. The pads of his fingers brushed your skin gently, and you gritted your teeth, trying not to enjoy the feeling.

“No?” Rhys hummed deeply. “I’m sensing some anger.”

“I’m not angry.”

His head dipped. His lips replaced his fingers, skating over your shoulder. “How about you show me how utterly not angry you are?”

Brat. He was such a fucking brat. Such a swaggering, entitled High Lord who had the world at his feet and damn well knew it. It only enraged you more.

And what you should have done with that rage was turf him out of your home and throw him on his ass, High Lord or no. You should have put your foot down and not allowed him to seduce his way out of this, whether he owed you nothing or not.

But this…the honeyed, suggestive remarks…this was territory you were familiar with. This was yours and Rhys’s thing. This was where you felt comfortable.

And so you would curse yourself for it later. But you turned your head to the side, your face now inches from Rhys’s.

He paused at the close proximity — the promise of your lips brushing. His breath hitched in his throat, and he applied the slightest bit of pressure, his mouth on yours—

You stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Get on the bed.” 

You felt his body still beneath your hand. And you heard his throat bob as he swallowed. And when he pulled away, you could have sworn you glimpsed his hands trembling.

You didn’t care to think too much about it. You rose from your dressing stool, toying with the tie on your robe. Rhys watched you, slowly walking backwards as he did. When his legs hit the back of the bed, he let himself fall. 

“Lie back.” You ordered.

He glanced at you once. And then scooted back, settling into the pillows. And despite the fact that he was High Lord…the most powerful High Lord, and the most important person within this mountain…he just looked like the same old Rhysand that you had always known. Beautiful. Dark. Resplendent amongst the pretty drapes of your huge bed.

And he looked strangely vulnerable as you climbed over him. Straddled him. His hands seem to inch towards your hips, but you shook your head once.

“Place them above your head.” You said.

Rhys blinked, a shudder of breath escaping him. The two of you had fucked in all sorts of places in the Hewn City, on all sorts of surfaces. You’d exchanged filthy words and pushed a little further with every round of your game you played.

But this was different. And judging by the heat that quickly filled Rhysand’s eyes…he was ravenous for it.

You were deliberately slow as you tugged the tie from your robe. Rhys tracked every tiny movement, and his throat bobbed as you grabbed both of his wrists in one hand, and used the tie to fasten them to the bed.

“I am not jealous or angry, Rhysand.” Such a gods-damned liar you were. “But my evening did not play out how I hoped it would. And I don’t like not being in control.”

His eyes watched you. Watched as you checked the knot you’d tied, before your hands slowly moved to rest on his chest. “And how did you wish for the evening to play out?”

“I would have liked another round of our game.” Your fingers toyed with the top button on his shirt. “But perhaps you’ve tired of me. Perhaps you’d rather play with Nyrinn.”

“I could never tire of you. You want control? Take it. It’s yours.”

There was a mild taunting in his tone that suggested he perhaps didn’t believe you to have the nerve. He was High Lord, after all, and you just the daughter of a reputable male in his court. You had an easy, luxurious life, void of risks, perhaps even of excitement.

But if he suspected you lacked nerve, well — he was seriously, gravely mistaken.

Without the tie, your robe had parted. You were done with it completely.

You whipped it off, tossing it behind you without a glance. Rhysand’s eyes fell to your now naked body, his pupils blown. He swallowed, and his wrists gave a jerk against the restraints you’d tied. They didn’t budge an inch.

He let out a frustrated huff. “I want to touch you—”

“Uh-uh.” You pressed a finger against his lips. “You said the control was all mine.”

“It is.” His teeth gritted. “It is.”

With a smile, you applied a small amount of pressure to his lips. Just enough for them to naturally part. Rhys’s eyes were firmly on yours as you slipped your finger into his mouth. He immediately sucked, his tongue flicking against your skin.

“Here’s how this is going to go, Rhysand.” You tugged your finger back, smiling at the whine he emitted. “Honesty will be rewarded. I’ll ask you questions, and I expect truthful answers. If you’re honest, you’ll get a prize.”

His throat bobbed. “What kind of prize?”

“The best kind.”

“And how will you know whether or not I’m being honest?”

“Well,” your lips twitched. You dragged your hand down your chest, skirting the turgid peaks of your breasts. “I have to trust that you’ll be smart enough to be honest. Because a single lie comes with a penalty you would not appreciate.”

Torturously slow, his heated violet gaze followed the direction of your hand, still descending the length of your body. His voice was rough, blunt, as he bit out, “What’s the penalty.”

“The penalty,” your fingers finally reached that sweet spot between your thighs, and you dragged a finger through your wetness, biting your lip, “is me leaving you tied up here, while I go and find another male to sate my needs. Perhaps one of your handsome friends. Cassian, or Azriel—”

He jerked against the restraints, a snarl rumbling deep in his chest. His eyes flashed a shade darker. 

“Easy, High Lord.” You smirked. Dragged that finger back up. “All you have to do is swear your honesty. Do you swear it?”

His gaze was fully clasped on your finger now coated in your juices. He jerked again. “Let me taste you.”

“Do. You. Swear—”

“Yes. Fuck, yes. You have my word. I will be completely, hideously honest, even if it’s humiliating for me—”

His words were cut short as you shoved your slicked finger between his lips. They immediately fastened around it, and he sucked your wetness greedily, a satisfied moan breaking from him.

“Such a good High Lord.” You hummed. Your lips twitched as his hips bucked, his arousal pressing against you. “Let’s start with an easy question, shall we?”

His only response was to meet your gaze head-on, and suck your finger harder. There couldn’t possibly be anything left for him to taste, and yet he suckled and licked like a male parched. 

“Question one.” Your fingers returned to the buttons on his shirt, poised to pop them open. “What is your favourite colour?”

Rhys seemed genuinely perturbed by having to part his lips. You quickly snatched your hand back, stroking a wet trail down his chin, his neck.

He answered without hesitation, “The colour of your eyes, of course.”

So he was going to play nice. Good. Your smile widening, you began to dutifully pop open those buttons on his shirt. Rhys’s chest seemed to heave with every touch.

He watched you closely as you reached the bottom, parting his shirt to expose his tan, muscled torso. He tugged at the restraints again, as though silently asking you to remove the shirt entirely. Your reprimanding glance had him promptly falling still.

You kept your gaze on his. “Question two. Another easy one. What were you thinking when you first glimpsed me in that violet dress?”

You could see the desire that crossed his face, his thoughts flitting back to that very night. That very dress. “I was thinking that the Mother had gifted me all my Winter Solstices at once, and that I am a very lucky male.”

So silver-tongued. But you rewarded him, all the same, by brushing your lips through that alley between his pectorals. And down the planes of his stomach. And down. Rhys grunted just as you pulled away.

“Next question.” You hummed, moving down his body still. Your own entirely naked body was on fire, begging to be touched, and you knew Rhys could scent how dripping you were between your legs.

But he couldn’t do anything about it. His nostrils flared, his throat bobbing.

“The last time you were here,” you said, “you told me that you think about me. Is that true?”

His eyes fluttered shut, yet he said nothing. You didn’t take your gaze away from his face as you skirted your fingertips over the hard bulge pressing through his breeches in a barely-there caress. Rhys immediately grunted.

“Is it true, Rhysand?”

“Yes.” He breathed. “It’s true.”

The words…they seemed to ignite something in your body; a scorching, desirous flame. You tried to shove it down, to snuff it out. To focus on the game.

Your hands reached the laces and buttons of his breeches. You tugged on one, two, and then stopped. “What is it you think about?”

“I think about your pretty little cunt.” He was like an animal with its prey as he watched you tug at another lace. “About the way it squeezes my cock right before you come.” Another. “I think—”

He cut himself off abruptly — as though he’d been about to blurt a thought he wasn’t quite ready to verbalise. It stroked at your curiosity, your ears pricking up.

“Honesty is rewarded, Rhysand.” You’d reached that final lace, pinching it between your fingers. Your other hand teased the sliver of skin exposed by the parting flap on his breeches.

A noise sounded deep in Rhys’s throat, and his head fell back. “I think about it being you who sits on my lap in that throne room. In front of everybody. Everybody knowing that I’m the one who gets to bury my cock in you. That nobody gets to touch what’s mine.”

A shiver coursed right through you. Save face, your self-preserving mind screamed at you, don’t let him see what his words do to you.

But gods above, they did a great many things to you. Your skin felt tight, hot. You wanted to drag your hands down your body, to touch yourself and abate the roaring need between your thighs. 

The laces undone, only three buttons were what was keeping Rhys’s breeches on his hips. You popped the first button open. 

“That seems awfully selfish.” You responded to his confession. “Did no one ever teach you how to share, High Lord?”

His teeth gritted. “I can share.” He hissed. “But I won’t share you. Never you.”

Heavy, weighty words.

The impact of them could have bowled you over. Could have sent you running from this room, from him—

But you didn’t want to share, either. And that was what this was about, wasn’t it? Beneath the need, the arousal, it was jealousy that drove you. Jealousy that encouraged your fingers to undo those final two buttons and part Rhysand’s breeches completely.

His cock was pressing hard against his underwear, and you inhaled his pleasant scent. Always citrusy. Always intoxicating.

Did you dare ask the next question on your tongue? Why won’t you share me? It was the most logical inquisition to follow, and yet—

And yet you weren’t sure you were ready for the answer.

So you focused on his body instead. Your fingers danced over that soft, cotton underwear, feeling out his hardened length.

Rhys’s head lolled back, his breath hitching. And he whined. “Please.”

Your lips flicked up at the corners. “Please?” You repeated. “Please what?”

“Touch me. With your hands, your mouth, just—touch me.”

“Answer another question,” you tugged his breeches down; he lifted his hips to assist you, “and I’ll touch you.”

He gritted his teeth. “What’s the question.”

One you had pored over in your mind again and again since your last encounter with Rhys. Even when you’d tried not to think about it, curiosity had been a bitch. You couldn’t help it. His silver tongue had left you wondering too many things.

“You told me that your father used to warn you to stay away from me.” Your fingers skirted the waistband on his underwear, dipping just beneath and stopping. “I want to know why.”

“Fuck,” Rhys swore quietly. “You’re going to destroy me, Y/N.”

“Perhaps.” You snapped the waistband. “But you’d probably enjoy it. You either answer the question and I slide my mouth over your cock, or I can untie you and we can leave things well alone.”

Both of you knew there was no competition between those two options. But Rhys still groaned quietly, his heart thumping in his chest.

You made to slide your hand away—

“He used to warn me to stay away from you,” he clenched his jaw, “because he knew that I couldn’t. Because he knew that you…that you’re different.”

Your entire body paused. These words weren’t the flirtatious, teasing ones you’d been expecting.

These words were real. They were powerful. Perhaps altering.

And you dealt with them in the same way you dealt with anything that made you feel too much.

You drove them away with desire.

You’d asked for honesty, and he’d offered it up on a silver platter. You couldn’t deny that. 

Your fingers gripped his underwear, and you pulled them down until they were joining his discarded breeches on the floor. And his cock was springing up — painfully hard and already leaking. You took in the sight, humming in appreciation.

“Please.” Rhys said again, his hips bucking. “Fuck—please.”

“For being an honest High Lord.” You met his violet stare. Wrapped your hand around his rigid length. “You did so well.”

Rhysand’s answering groan as you slowly began to pump him told you precisely how desperately he wanted this. His head fell back once more, eyes screwing shut and lips parting. The sight only had you growing wetter.

You started slow and languid, taking your time to appreciate every little twitch and jerk. Most of yours and Rhys’s fucks had been quick and heated, a case of shoving your clothes off and carrying each other to release. And you’d sucked his cock before, yes, but mostly in darkened corridors where you’d not had the luxury of light nor of time.

Now, you had both. Now, you could see it all.

Rhys lifted his hips, bucking up into your hands as a desperate moan left him. You knew what he wanted. You wanted it, too.

Using your free hand to cup his balls, your other still gripped his cock as you leaned in and swiped your tongue over the head, tasting the pleasant saltiness there.

“Shit.” Rhys immediately hissed, his eyes returning to you once more. They were so much darker than usual, the violet heated and sinful as he watched you take the head of his cock into your mouth, and he bit his lip. “Holy fucking gods.”

You chuckled around him. His enjoyment, his noises — they were as pleasurable as him outright fucking you. You slid your hand between your legs, dipping your fingers into your dripping cunt as you dragged your tongue down the length of Rhys’s cock. His eyes immediately shot to your fingers that you’d begun to pump in and out of yourself, and a snarl left him as he jerked at the restraints. 

“I want to touch you.” He begged. “Just a touch.”

“I’m in control, Rhysand.” You reminded him. Your hand was still pumping him, twisting around the head in a way you knew was torturous for him. You slid your lips over him and hollowed your cheeks as you sucked.

He was whining, groaning, hips bucking and stomach caving. But you pushed and pushed, sliding your mouth further onto him, sucking and licking and paying special attention to the underside — the vein that was pulsing there.

“Fuck—stop!” Rhys jerked. “I don’t want to come yet. Please.”

Gods, you loved the sound of him begging. A sound you would happily listen to forever. One that could sing you to sleep at night.

But you didn’t want him to come yet, either. And that was the only reason you appeased him and pulled him from your mouth with a resounding pop. 

You slid your fingers out of yourself, your juices glistening on your skin. And when you used them to slick Rhys’s cock even more, his eyes damn near rolled into the back of his head.

“You want to taste me?” You smiled, your fingers idly running up and down his cock.

“No.” Rhys gasped. “I need to taste you.”

And quite frankly, you needed him to taste you. Your fingers hadn’t been enough, hadn’t taken the edge off even slightly.

“For playing so nice, Rhysand,” you rose, moving up the bed, “you can taste me.”

He watched, a male utterly entranced as you stood before him. And when you planted your feet either side of him, inches from his face, his eyes drank in the sight of your cunt greedily.

“Taste.” You commanded, lowering your centre to his face.

Rhys growled, his tongue swiping out to lick an agonising, heated stripe right up you, from your entrance to your clit. He grazed his teeth there, and a moan tumbled from your lips, your fingers sinking into the strands of his hair as you ground yourself against his face.

He lapped and laved at you, taking everything you gave him. And you knew that had his hands been untied, he would have sunk his fingers into you, fucked you with him. 

But they weren’t untied.

So he used his tongue instead.

The moment his tongue slid inside you, your head was falling back. The feeling was too much — too good. You were gripping onto his hair and onto the headboard and trying desperately not to collapse from the way your body was already beginning to tremble.

Rhys made an affirming, encouraging noise. And you knew him well enough to know what he was asking of you. Ride my face. Fuck my tongue.

You did just that. 

You didn’t know how you managed to stay upright as you writhed against him, every inch of you trembling. And when you moved your fingers to your clit and began to circle there, his tongue moving in and out of you, you exploded.

You screamed as release spread through you, not caring one tiny bit about who heard. You hoped people heard. Hoped people knew you were coming on their High Lord’s tongue.

Rhys groaned, swallowing every last drop of you and enjoying every second. 

You didn’t know how you were able to steady yourself enough to pull back. But as you did, the mere sight of Rhysand almost sent you hurtling to release all over again.

He panted, stared at you, his face glistening with your come. His tongue swiped out, lapping up every last bit he could reach.

You needed him inside you. Now.

Your hands coasted his body as you moved down. Questions and games and teasing were far, far behind you. This was pure, carnal need. 

But as you straddled Rhys, gripping his cock to steady him, he was stopping you—

“Y/N.” Your name was soft on his lips. “Untie me. Please. Let me touch you.”

You paused. It wasn’t a needy, whining plea — but an earnest one. An emotional one. 

And it was that which made you comply.

You sank down onto his cock first. The two of you both sucked in a breath with every inch of him that slowly entered you. He filled you so perfectly, so exquisitely—

Only when he was fully seated inside you, your hips beginning a slow, steady rhythm of riding him, did you reach out and unfasten the restraints.

“Touch me.” You whispered, tossing the tie aside.

You expected Rhys to cup your breasts as he had done countless times before. Or perhaps to return to your clit, to use his fingers there while you rode him.

You hadn’t anticipated the way his hands instead gripped your face — gentle, tender. 

His palms cupped your cheeks, and he leaned in, slanting his lips over yours. 

You’d kissed countless times before. But those kisses had been needy, hungry, a ravenous build-up to your bodies meeting.

This kiss was slow and deep. Rhys’s tongue traced the seam of your lips, and as he slid it into your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself on him, he stroked his thumb across your cheek.

You couldn’t bear it. 

It was too…gentle. Too meaningful.

You planted your hands on his shoulders, picking up the pace of your hips, rolling them and grinding them against him. You moaned breathlessly, savouring the feel of his cock thrusting into you. You knew he couldn’t last much longer.

“Slow.” He panted, pressing peppered kisses to your mouth. “Slowly.”

“No.” You moaned. You tore your lips from his, leaning down to nip at his neck. “I want you to come.”

“Fuck.” His hands fell down to grip at your ass, and he seemed unable to hold himself back any longer. He lifted you slightly, his cock slamming into you, the resounding slap of skin on skin filling the room.

You screamed, your fingers digging into Rhys’s shoulders as a second orgasm hit you, overpowering your entire body. You felt utterly boneless as you shook against him.

“Oh gods.” Rhys gasped. “Gods—Y/N.”

He slammed in to the hilt — and spilled into you with your name on his tongue, melting into an incoherent, desperate groan.

You felt every twitch and spurt of his cock inside you. It was all you could do to hold onto him, to keep yourself upright, as your sweat-slick bodies trembled against each other.

And then there was silence; aside of your heavy breathing, utter silence.

Your eyes were still screwed shut, and yet you could feel Rhysand looking at you as he held you. His forehead pressed against yours, and he stroked a hand down your back.

“Come back to Velaris with me.” He murmured.

Those words again. They chased you. Haunted you.

“No.” You whispered.

For a moment, there was no reaction. And then Rhys was pulling back. He tugged your chin up. “Look at me.”

You did — if only to avoid feeling like a coward. But staring into his eyes was a grave mistake.

Such strong emotion swam there. And he wore it openly.

“Come back with me.” He said again. “What do you have here?”

“I have my life—”

“Your life that you spend running from feeling things?”

Your face sobered. “Fuck you, Rhys.”

He grimaced — knew he’d said the wrong thing. His arms tightened around you. “Look, just…just talk to me. Tell me why you won’t come back with me.”

For a multitude of reasons. Because I’m not in control when I’m with you, and that scares me. Because I’m worried you’ll eventually grow bored of me and wish I’d never come. Because you’re capable of utterly shattering my heart—

“I’ve never left this mountain.” You said simply. “What would I do in Velaris?”

“I think you’d be amazed by the amount of things you could do.” He reached out, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “You are wasted in this place, Y/N. You should be out in the world — with me.”

You swallowed, lowering your gaze. He sold it well; you couldn’t deny you were tempted. But you were scared.

“Why don’t you just…come for a week?” He then said. “No strings attached, no commitments. Come and spend a week in Velaris. See what it has to offer. See how you like it. Meet my friends properly — get to know them.”

You shrugged a shoulder half-heartedly. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Then they’d be fools. But I know they’ll like you as much as I do.”

You stared at him, and he stared back. As much as I do. He’d never been so…on the nose about it.

“…I don’t know…” 

“Just a week.” He stroked your cheek again. “You don’t even have to spend it with me, if you don’t want to.” 

It seemed ludicrous to even bring it into question, but…you knew he meant it. He would leave you alone if you asked.

But you’d never ask. It was quite clear to you how much you didn’t want him to leave you alone.

“One week?” You said. Even lingering on the cusp of agreeing sent a thrill through you. This was new. Exciting. Nerve-wracking.

Rhys leaned in, brushing his lips against yours. “One week.”

“Ask me again, then, Rhysand.”

He drew back. Met your gaze. “Come back to Velaris with me.”

And although every self-preserving instinct screamed at you to refuse yet again, you dipped your chin in acceptance. Even if the mere prospect was fraught with nervous anticipation.

“Okay.” You said. “You can have me for one week.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ rhysand tag list: @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @luna-1-3-5 @lucyysthings @blacksstarrynight @munchkinnicki @illyriansimp @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @basicbittywitty @brookeduggan @acourtofchaosandmess @eos-princess @aaronwarnerswifereal @mairthys @ginqver @multifandomdisorder @twsssmlmaa @mateobneun-rattattui @udpoota

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☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Twenty-Eight

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Collins Forces a Kiss.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.3k

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The Marine ship anchors at Kin Archipelago, its imposing silhouette casting long shadows over the tranquil waters. You stand at the railing, clutching Yumi's hand, trying to mask your fear and discomfort with a facade of calm.

Collins strides over, his uniform immaculate, his demeanor exuding authority. He grabs your arm, steering you down the gangplank. The manor offered by one of the noble families looms ahead, its grandeur a stark contrast to your recent experiences.

"Smile," Collins hisses under his breath as he guides you towards the welcoming committee. You force a weak smile that makes your split lip ache.

The head of the noble family, Lord Avander, steps forward with a practiced smile. "Commodore Collins, welcome. We've heard about your heroic rescue. It's an honor to host you and your...companions."

Collins tightens his grip on your arm as he responds. "Thank you, Lord Avander. Lady Bonn and young Yumi have been through quite an ordeal."

Lord Avander's eyes flicker with sympathy as he glances at you and Yumi. "Such bravery to survive such a harrowing experience," he says, his voice oozing with concern.

You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. The lie Collins has fed them—the story that you were kidnapped by pirates and raped—is like a bitter pill lodged in your throat. But you nod along, knowing any dissent could bring harsher consequences. You have to protect Yumi.

As you're led inside the manor, Yumi's small hand clings to yours like a lifeline. The interior is lavishly decorated, every corner exuding opulence and wealth. But it feels like another prison.

Collins leans down, whispering into your ear. "Remember to play along, Linaria,” he says softly but with an edge that chills you to the bone.

Lord Avander's wife appears at the top of the grand staircase, her expression warm yet tinged with curiosity. "Welcome," she says, descending gracefully. "We hope you'll find some peace here."

"Your hospitality is most appreciated," Collins replies smoothly. He looks at you expectantly.

"Thank you," you manage to say, forcing another smile.

Yumi squeezes your hand tighter and tucks herself into your side as you're shown to a suite of rooms that have been prepared for you. Once inside, Collins releases his hold on you but stays close enough to ensure compliance.

"Rest well," he commands before leaving the room.

You sit on the edge of the bed, Yumi crawling up beside you. She lays her head on your lap, her small body trembling slightly.

"It's going to be okay," you whisper more for yourself than for her.

But deep down, you're not sure how much longer you can keep up this charade or what future awaits you under Collins' oppressive control in this gilded cage of Kin Archipelago's noble manor.

The door to your suite opens, and a line of maids enters with purpose. Their eyes are respectful but detached, their movements efficient. You sit still as they approach, feeling Yumi’s tiny body stiffen beside you.

One of the maids, older and seemingly in charge, steps forward. "Lady Bonn, we’ve been instructed to prepare you for dinner with Lord and Lady Avander," she announces in a voice that broaches no argument.

You nod, trying to muster some semblance of dignity. "Of course," you reply, standing up from the bed. You glance at Yumi. "Be good while I am gone, Yumi." She nods, fear etched onto her face.

The maids guide you to a luxurious bathroom where the tub is already filled with steaming water. Fragrant oils float on the surface, creating a soothing scent that contrasts sharply with your current turmoil. They begin to undress you, their hands gentle but swift.

You step into the bath, sinking into the hot water with a sigh that mingles relief and resignation. The warmth seeps into your muscles, loosening knots of tension you hadn’t even realized were there. But the water cannot wash away the wounds between your legs. One maid begins to wash your hair with a delicate touch while another gently scrubs your back.

You close your eyes and let yourself drift for a moment, pretending that this is just another day in your old life—before Shanks, before Collins, before everything went wrong. Even it had been a cage. But the fantasy shatters when you open your eyes and see the bruises on your wrists from Collins’ grip.

After the bath, they help you out of the tub and wrap you in thick towels. You stand there as they dry you off and lead you back into the main room where an elegant dress awaits on a mannequin. It’s deep blue silk, adorned with intricate silver embroidery—a dress fit for a noblewoman. Fit for Linaria Bonn.

They work quickly but carefully, lacing up the corset with simple fingers. As they cinch it tight around your waist, you suck in a deep gasp as pain echoes from your abdomen. You are relieved when the strings are not tightened any further.

One maid applies makeup to cover any signs of distress while another arranges your lavender hair into an elaborate updo. There isn't much they can do about your split lip, but delicately paint your lips with lip stain. A maid reaches for your ear, her fingers hovering near the lone ruby earring. You jerk back instinctively, eyes wide with sudden panic.

"Leave it," you snap, your voice sharper than intended.

The maid hesitates, confusion flickering across her face. "But, my lady, it's mismatched," she says, her tone gentle but firm. "It would be best to remove it."

You shake your head, clutching the earring protectively. "No," you repeat more quietly but with no less determination. "This stays."

The maids exchange glances but ultimately nod in acquiescence. The one in charge steps forward with a small smile. "As you wish, Lady Bonn."

They continue their work, applying a final touch of powder to your cheeks and adjusting the folds of your dress. But your mind remains fixated on the earring—your last connection to Shanks, a fragment of defiance against Collins' control.

Once they finish, they step back to admire their handiwork. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: a vision of nobility and grace, every inch the lady you're supposed to be. But behind the facade lies a woman determined not to lose herself completely. But you are struggling so hard.

"Ready?" The head maid asks softly.

You nod, taking a deep breath as you steel yourself for the evening ahead. As you turn to leave the room, you glance at Yumi, offering her a reassuring smile despite the storm brewing inside you. Yumi's eyes are wide, rounded by the sight of your dressed up so intricately.

You step out of the room, leaving Yumi behind with a soft promise to return soon. The hallways of the manor are dimly lit, casting long shadows that flicker as you move past. The sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor echoes in the quiet.

Collins waits for you at the end of the corridor, his expression unreadable. He offers his arm, and you take it reluctantly, feeling the tension in his muscles.

"Remember your place, Linaria,” he mutters as you approach the grand dining hall. The doors swing open, revealing a lavish room filled with glittering chandeliers and a long table set with fine china and crystal. Lord Avander and his wife rise to greet you, their faces beaming with warmth.

"Lady Bonn, you look exquisite," Lady Avander says, her eyes flicking to your earring before settling back on your face. "Please, join us."

You force a smile and nod graciously, taking your seat beside Collins. The meal begins, each course more elaborate than the last. You barely taste any of it, your mind wandering to thoughts of escape, the ruby earring that remains your lifeline to Shanks, and the dull ache in your lower stomach that slowly grows ins strength.

Lord Avander engages Collins in conversation about Marine affairs and recent pirate activities in the region. You listen with half an ear, your focus on maintaining an appearance of interest.

"And how have you been faring since your rescue, Lady Bonn?" Lady Avander asks suddenly, drawing you back into the present.

You blink and manage another smile. "I am...grateful for the Commodore's protection and swift actions bringing a doctor to tend to my… needs,” you reply carefully, the fork in your hand noticeably trembling. You tighten your grasp to hide it. "It has been a difficult time."

Lady Avander's gaze softens. "You are very brave," she says gently. "If there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let us know."

"Thank you," you say, inclining your head slightly. "Your kindness is most appreciated."

You keep your head down, focusing on the delicate pattern of the tablecloth, tracing the intricate designs with your eyes. You miss the worn wood table of the Red Force, you miss the carefree atmosphere of the crew dinners. Collins' voice booms through the grand dining hall, a stark contrast to the soft clinking of silverware and murmur of polite conversation.

"I must make an announcement," he declares, standing up from his seat with a commanding presence that demands attention. The room falls silent, all eyes turning towards him.

"Despite the trials we have faced, I am unwavering in my love for Lady Bonn,” he continues, his voice filled with a conviction that makes your stomach churn. More like is unwavering determination for your womb. "And I am resolute in my decision to marry her. Our union will bring strength and unity to our noble families."

You feel a weight settle on your shoulders as his words hang in the air. The murmurs of approval and polite applause from Lord and Lady Avander only add to the suffocating pressure. You dare not look up, fearing that your eyes might betray the turmoil inside you.

Collins places a possessive hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. “Linaria has shown great resilience and courage throughout this ordeal," he says, his tone softening slightly as he addresses you directly. His eyes, however, remain sharp and warning. “She embodies the grace and strength befitting a Commodore's wife."

You nod slightly, still avoiding eye contact, knowing any show of defiance would only worsen your situation. Your mind drifts to Shanks and his crew—the freedom you tasted aboard their ship now feels like a distant dream. Had it even happened?

Lady Avander offers a warm smile. "We are honored to support such a union," she says graciously. "Your love and dedication are truly inspiring."

The statement makes you want to scream, but you swallow your frustration and maintain your composed facade. Collins' fingers dig into your shoulder slightly as if sensing your inner turmoil.

"Thank you," Collins replies smoothly. "Your support means the world to us.”

He finally releases his grip on your shoulder and sits back down, signaling the end of his grand declaration. The room slowly returns to its previous state of quiet elegance, but you remain acutely aware of the eyes that occasionally flicker towards you with curiosity or pity.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever comes next while keeping your gaze firmly fixed on the tablecloth. The dinner continues around you as if nothing monumental has just transpired, yet inside, you're waging a silent battle against despair.

When dessert wraps up, you push the last morsel of a delicate pastry around your plate, not tasting it. It does not taste as delicious as you know it is. The conversation at the table has returned to lighter topics, but you can feel Collins' eyes on you, burning with unspoken intentions. The oppressive weight of his announcement still presses down on you like a heavy blanket.

Finally, Lord and Lady Avander rise, signaling the end of the meal. "Thank you for a delightful evening," Lady Avander says warmly. "We look forward to seeing more of you during your stay."

You nod and offer another polite smile, feeling as if your face might crack under the strain. Collins stands and gestures for you to follow him. You do so reluctantly, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Once you're back in your suite, Collins closes the door behind him with a soft click that reverberates in the silence. He turns to face you, his expression darkening. "Do you understand what’s at stake here?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod again, unable to meet his eyes. "Yes," you state blandly, your voice nearly devoid of emotion..

"Good," he says, taking a step closer. "You will marry me, Linaria. And you will fulfill your duties as my wife."

His words slice through the air like a knife. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure. It would be torture bearing his child.

"Do not think for a moment that I won't enforce discipline if necessary," he continues, his voice dripping with menace. “You’ve already proven trouble some, I’ll just have to beat that out of you.”

You flinch slightly at his words but remain silent.

Collins reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "You belong to me now," he growls. His grip tightens painfully on your jaw as he leans in closer.

Before you can react, he crushes his lips against yours in a brutal kiss. Pain explodes from your split lip as it reopens under the pressure of his assault. You try to pull away, but his grip is unyielding.

When he finally releases you, you stagger back a step, gasping for breath and tasting blood on your lips. Collins smirks at your distress before turning on his heel and leaving the room without another word. For a moment, all you can do is stand there trembling in the aftermath of his brutality, feeling more trapped than ever in this nightmare masquerading as reality.

You wipe the blood from your lip with the back of your hand, your chest heaving as you struggle to regain control. Shanks will come. Shanks has to come. The door clicks shut behind Collins, leaving you in a suffocating silence. You sink to the floor, knees drawing up to your chest as you wrap your arms around them, seeking some semblance of comfort.

Yumi peeks out from behind the bed, her eyes wide with fear and concern. "Aria," she whispers, crawling over to you. She reaches out with small hands, touching your arm gently.

You force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "I'm okay," you lie, pulling her into a hug. Her tiny body trembles against yours, and you hold her tighter, wishing you could shield her from all the horrors of this world.

"We need to be strong," you murmur into her hair. "We'll find a way out of this."

Yumi nods against your chest, drawing strength from your words even if you're not entirely sure you believe them yourself.

Date Published: 7/19/24

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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[aconflagrationofmyown]

Even Educated Fleas Do It

A Sarge & lil Mama episode (wedding night)

Warnings 18+ -smut! breeding kink, innocence kink, cream pies, unfortunately historically accurate portrayal of female naïveté regarding sexual acts, male entitlement to female bodies, copious dirty talk, virginity loss. This is mostly fluffy and tender and sweet with a few VERY rabid moments and feral sentences. 20k of smut and it’s surrounding auras…I have a headcanon that Baby Elvis resorts to being a bit of an ass in order to maintain his slipping control, whereas a more mature era of the man he only chooses to be a bastard out of the fun of it

Credits: my supreme thanks to the indefatigable @prompted-wordsmith for editing this mammoth and her few choice additions of sentences, and also to my discord wives: Christi, Ally and Birdy who cheered me on and really made this happen with their feedback, suggestions and enthusiasm. Lastly, to all my darling readers who’s hype for this has carried me through and now we are all saddled with this monstrosity. Y’all are the best, I live off your comments and love. Xoxo, Marina 🌹

Elaine’s fingers glide admiringly against richly black, quartz marble countertops, glinting back at her almost as brightly as the gold mirror and the gold faucets and gold tub–everything is golden up here in the master bathroom. Even the sink is gold plated, she realizes with a giggle, and stares at her reflection in the basin, flushed face and curls hanging about her features as she looks downward, distracted by the opulence and the shininess and the ability to finally breathe. An endeavor which would be aided if she obeyed her new husband—heavens to Betsy, she has a husband!—and took off her wedding gown and girdle.

She chose a simple dress to be married in, long and slender, the style and measurements entrusted to the Smith cousins and delivered by them with remarkable effect. Demure yet elegant, she felt it was a nod to the silhouette of the future, prom crinolines and ball gowns abandoned for a more streamlined effect that set off her waist to perfection, or so her wedding guests told her. And for tonight’s purposes, it had a handy zipper down the back of it that she now tugged loose to her immense relief.

It was a little puzzling, the way Elvis had torn her away from Dodger’s admonishments and hurried her upstairs to sleep, only to then shoo her into the bathroom to undress herself. Some silly part of her thought he might kiss her when they arrived up there alone, maybe dance a little, maybe help with the zipper. But he had looked very feverish and a little scared when he told her she was looking worn out, and then ushered her upstairs as the whole house party fell dead silent below them in their wake. Funny, the whole thing had felt a little funny, and they’d been having such a nice little party after the vows, daddy had been a little weepy and Elvis had looked so handsome and she had to pinch herself a dozen times that this event she’d planned was her wedding.

Her wedding—it didn’t feel real. Not without mama here, she realized, that was the missing part to it all. Mama. Hers, and his. They were both missing them. She worked at the brassiere clasps and stifled the little cry she felt coming up her throat, memories flooding in of the first time she saw Graceland.

Elvis had tore down to the studio in his fancy car, begging any and everyone to see the place he bought for his family. Father had been too busy with Cash but mama was not. So, she and Elaine had piled into his pink Cadillac and let that happy puppy of a boy whisk them away to a world of antebellum dreaminess for the afternoon. Gold, there had been so much gold even then, and Mama had ribbed the boy mercilessly about his decor choices as only Mrs. Phipps could get away with,

“Elvis dear, it looks like a tart’s bedroom up here,” she had teased him in the master where Elaine’s groom was now waiting for her daughter to make an appearance.

He had turned bright red before dissolving into hiccuping laughs that her mama had joined. He hasn’t changed the decor, gaudy chandelier hanging above a gold damask bedspread, gilt mirrors everywhere on the walls with black padded headboards and doors. It was… unique, and a little ominous if she was being honest, although maybe that had been her nerves over him rushing her up here so fast, so…urgently.

“June’s gonna love it, E!” Elaine recalls gushing to him on that first house tour, entirely unsure if June would indeed love it, but certain that anyone would be honored to be mistress of such a place, though that honor had then been firmly Miss Gladys’s right at the time.

Now it’s all hers.

Elaine swallows hard and rubs at the angry red lines on her belly and breasts that show in the mirror from her girdle, thinking of the weight of that. Thinking of how she had been wrong. This—kingdom—wasn’t for June, this had been for her.

Elaine pulls on the silky, shimmery slip he had given her the money to treat herself to, watching it as it spills over her curves and drapes her kindly. The soft baby blue color makes her skin look tan even in the wintertime and her eyes shimmer dark and smokey in the dimmed vanity lights. It takes her aback a little, the prettiness of the picture she sees in the mirror, hair freshly loosened from its pins and looking like it does when he’s had his hands in it. The kiss-nipped red of her lips is no cosmetic allusion, he’d devoured her lipstick right off a few minutes into married life, clutching her to him in the foyer, acting like hiding by the front door made them discreet.

She touches their puffy vibrancy with a small smile, thinking of him, thinking of being loved. Thinking of mansions and gold sinks and graves dug, thinking of the boy outside the door who did far more than fall in love with her. He provided, and he did it with intent. A great deal of intent. Her heart does a flip at that.

It gives her the bravery to fluff herself in the slip and ignore the nervous tremble threatening to keep her holed up in here, her skimpy attire making her blush for reasons she doesn’t know. Such silliness. She looks pretty, and she is loved. She sets her shoulders back and turns the knob.

Elvis has been pacing a furrow in the plush carpet of his bedroom and berating himself for many things, chiefly having shooed his wife away into the bathroom the first private moment they’d had together.

He is an idiot, he concludes, a prize idiot.

He should have trapped her against the door and kissed the daylights outta her, maybe laid her out all romantically on the bed and caressed her like the movies taught her to expect. At least helped undo the damn zipper. But no, no he panicked, and trying to be a good man, he had sent her into the bathroom alone to strip while he talked his heart and cock into some semblance of restraint. He tears at his hair and tosses his suit jacket on the chair and tries to think of what he’s gonna do, how he’s gonna manage this. He had come across Dodger and Elaine in a tête-à-tête and heard the words from his Grandma:

“Make sure that boy licks ya nice and good ‘fore he tries to stick his pecker in—”

and had proceeded to panic and grab his new bride and hustle her upstairs for “sleep”. He’d caught Mr. Phipps’s pleading eyes on the way up and now he felt like a first team all American pervert. Gone was the sweet, comforting weight of the wedding vows, the religious aura the day had carried with it. Replacing that was a deep seated shame for how often he’d wanked to the thought of this night and all it entails.

In his dreams it had been fun to shock the girl by bending her over and putting it in, watching her eyes go wide and her struggle under him to adjust, but that was before he loved Elaine, he thinks. Now he tears at his hair, paces his bedroom eyeing the bathroom door like it’ll open and release a lion, and wonders how he’s gonna cherish her like he should, when his wants and his adoration keep vying for the upper hand. She boils his blood, shoots lightening up his spine and keeps him stiff at all times, and simultaneously, he is warm pudding when she smiles, and bluer than robin’s eggs when she’s sad.

The weight of getting all he ever wanted, the weight of actually having married himself off, the weight of mama’s hope coming true and her buried right under the window—he feels a little unhinged by it all, and he starts mumbling out incoherent prayers for guidance and self control and a capacity to not fuck up Elaine Presley’s first time. Because that’s just it: she’s Elaine Presley now, and he has a duty to the woman he married ‘afore God to make it good, t-to…

The bathroom door opens and the shimmering vision of Elaine and her feminine assets clad in nothing but a silk slip stops him dead in his tracks, his mouth liable to catch flies it gapes so at her beauty. She looks poised even jiggling and nipple perked in a light drape of silk, and he inwardly curses when her initial confidence seems to flag upon noticing the state he’s in.

Fully dressed with just his suit jacket discarded and here she is near naked—it’s not kind, he knows that, and curses again at his self absorption.

He looks like he’s gone a little mad, she thinks, and she can tell he’s been tearing at his hair in that fidgety way of his when he’s working himself up to a frenzy. It won’t do him good, she knows him, knows he’ll start hyperventilating and that always panics him.

It’s this urge to calm him that has her forgetting her bashfulness and crossing the floor to embrace him, his warm and clothed body pressed against hers in a hug he returns fervently.

“Ya look like an angel,” he rasps his praise in her ear and she is so pleased by that, and by the look of awed admiration on his face that makes her forget to blush, too pleased to be coy.

“Do ya have a new bird, Elvis?” she asks him, trying to distract him from whatever it is that has him so anxious she can near feel him vibrating against her.

“Uh, umm, a bird?” he is truly thrown by that and more than a little distracted by the feel of slippery silk curves molding to him in his arms.

“Dodger was saying—”

Dodger was talking about “peckers” he recalls, and is fast to cut her off in a great rush,

“No, no uh, I haven’t got no bird—sides you,” he jokes weakly and fails to add more, just staring down at Elaine in his arms, Elaine who stares back, her expression curious and amused and maybe a tad unsure.

Of course she’s unsure, you fool, he berates himself after finding his way back to steady thought. God, he should… do something.

“Elvis,” she pipes up and her voice is small but hopeful, “can I help you get comfortable?” and she thumbs at the ruffles of his dress shirt.

He feels his flush paint his neck and his body feels like it’s alight, but it’s perfectly reasonable for her to ask. It’s just that he knows her sweet confidence stems from her not even knowing enough to be bashful, and that’s… heady.

“Yeah,” he croaks and squeezes her to him once more before letting her set work to undoing the ruffled shirt he wore, sans tie.

She’s methodical and steady undoing the shirt, even as she flicks those lined eyes up at him, desperate for his assuring little nods and pleased smiles. He takes to stroking her cheek, running his knuckles across the high bones there and over her bitten lips, she kisses them with each pass.

Last button undone she spreads the fabric apart and places her hands on his chest, a wild delight showing on her face as she runs her hands across his pecs and collar bones, down to his belly, swooping up and down his arms, taking the shirt with it.

It falls to the ground and yet her hands continue to glide across his fevered skin entranced by the warmth and the contours. She’s wanted to feel his heartbeat for a long while now. Watching that tattle tale vein in his neck thump was the closest thing she could content herself with all these months. Her hands drift to his neck and sure enough, it’s thumping like a race horse at a gallop.

She excites him. That thought makes her eyes flick down to his trousers, recalling that strange spurt against her backside on the swing. He’d called that excitement, too.

She moves to open the button of his slacks and his belly sucks in with the breath he holds, she can feel it against her knuckles as she undoes it. She rubs her knuckles soothingly against the fine trail of hair disappearing into his waistband, it makes him shudder instead.

So far, everything on display she has seen before at the pool with him, but more, the prospect of more makes her heart speed up and her curious mind whirl. She’s a little preoccupied with all this as she starts to push the pants over his hips and while he doesn’t prevent her, his motion is a bit jerky when he clasps his hands around her jaw and tilts her eyes away from his hips and the curious bulge there, up to his face.

She hears his belt and the fabric thud to the floor just as his lips descend to meet hers, and then she grows distracted by the kiss he melts her with.

“Hey you,” he whispers hot and breathy against her lips, pillowy plushness rubbing together, kiss-slick and scorching.

And he’s right, it feels like finally seeing each other for the first time today. They’ve a decent rapport together when surrounded by friends and acquaintances, a very seamless dance of social politeness and steadying closeness. But nothing compares to the way they sizzle and melt when it’s just the two of them, like their inner selves are finally allowed to make a showing on their faces in the form of dazed smiles and in the slump of their shoulders, the bellies no longer held in nor the sighs longing to spill out.

“Oh, Elvis,” she manages to gasp, grinning and huffing at the proximity, the way her nipples rub against his chest from the crush of his embrace, just a silken layer between them, and it sends electric static down to her very toes.

“Ya happy?” he dares to ask because she is grinning so silly and sweet right there in his arms.

“Terribly happy!” she doesn’t bother with aloofness, her hands kneading his shoulders and he breathes again, recalling that this is Elaine, sweet Elaine who has gentled him back into the land of the living these last few weeks by simply knowing and caring for him, and while it’s a terrifying responsibility to do right by her—it’s also the best thing to ever happen to him. Elaine, here, in his arms, in his room, as his wife.

“Just ya wait till I get some champagne in ya,” he teases, waggling her chin in his hand and she looks surprised and a little excited by that.

“Elvis I-I’m too young,” she whispers, a guilty and hopeful little thing that suggests she is very amenable to champagne.

“You naughty lil thing, I see that hopeful glimmer in’ya eye,” he clicks his tongue and she giggles, “It’s lawful if your husband pours it for ya.”

“Is that so?” she bites her lip and her eyes twinkle up at him, falling easily into the banter, “Then I’d like to try it—since it’s lawful and all.”

“Mhmm, champagne, an’ a record, that’ll set us up jus’ right, I think.” He’s nearly buzzing himself, feels a little drunk even though there’s not a drop of alcohol in him.

“Don’t want ya to have to go down to the kitchen and leave me, though,” she admits, a little shy. His gut clenches at the confession, the way her lashes dip and fan over her cheekbones. He’d get beat by his mama if’n she knew of the unholy thoughts the pout of her lips made him think. He reels himself back to the present with a persistence that few things in his life made him exercise. For Elaine, his patience was boundless, because she doesn’t wanna be alone, or, rather, she wants to be alone with him. The simple acknowledgement sends his heart racing in hope that he’s managing to do something right, enough that she can’t bear for him to even pop down to the kitchen for a minute.

“Guess what, sugar?” he grins while fluffing her hair away from her face and she perks up, that mouth lifting inquiringly, “I got a refrigerator in the closet.”

“No!”

“Yup.” Elvis’ boyish grin grows until it’s a dazzling, proud smile and he begins to back up, she goes with, still clinging to his arms and giggling in excitement as he backs them into the gargantuan changing room.

“Where?” she cranes her neck this way and that, soon spinning in his arms as she tries to spy a refrigerator amongst the rows and rows of custom suits and well stocked shelving.

He holds up his finger for her attention, and gathering all his showmanship, backs away from her until he reaches the built-in cabinets and with a dramatic flourish flings open the wooden door to reveal his mini Frigader.

“No. Way,” she enunciates dramatically as her pretty mouth hangs open in delight and his own heart clenches and-

-God! Elaine! I can give you so much, he thinks, hang in there with me, I can give so much, I'll make ya fall in love.

He throws her a wink before bending over and retrieving the planted bottle and chilled glasses from inside. The fact he’s bent over double in just his briefs only registering when he’s already got his head half in the refrigerator, and her burning stare threatens to light his ass on fire. He straightens up and spins round to present her with his ribbon adorned findings, noticing her blush scarlet and flick her eyes back to his face.

-My, my, Miss Elaine, what a curious little mind you have.

He kicks the fridge closed and closes the distance between them again, handing her the glasses while taking her other hand in his and leading her back into the dimly lit bedroom. She sets the glasses on the sideboard top and goes to put the needle down on the record after he tells her “Ella’s already on there”, while he smoothes down the profusion of crinkle ribbon around the bottle neck in preparation to open it.

Elaine adjusts the needle and gets the record going and soon Ella Fitzgerald croons warmly:

-Birds do it, bees do it

She turns back around and watches as Elvis begins to gnaw on the champagne cork with his million watt, pearly white money-making teeth.

“What on earth are you doin’?” she protests, hurrying back to him. He’s like a rabbit with the thing, she thinks humorously.

-Even educated fleas do it,

He pulls the spit slicked cork away from his mouth to explain in a loathing huff, “Forgot to bring an opener up here.” And he doesn’t want to leave his baby, goes unsaid, doesn’t wanna leave her since she said she didn’t want him to leave.

-So let’s do it, let’s fall in love

Elaine’s lip wobbles into a fond smirk even as she tries to maintain some sternness, “You’ll break a tooth, E!” she warns even as her heart throbs at the sweetness of it.

“Nah, nah I’ll get it, my baby wanted champagne n’ she’s gonna have it,” he insists as she makes aborted little movements with her hands to try to aid him but is unsure of what to do or hold. “Here, hold the end, I’m gonna try’n pull it out, probably gonna gush so, be ready.”

And so Elaine finds herself in a laughing fit, holding onto the bulbous bottom of a champagne bottle as Elvis Presley himself buries his nose in the thatch of ribbons and gnaws the cork loose, like a dog with a bone, yanking this way and that while growling playfully around it.

“This is the silliest thing—” she wheezes even as his jaw’s yanking motion makes her feet slip closer, her light weight losing ground in this tug-o-war until suddenly there’s a pop and down he goes, flat on his ass, cork in mouth, champagne showering him from above.

He’s curled in on himself at her feet, all long tan limbs contorted and white briefs quickly becoming transparent, crunched in half from the force of his laughter and partly to shield his eyes from the alcohol rain. She watches in a bit of a state, though she’s unsure of what kind, as golden alcohol glistens over that heart, pools in every divot of him and even sparkles tauntingly on inky lashes.

“Quick, quick catch it baby!” he waves at her frantically through his wheezing hiccups, “With your mouth, put it in yer mouth!” he explains and she suddenly snaps her attention away from watching his underwear cling to him and brings the bottle up to her mouth.

She chugs on command, her throat working rhythmically and her eyes wide at the new taste, bubbly spillage glossing up her chin and chest and down her slip, a dark trail that makes his mouth dry out with thoughts of other things. She pulls away with a gasp and a wet pop as he struggles to his knees, cupping himself like that’ll detract from his obvious outline, thanking heaven his jitters seem to have kept him half mast.

“Here, it’s fizzy,” she informs him like that’s news to him before bringing the bottle down to his lips and tipping the champagne into his slack mouth. His hands fly out to rest on her hips, steadying himself as she pours the celebratory drink down his throat. “Cheers!” she giggles as he taps out his max capacity on her hips, his breath fully gone and his cheeks bulging with the fizz.

“Here’s to you, Mrs. Presley,” he gasps after his swallow, smiling up at her stupidly sweet.

Elaine isn’t sure if it’s his breathlessness, those fathomless blue eyes looking up at her adoringly or the way he’s proving he’d do anything to please her, but she’s suddenly filled with a burning compulsion to eat him up. And she acts on it, bending down to slot their mouths together, one hand gripping his sticky shoulder and the other still holding onto the bottle neck.

He rises to his feet in an effortlessly smooth motion, hands dragging up the curve of her as he goes until they tangle in her hair, his arms criss crossed over her back and then the real kissing begins, the kind he had figured he’d gentle her into but she seems to have already found a taste for. It’s open mouthed and sloppy and she nearly lets the bottle slip from her hand as she seems to levitate right out of her skin and upwards to some hot and hazy sphere where a pink tongue dances with her own.

And sweet Lord, she loves the way he kisses her, large hands yanking her head back by her hair so he can pour his passion into her keening mouth from above, his arms encompassing her shoulders and pressing her to him, his plush mouth working her up to a frenzy. She squeezes his shoulder, in retribution or encouragement, she doesn’t know which, for the ache he always manages to spark in her belly. Speaking of, his soaked underwear is pressed to her belly and dampening the fabric of her slip so it, too, becomes tacky and drags as he shifts against her, almost like they’re riding waves together, grappling in a gentle struggle for leverage in this caress.

-electric eels, I might add, do it, though it shocks ‘em I know,

She’s a responsive little thing, his new wife, and fiesty in her affection, too. Her nails dig into his back and make him hiss pleasurably and he finds he can’t help but hump the little curve of her belly beneath the silk, wet briefs tantalizingly coarse against his cock. It occurs to him this is a precious moment, for many reasons, but particularly for the fact that never again will she kiss him without at least some anticipation of more to follow. What’s a kiss that goes nowhere? A kiss that devours and consumes and grapples and bites but has no destination? Her whole body conforms to his in an effort to get closer as they sway in the middle of his bedroom floor, but she knows of nothing after this, she doesn’t know it’s leading anywhere. The kiss is all she knows. It’s like she has an incomplete map, one he gets to draw the big red ‘X’ at the end of. He wonders if a body can combust if kissed long enough, if he can make her shatter apart just by ignorant need and a searingly good necking. He pours more energy into plundering her mouth and ignores her whimpers begging for a breath.

Elaine finds her free hand sliding from his shoulder down the plush side of his ribs, tacky with champagne, and thumbs at the soaked waistband of his briefs. It makes him break their kiss at last, near drowned for air and his eyes wild as he rears back to study her face.

“You’re getting me sticky,” she whispers smilingly and watches him lick her spit from his lips with a languid tongue.

“Ya could just say you want me nekid,” he quips, and nearly swallows his tongue in horror right after, holding his breath to see how the joke lands.

Elaine is… taken aback, judging by the way her eyes widen and her cheeks flame bright in the dim light of the bedroom, but she truthfully shrugs and murmurs while staring past him, “I would really like to see ya, E.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” he whispers back earnestly and she flicks her eyes back to meet his before her smile returns and she makes a motion to one handedly strip him before thinking better of it.

She takes another chug from the champagne bottle instead and he chuckles, making a motion with his hands to hand it to him when she’s done. She gives it over and he gulps down the liquid courage while trying to go somewhere else as Elaine begins to carefully peel his soaked tighty whities down his legs. Her yittle fingers make it mighty difficult.

-God, I hope she’s at least seen a penis before, he prays. Or, or actually no. I hope she hasn’t, I hope she has no fuckin clue about any other man, most certainly no trimmed up, affluent, all American, circumcised one.

While he’s busy making his nose burn with the bubbles he’s downing like water, Elaine takes a moment to feast her eyes on tan thighs and the boney cradle of his hips, defined by a lean belt of muscle descending from his abdomen and that faint dusty trail of hair that was pointing downwards to a destination after all. He’s pink and soft and harmless looking down there, very much like the anatomy sketches she’s seen in the medical books. A limp little tail-like thing that hangs between his legs with a sheath of skin covering it, pillowed atop a very heavy looking sack that’s a couple shades darker than the shaft thingy. Maybe men have a bladder on the outside, she ponders.

She finds herself a little relieved, and also stupidly endeared. It’s his privates, she should let him be, they’re not like hers that have a dual purpose of child bearing and peeing. They’re just his soft parts and he’s terribly sweet to let her satisfy her curiosity about them, and so she rises back to her feet with a pleased sigh, having refrained from the stupid impulse of reaching out and grabbing hold of them. Elvis lets out a ragged sigh of his own and looks like he’s trying to read her brain as she presses another kiss to his lips.

“Thank ya,” she chirps and he raises his eyebrows in surprise that this is going so well.

It goes well until it gets weird. And by weird Elvis means his sweet young wife starting to circle him like he’s a damn statue, her hand trailing over his skin and letting out appreciative little noises at the way his muscles twitch beneath her fingers. His ribs tickle and his arms jitter and his back tenses and then there’s that throat closing feeling of her palming the swell of his ass, admiring and entitled as you please. He feels a bit like a prize horse, being eyed up at auction, Elaine the buyer that’s testing to see if he’s a well-bred stallion. Seeing if he’s a good breeding partner, if he’s made of good stock.

Elaine’s appraisal halts at his other side, she’s got a hand gliding up his sternum like the feel of sparse chest hair is equal to the most priceless Persian rug, and her other hand keeps petting the swell of his ass as she presses kisses to his shoulder—oh god help him, he likes it, much as it makes him squirm, this entirely unexpected review of his assets has him standing at attention and hoping she approves. Something else starts to try to stand to attention and it’s through a helpless sort of mortified resignation he feels little Elvis twitch in earnest. The sorta twitch that’ll lead to precum sputtering out soon enough.

She notices. Of course she does, he feels her lips fall away from his shoulder so she can peer over it at the growing developments, and with unerring accuracy she repeats the motion she had just made, expecting a similar result if providing the right equation. His cock is feeling benevolent if a little demure tonight, and he can’t help but flex his hips as the next rush of blood makes the thing move again. Oh damn, he thinks, they’re getting somewhere now, and he’s not yet given a single lesson.

Elaine had long harbored a rather inordinate curiosity about the male figure, her swimming hole adventures and glimpses of mechanics stripped down covered in grease had all inspired a rather alarming curiosity in her girlish head as to what the male form looked like… unimpeded. She thought it silly that there was such emphasis on men’s tastes being visual, on pinups and advertising girls selling dish soap that had nothing to do with the bikinis prominently filled out. For her, Marlon Brando swaggering around in a sweat soaked singlet had done more to convince her to move to a New Orleans tenement than all those skimpy dressed floozies ever had ever convinced a regular ole father of three to buy Lucky Strikes. But to touch? To feel searing hot masculine blood pumping right beneath that terribly smooth skin and the dip and give of his muscles beneath her palm? Her chest aches and her hands move of their own accord, wondrously eager to make him wag between his legs again, like a happy tail swelling and jerking with each squeeze she gives his butt.

“Elvis, you’re so pretty,” she gushes the admiration swirling around and around in her mind and feels the whole long, lean, glorious length of his shudder at the comment.

She’s enchanted with his body, he realizes, he’s pleasing to her, and her hands flutter in a hopeless want to touch him everywhere and it’s all he can do not to seize a dainty hand and wrench her away from this sweet perusal and make her grip him here he needs it. He wants, needs, filthy things from her. And she just thinks he’s pretty. The moan he stifles with his hand is only fuel to her fire.

“Uh—” he begins, figuring he better get somethin about the mechanics of things out before this sweetness turns him feral and the tempting thoughts to just… sneak it in her… take precedence in his brain.

“What’s it doin’?” she interrupts instead, and he savors the feel of her holding his bare waist while he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking steady breaths, forcing some blood back up to his brain.

“I-i-it’s, it’s gettin’ excited,” he figures is an honest start, “F-firmin up.”

“Why?” she asks curiously, sounding ever so child-like, still petting his sides like, like—like he’s her pet.

He wouldn’t mind being her pet. He’s foolin’ himself thinkin’ he isn’t already, she’s just embracing her role with innocent confidence, unencumbered by silly knowledge of roles and shit, like he is.

“Well, uh, it’s, it’s—” he bites his lip harshly before gently grabbing her arms and moving her round to face him, stroking her neck soothingly while keeping her at a safe distance where her silk clad belly won’t encourage little Elvis any faster. “It’s gotta firm up as, it’s, it’s, it’s my key, baby,” he explains gently, watching with burning concentration for any flicker of understanding flitting across her earnest face.

“Your key?” she repeats gravely, that nagging feeling returning that there’s more to this… marriage business… then she’s been told, and she’s about at the end of her patience with being fobbed off the topic. “Elvis—” she goes to appeal for an answer to his generous nature, the lush set of his features above her sweet and sultrily eager as her own, encouraging her that he’ll humor her—

“Elaine, we gotta have a business meetin’,” he declares, effectively cutting her off, and it’s the voice he uses at conference tables with the colonel or with reporters but she knows it’s him scrambling to grab hold of some control. Ever wary of the delicate state of his emotions these days, she holds her peace. “Bout, b-bout marriage,” he clarifies and for the first time since coming up here, a cold shard of fear slices through the gooey warmth of his presence.

“Alright,” she agrees, firmly supportive, squeezing his arms to emphasize that she’s on his side in this, she takes her cues from him. It’s what good wives do, and it’s what all of humanity does when Elvis Presley starts to direct a thing.

Her compliance has the intended result of soothing him, his jitters calm under her hands and the light beam of her encouraging smile. He gives a few small nods of his head as if agreeing with an unspoken suggestion, and Elaine is entirely certain he’s got a self affirming monologue running up there in that pretty head to drown out whatever has him so panicked.

Alight with her touch, with thoughts of her and her lil house and making it good, making sure it takes, of finally having what he’s dreamed about for goin’ on two years now, he feels his knees near buckle and he murmurs hurriedly,

“Let’s sit on the–the bed for a minute.”

Hand in hand, and at a head clearing distance from each other, they mosey over to the canopied wonder that is his bed, decked out in black and gold, tufted pockets of down beckoning for a bounce amongst, and Elaine can’t help herself. Maybe it’s the champagne or a stubborn desire to keep the jubilant atmosphere alive but she slips her hand out of his with a parting squeeze and launches herself into the downy sea of gold.

His stride falters and he watches with a fondness he feels deep in his gut as his Elaine bounces into the bed like a giddy child, her long limbs splayed artlessly and the swell of her ass rippling under baby blue silk, a sliver more of inner thigh visible as it rides up, kicking her footsies gleefully for good measure before she lifts that darling face and grins at him beckoningly through a curtain of chocolate curls.

God he loves her. And this is what he’ll get to see and feel and love for all the coming nights, for the rest of his life. He moseys up to the bed and reaches out, caressing Elaine’s shiny locks back in place, matching her smile in an endeavor to help keep this mood as joyous as it should be. She grabs at his wrist that is petting her hair and pulls him atop her. Weak and wanting, he goes, registering with searing clarity the first feel of his long limbs being pressed atop every inch of her smaller frame, the bedspread tufting beneath their combined weight.

He is burning hot atop her, and so much larger than her own body, she realizes with a thrill that tingles down to her very toes. She resumes her petting of the wings of his shoulder blades, smooth and sweaty beneath her hands and she wiggles beneath the new sensation of his thighs pressed to her own, and his hips cradled by her hips, fitting together effortlessly. It’s delightful and she acts on the urge to tilt his face out from the bedspread and seek more kisses from those cherry red lips of his.

Elaine keeps undulating under him, spurred on by a thousand heady new sensations, slippery as an eel in her silk, and Elvis’s mind blanks at the feel of her eager and squirmy body beneath his. He forgets about lessons and marriage and sacred duties and instead acts on his most natural instinct which is to kiss her back ferociously and buck against the cradle of her hips ‘till his cock weeps for joy at finally being heeded.

As natural as riding a tandem bike, after the initial wobble for balance, Elaine quickly finds his rhythm and grinds along with him in a unified dance for propulsion, feeling something besides his champagne-sticky skin begin to slick up her nightslip.

That’s the wet smear of his excitement, she realizes, and rocks up more vigorously to encourage him. His penis is a throbbing pipe between them, and while she can’t see it, she can feel the thing growing and digging into her belly and she thinks of keys and she wonders, and aches. The whine her groom lets out, once hazily recognizing the fact she’s actually trying to aid his pleasure like a good wife should, is pulled from deep in his gut into her open mouth, sending a triumphant shudder through her.

“Sweet—lord—fuck—Elaine,” he blasphemes into her ear in a pained cry, his hand a mere agent of his cock as it fumbles between them frantically to pull up the hem of her slip.

Her hot breath fans against his face in shocked gusts and if he cracked open his screwed shut eyes he’s pretty sure he'd see her looking a little scandalized, which is why he doesn’t open them. He’ll save that for when he’s balls deep inside her and there ain’t a lawful thing she can do about it. For now he just doggedly hikes up her slip until it’s halfway up her belly and his balls are rubbing amongst the pettiest thatch on a beaver he ever did see. Not that he sees it now, mind you. No, his eyes stay closed and he forces her into another kiss lest she protest, but he recalls the particulars of her cunt like that addled inspection he made of her lady parts was yesterday and—

—her lil house, his promise, his duty! It all comes crowding back to his mind with an icy damper just as her hands glide down to land with a strong and naively lecherous grip on his ass and he—

—he might have made it if it weren’t for that grab. It’s not a good precedent to blame one’s wife for a loss of control but he’s afraid that’s just what it is, a precedent when, heedless of her confusion, he grips her delicate shoulders in each of his hands and leverages up, one pump, two pumps, three pumps amongst the slick petals of her pussy and then, then it’s white hot satisfaction and… Elaine.

Elaine, Elaine, Elaine—oh how I love you, oh how I want you, Elaine, Elaine, Elaine, you drive me nuts.

“Oh, oh wha—oh,” through the ringing haze of busting a nut against her, Elvis can hear her bewildered enjoyment as he spurts and slicks her up real messy, grinding against her pearl with powerful, heedless strokes.

He stops his whimpering moans and sucks in a breath, still somewhere else in his bliss and utterly unmoored, but not so useless as to stop moving along to her guiding hands on his butt.

Her breathy gasps are—they’re everything he’s ever fantasized about, and to make up for blowing his load like a green boy, he keeps up the pace she wants, slippin’ and a’slidin against her, listening intently as her pitch spikes when his cock smudges her clit with his head. She begins to replace each gasp with a noisy inhale.

“Wha-what’s oh, Elvis what’s—” she finds her voice just enough to babble as her head thrashes in a confused protest a few times amongst the golden tufts.

Then her hands clench on her handful of backside before the head of his cock slips in its glide and snags against her untried door. The bitten off shriek of surprised ecstasy she lets out, and the cruel bite of her nails in his butt, the rigid spasm of her thighs beneath his, tells him she’s gotten a taste of the heaven he just indulged in early.

“That’s it, that’s it, it’s nice feelin’, ain’t it?” he preemptively shushes her worries, the ones that gather even now on her brow the minute her pleasure ebbs away enough for rational thought to raise its pesky head.

“Elvis, I—what was—” she pants and can’t find the words or courage to finish her question, she just blushes beneath him instead, and for the first time tonight he can sense her feeling insecure.

“That was actin’ married, baby,” he answers simply, cupping her face and letting his thumbs rub soothing circles in her hairline. “You alright? Did I scare ya?” he whispers, terrified in suspense as Elaine seems to give his question thought, reviewing the recent memory of her first orgasm with typical, analytical detachment.

“It felt… tingly,” she decides, having to acknowledge no harm was done and this sated feeling of her melting into a puddle beneath him is rather lovely. “I liked it,” she decides, then insists as he still looks down at her, chestnut hair falling into his eyes and his worried mouth wobbling like a scared baby’s. “I liked it a lot.”

“Ya liked it?” he perks up, his lip curling in a smile, eager as a puppy, and she remembers him asking her the same thing, in the same eager way, about the grand staircase when he first showed her Graceland.

“Yes, yes I did,” she nods emphatically, ignoring how something seems to hang in the air about them now, something more that prods her to ask, “What now?”

Because “more” feels like a third person in this room and her curiosity has been too long deferred.

“Now we have that business meetin’,” he replies gravely, as if he suspects her of plotting against the meeting and its solemn necessity.

He tries to pitch his voice down in a bid to sound authoritative, but all she can think of are his pitiful little whimpers as he wet her belly. She smirks and reaches up to push his hair out of his eyes. “Yessir, Private,” she teases, immensely pleased with herself when he lets out a throaty laugh and rolls his eyes in response.

He pulls his body away from her, forcing himself not to cringe at the goopy mess he made of her pussy, or the resiliently adhesive string of spunk that refuses to break the connection between them as he pulls away. She is watching his every expression, he knows, every movement, the bat of his eyes, all being used to form her own opinion of this and he is careful not to show any reaction that might have her embarrassed, or worse, thinking the act gross. Sex is nasty, and he fuckin’ loves it for it. And if he can help it, so will she.

He twists off her and rolls on his side, sitting up where his legs dangle off the bed and he flips her slip back down in what he hopes is a subtle but swift enough gesture to be considered gentlemanly. She sits up beside him and folds her hands expectantly in her lap, her legs swinging off the bed beside his own and if he thinks too long about the fact he’s probably dribbling down her primly closed thighs, he’ll go insane all over again.

Get this part done and then you can go nuts, he tells himself, then it’s free reign. Or, well, nearly.

“Elaine baby,” he begins, this time his voice is naturally deep and earnest as it often is when discussing something very important, she recognizes it and gives him all her attention, “Do ya know anythin’ bout what mamas and daddies do when they go to bed?”

Her head is still fuzzy from whatever trickery they just engaged in, the way his hand now descends to her thigh making the pounding between them worse than ever even as the pleasure is sharper, more satisfying than any she’s achieved. It clouds her mind and stalls her reply. She thinks that she could answer smartly that he just showed her what they do, or she could say she knows they sleep, or she could rattle off a buncha scared suggestions that might make her seem a little less lost, a little less dumb about this whole thing. But she trusts him, trusts him to be kind and patient, to want to be married anyway. So she bites down her pride and shakes her head adamantly, not a shred of flippancy left.

“Well, part of bein’ married is makin’ babies, right?” he responds, “And that happens in a marriage bed, or least—that’s where it happens first time ya try,” Elvis explains the best he can, his voice gentle and his drawl persuasive like it had been when he showed her cords on the guitar. “Now we uh, we’ve talked bout your lil house already,” he notes and she nods with sober and locked on fascination, waiting for him to drop a hint of something that will make practical sense, “and I done told ya bout my key. You felt it gettin all firm, yeah? Then sprayin’ ya belly—sorry bout that, jus’ got me so excited, went ahead of myself—well, baby, ya see…” He twists his lower lip with his fingers in one last pained procrastination before getting the rest out in a measured slur, “To make a baby the daddy’s key has gotta go inside the mama’s house a-a-and unlock her.”

He holds his breath and watches this lesson land home on her sweet face. He takes note of each stage of comprehension as it morphs her face. First there’s her squint of concentration, then the eyebrow quirk of confirmed speculation, then the lip bite of second guessing his meaning, then crystal clear compression that seems to freeze her features in one of disbelief until they reanimate in a frenzy of emotion that culminates in her heavily fringed eyes darting down to stare at his recently spent, half mast cock. His key, he corrects himself, and like a damned pet, it wags under her wide eyed study.

“Oh ha, oh.” She tries to master her gasps and they just come out in a tumble anyway, staring at that strangely animate part of him that is nothing like any one of hers. The longer she looks the larger it grows, the sheath drawing back and revealing a tender looking tip, so vibrantly red it matches the flush splotching down his chest. It looks like it’s aches, and she suddenly has sympathy for the eager thing. At her aborted movement to touch it, she sees it sputter out clear fluid, as if weeping for her attention.

A great many bits of hearsay, of anatomical layouts studied, some Bible passages about “goin into her” and a few racy lyrics flash through her mind like star witnesses confirming his account of married life. She suddenly wants to laugh at the absurdity of not putting it all together until the wagging heft of the thing swelling beneath her stare makes her suddenly hope he’s wrong. Or, or -teasing, he’s gotta be teasing.

Oh course he is! Her shoulders loosen up and she lets out a great big sigh before meeting his stormy eyes and poking the soft rolls of his belly warningly, “You had me there!” she tsks and begins to laugh the more she thinks of the idea of him shoving his… his pee pee… up her to make a child.

Elvis doesn’t laugh, he looks suddenly quite alarmed and her merriment dies on her lips, stuttering out at the sight of his earnest face.

“You. Are. Teasin,” she repeats with a pleading diction, “You don’t really -oh gosh y- you ain’t pullin’ my leg, Elvis?” she almost whimpers, her mother’s proper nomenclature gone right out of her pretty mind at the idea of that chubby snake thing inside her.

“I ain’t pullin’ your leg sweetheart.” he swears, no hint of mockery in his voice, “That cream ya felt…coming out, the sticky stuff, i-it shoots up in ya a-a-and fertilizes y-your eggs. I-it’s called making love, baby, cause it’s-it’s makin…love.”

Elaine feels her face growing hot at that visual and would like all these components to make less sense right about now. It all comes together in her logic like a missing piece of the human puzzle, but far from being the Devine enlightenment she was expecting, she finds it’s a sticky, bobbing, whining, gushing, squelching process that isn’t remotely medical or Devine. It’s comedic, and her jaw clenches in protest at the absurdity of it all. God really must enjoy a good laugh, forcing folks to spew and shake apart like idiots just to keep the human race alive.

“Why’s it growin?” She demands hotly, resigned to the logic but quite unappreciative of the fact that the more excited about making babies his key gets, the more likely its growing size will make it impossible to fit inside her.

“It’s getting firm so it can go in,” he defends his offending boner as meekly as possible, eager to get back in her good graces and refusing to listen to little Elvis’ cries of offended honor, “A-a-and so it’ll feel good inside ya.” he makes sure to tack on and notices her incredulous left eyebrow shoot up to her hairline.

“That so?” she asks, utterly sarcastic.

“Yes!” he pleads and her face softens a little at his hurt tone, at his obvious honesty, “Once inside it’ll rub ya all nice like it felt a minute ago. ‘Member that? this’ll be like that just… even better.”

“I-I-I do, I do recall,” she softens at his worried face, realizes he thinks she’s gonna back down from this and curses the fact she’d really rather. Impotent anger rises up in her for a brief flash that she didn’t have more time to prepare for this, that no one told her so she might settle her terrified little belly to the thought of him—

—it’s too awful to be pondered for long and she takes a great deep breath and holds it in the way she learned at the hospital, to calm a bout of panic, staring off across the room at the portrait of Jesus he has hung by the closet door. She thinks about how best to fly away while he does what is necessary, she thinks about babies, she thinks about how pretty and sweet he is. She thinks about her mama, and wonders if the procedure is so awful, why didn’t she and every woman in her life warn and prepare her for it? Now her aunt’s words make sense. Be good and let him do what he needs to. If this is what he needs to do, then she reckon’s she’ll just have to let him see to it.

“Elaine?” he begs her to look at him, his warm hand gently grabbing her chin and turning her face to his like an ornery mule by its bridal. “Elaine, what’s in that pretty head? Talk to me please,” he puts his face all up in her own’s business, hands cradling her face and noses brushing, she can feel the brush of his lips when he speaks again softly, “Ya don’t think God would tell folks to be fruitful then make it awful for ‘em, do ya?”

It’s as if he’s read her mind, her own rationalization on the subject and she gives a slow nod of dissent, “no,” she agrees, and realizes due to her watery voice that she must’ve started crying somewhere along the way. It rankles her, being so skittish, being so troublesome for her groom when she’s not even been married a full day.

Lord, instead of being angry, he’s nuzzling her tear tracks across her face and swearing never ending tenderness to her. Her heart does another flip as his lips trail down her neck, and she warms again, her ache returns and it reminds her of his own. She tilts her head so he can better suck at the soft skin of her neck and casts her eyes down to his lap, finding him still eager. His key looks so desperate and needy, and despite her grievance against its size, her hand darts out instinctively to swipe at the leaking mushroom head like she would anyone’s tears from beneath their eyes.

It has a rather startling effect on her young husband.

Elvis lets out a choked cry and crushes her arms where he holds them, his kiss bitten cry turns into a chomp on her shoulder as the shock of his reaction makes her squeeze his member harder, eliciting a yet greater amount of pleasurable anguish from him. The way the previously dribbling precum gushes over her knuckles is entirely the most heady thing she’s ever managed to feel in her life. That molten warmth in her belly ignites again, and she kisses his own neck in delight at the responses he gives her, even as she drags the flat of her palm up and down his key, taking notes on the way he bucks against it.

“Elaine—” he garbles into her throat and she kneads his neck comfortingly even as she continues to watch the way this new friend throbs and gushes under her tiniest attentions. Like a personable pet or a responsive baby, it’s a joy to have something react to her with such inordinate eagerness.

“Alright, I believe ya,” she whispers soothingly as she thumbs at his leaking slit and strokes down his foreskin, noticing a definite ridge and then a puffy head differentiating the head from the rest of the shaft, “Just the tip has to go in, right?” she surveys the bulbous little head and calms herself. It’s not that big, just awfully wide. She can manage it, for the babies.

“N-no baby.” he stutters into her throat, miserable and worried sick about repeatedly having to be contrary, “S’all gotta go in.”

“But, but you can just spray up once it’s in!” she cries out, laughingly incredulous and a single sentence away from reverting back to suspecting him of playing a trick, “Why’s the whole thing gotta go in when it shoots the stuff a foot or more?”

That’s- that’s a worrisomely valid point, he thinks, but he can only deal with the logic of her hand fondling his cock right now and so he insists, “No baby, it’s gotta go deep, way up in your belly so it don’t get lost with all the cake ya ate.”

“That ain’t gonna get very deep.” she’s rather unimpressed with his length and it brings him right back down to earth with an Elaine shaped thump, “It’s the girth that’s unnecessarily…plentiful.”

“Ya sayin’ God didn’t know what he was doin when he made me?“ Elvis feigns outrage and pulls away to grin at her, to confirm she’s grinning, too.

She rolls her eyes, then that famillair, sweet smile overtakes her face as she flits her eyes all across the lean yet soft, pale yet golden, masculine yet boyish whole of him, -she finds him very good. “I reckon he knew what he was doin’,” she murmurs wryly, her stare dragging up his form, “I just object to the practicality of so few brains and so much—”

“Elaine!” he growls, gripping the back of her neck, “Kiss me, woman.”

She kisses him with the same gusto he’s previously seen her reserve only for football matches on the lawn. She catapults forward and it knocks the wind outta him, lands her solidly in his lap, a smooching, hair tugging goddess of a mad woman, and he scrambles to keep up, to assist the gearshift that just occurred. Zero to sixty it seems. Elaine can’t seem to hold still when she kisses, always leveraging up and wiggling around and it makes for two of them writhing, to the immense satisfaction of his cock that gets wedged between his belly and hers during this heavy make out.

Eventually she seems to notice -Elvis wonders what gave lil Elvis’ position away: the incessant twitching or the gallons of precum dribbling down the front of her gown.

She pulls away from the kiss and looks down, suddenly reaching and straightening his cock against her belly and through the haze of ball tingling appreciation for her touch he realizes she’s measuring the depth against her belly. That thought makes him spurt so violently he’s not sure if he’s cummin’ a lil or just, just gushin’ like he’s never seen himself gush before. Thank God this sweet little girl seems to like the fact he’s a messy, sensitive, uncut hick of a boy.

“We’ve just gotta try our best, hmm?” he stifles his anticipatory giggle at the size comparison to her abdomen and thumbs at her throat coaxingly, “I’ll try’n get it real deep, and you’ll be good and lemme, right?“

She will, for the babies, he already knows that. Knew it the minute she agreed to marry him. It’s why he wants her.

“Right.” she agrees and tries to not make it sound like she’s being condemned to torture, “I’ll be good for ya.” Be good and let him do what he needs to.

“And I’ll make it nice,” he swears adamantly and she nearly believes him, “It won’t hurt much, not at all after the first time, I’ll make sure you enjoy it, baby. Have ya begging for it in a few hours, you’ll see. It’s gonna be nice, remember?”

“Yeah.” Her tone is unsure but she waggles her eyebrows conspiratorially.

Then, before another promise can be made, she bends away from his lap and flops on her back, legs spread, baby blue silk riding up to show her wet curls, hands serenely crossed across her chest, face expectant. “Well, c’mon, gimme those babies.” she eggs him on, somehow keeping the wobble out of her thin voice.

“Elaine, honey, you’re shakin’,” he worries, noticing the visible battle in her body between desire and fear.

“I am a little chilly.” she replies very decorously, and with a liar liar pants on fire smile of assurance.

“Bullshit, you’re terrified,” he murmurs, petting her spread legs that are still partly in his lap, sliding his warm palms up her inner thighs and noting with satisfaction the way it makes her nipples pebble helplessly beneath the silk. She even rocks her hips towards his soothing attentions and that’s perfect, that’s how he’s gonna handle this, just soothe her into it, her entirely absent prudery a great aid. Although this next little detail he’s gonna teach her may push her to the limit.

“Now, ‘fore I go in, there’s a great deal of prep’s gotta happen or else I’d not be a husband, just a mean bastard, you understand?” And he watches closely as Elaine’s chest heaves in relief that she’s got a little more time before the main event. Come to think of it, he should buy her more time, maybe a bath to get her all loosened up and pliant. “How bout we take a bath first, ya wanna take a bath, baby?” he suggests and knows that it was entirely too random a segue the minute it leaves his mouth.

“Not–not right now.” she whispers honestly, her hands still crossed across her breasts and she makes a motion that hikes the neckline a little higher, telling him all he needs to know about her shyness. He’ll let her leave the slip on for now, the fact her cunt is considered husbandly property but her breasts are sacred maidenly assets makes him feral with want. “I’d like to just get this over w- to, experience it,” she does a decent job at damage control of her initial sentiment but he figures it’s understandable to want it over and done with, like a procedure, like a tooth being pulled. “Honestly Elvis, I’m too nervous to enjoy anything till we do it,” she admits, no pretty turn of phrase, just that precious honesty he appreciates so much about her.

Boy does he have a surprise for her, then. He grins and he nods understandingly, “I getcha, baby, we don’t gotta do nothin you don’t want,” he swears, “Just gotta prep ya then we’ll get on with it. Hey, stop shruggin’, ya just might like it.” He pinches her thigh and it makes her giggle, she gives him another unconvinced shrug that he takes as a gauntlet thrown to turn her into a whimpering cock slut.

“I-I’m gonna pull this up a lil,” he narrates gently, figuring it might put her at ease as he matches his words with the action of rolling her hemline up to her ribs. Her soft belly caves in with the breath she’s holding and he lays his searing palm on it, coaxing her to settle for him.

She can feel his calluses and the grounding weight of his broad hand on her womb, and the rightness of it turns her body pliant. That dreamy submission he first coaxed from her to make her sleep after her mother’s funeral -she can feel it coming over her again and settles glady. He’s never steered her wrong yet, and he’s let her keep her breasts modest, a sweet concession she is eager to thank him for with obedient compliance. She focuses on his large hand and the way it’s now petting, no, more like digging gently, with his fingertips into her lower belly, little digs and pulls upwards over and over again. She can feel each tug downstairs in her little house, like his fingertips are tugging at her little button’s string from the outside in. Her head truly sinks back into the gold tufted comforter and she absently palms a heaving breast. This part of being married is lovely.

The awed look overtaking Elvis’ cherubic features as he stares down at the freshly undressed slit between her legs is reward enough for her. Life is suddenly dreamy and hazy, like she’s viewing his rich coloring and decadent face through a stocking over a lens, like the girls do to minimize their pores in photographs. He looks like that naturally, too rich and pretty and lovely to be true, now muddled and smeared from the feelings his hands excite, he looks otherworldly and she lets slip a moan of appreciation.

“You’re so pretty.” she babbles again, unsure if any of it actually made it out of her head. It seems very pressing to tell him, maybe in lieux of the “I love you” he’s dying to hear but made her swear she wouldn’t say till she meant it.

For Elvis, the entire picture of Elaine, melted ivory skin with a halo of chocolate curls and a wisp of sea foam silk covering what he’s dying to see -she is like an erotic painting brought to life just for him to lick and squeeze and split open on a sea of gold. He shudders and keeps his finger tips massaging her giving belly, this ole trick of Johnny’s obviously not half bad, judging by the way she goes boneless and her long legs begin to spread of their own accord, knees bending out and her pink petals beginning to make an obvious flutter beneath the curls.

“You recall what Dodger said.” he asks her very softly, mumbling it into the soft skin of her inner knee as he gets her used to the feeling of his lips creeping closer to the place he’s about to devour, “remember her sayin I was to lick you?” he prods, knowing that bringing up his grandmother is not ideal seconds before slurping at his wife’s beaver, but he guesses rightly that he might benefit from some moral backup for what he’s about to propose.

“Y-yes, yes before a pecker o-“ Elaine’s already a little incoherent as he permits his hand to stray from her belly and scratch amongst their curls, digging and tugging at her outer lips from afar, making them glide against each other in a soft stimulation, like a foreskin getting rubbed over the glans.

“Pecker’s jus’another word for key.” he whispers into the butter soft skin of her twitching thigh and her hips jerk from the tickle of his voice.

“Oh is it?” she manages to laugh, even as it’s a far away little sound, “dear Dodger.” is all she adds.

“So like she said,” he carefully moves himself to a crouch, taking care not to jostle her out of her docile trance, crouching like those mountain cats between her legs, he carefully replaces his hand with his cheek as he rubs his face against her belly -entirely cat like, “like she said I gotta lick ya. See, cause….’‘fore ya use a-a key in a new lock ya gotta grease, it, right?”

Elaine Presley is so bewildered and terribly hungry for something, anything, Elvis could suggest just about any sort of fuckery right now and she’d agree. As is, she thinks she’s read in the Bible about a man kissing his woman down there, a vague reference to pomegranates that King Solomon might’ve thought real slick, but wasn’t subtle. There was certainly more of an illusion made to it in the good book than anything about chubby snakes going up inside a girl. She has no qualms against it, also very few brains at her disposal right now it seems, and she finds it’s nice having one’s mind wiped blank after such a hectic two weeks of planning and organizing.

“S-so I’m gonna lick ya down there, a k-kiss sorta a-“ Elvis is explaining, unnecessarily thorough in a pained, urgent, desperate whisper that he uses when he wants a thing bad but he wants you to think you want it badder and she-

-Later on in life, later on the next day even, Elaine could never quite tell or explain where the urge or the bravery or the biblical amounts of entitlement to his services she suddenly felt in that moment. All either of them had was the memory of her fresh as a daisy self, steering her groom by his hair till he was face planted between her legs, doing his duty. Licking her open, pink tongue wriggling and lapping.

Terrified shitless that somehow, somehow he’d mess up the one thing he was certain he was remarkably good at, Elvis’s skilled tongue had bolted into her wet heat like a colt through the starting gate with a lot to prove. And he maintained that ferocious pace and fervor for a undocumented and unrecalled amount of time. He was not sure how he managed to breathe down there for the hour or more he spent sucking and licking and jabbing his tongue into Elaine’s long dreamed of cunt, living off fumes from the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted, hair tugs of gratitude his only payment and the sounds of shock and awe spilling out of his new wife at every bout of pleasure he tore from her.

The sounds she was making -they were the same as when the two of them went down to the flower festival in New Orleans, while he was on set, where she’d gasped and cried and exclaimed joyously over five street blocks worth of Lilies and Dahlias and the stringy flower bushes Elvis’ didn’t retain the name of.

“So, so nice, oh, oh right there”. This frantically happy compliance, this unabashed enjoyment by a virgin girl smashing his face into her snatch -it was more than Elvis’ wildest, most self indulgent fantasies could have hoped for.

He had noticed in Elaine a peculiar sort of common sense that most people didn’t have in common. If a thing was not harmful or explicitly forbidden, she had no objection to it, in fact, she considered it free game. And bucking her hips up to meet his tongue and utilize his nose against her button -was obviously one of those non prohibited joys of life. And he set about to make it so addictive that she would be collaring him for a lick every day of her life for the rest of their days. His hands slowly gravitated up her belly, squeezing and appreciating the firm give of her sides and up to her breasts that she still guarded with panting lassitude. He didn’t know if he had snuck his hands under hers to knead the firm mounds or if she’d allowed him under of her own accord, and placed her hands atop his in blessing. But either way, he stayed bent like that, hands groping at her tits and jaw near unhinged to swallow her down, his own hips rutting into the mattress, the seams of the bedspread chafing his cock pleasurably.

“Can I have another?” she would ask eagerly after having shook apart and dribbled over his tongue for the tenth time.

Who was he to deny her?

He worked his fingers in gently, but after the amount of spit and slick they had produced together, it was a mere pinch for her when he snuck in first one long finger, then another. Careful to keep her revving, he dallied for a while with just the two, scissoring them and spitting inside the tight little hole until her objectioning mewls turned to breathy sighs again. Working in the confines of her wet heat near drove him mad, feeling how tight she was around just a few digits had his cock aching and groans of his own came pouring out of his mouth, buzzing her clit and causing her to writhe.

He took to curling his fingers inside her, her walls giving under more readily after his patient coaxing and he rubbed the calloused pads of his fingers up and curled untill he found a soft, giving little spot unlike its surroundings, spongey in a way he’d only ever heard about. Her reaction to his touch there was also something that had before only been mere hearsay from the boys on the road. Her hips leveraged off the bed like she was possessed, and through the smash of her thighs about his ears he heard her scream, and perverse determination was entirely to blame for the way he forced his fingers to keep curling as her little house clamped down around them and suddenly his head was being crushed like a melon between her legs and a jet of sweet, Elaine flavored goodness was spewing at his grinning face.

“Sweet Jesus would ya look at tha-“ Elvis heaved in a dozen breaths the minute her legs fell apart again, propping up on his forearms and watching his stunned wife tremble violently, her belly and thighs shaking like they were motorized, her pussy still gushing feebly and her hands patting herself down as if to make sure she was still all there. He’d only ever heard of squirting, and here he was now, half blinded by her spray.

The sight of the teary eyed, mortified yet pleasure dumb confusion clouding her exquisitely clever face had given him no other option. He had to have her, had possess her, had to take, had to fuckin’ take his due. Now.

She was in no position to deny him, shaking in pleasurable shock and splayed out boneless and unsuspecting. Through a tunnel of starry spots she saw his glistening wet face come in to view, hovering over her own, and felt the warm weight of his body settling over hers, famillair and steadying. She tried to raise her floppy hand to pet his rosy cheek, to somehow convey how lovely he made her feel, but her hand wouldn’t respond beyond flopping around a few inches from the mattress like a beached fish. She began to giggle and could not stop, thinking she should stop so he could kiss her: ya can’t kiss a giggling woman as her lips aren’t available when she’s giggling and he’s gonna kiss her —

—he didn’t kiss her, instead he had gripped her cheek and it steadied her enough for the giggles to die out almost as effectively as the sobering feel of a blunt, slippery, heated thing pushing at her entrance.

“No, no, no” Elaine’s mind whimpered in betrayed protest, “no, no it had been so lovely, it had been so lovely, it had been nice acting married.”

Tears that had gathered and spilled from the nerve wracking ecstasy he had forced out of her, now spilled afresh down her splotchy cheeks. Her dark eyes glittered like dazzling pools of hurt, her head tilted to the side in disagreement with his plan.

Of course, of course, she thought, there’s always something more to be asked of a woman, a banquet can be enjoyed but there are always dishes afterwards, you get your pretty breasts but you have to bleed every month for them, you can have your house licked to madness but it’s only so that a hungry boy can more easily split you apart.

No, no, why? it had been so lovely…

Elvis had of course thought about fucking Elaine Phipps until she cried, he sometimes dreamed about her thrashing from too much pleasure her eyes streaming tears and her mouth twisted as she tried to let him finish, as he made her enjoy it more than she thought she had the capacity to. He’d thought of it, but it wasn’t the same as trying to push into a hole belonging to a girl mindlessly whimpering “No, no” beneath you.

Having an innocence kink, Elvis was discovering, was a lot sexier in theory, before stupid feelings emerged and pesky consciences nagged and the shuddering terror of your wife beneath you was abundantly tangible. That was a fantasy best kept between himself and his fist, and rock hard as he was, and nearly unhinged from waiting, he just couldn’t manage to do it this way. That old insecurity, that burning awareness that he had always wanted her more than she had wanted him came crowding into his mind, making his own eyes burn in rejection and fear.

“Shhh, shhh baby, it’s alright’ sweetheart, hey, hey it’s me, me c’mon, look at me.” he had begged her, hands engulfing both sides of her face, “I’m sorry, Elaine, I’m sorry.” it spills out in cry of his own because he doesn’t know how else to admit his long harbored expectations of her, the carnal weight of what he has wanted all this time, and all the wasted years he’d never told her he worshiped the soundboard her yittle fingers so cleverly levered , “I’ve loved you ever since I came back and found ya grown. I’m sorry, I’ve -I-I’ve wanted to have ya for years. You’re the most perfect thing alive. I-I-I just gotta have ya, I just gotta. I-I’ll d-d-die if ya don’t want me, too, honest I’ll die.”

When she looked at him then, looked and truly saw the soul of him stamped on his face -suddenly she saw everything she once doubted existed. He loved her. Elvis loved her and she was at peace.

It was Elvis. Dear ole Elvis, the boy at the studio who liked her sandwiches, the boy who she could most likely find sitting on the couch with his mother talking about his day, the boy who brushed her hair out for her the day they buried mama. It was Elvis, who was gonna give her babies, who’s gonna make sure she never wants for a thing, who is never going to let her be lonely or purposeless again. Elvis who was the most beautiful, exquisitely potent man she’d ever known, laying on top of her, shaking in desire to be inside her. He wanted to be inside her, so badly in fact, that all his power and his verve and his pride were shaking and shuddering above her.

“Oh my darling, you made me feel lovely.” she whispered to him, wanting that said before he split her open and took away her innocence. “Your love makes me happy, so happy. How could I not want that?“

“You want it?” he begged against her lips, he begged to hear it again while grabbing his tip and smudging against her clit, making her jerk and bow up in his arms. A reminder of what he can do to her, what he can give her, why she should be obedient.

“Yes, yes I want it.“ she repented of thinking anything unkind about her husband’s cock that’s gonna water her garden and grow her a family, that’s going to pry her open so children can pass through.

“Alright, ok.” he gathered his wits one last time, terrified to think of how he’s gonna lose all grip on himself once inside her after expending so patience beforehand, “Here's what we’re gon- we’re gonna let you control it.''

His brain pumped out fragmented explanations but he managed to sit up and bring her with him, landing her in his threatening lap, his arms cradling her little self, and he scooted higher in the bed until he was sitting upright, the padded black headboard at his back.

“There, here… we’ll, we’ll get it in like this.” he took to referring to his own body like it was a stranger, heaving in ragged breaths like a snorting racehorse. “At’cher own pace, baby. Ya-ya can…ya can sit on it.” He was no longer bothering to make sense, and thank God she seemed to realize that.

Being naive did not mean she was a fool. The novel concept now explained it was abundantly obvious in mechanics. Elaine grasped the slippery length of him firmly again, relishing the aliveness of it, holding it as she had when measuring him against her tummy.

She bit her lip with savage determination. Babies, he’s gonna give her babies.

Her husband’s face was all lash fanned anticipation, his pouty mouth grimacing in barely contained fervor and his eyes crinkled in a wince of pleasure from her grip. She saw a single tear escape his thicket of lashes and run down his prominent cheekbone, headed towards his hairline. She swiped at it tenderly with a thumb and had her hand grasped by him in response, tremblingly guided to his shoulder.

Leverage, she realized, he was giving her leverage and she raised up with her thighs like she would in the saddle, felt his hand meet her own down there to line him up, the size of his head against her giving her a thrill of horrored excitement.

Gently hovering and squatting, she gentled the puffy, leaking head of him in. The burning little sting of it only served to confirm that Elaine was about to be split apart when the rest followed. Now nestled far enough to need no guide, he grabbed at her other hand and put it in place on his shoulder, their noses touching, their legs bent atop the each other’s, arms encircled -suddenly this embrace made it feel completely essential to Elaine that they be connected in that remaining way. As if he could feel her submit around his first inch, his eyes flew open and a hungry azure gaze burned her up as her hair curtained around their faces and—

“You were made for this.” he reminded her as she whimpered at another little bit of length inserted, “You w-w-were fashioned u-up i-in heaven f-for this m-moment.” and the young man who couldn’t be made to stop wiggling in a Church pew tried to hold still as his drippingly tight wife cringingly lowered herself more, “In the doll factory u-up above, h-he m-m-made this lil house to t-the direct d-demensions t-t-to squeeze me d-dry —oh fuck, baby c’mon! That’s it, m-more come on, take me. Take more of me!” he groaned, his head bowed and watching where he began to disappear inside of Elaine, the culmination of all his madness.

“God Elvis it’s-its already awful.” she admits, staring at the stupid black headboard and registering every pulsing inch and vein and ridge of his rock hard, half jammed penis inside her tiny canal. “I dunno if i can-“

“Aww no ya don’t! No -don’t ya dare.” his snarled and gripped her hips as she began to raise up and dismount -it was only going to make it worse to try again and he was gonna make her finish this for her own sake, “Good wives don’t get off their husband’s cock till he says so. We’re ruinin’ ya for anyone else, babydoll, course it's gonna hurt something awful first time. Gotta see it though, don’t ya lose our progress.”

He saw a vicious emotion flash across her face -and he recognized it. It was the one from the mirror before a show, that wretched look of ambition that keeps him from fleeing from a crowd when all he wants to do is hide and puke his nerves away. He barely had time to brace his back before she was impaling herself on him again with teeth gritted ferocity, seething in his ear something about how she’d rather get kicked by Trojan -her gorgeous quarter horse. It made Elvis think of horses and her thighs working in the saddle and horses and stallions and stallions mounting mares and fuckin ‘em full and he-

“You’re gonna, you’re gonna take me.” he declared inexorably as she whimpered, “You’re gonna do what God made ya for, you’re gonna take my cock.”

“I can’t.” she wasn’t even whining, she could just feel him hitting a barrier and she couldn’t take more. “Please E, be nice, I-I ca- it’s not gonna fit, E!”

“It will, you’re my wife, ya will. You’ll take it all.” he kissed her check while reminding her steadily.

Then he snapped his hips up to meet hers in a powerful pump that tore her right through. She landed flush in his lap, a gush of virgin blood pooling between them, full to the brim with his thick cock nestled inside. Not even a cry let past her lips, just open mouthed shock, as if he’d punched the scream right out of her diaphragm.

Holy shit, his mind supplied, she was the tightest, most spectacularly tight -tightly wet pretty- tight woman. His whole body shook in delight at the wet, moldable grip of her walls, and he held her closer, blessing her for being so perfect, mumbling in between her still clothed breasts that he was gonna ruin her cunt for any other fella.

Elaine recalls just trying to breathe, even while clutching at his shoulders and listening to the filth pour out of his panting mouth, filth that confirmed his confession that he’d had designs on her body long ago. It made her shiver, which rubbed him inside of her and she doubled over into his chest, whimpering at the fullness and the burning sting of her stretched entrance. A thought flashed across her mind that he was mean to make her take all of him, the tip would have done just as well, and now she feels like she’s impaled on a pipe and his hips won’t stop squirming to force it that much deeper. He sounded like he was enjoying himself, maybe even having a vision of heaven buried inside her, and in that alone she took joy and made herself disentangle from him enough to glance down at the marvelous union they’d made.

It made her gasp in awe. She had swallowed him whole with her own body, taken him down to the root, his sack warm and full beneath her petals, absorbed him till there was no longer a he and she in the bed, but merely them. The Presley’s.

“Lord almighty, you’re tighter than hell.” Elvis moaned in appreciation of the absolute restructuring of her privates that he’d just done, gripping her back with his sweaty hands and letting his eyes roll into his skull in ecstasy.

“Tight yes -great balls of fire E, it hurts like hell.” she reiterated, a little petulant over his enjoyment of her wounded kitty, but he could tell even now she was recovering from the initial tearing open. “It’s not, it’s not supposed to -I can’t believe it fit.”

Curious despite herself, Elaine snuck a hand between them and gingerly felt the stretched ring of her hole and the thick base of him where they were flush, dark curls meeting together. He put his hand on top of her own and encouraged her exploration, making her pet herself and making her squeeze him despite the pained whimper she let out each time her pleasure made her please him.

“Jus’ ruinin ya for anyone else.” he repeated and she shivered in his arms, flicking her eyes up to meet his and sensing a beastial sort of claiming in them she had never seen before, “My wife,” he gloried in the title as his hips began to gently rock her in his lap, making her mewl, “my pretty wife, my good wife, look at you takin’ every damn bit of my cock, look at ya makin yourself useful, pleasin your man, ya like pleasin me dontcha? I know ya do, I’ve felt ya shiver when I praised ya before, I feel ya watchin me to make sure I like a thing you do. I know you, ya might not love me but ya love to please me, I know what you want. You wanna please me, always have since I first saw ya. Ya know what pleases me baby?” he tilted her face to his by her chin, her cheeks wet with tears and her mouth panting as he ground inside her deep and hard as granite, ignoring her whimpers -only her eyes showed the wild revelry she was feeling at being spoken to like this, “Know what makes me happiest?”

“No sir.” she gasped, respectful and suddenly aware of how helpless she was in his lap as his huge hands engulfed her plush hips and made her to swivel and grind on him, the motion tugging her lil house apart even more.

“Pleasin’ God by pleasin myself by filling you up. That’s what. That’s what makes me happy” he stated, the look of girlish shock she showed at his language shooting straight to his cock and making him jab up into her body until she clung to his shoulders and wailed, painfully aroused by the concept and terribly hurt by the process.

“Please, please.” she sobbed into his neck as he gripped her ass and leveraged her up and down on his thick shaft, his groans mounting joyously and her body trembling at being used so presumptuously. It’s too much, he’s too much of a man and her womb aches from his thrusts.

“Please use me?” he grinned into her neck wildly, “That wha’ you’re tryin to say, lil one? can’t get it out with a cock in ya, can ya? So yittle I bet I’m clean up through to your throat, ain’t I? My poor lil wifey.”

It was his glutted acknowledgement of the fact he knew she felt like he was spearing her beyond her capacity, yet he wouldn’t stop, loved her too much to stop driving himself into her, making himself fit in her. He wanted to be a part of her so bad he’d grab her wrists and bruise her hip with his grip and snap his pelvis against her own ruthlessly -just so he could be close to her. Just so she would be his.

It had her moan again, this time from something besides pain.

“Elvis.” she moaned out, trying to tell him, to somehow alert him to the fact she was willing and good and could feel her body had begun to give into its natural purpose, she was slumping into his chest, and her pussy still burned and ached but had surrendered to the veiny little conquerer plundering her depths. “Elvis I-I- yes, yes, use me.” she managed and was given a proud and searing kiss in return for her submission. “You’re so pretty.” she said it like it was some dazed explanation for her obedience.

With Elaine’s pussy giving and wet from blood and slick, he knew he could begin in earnest now. So, gently, he tipped her backwards out of his lap again, laying her on the golden sheets and falling deeper inside her as he got back on top, never pulling out through the whole maneuver. Her eyes rolled back as she felt him lay atop her, buried to the hilt, her legs pushed apart to bracket his waist and allow him deeper. She threw her arms around his neck and breathed in like she was about to be dropped on a rollercoaster, some imminent adventure obviously looming as he buried himself deep and got a thorough grip on her shoulders before kissing her ardently.

It was when she was kissing him back and thinking how wonderfully sweet he was that she first felt those famous hips pull back, then drive himself inside of her with shocking precision. It made her cry out, and before she could suck in breath to replace her cry he was pulling out and pumping in again, little gusts of shock mined out of her at each powerful and measured pump and her back began to rub against the bedspread, her whole body seemed to shake from the force of absorbing his vigor.

“Thank me.” he required, aiming to find that spot that had made her spray his face, determined to wipe that pained grimace off her face and replace it with pleasure.

“Thank -thank you?” her tone was dazed and he wasn’t sure if her confusion stemmed from what she was supposed to be grateful for, or if she disagreed. She gripped the comforter, hands above her head and out to the side, absorbing the ripple he drove into her flesh.

“I've made ya a woman.” he reminded, proud and smug as only a 23 year old boy can be when tumbling his pretty young bride in the sheets beneath him, “So thank me.”

She pensively watched him as he swayed above her, blocking out the gaudy chandelier, his hair flopping into his eyes and moving with the cadence of his body, his body was unforgiving and driving into hers with a steady, slow beat, but his face was still desperately insecure, searching for approval and a hint that he was doing well. She loosened one hand from the counterpane and brought it to his cheek. He melted, a huffed out whimper of his own, in sharp contrast to the rigid power of his desire.

“Sweet man.” she whispered, “So good to me, always so good to me.” she assured, and he gave her a wet kiss full of wanting, letting her pet down his neck, over his back, stroking the swell of his flank, remembering the reaction it had elicited in him and figuring she’d thank him once he managed something worthy of it. Which he was very close to doing, she sensed, if he could relax himself. “Elvis,” she nuzzled his nose with hers, propping herself up on her forearms, to look down the length of her belly at the place where he speared her, “gimme those babies, and I’ll thank ya.”

Her daring grin had the intended effect, his nostrils flared as he heaved in a breath and his pupils blew wide, he pried her other hand from the bedding and interlaced it in his much larger one, pressing the knuckles to the mattress,

“I love you.” he swore before gripping her hip and tilting her pelvis off the bed, to the angle of his satisfaction before he drove his hips in with the purpose of finding that place that made her wild, the one his fingers had discovered and got her to spray for him.

He knew he’d brushed it when her face went from sweet compliance with the discomfort and placid curiosity for the proceedings to eyelash fluttering shock.

“E!” she gusted out urgently and a little unsure, unsure that this horrid taking of him could really be morphing into the spine tingling thrill she was now feeling each time he drove in, the tug and ache of his size still apparent but almost serving to heighten the aliveness of her feelings down there. “Right -right there it’s, it’s oh, it’s-“ she hadn’t a word for it, as the feeling was growing in strength and any moment there might be some shift that turned it back to pain, his speed was picking up and it scared her as much as it excited her. Like when he started speeding on the winding roads of North Carolina just to hear her shriek, conflicted between excitement and fear.

“Yeah?” he huffed, shining with sweat and heat above her, his hair darkened and his eyes darkened and his lips darkened and he- he looked so flushed and dark and decadent and she moaned at the sight of so beautiful a creature possessing her, pleasuring himself with her body, like any animal or male would do with a mate. He could have just hunted her down on a forest floor, chosen her for her scent alone, pinned her fist to the ground and her hips up to his pelvis and -it was that primal. She loved it. Like all the energy and raw potency of life he had in him when performing was now being driven into her aching belly. “Yeah? Yeah that’s where ya like it? Tell me how ya like it, jus’ tell me and I’ll do anything. Anyhtin’ for ya, Elaine. I done told ya, told ya I’d make it nice.”

Nice was a pathetic word for what he was making her feel and she found herself wishing she had an extra hand to stifle the sounds that began to wail out of her throat at his unforgiving depth. His own moans and breaths were shuttering across her face and the intimacy of what they were doing filled her with a serene joy she’d only felt on crisp, tea drinking early dawns in autumn. It made her squeeze him closer and she could just feel the comfort he took in it, his whole body melding to hers. Elvis’ slow and long pumps had her adjusting well and the unerring accuracy he maintained when noticing something she liked soon had her clenching from pleasure rather than pain.

“You’re in me.” she stated the obvious with a little shock in her voice, turned silly beneath him as he shuddered and pumped in her, “Oh god you’re in me, and, and it’s, it’s -you’re so good at this…”

There was a kind God above after all, and she let out a giggle at the joy of it, at the joy of taking Elvis Presley to the hilt like she’d been born to do. The pride on his face came through the feral pleasure painting it, his hands beginning to map her own body, feeling the jiggle and give of her as he fucked her up the length of the bed, shock coming across his own features as he registered something new that first made a flash of panic burn through him.

He was in her, entirely bareback. And, well, he knew that of course but suddenly, the mind bending intensity of sensations around his cock made sense. It was the first time he’d been inside a woman without a barrier, no condom to distract from her silky grip, his precum gushing and spluttering, slicking up the way for his cock to drive in, turning their love making into a lewd cacophony of sounds that made the man in him exult. It’s my wife, he reminds himself both jubilantly but also to keep the reflexive panic of going in raw at bay, it’s my wife and I need to give her babies. To keep her I gotta fill her up.

“Look at that perfect face.” he groaned aloud to himself, and he meant Elaine’s “taking-cock” face, which he had imagined a million times, but her open mouthed, eye fluttering, hands in hair image below him was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in all his life, “Look at that perfect fuckin lil face.” he repeated as he forced himself in her all the way, bumping at her crevice and making her let out some form of sob.

“Y-you’re in deep enough?” she gasped out an inquiry, suddenly able to recall what this was all for, accepting of her purpose and close to feral in desire to accomplish it well.

“Ya can take more?” He asked, truly about to lose all grip on himself and wanting her blessing for it, “Gonna lemme get deep, baby? Make me a daddy, hmm? Gonna make me a daddy?”

He sped up with each sentence, her frantic nods and her “yes, yes Elvis, give me more, all of you!” spurring him on till he was driving into her and making those gorgeous breasts of her’s bounce wildly beneath her much abused silk nighty. “Get it deep, please, please get it deep.”

In theory he knew she wanted his swimmer's up past the cake she ate, his own perverted lesson suddenly coming back to bite him with a vengeance as her pleas sent him careening towards his own orgasm faster than he had any intention of blowing. But he was a man, and all his cock heard was “deeper.” And so he drove in deeper and harder.

“S’good.” she continued and her perfect diction was now slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth and nothing but Elvis Elvis Elvis in her view and in her mind and in her body. “Gonna be good, it’s so good I-come on E, gimme those babies, please please, yes, you’re so good to me.” she was looking up at him in awe, her body spasming and shaking so hard he wasn’t sure if she was coming constantly or having one terribly intense build up. The sweet darling certainly had no clue, and that thought made him grip Elaine harder and he felt his mind grow hazy at her praise, “Elvis you’re, you’re so pretty like this!” she cried out, her neck strained as she clasped her hands around his face and stared deep into his eyes as he plowed her, those carmel colored eyes holding an intensity he’d never seen in a woman.

It shook him to the core and plunged him somewhere deep and subservient, the world felt like it was tilting and he was fading to a place where he was a pretty boy and a useful stud and he-

“Fuck! Elaine you-“ he wanted to tell her she couldn’t, she couldn’t say such things to him, it would turn him mindless, he knew the symptoms. He’d no longer be the strong husband she needed but her goddamn slave, a whimpering pathetic mess. He was going to come.

He pulled out abruptly, and as if his cock stuffing her pussy was filling the whole of her with strength, like a doll with batting. she deflated against the bed in confusion at the sudden halt and withdrawal.

“Baby?” she questioned him in a forlorn whimper, her entire consciousness begging for more as he patted her thighs soothingly and fought to grapple his sanity back in place. He couldn’t slip and turn ‘little’ tonight, he simply wasn’t able to do that to Elaine. He stared down at her freshly gaping little hole and swore he didn’t mean to be an ass, but he was just a man, and she was his wife to do with what he wanted. She wanted his babies, and she didn’t know better than to let him do whatever it took to give her that. And right now, he couldn’t handle the adoring looks and innocent dirty talk pouring out of the mouth of a virtuous girl he had long harbored such obscene intentions for. It turned him very desperate and perhaps a little mean.

“Forgive me, mama.” he muttered when leaning over Elaine and kissing her hard before he gripped his bride’s delicate waist and flipped her onto her knees. “It’s better for breeding this way.” he gritted out at her confused gasps, palming her ass where her slip had ridden up to expose her. He lined himself up with her pussy and watched with savage enjoyment as his girth slowly stretched her pretty pink rim beyond all seeming capacity and her following whimpers were music to his ears, her trill of confused enjoyment as he slid to the full, the cutest thing imaginable.

Immediately she missed the sweet intimacy of his embrace, the pleasurable sight of his face above her, also. And this angle, this method, it was deeper and tugged again at the petals of her house that had just gotten used to his usage. She thought to object, to tell him she didn’t like it this way -he had told her to tell him what she liked. She assumed, hoped, that stood for what she didn’t like, as well.

Elvis is a good boy, she heard her father say in her head, Elvis is a good boy -even as this good boy lined his inordinate organ up with her sore little place and thrust inside again. She was going to have to tell him she didn’t like it this way.

That is, until she lifted her head from the sheets he had tossed her in, belly first and face down, and noticed the mirror hanging opposite them. In it she saw a perfect view of her own face, a face she knew but hardly recognized, so…matured…was it in the gilt reflection. Her face was flushed and richly colored and her mouth gaping like one of those steamy movie posters where the woman has succumbed to the man’s embrace-and god knows whatever else it was the man was doing to her below the waist where the posters always seemed to cut off. The man was snapping his hips to push himself inside the woman, that’s what they were all doing. Now she knew, and she watched enthralled as Elvis mounted her from behind like a damn stallion, his broad hand gripping her shoulder and yanking her back against him as he snapped forward, the other fiddling under her hemline until he found her little button and began to play.

Nevermind, she thought, focusing on trying to breathe as he began to set a demanding pace again, pain and pleasure in this act equal parts for her as she propped up on her forearms and watched him watch what he was doing to her virgin hole, -nevermind he can keep at it, she decided.

His calloused fingers were petting and swirling and tugging so perfectly in her little nub in time with his strokes she began to happily anticipate the next thrust, rocking back on her own accord, feeling the bliss build again but this time stronger than what he had given her before with his mouth. In the mirror she could see how the strap of her slip had fallen off her shoulder and now lay partway down her arm, her gaping neckline now exposing a whole breast showing how it jiggled obscenely with each of his movements. It made her cheeks burn.

Elaine tried to right the strap but holding herself up with one arm made her nearly wobble face first into the sheets again and it made him lose his rhythm and suddenly it was entirely too good like that, face in the bed and hips propped up, and she needed that hand to stifle her shrieks of pleasure as he pounded into her without a hitch at the new position.

“Ya like it like that, hmm?“ he gritted out as she folded and screamed beneath him, speeding his fingers up on her clit as her thighs began to clamp shut. “God look at these hips, anythin’ but cradlin’ babies would be a goddamn waste of ‘em.” he squeezed at their plush width while yanking her back on him again and again.

“T-t-they’re gonna hear me.” she wailed once, and he realized she meant the guests downstairs, that once she realized that he wasn’t going to stop just because her pleasure had her in a place where she could no longer be in possession of herself, she had begun to fear for their reputation.

“Let ‘em.” he growled, taking his wet hand from between her thighs and running it up the length of her bowed spin, relishing the way she was drenching his thighs too, “They all know what I’m doin’ to ya. They knew what you were signin’ up for, even if you didn’t.” that thought made his balls tingle and he knew he close, that and the fact Elaine’s had her pretty little face barely propped up enough to watch them in mirror, watching as he plowed her from the back in tear stained, shocked, pleasured obedience to his wants, “Whole world’s gonna know what a good wifey you are, soon enough. They’re gonna see ya swellin and fillin out and they’re gonna know how good you are for me, how well ya take me, how much ya enjoy splittin’ yourself on my cock.”

“Oh God!” she screamed at the thought and at the thrill of his praise and buried her face into the golden bedding in abject submission and ecstasy, no longer able to compute the image of her dear, sweet Elvis mounting her body and snarling in pleasure in the mirror as he used her to chase his relief.

Elaine, to his lust clouded mind, had the prettiest ass on earth and it filled his hands perfectly, and her overstimulated shrieks and mewls and squeals sounded every damn bit like a Disney Princess. And somehow, that thought really did it for him.

Elvis hadn’t given it a lot of thought before, mind ya, hadnt spent time contemplating what it would be like to make Snow White touch her toes while getting skewered or how it would be to push Cinderella’s sweet face into the sheets. But he was pretty sure that if one of those doll-like little ladies had ever been made to take cock after true love's kiss, they’d sound rather like the squeaking little thing writhing beneath him right now.

He jabbed harder just for the fun of that, just for the enjoyment of the fact he was balls deep in a virgin cunt about to blow his load inside a woman for the first time ever. His jabs and swivels and fucks made she squeal more, clinging to the foot of the bed, no rich alto moan left in her with every inch he made her take.

She sounds like Tinkerbell, if Tinkerbell ever had the sweet misfortune to be loved on by Elvis Presley. He grins at the mirror, grins at the bowed figure of his little wife, gives a passing prayer of thanks for this perfect woman he is gonna spend the rest of his life loving in this way.

Take this, Tinkerbell, he thinks excitedly, ramming home once more and feeling himself drain inside her at last in long, pulsing, gushing spurts.

She knew that feeling, she realized in a daze. Yes she had felt it just this night when they were writhing against each other but -this hot gizer of warmth shooting inside her… the porch swing. He had wasted his seed in his pants on the porch swing. He wasted so much wanting her without telling her, it makes her heart ache for him. She spreads her trembling legs apart and tries to wiggle him in deeper, pushing back onto his key as he shudders to a halt, trying to be of help for him, to get it where it needs to go. No more waste. No more pining. It makes him sob and groan as she milks him, her sweet boy returning as he drapes over her back, a boneless weight before gently rolling onto his back and taking her with him, still impaled. A stopper of sorts, to keep it from leaking, from wasting.

There is not a single part of her body that does not tremble, nor of his either, they cling to each other, fully equal in post-coital vulnerability now and try to remember what world they belong in. His hands cradle her lower belly, pressing her close to him and swiping his thumbs along her spine, just as she pets over his arm and nuzzles into the hollow below his throat. She’s so touchy, caressing him and squeezing him like she needs the contact as badly as he does, and it’s exactly what he always wanted, hoped, didn’t dare ask heaven for but he’s got it. She’s here, she’s his.

“You’re my wife.” he marvels, and he is referring twofold to the act that just made her so and he means it wondrously by the way she lov- cares- for him so well. “You make me so happy.” he says against her lips.

“Thank you.” she whispers, cracking open her eyes to see him soft and gentle right there beside her, “For choosing me.”

“Didn’t have a choice.” he croaks, “Never has been a choice with you, I had to have ya, was more your choice than it ever was mine to lemme be yours.”

“You are mine now, aren’t ya.” she muses and he sees the way that thought sparks some life back into her heavy lidded eyes.

It’s good to belong to someone, he thinks, comforted as he brings his mouth down to hers. “Yeah, always, always gonna be yours.”

He kisses her long and slow and she returns it, her body sated beneath his caresses in a way his masculine, virulent one could never be when laying beside her, buried inside her still, newly laying claim. It is a gentle rocking when he begins again, quite helplessly, to move inside her, and she is so busy tugging at his cropped hair and nipping at his lips that she doesn’t seem to notice that they’re swaying vertically until he draws her leg over his hip and begins to drive up again in earnest, her moans a sweet melody she pours into his mouth. It’s quiet this second time and unrushed, and she has grown used to the ache, he thinks he should tell her soon to use the restroom, but he’ll have to take his fill again first.

He wonders when he’ll find the time to tell her to go between telling her he loves her. She asks him if they can do this often.

“Bout as often as we can manage.” Tumbled out of his lips happily.

“And how often’s that?” she urged him breathily, her eyes losing focus they were so close to his own.

“Enough times to lose count, Laney.” he promised, “Gotta fill ya up, best we can. Gotta be diligent.”

There was no soaring crescendo to this session, he merely clutched at her harder on one lazy upstroke, her fingernail had caught his nipple and zapped him straight to heaven like a thunderbolt to the frenulum. And then she felt him spilling inside again. Warm and hot and soothing the battering of her walls. His fingers took hers and pulled them down between her legs to pet the damage again, smearing him around like ointment on a wound. They had acted married twice now, she figured. They’d done marriage twice. The second she had liked even better than the first as he held her all the while, even though no searing height had happened to her.

“When you were with other girls,” she whispered into his chest later as they dozed between bouts of kissing and cuddling, “this isn’t -you didn’t…” she faltered for a moment before lifting her face to gaze down at him with warmth and gentle pleading, “-you didn’t do this with them, did you? You don’t act married with them, right?”

Perhaps most men would have chosen to lie. Elvis had no need despite his experience and his reputation. He had, a dozen or a hundred times, wrapped himself in latex and put it in a dozen or hundred women, some he cared for genuinely and some who were life preservers in a sea of lonely travels, but he’d never acted married. He’d never done this sort of intimacy before. He figured he was practically a virgin too, in that sorta way. In making love with the intention to bind himself, trap himself forever to one single soul. It ought to have been terrifying, that commitment, but feeling himself drip out of Elaine into the cradle of his hips he just felt right, like he was home. Like he’d just given himself to someone who actually wanted him. “No honey, I didn’t act married with any of ‘em. You’re the only one who gets my seed. I swear, really I do, now or ever.”

She could tell he meant that promise, and now he’d taught her how to express herself in this new language, she thanked him the only way she knew how, by gleefully rolling atop him again. It was a language she realized she was seeking most of her life, ever since anger and joy and want had flared in her and had been summarily instructed to be curtailed.

Propriety. Mildness. Rise above it all. She was good at the art of it all, and had been praised for it. Yet here was a man who coaxed vehemence out of her, taught her to inflict it on his body, who found pleasure in this grappling, wrestling, messy way that made such sense to her now she had found it.

I could love you, I’m going to love you, I’m very much in danger of loving you, was said with each swivel of her hips and lick of her tongue down his neck. “Oh Elvis.” sounded sweetly in his ear as he bounced her like a doll in his lap and made her fall apart.

Elvis had kissed her temple as he panted his breath back in again. Kept himself plugged in as long as possible till he shrank to nothing and slipped out. His destructive cock a now harmless, wet little thing that she cooed at in a most embarrassing way for him, but he was too happy with her laying on his chest to protest the curious fondling she gave his sensitive cock.

“This new house by Fort Hood, the one that agents of your’s got us,” he had murmured huskily while swigging from the chilled bottles of water retrieved from the mini fridge -with Elaine riding on his back to the closet and then the bed again, refusing to be apart, “it’s got a split layout, ya see. Top and bottom floor’s got a kitchenette, might not be the easiest for cookin’ but it’ll give us -space.” he assured, and she bit her lip imagining what he’d want the privacy for. “Wouldn’t ya rather a lil privacy ‘stead of a big ole countertop? I-I-if not I-I can-“

“Sounds perfect.” she sighed dreamily, thinking about making him meals and him coming home to eat them, gallant and lean in his pressed uniform. “You’re real handsome in your uniform, ya know that?” she figured it didn’t hurt to admit it, her man seemed to thrive off compliments from her, and he never did seem to get a big head from them. Except for the other little head that twitched and swelled at any compliment at all.

It was getting late, or early more like, and as she felt his interest grow yet again, Elaine played at denial. A silly, jokingly, little sort of thing where she wriggled away from his grabby hands and tried to make it out of the bed -headed to god knows where, the champagne bottle or the record player or downstairs, she didn’t know as she had no real intention of fleeing. But being seized from the back by her husband and playfully thrown back on his bed, made to sprawl out on the corner of the mattress , her legs hanging apart and her pathetic little slip still hanging onto her modesty for dear life, it was rather thrilling the way he had muttered,

“Oh no ya don’t, good lil wives don’t run.” and put himself back into her overused body, relishing her moan at his first thrust in and the fucked out compliance of the grinning girl beneath him. “I wanna see my pretty wife’s tits,” he asked as he watched them bouncing and jiggling with each absorbed fuck, “C’mon baby, be good and lemme see those pretty pillas of mine, you won’t deny me will ya? Come on, baby, so pretty, so round, gonna make ‘em blow up soon enough, whole world’ll notice ‘em. I wanna be the first to see ‘em before it. Up we go, lemme, come on yittle one, thas it, lift it up.”

He watched as this woman of his who was currently impaled on his cock blushed and smiled and bashfully pulled up her slip till her buttermilk soft mounds were bare, pink nipples pebbled and a scared, hopeful look on her face as her slip bunched at her clavicle.

“Goddamn, I’m a lucky man.” he had groaned and not missed her relieved smile. Then playfully flicked the slip up and over to hide her bright red face before folding himself enough to suck on a rosy little nipple while pistoning in and out. Soft, pliable flesh giving beneath the weight of his jaw and the nudge of his nose.

It was bizarre to Elaine, her sight obscured by the slip, her breathing hampered by the same, sound and feeling her chief senses this time. Just the sounds of him enjoying himself alone had a warm feeling curling in her chest and her belly, too, his hums and groans sending delightful zaps through her previously respectfully ignored nipples. His hands running up and down her ribcage, sometimes seizing her waist to pull her on him, sometimes fluttering over her diaphragm to feel himself moving within, nearly up her lungs he felt.

She felt as if she had finally been given privacy in which to truly feel and enjoy this, veiled by her own last shred of modesty, she let herself feel -and what she felt was astounding. She felt cherished. And she felt ravaged. And as if no one was here or anywhere on this earth to judge the way she screamed in delight, she yelled it and heard him answer her:

“that’s it, lemme hear ya” his teeth snapping at her nipples as he talked around them with his movements causing him to miss, sparking a fresh wave of noise to humidify the satin covering her face,

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

She chanted in happy panic as her legs drew up on their own, up and up and trying to close against the delicious onslaught, only to realize too late that it made the fit even tighter, the friction even stronger, the glint in her husband’s eyes wilder. He pinned them to her chest, with a single hand, to keep them out of the way. Slapped at her clit instead, made her scream in a way he didn’t think she was capable. Thought about doing it twenty years from now, thought about how he’d have the rest of his life to make his Tinkerbell scream. He slapped her there again and this time no scream, just a hissed in breath that had no exhale, her whole body clamping up in rigid ecstasy, tightening so strongly he couldn’t even keep his thrusts going to help her through.

Almost alarmed by her lack of breathing, he thought to pull at her slip, up and over her head till her face was visible again -she looked as if she were in some great agony, and his smug heart flipped at the sight, before leaning down to kiss her.

He was all chestnut hair aglow, wicked dark eyes and sweet lips, hovering down into her hazy view and her body wasn’t her own anymore, the damage had been done and the cliff she was teetering on gave way beneath her sanity when his lips met hers, his warm chest rubbing against her spit chilled nipples. For the second time that night she sprayed him, and through the eye rolling, rapturous tingle of it she heard him asking if she was “coming.”

“Oh goddamn, goddamn look a’that, oh fuck me sideways that’s hot as hell.” he blabbered, pulling out just long enough to wiggle his cockhead against her petals and force another jet out, coating his own abs with it, relishing the way her belly shook and her legs clamped together straight in the air, her hands clawing at the slip like she was trying to fight her way out. “Sweet Jesus you’re so sensitive.” he praised, pushing back in despite her hiss, and the way her feet tried to plant themselves on his shoulders to push him away. “Gotta lemme back in darlin’, I got another deposit to make.” he joked, loving the way she was clawing and wiggling away from him on pure, over fucked insinct, red painted nails dug deep enough to rip into the gold bedding. “Come on, be good, be good for me, lemme in baby, lemme in , doin’ so good, so good I know you’re so damn full, just a lil more, lil more. Don’t want any to go to waste do ya?”

He was wicked for using those magic words to make the shaking girl open up and let him in again, but he made up for it by the kisses, he felt, and in praise, and promising her if she stayed good she’d have those babies. Careening headlong towards another orgasm of his own with the sounds she was making and the lewd squelch of how wet she was down there, downright squelching with all his contributions and her own slick, he swore she was everything he’d ever dreamed of. She smiled at that.

“I’m gonna come.” he promised her almost in a beg, pleading for her to understand why he sped up and started to pound her again in earnest, erratic thrusts.

“W-whats coming?” she whined, her eyes screwed shut and her thighs shivering beneath his shoulders, “Y-you’re already here…”

The more he drained his balls, the more his mind seemed to leave him as well, all catered sentences and prim vocabulary gone straight out the window with his last shred of self restraint. “This-is-comin-“ he punctuated as he drove himself in, then felt his balls draw up and try to offer up residual bits of spunk but nothing seemed to come out. Served him right how white hot and painful it felt, sputtering dry inside her. He hoped she didn’t notice the deposit was a blank check. Also hoped she didn’t hear the pathetic whimper he’d let out as lil Elvis heaved his last attempt at it. By the way she was humming and petting at his hair, cradling him gently as he sagged atop her on the corner of the bed -he was afraid she’d heard and felt it all.

“Why’s it called that?” she whispered in his ear, and he wondered that she had any energy at all.

He burrowed his face deeper into her neck and mumbled, “Damned if I know, darlin.” he thought on it a little while longer while also thinking of the drip, drip, drip of their mess melting between them, “Unless it’s cause it makes ya feel like you’re havin a ‘come to God moment’, ya know?” he suggested and laughed when he felt her poking his cheek. “Do ya- do ya like it when…when ya-“ he couldn’t manage it now in the gentle afterglow, starting to get a chill after all his sweaty exertion cooled and left behind clammy skin and pooled secretions, feeling how naked and soft and lonely he was suddenly upon feeling sated for the first time tonight.

“Can we really do this as often as we want?” she asked instead, and her tone held no dread in it, only hopeful excitement. Suddenly the lonesomeness was gone again.

He felt her hands stroking his back and down to his ass again and he had giggled happily, not able to hold back his relief. “Yes, darlin.”

“Gosh.” she mused, petting him still, “To think I-I didn’t know about this and now it’s…” he propped up his chin on his hands to give her an inquiring look, begging her to finish, “it’s all I wanna do now.”

“That so?” he quirked his eyebrow and she flushed and began to shake her head, her tone pleading:

“Oh, not now, not right now -oh, please, please E, I’ll die if ya do, give me a minute.” she laughed and kissed him again.

“We should sleep.” he mused, half asleep already, pillowed on her boobs, his legs still technically still standing him upright as his upper body lay across the bed, across his new wife. “And bathe.” he realized.

“It’s very sloppy.” she agreed, and the thought of how uncomfortable she must be, stuffed with a half a dozen or more cum shots roused him to action.

He picked Elaine up bridal style and carried his now gloriously naked woman into the en-suite bathroom, seating her on the chilled marble countertop and grinning at the way she melted, spineless and used against the mirror, a soft smile lighting her dear face.

She liked watching his long lean, boyish figure, hard in some places and soft in others, strangely inviting in its combinations, ripple and flex as he bent and turned on the tub faucets, snagging gold embossed towels off the rack.

E.P. they read, gold thread glowing on the black cotton.

E.P.

For the both of them. It could be for either of them, it probably had been in his mind when he’d had them made, stocked his home full of monogrammed luxuries with her future initials on them E.P. --and all the while she had been fretting of dying a loveless old maid.

She laughed happily and found she couldn’t stop, catching sight of his embossed robe, hung on the door with the same initials. E.P. She was wanted, she was so very wanted here with him. It made her slide her jellied legs off the counter and hug him ferociously from behind, pressing kisses into his spine, and the freckles that smattered his shoulder blades.

“E.P.” she whispered and he got what she meant, turning round and grinning at her.

Once in the bath she dozed in his arms, near suffocated by bubbles and relishing his embrace, the warm water and his massaging hands soothing the ache between her legs.

“We haven’t washed the babies out have we?” she asked, groggily staring into the receding bath water as he tenderly toweled her off once stepping out of the tub. “I-I-I want those babies.“ she insisted and it must’ve been the lateness of the hour or the sheer amount of muchness she had been subjected to tonight but her lip started to wobble at the idea she’d carelessly risked her hopes down the drain, swirling away with the last of the bubbles. “Elvis I-I- didn’t mean to rinse them out!” she wailed, near hysterical with fatigue.

He tried assuring her but she wasn’t easily pacified. “I-I could give ya more.” he finally offered timidly, entirely uncertain either of them were capable of enduring another round.

He was toweling off her calves as he said it, pressing kisses to her knees and noticing the tremors in her thighs. To his shock she dropped to her knees beside him on the bathmat, eyes half mast and nearly insane looking in their fatigued determination,

“Please, please give it another try.” she nodded before spinning around on the bathmat, shakily swift and presenting him with her shapely ass.

‘Better for breeding this way’, came back to mind. God she was a quick study, and he prayed for strength and some shred of self restraint in indulging her. Instead, he found himself burying his face between her cheeks and licking at her devotedly, afraid they may have washed her slick away and worrying the burn of entry would be too much for her, fresh out of the tub and swollen from overuse as she was. No woman had let him do it this way, his face near buried in her bath warmed ass and his tongue kitten licking at her slick hole, but Elaine bore it with decorous appreciation, entirely unaware of being anything but eager in her responses, her spine arched and a rosy cheek pillowed on her forearms. Her yittle hand came down to pet Elvis’ diligent head as he worked between her legs.

“That’s it, I love it, E, like that, I love it when you…” she was mumbling in a slurred litany of praise he gobbled up ravenously, just like he did the shuddering little trickles of sweetness he coaxed out of her. “I’m -I’m, yeah yeah-“ he felt her grind down on his face as she shook again, and then it was as if the top half of her body nearly melted into the mat, just his hands keeping her ass in the air. “Please put it in.” she whispered, her hand still down there between her legs and reaching for something else of his now, her tone so soft and polite, like Cinderella asking for cock.

He aimed his cock into her waiting hand and watched with barely suppressed desire as her palm rolled over the rip and her nails gently raked across his veins as she moved to grip him and point him where she wanted him. There was a lewd sucking noise this time when he went in, like her body was finally trying to swallow him willingly, and he saw her head toss on the mat, dainty fingers woven into gold shag and her neck craned back to see him as he pressed in deep. Her face was flushed deep red and the makeup had worn off and she looked so innocent, so young beneath him, a single curl plastered dark and wet against her cheek from the bath. He’d unmade her, turned her back to her simplest form. He snapped his hips, lost his mind, noticed happily how her hand went to her hip and joined his there. He held onto it like a handle and jerked her back on him again and again, her cheek rubbing against the mat and her teeth sinking into her other fist to hush her cries. Those cries of hers, maybe something was very sick inside him that he liked them so much but he did, he did and he worked hard to draw more from her just as he dreamed of this, dreamed of her fluttering pink hole trying to take more and her eyes rolling back from the fatigue of it, her body unable to deny him.

“My poor belly,” he thought he heard her whimper, yet unsure he reached down and pulled her fist away from her mouth, it pushed him deeper in, bent her more starkly, speared her cervix, “Oh god, my belly, my poor belly.” she kept saying for sure this time.

“You alright, Lany?” he draped over her and brushed the damp strands off her face, her face that was red and splotchy from sensation and blood flow. She gave him a whimpering nod.

“You’resodeep” she accused him even as he felt her squeeze and shake around his girth, her mouth gaping for a brief moment at the unexpected little pleasure. “My poor belly.” she said it over and over again and he couldn’t stop. It was more just a bewildered mantra to comfort herself, as her mind betrayed her and wanted him but her body was so well used that was she was just…taking it

“You poor little thing,” he cooed, making sure to move slow and deep in a way that had them both shaking and stepping into madness, bent all over her bent frame himself, “you’re takin’ my cock so well, so obedient, never was a more righteous wife, never was, you’re a goddamn wonder, that’s what you are. I’ll thank God for ya every day.”

His praise always soothed her and he kept it up, not even sure what he was saying anymore as he chased his own release, focused on the bent little thing beneath him and the way it made her waist look minuscule in this position, her pink face, too. At one point he saw tears instead of bath splash on her face and as he felt himself begin to spurt he shushed her the best he could with the first thing that came to mind:

“Don’t cry Tink, please don’t cry.”

The nickname tickled her consciousness like a feather on the neck, some goosey thrill that tickled up her spine and added to the satisfied throb between her legs as he splashed hot and thick inside her.

“Tink?” she thought she had asked him, bewildered and charmed to have been christened. Maybe her words got lost in the bath mat.

He did not answer her, must’ve not heard her at all, but picked her up with his own shaking arms and like a couple of bambi's they toddled into the massive bed, throwing themselves under the covers quite unceremoniously. He tried to swat at the lamp as if that would turn it off, and realizing she was the more capable of the two -he seemed almost insensibley drained by that last encounter- she leaned over his chest and pulled at the lamp string, dousing the glow that surrounded them, only to realize dawn was splashing a violet haze through the crack of the window curtains.

“Good morning, Mrs. Presley.” he had teased softly, noticing the dawn too, his head tilted on the pillow to watch her shut off the lamp.

“Good morning, husband.” she murmured, wriggling on top of him as he held her fast, arms locked over her back and her head pillowed on his chest.

This cuddling was familiar, this drowsy holding of each other until he stilled and fell asleep, an art she had perfected since his mama died. But now she was the woman in his life, and strangely now that the hunger had been glutted and abated, they entwined around each other like babes or twins in a womb, this naked closeness the most natural of assurance in the world. Something Elvis had been missing since his brother had left him, since Jesse entered the world before him and chose not to stay and endure it with him, fell into place.

My sister! My spouse! -King Solomon had called his lover, and Elvis had felt that supremely odd when snooping through the Song of Songs as a boy. But now he knew -too many roles did she fill to be confined to one, and Elvis felt tempted as Elaine fell asleep atop him to whisper, “my brother, my spouse!” into her hair.

Sometime later, when deep unconscious, dreamless sleep had possessed them and held them fast, but not a long enough time for Elvis to be remotely cheerful about it, a obnoxious clanging sound broke in on their peaceful repose. Elaine jerked awake atop him with a startled little squeak and he put his hand to the back of her head to shush her, encouraging her to lay her cheek back on his shoulder. The noise resounded again and this time he was lucid enough to determine it was coming from outside the bedroom door.

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

Elaine huffed and rubbed her tired face into his chest, his sparse hairs there tickling her nose and making her sneeze. That made him laugh and with neither able to keep up the pretense of sleep, they raised their heads and looked towards the door with matching, raised and unimpressed eyebrows of displeasure.

“If this is the boys idea of a practical joke,” he growled with sleepy morning grit in his voice, “they won’t be boys much longer.”

“Will ya put them in boxes and give them to me?” she inquired and he realized with a self satisfied smirk that her melodic voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming he’d made her do the night before.

“Heavens Mrs. Presley,” he marveled, “ya sure have gotten comfy askin’ for things -I like it.”

“I could think of a thing or two I want right now.” she bit her lip and her eyes slanted hungrily and some scared part of him that worried she wouldn’t want this as much as he did got buried teen feet below the earth, locked away forever.

“Breakfast?” he acted dumb even as she propped herself up on his chest and gingerly tried rolling her hips along his thickening shaft, hissing at the soreness of her own petals.

The sheets falling away from her and pooling round her hips like some goddess that had condescended to come down to earth and make use of her spied after Adonis, Elaine was ethereal and happy and Elvis sank his head back into the pillow and watched her, wishing to pinch himself but the roll of his foreskin against her bud told him it was real. “Breakfast and water, breath mints and fresh air-“ she listed while speeding up and causing his cock to begin to weep and slick her way along-

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

“What?” he yelled fearsomely at the door and she shivered in spooked delight at his temper.

“I’m comin’ in wi’ breakfast,” came Mary’s unmistakable drawl through the door and to his horror he watched the gilt knob begin to turn, “y’all’s best disentangle yo’selves cause I done waited till two in the afternoon to feed yous, and I ain’t taking chances for waitin’ any longer-“ Mary stepped into the room about at the same second Elaine accomplished a dismount and roll that the would have made the marine corps proud, diving beneath the covers, only a bride sized lump to be seen by the cook as she came in with a heavy laden tray, her ingenious cowbell left behind in the hall. “Lawd Mr. Elvis, you’re wearing that loved on look just nicely, if you’ll lemme say so.” she admired his marital blush and scratched shoulders as only a proud auntie could, “Miss Elaine, you best come outta ‘der, I got bagels and cream cheese, jus’ as you like.”

“Oh Mary, you didn’t!” Came Elaine’s moan of appreciation beneath the bedding and it was altogether too close to his pelvis for Elvis’ sanity, “You’re much too good to us, you know that?” Elaine wriggled till just her head peeked out and bestowed on Mary a smile of such adoration the lady forgot the ache in her arms from carrying the tray upstairs.

“Yeas, well, wouldn't do to have y’all’s dying of malnourishment.” she huffed bashfully patting Elvis’ beet red cheeks while unconsciously setting the trey in his stiff lap.

He groaned. In appreciation for the eggs and burnt bacon, Elaine had to presume.

“Don’t you take your fill again till you’ve taken your fill, you get what I mean?” she wagged her fingers at them, first at Elvis, then at his bride as if she was second guessing who here was the more likely instigator, the groom seemingly meek and the bride grinning altogether too widely than was proper. Delighted, Mary couldn’t help her matching one, “Eat up.” She nodded, backing away while eying them suspiciously, as if at any minute they might overturn her carefully prepared victuals and begin to maul eachother anew.

“Wouldn’t think of letting it get cold!” Elvis assured her adamantly and to prove his point, stuck a bagel into his bride's mouth before getting into the eggs himself.

Satisfied, Mary left them and shut the door. They heard when she picked up her cowbell and the retreating sound of her footsteps down the hall assured Elvis it was safe. He moved the platter off his lap as if it were scorching him, flinging the offending sheets off his erection and patting his thighs, jerking his chin at a wide eyed Elaine.

“I’m a very talented man, I’ll have ya know,” he told her as she settled in his lap, his chest pressed to her back, “I can feed and fill ya at the same time.”

“So,” she began genially as she wiggled him in and got comfy, sucking cream cheese off his fingers and taking advantage of his compromised blood flow, “Is Tinkerbell gonna my nickname?”

Elvis choked on his bacon, and proceeded to cough into a pillow case. “I’ve no idea what you're on about.” he denied.

“Hey,” she grinned at him without wavering, “if you can enjoy splitting me in half, I can enjoy a nickname that outs ya for bein’ a lil nasty about it, hmm?” and she chucked his chin.

She -she had a point, Elvis supposed. “Sure, Tink, whatever you say, Tink.” he droned.

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