#madisyn may

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Read Paisley Dreams Part 1 🏵 NOW!

Hello, my wonderful darlin’s! (And Happy 1st Bday to Pink Scarf!💗) This week's story is a special request from a dear Sugar Mama regarding Elvis’ sexy yellow shirt from August 6th, 1970 and how it disappeared. It’s coincidence that I happened to be working on it on the anniversary of him wearing it, but I just take that as a good sign from the universe LOL.

This one definitely got away from me, and because of that, I’m splitting it into two parts—consequently, Part 1 is more tension building and not very smutty but I promise Part 2 will have more spice!

Enjoy babies, and let me know what you think!

xoxox, Madi 💗

TW: attempted sexual assault, cussing, ass kicking, protective!e, passing reference to his weight/ed/drug issues, masturbation

Paisley Dreams (Part 1) 🏵💛🔥

August 1970

Elvis has a love-hate relationship with going out on the town, especially when going to his fellow entertainer’s shows. He loves the novelty of it, being able to be out in the world like a (somewhat) normal human being, to be able to interact with people that aren’t necessarily there to see him. He likes that the focus is on someone else for a change, and he loves talking with people who aren’t part of his immediate circle.

What he hates, however, is pulling focus from the people performing. It’s the reason he shows up a little late and gets seated after the lights go down. Contrary to what some idiots may believe, he does not want it to be The Elvis Show all the time. And while he likes being around new people, he doesn’t always enjoy the hobnobbing that is seemingly required with other celebrities, if in attendance. No, he’d rather talk with people he cares about or regular, everyday folks instead of putting on airs for some Hollywood types.

There is also something to the fact that he’s not in 100% control of those situations when things are not revolving around him, and while a little of that is thrilling and breaks through the boredom that can happen in his insular life, it can also be disconcerting. It leaves him a little more jittery than usual, but the stubborn part of him refuses to let it overcome him tonight.

Somedays, he wishes he could be invisible and could mull about as he pleases in obscurity. Problem is, he’s way too used to the attention being him brings, and whether or not he’d admit it to anyone else, it would make him feel mightily insecure if no one at all knew who he was, if not one person came up to say hi or get an autograph. He had a little taste of that with Steve before the ’68 Special, when he’d been told in so many words to get over himself when no one stopped him on the street in front of the studio.

He hadn’t liked it, no siree, despite the freedom and lack of pressure it offered in the moment. No, he was much too used to being Elvis Presley. It is the conundrum of his life, of a fame unlike any other, that leaves him to continually pendulum from being trapped by it on one end and unable to live without it on the other.

Tonight, he fortifies himself for a night that won’t be entirely under his control and heads over to Nancy Sinatra’s show at Caesar’s Palace. Something about the unpredictability makes him feel a little more alive, like something exciting is just waiting for just the right moment to happen and bring him along with it. He much prefers thinking in those terms and not in terms of threats of harm.

Since Nancy is a good friend, he keeps himself rather understated for the evening. He knows he looks sharp in his high-collared, well-tailored chocolate suit, with a paisley yellow shirt underneath. His belt is simple (for him, at least). The outfit does not scream “look at me!” He wants the attention to be on Nancy and not him.

He also refused to bring the whole damn entourage tonight, feeling a little bit smothered by the sea of men he’s cultivated around him. He’d settled for Charlie, Richard, and Felton as his companions for the evening, despite Joe and Red’s protestations. All he wants is a little fun, a little music that isn’t his, and a little break from the pressure of rehearsals for his own engagement that starts in a few days—complete with a movie crew from MGM to film the damn thing.

He likes rising to the challenge of it, but hell, it makes him more nervous than usual. A lot is riding on his ability to deliver a fabulous show, and not only that, but they’ve been filming the rehearsals, too, so he feels like he’s under the microscope even when he normally isn’t. That coupled with learning three times as many songs as usual has his brain feeling fuzzy and him sleeping worse than usual. Nothing a pill (or three) can’t fix, though.

At least it’s all…stimulating. And Lord knows he’s a man that needs stimulation and variety, something that is harder and harder to come by with his life being the way it is.

But tonight isn’t about him. And everything seems to be going according to plan—there’s a little attention on him with fans and photos and such, enough to make him feel good, but most of the focus is elsewhere. It feels like he can breathe a little.

The show is great; he enjoys seeing Nance after, though his heart always does a little flip around her. She’s been a soft spot for him for a long time, and despite his multiple attempts to endear her a little more intimately to him, she’s always kept him mostly on the straight and narrow. He loves her even more for keeping him in check, though he still wouldn’t mind a tousle in the bedroom with her.

And it’s here he finds himself, ruminating pleasantly, if not a bit hopefully, on the past, when the lot of them sneak out through the back kitchens in order to avoid the crush of people out front waiting for a glimpse of him.

He certainly doesn’t expect to come upon some drunken asshole aggressively throwing a young woman up against the wall down the dark alley behind the Palace. His eyes narrow and a surge of adrenaline wafts through him as he tries to figure out what exactly is happening and why. Body standing to attention, he’s grateful his karate training comes in handy in times like these—which is precisely why he keeps up on the craft.

“Don’t think we should get involved, EP,” Richard warns, putting his hand out as if to stop him from moving towards the scuffle, but he bats it away like a fly.

“Come on, you little tart. I know you want it. You know you’re jus’ askin’ for it up there in those skimpy costumes, don’tcha?” the guy slurs at her, groping at her breasts.

Elvis hastens his stride down the alley, blood up, nerves tingling, and ready to kick this guy’s ass for assaulting this poor showgirl.

“Get the fuck off me, creep!” she screams back at the guy, slapping his hand away, and looking more angry than afraid, she stomps on the guy’s foot and knees him hard in the nuts.

Elvis can’t help but cringe, but the guy deserves it. Good on her.

“You bitch!” the asshole shrieks, clutching his groin. Unfortunately, in his pain, or maybe just because he’s that much of a dick, the man yanks down on her flimsy top, ripping it apart and right off her chest, exposing her braless breasts. Then, he lunges for her throat.

With a growl, Elvis takes his last few steps quickly, easily knocking the drunk bastard off his feet with a well-placed kick and sending him sprawling onto the dirty pavement. The guy lands with a groan, shaking his head. Elvis goes down on one knee and pulls him up by the shirt.

“Hey, fuck you, man! This ain’t none of your business—” the guy starts, flailing up at him drunkenly before his eyes go wide and he stops abruptly. “Holy shit, you’re—”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your ass from here to Sunday if ya don’t apologize to this nice young lady and get your ass back to whatever sewer you crawled outta,” Elvis spits out, quick and cutting, his blue eyes flashing with something the man doesn’t want to test. He is self-aware enough to know that his presence is big enough to knock even sober men for a loop, and that’s when he’s not angry.

The guy opens and closes his mouth like a guppy, looking altogether wrecked and muddled by his predicament.

“Boss?” he hears Charlie’s cautioning voice from behind him, and Elvis puts up a hand to tell him he’s got this. There are some things he can do on his own.

“Well?” Elvis asks, turning his attention back to the jerk on the ground, dragging the guy up by his ugly polyester shirt.

“I-I-I—” he stutters, looking bleary eyed from Elvis to the young lady.

Elvis uses the toe of his boot and grinds down slowly on the man’s fingers.

The guy yelps, then sobs, then looks helplessly at Elvis, “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her,” Elvis emphasizes, still wanting to make this guy pay. He points up to the young lady, who is standing there frozen against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her bared chest.

The man’s eyes narrow, obviously feeling it’s beneath him to apologize to a girl.

“Okay,” Elvis sighs dramatically, easily raising himself from the ground without using his hands, “but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He brings his foot back as though he’s gonna kick the man in the gut, and it has the intended effect.

“Alright, alright!” the guy shouts, curling in on himself while holding out his hand to stop Elvis. He begrudgingly looks at the woman. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”

“For what exactly?” Elvis asks, raising an eyebrow. He is getting more of a kick out of playing with this drunkard than he should, but he can’t deny he enjoys the pulse of blood through his veins as he gets to be the hero.

“I-I-I’m sorry…for…for touching you a-and ripping your top! I’m sorry!” he cries defeatedly.

“Was that so hard?” Elvis muses. “Now get the hell outta here before I decide I’m bein’ too nice and let my boys have a crack atcha.”

The man gulps and nods, then his legs wheel a bit as he tries to get up too fast and clambers clumsily out of the alleyway.

Adrenaline waning, Elvis turns to the woman, immediately softening his features and his voice���a well-honed skill. “Are you okay, Miss?”

She looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “Yes. No. I’m not sure…I had that under control, you know,” she adds a little bitterly.

“Oh, didja now?” he replies, amused by her fiery response.

She does not look amused as she shrugs her shoulders defiantly, then remembers she’s got no top on. Her green eyes widen to saucers, and she grasps her breasts tighter, succeeding in pushing them together and creating ample cleavage that in any other circumstance would have him looking twice. But this is not the time, and he feels guilty for even glancing at her in this state.

“Shit. I’m an idiot,” he mumbles, realizing how uncomfortable she must be half naked in a dark alley full of men she doesn’t know. He scrambles to unbutton his already half-open yellow paisley shirt the rest of the way, then shrugs out of his jacket, pulling the shirt along with it.

Her mouth parts in what he assumes is disbelief as he becomes as bare as she is from the waist up. It’s vulnerable and disarming in a way he doesn’t initially intend—he more just wants to give her something she can truly cover up with and his jacket only has the one button. He’s not in the habit of running around with his shirt off these days, even though he’s slimmed down for his upcoming performances (because God knows the cameras will add ten pounds whether he likes it or not). Years of being shamed about his weight in one way or another by directors, the Colonel, and the gossip magazines always have him self-conscious, even when he’s slim, which is perhaps why he is so readily understanding of the girl’s current predicament. The August Vegas night is hot, and he feels a tinge cooler now when the air hits the sweat beaded over his skin.

“Here, honey, put this on,” he says and holds the shirt out to her.

Her mirth shifts to guarded thanks, but then she shakes her head and tightens her arms around herself. He realizes that she can’t take the shirt without exposing herself more.

“Oh. Turn around, sweetheart,” he coos at her. “I won’t hurt ya none.” He throws his jacket to Charlie, who is suddenly by his side, and holds his shirt open for her.

She turns cautiously, letting him help her as she slips her shaking arms into the oversized sleeves. “Thanks,” she whispers quietly, and he watches as she fumbles unsuccessfully with the buttons because her hands are trembling so badly.

“Lemme help, darlin’,” he says, reassuringly, “I promise I ain’t gonna look atcha.”

Seemingly frustrated at herself for needing his continued assistance, she relents and turns back to him, her doe eyes brimming with unshed tears.

He does everything in him to not look at her pretty, soft skin, or her legs that go on for days, focusing the best he can on the task of doing up the highest buttons in order to give her some modesty. Of course, his shirts being designed as they are, specifically for him and his open-chested style, there aren’t buttons as high up as there should be. The shirt is already too big on her, so she’s still showing quite a bit of skin, but is certainly better than it her previous nakedness. He looks up at her as if to say sorry, and she just looks away uncomfortably.

Elvis nods, then races to do up the rest of them, needing to kneel before her to get the lowest ones. The act feels very intimate, him half-undressed but dressing her in this prostrated position, and it sends a warmth spreading across his bare chest. He looks up at her, finding her watching him carefully for any impropriety. He is determined not to give her any, but when her intense, tearful green eyes meet his, he feels a bit off-kilter for the way it makes him feel. His heart drops into his stomach like he’s on a roller coaster.

Uh oh. He knows that feeling all too well, and it usually ends with him neck deep in infatuation at the very least and in love at the most.

“All set,” he says, looking down almost bashfully. Clearing his throat, he raises effortlessly up to standing, and Charlie hands him his jacket to put back on.

“Thank you, Mr. Presley,” she says quietly, the edge in her voice gone now that she’s swimming in his yellow shirt and the threat is gone. Her pretty pink lip bottom lip wavers.

Then she bursts into tears.

There is nothing that pulls at his heartstrings quite like a pretty young thing weeping. She’s proven herself anything but helpless but having been through such an ordeal would be frightening regardless.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe now. Let’s get you home,” he says. He suddenly wants nothing more than to swoop her up into the protective cocoon that is his penthouse so no one can ever hurt her again, but he gets the distinct impression that bringing her into a private den full of older men is not the right move in this situation.

Sniffling, she swipes angrily under her stage makeup-smeared eyes as she attempts to get ahold of herself. He recognizes her need to not appear weak, to retain her dignity, so he gives her a minute to collect herself even though he wants to sweep her into his arms and tell her he can make everything alright.

It takes her a moment and he can tell she wants to tell him no, that she can get home on her own, thankyouverymuch, but after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she finally nods in acceptance.

Something in his heart soars because he likes feeling needed, likes truly helping people, and enjoys the warmhearted feeling it gives him to put others before himself. It is also the least he can do after what she’s been through.

Though it certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s a looker with her long, caramel colored hair, intelligent jade eyes, and showgirl body. He knows he would’ve helped her regardless of all of that but, even so, at 35 he’s still a virile man who can see what is plain in front of his face. And there’s something about her resilience that attracts him beyond her looks. A flash in her eyes that tells him her soul is guarded and complex and beautiful all at once. There’s a hint of darkness he can relate to, one that, combined with all the rest, sends his overly romantic heart into overdrive.

As he, Charlie, Richard, and Felton lead her trembling but head-held-high form to the car, he can’t help but think God put him in the right place at the right time tonight.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks gently once they are in the car.

“Pepper. My name is Pepper.”

*

This night is turning out to be incredibly strange, Pepper thinks as she shakily unlocks the door to her apartment. She hates that she can’t seem to stop shivering after the whole ordeal in the alley. No matter how many deep breaths she took in the car, she is still shaking like a leaf and she can’t decide if the fact that Elvis Presley is at her elbow is making it better or worse.

Finally jimmying the door open, she nearly falls inside, feeling all too unsteady in her high heels. Exhausted, it doesn’t help matters that she can’t remember if she ate today, between her waitressing shift at the diner and her showgirl gig at the Palace. She forces herself not to cry the stupid tears that pool stubbornly in her eyes. No, she doesn’t think she ate today and she’s cursing the fact because she’s quickly turning into an embarrassing pile of weepy nonsense, in front of Elvis Presley, no less.

This isn’t like her. She is no damsel in distress. She’s a strong, capable young woman who’s been dealt a bit of a shit hand, but she’s got it under control. She’s always got it under control.

Liar.

Pepper turns in the doorway to say goodnight and thank you to the man who so annoyingly but luckily had her back in that alley. She doesn’t want to think too hard about what could have happened if Elvis hadn’t appeared when he did, like some sort of movie star hero. Unfortunately, the spin towards him makes her dizzy and her wobbly knees start to give way.

“Hey now, little one, let’s get you settled, huh?” Elvis drawls out at her as he puts an arm around her waist and effortlessly ushers her into the apartment. She’s suddenly too exhausted to protest. It’s not often that anyone takes care of her. Honestly, she can’t remember the last time someone did, or the last time there was a man in her apartment.

He deposits her on her secondhand couch and its one of the many things tonight that has her embarrassed. Then again, she wasn’t expecting an incredibly handsome superstar to be gracing the walls of her tiny, dingy apartment.

Elvis stares down at her for a moment and his gaze is heavy and all-encompassing. It’s not what she expects—she’s used to the heated, horny looks she attracts from men—because it’s as if he’s surveying the situation, reading her with an intuitive intelligence she is not prepared for. She knows how to deal with men gawking at her—but treating her kindly with no expectations in return? This is unfamiliar in every way.

He nods to himself, making some sort of decision. His stance, one hip jutted out, hands on his hips and looking off to the side with his pouty lips parted, makes her feel a little funny in her belly.

Or maybe that’s just the hunger talking.

Her pride wants him to go, to not survey her poor existence and pity her. But the rest of her, the weak part of her desperate to have someone take care of her for once, wants him to stay.

Surprisingly, his face is devoid of judgement of her circumstance when his oceanic blue eyes meet hers again. There seems to be only concern and a bit of humor there. This confuses her.

“I’m starvin’,” he declares suddenly. “What would you say to some hamburgers?” His eyes sparkle—actually sparkle—when they look at her for approval.

Her stomach growls and before she can think better of the strangeness of eating hamburgers with Elvis in her crappy apartment, she’s nodding her head furiously.

“Charlie! Hey, man, get us some hamburgers and fries and shakes, will ya?” he tells the tiny guy who seems to be some sort of friend/employee, probably part of his infamous Memphis Mafia she’s read about in magazines.

It comes to her then that the man she’s read about and listened to and watched on screen for years is now in her home, and she is swimming in his yellow shirt. It smells wonderful—a heady, spicy mix of cologne and soap and sweat—and a silly part of her never wants to take it off.

Oh, god, he’s seen my tits, she realizes, her cheeks flushing.

“Hey, lemme get ya somethin’ to drink, honey,” he says, extraordinarily and infuriatingly observant, as he goes to pilfer around her kitchen.

“Oh, I’m just the worst hostess. I can get it,” she murmurs attempting to push herself off the couch.

He stops abruptly and points at her. “Stay.”

Pepper freezes. The command in his deep, drawling baritone is assertive and unarguable, sending a thrilled shiver down her spine that she’s not ready for. Almost as if her body were not her own, she slides back into the sofa.

“Whatchu got in this here ree-frig-er-a-tor?” he says, rummaging around in what she knows is a sad excuse for one. Her schedule hasn’t allowed time for her to go grocery shopping. She can hear him humming a familiar tune as he goes, and there’s something beautifully domestic about the whole thing that she doesn’t feel she deserves. He returns with two cans of Pepsi, popping the tab on hers before handing it to her, then doing his own.

She can’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye. “Thank you,” she says quietly, suddenly parched. She tries to be ladylike about it but can’t help but gulp some of the fizzy cola down as fast as possible. Of course, this all goes awry the moment the carbonation hits her empty stomach, causing an uncontrollable rolling belch to erupt her throat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry!” For some reason, this rudeness feels almost more humiliating that her top being ripped off earlier. At least with that, it hadn’t been her fault. This was just bad manners.

Elvis looks at her seriously, blue eyes narrowed as if he might scold her, and she holds her breath, wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Then he starts laughing.

It’s a giggling, hiccupping, musical sound that immediately disarms her in its contagiousness. She can’t help the way her own giggles bubble up. Suddenly, the absolute ridiculousness of this entire night has her doubled over with exhausted, hungry laughter, and he follows right along with her.

They are just starting to get themselves under control when she snorts. Elvis completely loses it and falls apart all over again.

Tears are pouring down her face now, and she’s grateful for this release in this way. It’s better than her weak and frustrated tears from earlier, and as she watches Elvis, she sees just how utterly beautiful, unselfconscious, and almost innocent he seems in his laughter.

She wonders if he laughs often. She hopes so.

Eventually, they are both wiping their faces and the giggle fits are dying down.

“Peppercorn, you are too much,” he smiles, shaking his head with a few lingering chuckles. “Who knew such sounds could come from such a pretty little girl like you?”

Peppercorn? She smiles at the nickname. If anyone else had called her that, she might have their head, but Elvis…well, he can call her anything he wants. Butterflies start rolling in her empty stomach when she realizes he’s called her pretty in such a way that it sounds like an obvious fact and not a come-on. Oh, he’s skilled.

The fact is, it’s almost bashful the way he looks down and then his eyelashes flutter back up to meet hers from the other end of the couch. As if she had called him pretty and not the other way around.

He opens his mouth to speak, and she thinks he just might say something profoundly charming, but his friend Charlie chooses that moment to reemerge with an arm full of food and shakes. And her stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough for the room to hear, sending Elvis and her back into peals of laughter.

Charlie looks confused, but laughs along anyway, pretending to get the joke as he sets the food down on the rickety second-hand coffee table in front of the sofa. Then, without a word, he makes himself scarce.

Elvis digs right into the bag, taking everything out of it, handing her a wrapped burger and then tearing the bag apart to make a sort of makeshift tray on the table.

“I do have plates, you know,” she says with a lingering chuckle, moving to get up. She’d certainly never seen a man of his caliber of celebrity—probably one of the richest in this town—eat off a greasy paper bag before.

“Don’t you worry yourself. I’m just fine,” he says, unwrapping and taking a giant bite of his hamburger, followed by a handful of fries. “Eat your food, Peppercorn.”

She’s way too hungry to argue. After the burp and the snort, she doesn’t put on too many airs about eating daintily, either.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says in such an earnest way that she cannot stop herself from doing so. As they devour the food, he asks her questions, and she finds herself telling him about how she’d moved here because there wasn’t much work in her small town, about how she sends most of what she makes back to her house-bound mama and little sister.

These are things she doesn’t tell people here, preferring to tell a common tale of wanting the glitz and glamour of being a famous showgirl, instead of sharing that she’s using what God gave her only to support her kin. But by the haunted look in his eyes, it’s as if he knows, like he truly understandswhat it means to keep family at the forefront and tell the world something different. So her mouth keeps moving and she shares too much, but she’s weary and hungry and Elvis Presley is in her damn living room eating burgers like it’s a completely normal occurrence.

“So, you’re tellin’ me what you’re doin’ now ain’t your dream?” he asks.

She can’t help but choke a little at that. “Um, no,” she says, wiping sauce off her lip with a finger. “Waitressing all day and being eyed-up all night is not my dream. It’s a means to an end. And I’m happy to do it.”

“For your family.”

“Yes, for my family.”

“And what about you, honey? What’s your dream?” He says it in such a perfunctory way that it takes her aback. It’s a question no one’s ever bothered to ask her.

“I…I don’t know,” she says, looking away from his curious, reading stare.

“Mmm, not sure that’s true, baby. Ev’rybody’s got a dream,” he says. “Hell, I was just a poor boy drivin’ a truck ‘fore all this took off. Could barely sing in front of anyone but there was this…this thinginside me I can’t explain, pushin’ me forward in spite of it all.”

“Really?” she says, shocked at this revelation. She didn’t know those things about him, and they make him seem more human and all the more unique all at once.

He nods. “So, what’s your dream?” he says, looking at her with a curious expectation she can’t deny.

She gulps down a mouthful of burger. “Okay, well, this is probably stupid, but I’ve always liked numbers.”

“Numbers?” he questions, confused.

“Yeah, I like solving problems. Making everything add up. Numbers are…calm, predictable, I guess. I’m sure that sounds strange, a showgirl telling you she likes math. Most men…well, they think it’s weird,” she rambles, feeling her face get hot.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it just weren’t what I was expectin’, is all. Usually pretty girls like you, they…” he trails off, not needing to finish the sentence to get the point across, “but I like that you’re different. Special.” He looks at her with a sort of pride, like he’s discovered some treasure in her she can’t see in herself.

This sends a wave of appreciation over her that she isn’t prepared for, and she smiles broadly. “So, I suppose my dream is to work with numbers. Money, maybe? I guess I’ve never really let myself think that far into it. I haven’t been able to, with everything else…That must sound silly,” she says, feeling too exposed all the sudden.

“Not at all, honey,” he reassures her, finishing off his burger and fries. She gets caught up in looking at his full, pouty lips covered in grease and has the inappropriate urge to touch them. Blinking, she looks away, hoping he didn’t catch her staring.

“Sorry I’m talking too much. I usually don’t tell people...I don’t…I’m not one to…” She hides the floundering embarrassment of both her circumstance and her attraction behind the last loud slurp of her milkshake.

“Naw, Peppercorn, don’t go bein’ ashamed of doin’ what it takes to take care of your family or about havin’ dreams for yourself. We’re more alike than you think, darlin’,” he says, wiping his hands on the paper napkins from the bag.

She quirks her eyebrow at him.

He sighs, as though he’s been holding a weight on his shoulders. “I’m know I’m lucky. My dream came true and’s put me in a position that most don’t ever get to. I’ve spent a long time makin’ sure my people are taken care of, and I love to be able to do it, but I also know it can be…” he trails off, a look of guilt flashing over his features as he waves his hand in the air.

All she can do is nod at this confession. He doesn’t need to finish for her to know exactly what he means. Burdensome. Difficult. Soul-sucking.

He shakes himself off, whistling lowly, a shy smile curving up on his face.

Pepper’s heart starts pounding in her chest partially because he’s trusted her with this knowledge of himself and she’s trusted him with her own. The vulnerability of that is strange and somewhat uncomfortable to sit with. But it pounds also because she realizes with chagrin the meal is over and she doesn’t know what he expects of her next.

Despite her job, she does not have a habit of spending the night with men she’s just met, but Elvis is not just any man. There have only been a handful of boyfriends, half of which were back at home, and certainly none recently with what little free time she has. She’s no prude but she’s not exactly experienced, either. And one-night stands are not her thing.

He has been nothing but a gentleman this whole night and didn’t even ogle her when her top had been ripped. There was no reason to even think that he wanted such a thing from her, yet there is tension building in the air that she doesn’t know what to do with. Maybe it’s because when she looks at him in his well-cut suit with no shirt underneath (shivering at the fact it’s because it’s on her) and sees the sweaty tuft of chest hair that is exposed against his tan skin, something deeply primal rises in her and she wants more than anything to feel it beneath her hands.

Pepper blinks and quickly looks away. She knows what it’s like to be eyed up and down by the opposite sex and thinks it’s a little strange that they share that in common, too. Making him uncomfortable is the last thing she wants to do but now she is not sure what to do with her eyes and finds herself staring at a tear in the fabric of the sofa instead.

Elvis coughs, and she can’t help but look up at him then. Getting caught in those endless, sparkling eyes, mere feet from her, she wonders how in the hell the world is supposed to go back to normal after tonight. How she is supposed to go back to working her multiple soul-sucking jobs, to try to forget the way he is looking at her now, like she is actually something special? That she matters enough to save her in a back alley and is worth him literally giving her the shirt off his back?

Her body betrays her, then, a huge yawn escaping her mouth of its own accord. It reminds her it has been an extraordinarily long day and that she has the monotony of another tomorrow, despite everything that has happened in the last few hours.

“I think it’s time for me to go and let you get some rest, little one,” he says quietly, that little smile of his pulling at his mouth in a way that makes her think he doesn’t want to leave but will anyway because that is the kind of man he really is—not some sex-crazed superstar locked in an ivory tower that the magazines might try and make him out to be. He stands and makes for the door.

Jumping up abruptly, Pepper follows him to the door. She is not ready for this to end. She is not ready for this to be the last time she ever sees Elvis Presley. But she is also realistic and practical. Her life is no fairy tale, nor does she need a prince to save her, as tempting as it all may seem in the moment.

“T-thank you…for earlier. As much as I’m loathe to admit it, I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come along,” she says quietly, feeling utterly caught in his blue-eyed gaze. “And thanks for the food, too. I’m feeling much better.”

There is a twinkle in his eye. “I’m glad I could be there for you when you needed it, Peppercorn,” he says with such kindness that she thinks she might cry.

Silence sits heavily between them and she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from his. He finally turns to go, hand on the knob, and she moves closer to hold the door, but suddenly he pauses and turns back. She nearly runs into him. This close, she can feel the heat radiating off his body and it scares her how much she craves the comfort of it.

“My show o-opens this w-week,” he says, stammering endearingly. “I’d like you to be there.”

Her heart jumps into her throat and her limbs feel tingly. “I would love to,” she gushes but then reality hits her and her face falls, “but I have to work. I-I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m so sorry.” She wants to cry, but that would be even worse than rejecting his offer. Don’t be a baby.

Pepper thinks she might imagine it, but Elvis seems defeated, too, for a split second before he smiles knowingly. “Well, we’ll see what happens, honey. The universe works in mysterious ways, don’t it?”

Cocking her head to the side, she wonders what he means by this, but she is too disappointed to try to piece it out now. She is also distracted by his bare chest rising and falling so close, the scent of him permeating her senses. The air in the room feels thick and hot, despite the whirring of the air conditioner in the window. He starts to turn again towards the door.

I don’t want him to go.

“Wait!” she shouts, a little too loudly for the proximity and he jumps a bit. “Your shirt—let me get changed real quick and I can give you back your shirt,” she rambles out, making for her bedroom.

His hand encompasses her small wrist, his firm touch branding her in such a pleasurable way that she gasps. He turns her back around to face him, bringing her closer towards him. She goes willingly, too enthralled by the nearness of him to keep her distance. She’s usually better than this, keeping a safe distance from the wiles of men, but she has never felt the pull of someone so strongly. It’s like he’s magnetized. And he’s succeeded in making her feel safe and valued in a way she’s not used to, leaving her rather defenseless against his charms.

“Don’t bother, sweetheart. It looks better on you anyway,” he says, his lips curling up into a grin that melts her heart into a pile of goo. He runs his fingers along and down the tall collar of the shirt, and the action, while innocent, sends a glorious heat into her belly.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to get out, her tongue tied into knots. She desperately doesn’t want this to end. She considers asking him to stay, but both courage and words fail her.

His eyes scan her face and then he brushes her long hair back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peppercorn, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other soon,” he says, as if reading her mind, as if he doesn’t want this to end either.

She nods, as if this makes all the sense in the world. It sets her heart galloping. She feels like it is about to beat out of her body when his long finger tilts her chin up to him, and he leans in and kisses her ever-so-gently on the cheek.

Her breath catches at the feel of his soft lips on her skin. It is somehow chaste yet incredibly erotic all at the same time. As a long-neglected warmth pools between her legs, a giddiness that washes over her that makes her feel like a schoolgirl.

Elvis lingers perhaps a moment too long before pulling back. “Goodnight, honey,” he whispers, then turns and leaves.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” she manages to squeak out before he disappears into darkness.

Once he’s out of sight, Pepper closes and locks the door, befuddled and hopeful and confused all at once. Her forehead lands on the wood as she closes her eyes, trying to reconcile this whole night with some semblance of reality.

He surprised her, truly, in his ability to be so down to earth. She is astonished (though perhaps she shouldn’t be) that he seems so complex, and she can’t help feeling connected to him because of all the small ways they are unpredictably alike. There is a part of her that very much wants to believe him when he said they would see each other again, but she knows her life isn’t build on wishes and dreams. It never has been, and she doesn’t expect that will change anytime soon, despite the bizarre fact that she can still smell the lingering scent of Elvis’ cologne in her living room.

Just be glad you had any time with him at all, she tells herself to try and manage her expectations. It would take a miracle for us to cross paths again.

Suddenly exhausted, she floats through her bedtime routine in a daze. But her doubts about the future don’t stop her from sleeping in his shirt, though, savoring the lingering scent of him on her skin and in her bed. And the feel of his lips on her cheek replays in her mind over and over as she reaches into her already damp panties to relive the ache he’s left her with. It doesn’t take much to bring her over the edge—imagining his sweet, pouty lips on her and his long fingers deep inside her does the trick—before she arches up with a strangled cry, clenching around nothing but a fantasy.

Breathing hard and barely sated, she collapses into the bed, wishing she’d been bold enough to invite him in with her. Refusing to wallow in regret, she finally manages to drift off to sleep with the unrealistically hopeful thought that his knowing smile means she’ll get to see him again someday soon, just as he promised.

Era One-Shot

A/N: This one has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for quite a while. Sweet Symphony started as a special request for '68 Special era Elvis from my Get to Know Me Gala way back in March! I also included the prompt, "Do it again, please." Nothing like a good two-fer!

A professional violinist Reader gets a little more than she bargains for after rehearsal for Elvis Presley's '68 Special...

Mature 18+ || Word count: 9.2k

TW: Sexxx in various forms, fluff, cussing, dubious use of a piano

For my most patient baby, @savedrebelcreation 💗

(If you want to get stories like this early, come join my Patreon!)

GIF by seredelgi

Sweet Symphony

A ’68 Special Era Request

You’re early. Too early, in fact, but your mother always said, “If you’re on time, you’re late,” so it goes to reason that for such an important job, you find yourself clicking your heels into the rehearsal room a full hour before it’s set to start.

The only reason they allowed you in this early is that your brother-in-law, Billy, is the one in charge of this portion of the production rehearsal, arranging the music for Elvis Presley’s television special due out in December. He had been tasked, rather last minute, to take over the musical arrangements. When your sister called on Billy’s behalf, saying he desperately needed a professional violinist to fill in for the one who’d been suddenly struck with a bout of appendicitis, you were a little confused at first. Why in the world would Elvis Presley need a violinist? had been the first thought in your head, but a job is a job, and you figure a television special of this magnitude wouldn’t hurt your classical resume.

Sure, why not? you’d thought, then packed up your violin and got a ticket for the next plane out to LA. If nothing else, I’ll get some sun.

Since your plane arrived late, you made the executive decision to go straight to the studio rather than chance the traffic by checking into your hotel first. Which is how you find yourself in the near-dark rehearsal space before anyone else has even thought to arrive, violin and suitcase in tow. At least you’ll get a chance to look over the score Billy just handed you before anyone else arrives, you think, finding a chair and settling in to unpack and prepare your instrument.

So focused are you that you don’t really register the door opening and then latching closed. You figure it is just Billy, who had been frantically going over sheet music up in the booth. When the piano begins to play, softly, you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise, having been so lost in sight reading and humming your part that you were oblivious to the presence of another in the room.

“Oh my god!” you gasp in surprise, managing to knock the loose pages of the score off the music stand as your hand flies up to your chest. “Damnit,” you mutter under your breath, scurrying to pick up the pages and put them back in order.

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” you hear a gentle voice drawl out from the darkness.

“Oh, no, I just wasn’t expecting anyone in here so early and I was so caught up in…” you taper off, furrowing your brow and trying to get your sheet music situated.

“Here, lemme help you with that,” the voice says, kneeling to pick up loose pages.

“Oh, thank…” your voice hitches when you look down at the man holding up more music that had fluttered away across the floor.

It’s the sparkling sapphire blue eyes that catch you first, framed in criminally long, dark lashes, blinking up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor next to your chair. They are utterly mesmerizing in the way they search your face apologetically. Your voice dies in your suddenly dry throat, and so mesmerized are you with those eyes that it takes you much too long to take in the rest of him.

That’s when you realize that the man with the pretty eyes on his knees near your feet is the one and only Elvis Presley.

“…you. Thank you,” you manage to finish, gingerly taking the pages from his grasp.

Elvis smiles up at you so bashfully, so charmingly, that it takes your breath away.

It doesn’t hit you until this very moment that you are playing for the Elvis Presley. Between everything happening so quickly and you assuming you wouldn’t get to meet the man himself, you just hadn’t considered the magnitude of the job.

You’d just hit your teenage years when Elvis came into his stardom, the timing perfect for swooning over the Southern boy with the rebellious good looks and the completely unique sound. But your parents had been strict and conservative, opting for your upbringing to be filled with learning and playing classical music, so the only chance you’d had to listen to Elvis was when you went to your girlfriend’s house. There you could swoon over him unimpeded, but it was more vicarious than anything else. And by the time you were old enough to properly swoon to your heart’s content, you were so busy with your music degree that it hadn’t really crossed your mind to ogle over Elvis.

To be quite honest, you had become a bit of a music snob at that point, so Elvis wasn’t really on your radar, though you had been impressed by his reworked English version of O Solo Mio. His It’s Now or Never had been a massive hit, and he had amazed you with his vocal talent, which you were convinced was wasted on silly pop songs. Needless to say, Elvis and his music had been off your radar for a long, long time.

You certainly hadn’t realized the man had only gotten more attractive as time went on. Magazine pictures and even his movies (which you hadn’t cared to watch since the beginning of the decade) don’t do him justice, which is saying something since you’d never once seen the man look anything less than handsome. But those damn eyes pop against his tanned skin and raven hair, and that curved-lip smile has butterflies flying in your stomach like a schoolgirl.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, still kneeling at your feet.

“My name? Oh, um, my name is y/n,” you stammer out. You could kick yourself for how gobsmacked you sound, a grown professional woman nearly forgetting her own name in the presence of an attractive man. But the thing is he isn’t just attractive—he’s ethereal.

“Well, hello there, y/n. I’m Elvis,” he says, as if he were just some regular Joe and not one of the most famous men alive. “What do you play?” He motions to your music.

“Uh, violin. Well, and piano, but violin professionally,” you reply, unable to take your eyes off him.

His eyes light up at this. “I play piano, too,” he says, with such a little boy quality that you can’t help but smile.

“Oh?” This surprises you quite a bit since he is so synonymous with the birth of rock and roll and you’d only ever seen him with an acoustic guitar.

“Yeah, a lotta people don’t know that, but between you and me, I like playin’ piano more,” he says, with a wink. Elvis stands up from his crouch with little effort, so lithely that you equate it to a dancer. Your eyes follow up, up, up his lean frame, and you try not to notice just how well his tailored outfit fits him.

He walks back towards the piano he came from, and you blush when you catch yourself staring at his backside, like some sort of lecherous creep. Quickly turning your attention back to the pages of music in your lap, you force yourself to try and make sense of page numbers, shuffling them back into order.

“Do you know this one?” Elvis suddenly asks, shocking you by playing the opening notes of a well-known Beethoven piece.

“Yeah, I mean, yes. I do,” you respond, still stumbling over your words. “That’s Moonlight Sonata.”

“What happens after this part?” he asks, playing the beginning again. The question seems quite honest, still having that curious, young quality about it. Before you think better of it, you’re walking over to the piano.

“May I?” you say, standing near the bench. Music is your language. You’ve always been better with an instrument at your fingertips than with your words. It makes you feel bolder, so when Elvis only scoots over instead of yielding the bench, it doesn’t stop you from perching next to him.

It only takes a second for the movement to come back to you and you place your hands on the keys, letting them speak for you. You’ve done your share of teaching, so it doesn’t take but a moment to fall into that role. You just try not to think too hard on that fact that it’s Elvis Presley that you’re teaching.

He’s nodding along, eyes focused solely on your hands. So close to him, you can feel the way the music affects his body. It’s something you can relate to.

You stop yourself from speeding too far ahead in the music and pull your hands away from the keys. “Is that…do you want me to go again, or do you want to try it?” you ask.

“Do it again. Please?” he asks watching your hands with incredible focus.

You do, trying to keep it simple and without too much flourish.

“Okay, so it’s like this then?” he says after you finish, and as his long, slender fingers glide across the keys, you realize they are musician’s fingers. They may be dripping with jewels that are likely more expensive than your apartment, but they are quite perfect for the kind of instruments he plays. It strikes you he was made to do this.

You recognize then that Elvis is truly a musician and not just a performer. The way he concentrates, learning and adapting quickly as you show him more of the song, only by ear and sight, amazes you.

It's through the music that you begin to calm. Talking one musician to another is much more manageable than considering the magnitude of the person you’re speaking with. Frankly, you are completely amazed by how incredibly gentle and disarming the man is.

When the door opens again, both of you are consumed enough in the music that it doesn’t faze you much.

“Oh, hey Elvis! Just the man I needed to see. I hope y/n isn’t bothering you,” Billy says, in a teasing tone only a family member could produce.

“Hello to you, too, Billy,” you say, a bit annoyed at the interruption and at feeling put in your place as if you were still a child.

“Oh, no, not at all. She’s a great teacher,” Elvis grins, bumping your shoulder. “You two…know each other?” he then asks, his smile faltering in the slightest as he looks from you to Billy. The question is innocent enough, but the way he says it gives you pause and your heart flips.

“Since she was practically in diapers. She’s my sister-in-law,” Billy says.

“Twelve isn’t in diapers, Billy,” you scoff at him, then turn to Elvis. “He’s married to my older sister yet has never hesitated to treat me like a baby. Lucky me.”

“Aw, you know I only put up with you because you’re too talented for your own good,” Billy ribs, making to muss your hair.

You duck swiftly out of the way, bumping into Elvis in the process. “Oh, sorry!” you breath out.

Elvis just chuckles at the two of you, looking pleased as punch, though you’re not exactly sure why.

“I think what you meant to say is, ‘Thank you for dropping everything to fly across the country last minute to help me, dearest sister-in-law,’” you throw at Billy, batting your lashes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it. Now, skedaddle. I need to talk to Elvis,” Billy shoos you.

You suppress the urge to stomp your foot and pout, but you realize you really should act more professional than you are. Settling for a huff at Billy, you turn to Elvis. “It was nice to meet you,” you say, all the spunkiness you had towards Billy deflating into shyness the moment you look into those dark blue eyes again.

“Oh, I have no doubt we’ll be talkin’ again soon, honey, and thank you for the lesson,” Elvis drawls softly.

His words send a cascade of shivers through your limbs. You feel heady as you stand from the bench, shooting a familial glare Billy’s way, noticing the frown on his face as you do so. God, even with you being 27, Billy had the ability to make you feel like a scolded younger sister.

You force yourself not to look back as you head to your chair. Be a professional. Just because Elvis is handsome doesn’t mean he’s not the man you’re ultimately working for. Busying yourself with rearranging your music, you hear Billy usher Elvis out and up into the booth.

Well, that’s that, you think, rosining your bow, and you get to practicing.

*

You’ve been at your share of long rehearsals, but you will admit this one is both long and intense. The music Billy has arranged—this “Guitar Man” medley of some of Elvis’ songs—isn’t difficult music to play, per say, but you can now sense an underlying importance around this entire operation. Part of it is the barely held back frantic look in Billy’s eyes, and knowing him as you do, for him to be this frazzled means there’s a lot on the line. However, it’s when Elvis comes back, much later, to run through the medley with the orchestra, that you realize you can sense it in him, too. It’s well-hidden, to be sure, when the man introduces himself and shakes hands with the members of the orchestra, and you probably wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t for the relaxed way he’d been with you earlier in the day, but it’s an undercurrent all the same. Then, they send him into the booth to do his thing.

And, boy, does he. You’ve worked your share of Broadway musicals and operas, but you’ve never seen a man completely give himself over to the work in just a rehearsal quite the way Elvis does with this medley. It’s like he’s singing for his life. By the time it’s all through, Elvis exits the booth, dripping with sweat, exhausted but exuberant. His eyes sparkle and his body hums, some part of him tapping or jiggling or wiggling every moment, as though the music had become electricity in his veins.

You try not to stare as you slowly put away your bow, your violin, collecting your music from the black stand. You try not to, but you keep stealing glances because not only does he look enticing, but it’s also more that you connect with the feelings he seems to be having. The way the music can just take over and become something else inside you, as if you are the conduit to something much bigger than yourself. This you understand. And you’d never imagined a sensation like Elvis Presley would feel the music that way, too. Perhaps this is the secret to his massive success.

Almost all the other musicians have packed and left by now. You tell yourself you’re stalling so you can say goodnight to Billy before hailing a cab and finally checking into your hotel by midnight. You are exhausted, after a day of traveling and frenetic rehearsal, yet you are buzzing with the excitement only music seems to bring you. And you can’t help that the part of you that feels that way is being drawn towards Elvis like a magnet.

When Elvis catches your less-than-sly stare, a million-dollar smile spreads over his face and your heart flip-flops in your chest so hard it takes your breath away. Caught, you quickly and conspicuously look up and away, as though that will save the burning embarrassment on your cheeks. Suddenly, all you can think of is how fast you can get out of here, and you finish packing up like a fire has been lit under you. You scurry towards the door, hoping to escape before making a fool of yourself further.

“Hey, Miss Moonlight,” Elvis says, fingers light on your arm, stopping you before you reach the door, “whaddya say you join us back at my place for a little get together?”

The nickname would usually make you roll your eyes, but coming from him so sweetly, you balk under the attention. It distracts you so much that it takes a full second to realize that he’s just invited you to his place.

“I…uh, it’s been a long day. I-I haven’t even checked into my hotel yet,” you stammer, the excuse so unconvincing you might laugh if you weren’t so befuddled and nervous that Elvis is asking you…well, you’re not exactly sure what he’s asking you.

He quirks a perfect raven brow at you. When he steps in closer, you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Well, I can have Joe swing you by your hotel before headin’ over, if you’d like, though there’s plenty of space at the house. We can set up a room for ya…s’probably more comfortable than a hotel,” Elvis drawls quietly in your ear.

You’ve never heard a man make a pass so naturally in your life, so much so that you almost hesitate to believe it is one. His low voice and the open suggestiveness spear straight into your core, threatening to melt you into a puddle on the spot.

In any other circumstance, you would laugh in a man’s face for suggesting such a thing. Generally shy, reserved, and cerebral, you’re certainly not the kind of woman who just spends the night at a strange man’s place. But this isn’t any other circumstance. This is Elvis Presley asking you to stay the night with him.

And maybe he does just mean it casually—a “hey, come party with us and you can sleep on the couch”—but at the moment, your body doesn’t know the difference. Your inner pragmatist begins listing off all the ways this is a terrible idea, but the only thing that cuts through the noise is the regret you know you’ll feel if you don’t accept this invitation.

“Um…well, okay. I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, of course,” you manage to breathe back.

His lip curves up into an almost bashful smile. “Oh, Moonlight, you couldn’t be an imposition if you tried. Plus, you hafta show me how to play the rest of that piece,” he says, running a calloused fingertip down your pointer finger.

You can’t help the shudder that runs through you or the way your heart catches in your throat. “Well, how could I possibly refuse?” you finally get out.

“Fantastic! Hey, Joe, this is my new friend, y/n,” he says enthusiastically, calling over the shorter man. “She’s gonna be joining us tonight.”

Joe seems kind enough, albeit barely looks or speaks to you after the main introductions. Before you know it, you, your violin, and your suitcase are packed into the back of what you assume is a ridiculously expensive vehicle. Elvis slides in behind you, and you, now sandwiched between him and the car door, think you ought to feel apprehensive about the situation, but all your attention is fixed on how Elvis’ side is pressed up against yours. The heat radiates off him, bleeding into you, his leg bouncing so quickly that you think he might need to get out and run laps. He makes conversation, asking about how you came to be a musician and you uncharacteristically and nervously start rambling about yourself. You’ve got to give him credit for the way he nods and hums, truly seeming to listen to you even though your mouth is running almost uncontrollably.

By the time you arrive at the house, you feel as if you’ve told Elvis your life story and you abruptly shutter your mouth closed. God, I am such an idiot. Way to play it cool, y/n, you berate yourself.

Elvis kindly helps you out of the car, walking you toward the house as Joe follows with your violin and suitcase in tow. The way your heart pounds against your ribcage threatens to do you in—it’s all suddenly become very real that Elvis Presley is leading you into his house where you are going to surreptitiously spend the night. His hand is guiding you so gently at the small of your back, but the heat of it blazes through you.

Oh, get a grip! The man has probably touched thousands of women, you’re no different. You’re not special.

Realizing you’re holding your breath, you force yourself to take in air as inconspicuously as possible.

��You don’t gotta be nervous, baby,” he says, a cheeky little smile gracing those luscious lips of his.

“Sorry, I…this just isn’t where I thought I’d be at the end of this very long day,” you chuckle.

“Well, let’s make you at home then.” His smile turns reassuring and warm.

He spends the next hour getting you comfortable and fed, having the most amazing ability to relax your normally nervous nature without hardly trying. You can’t help but feel butterflies in your stomach at the way he seems to be continuously touching you—the press of his leg, an arm around your shoulders, the graze of a finger against yours—in a familiar way, even though you’ve known him less than a day. If it were anyone else, you would have leapt off the couch and run for the hills.

What surprises you the most is that you aren’t uncomfortable at all. Excited and nervous, yes. But you don’t feel preyed upon or anything of the sort. Frankly, you are trying not to get ahead of yourself about what the rest of the night might bring.

An impromptu jam session with his old bandmates has you feeling even more surreal. If someone had told you yesterday that you would get a private concert with Elvis Presley and his former band, you would have laughed at them. You find yourself unable to take your eyes off him and how he seems to get completely lost in the music, and you right along with him. His gritty baritone combined with the sensual way he tackles each song has warmth pooling in your belly. Despite the cranked-up air conditioning, you find yourself sweating and parched, especially in the moments he smiles in your direction.

You aren’t sure how much time passes, only that you feel the heady exhaustion of being up too long coupled with an uncharacteristic hungry adrenaline running through your veins. When the jam session ends, you are both disappointed and exhilarated for what might come next.

Don’t get your hopes up, you remind yourself. This night has been amazing no matter what happens next.

“Did you enjoy that, Moonlight?” he leans over and whispers in your ear. It tickles you and sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod. “Oh, yes.” It comes out more breathless than you’d like.

You feel him smile against your cheek. “Are you up for teaching me more of that sonata, honey?” he asks. It’s an innocent enough request but you can’t tell exactly what his motivations are, though for the first time in your life, you’re not sure it matters.

“Of course,” you say quietly, starting for the piano in the corner of the living space.

His warm hand catches yours, and you look back, surprised, as he shakes his head and pulls you in the opposite direction.

Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage as he leads you down the hall and into what you assume is his private suite. It’s not until he closes the door and you realize that you are utterly alone with him that you feel a glimmer of trepidation.

It must read on your face because he jumps in to reassure you. “Oh, honey, I just want to get to know you better, away from the rest of them. I’d never hurt you or make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Honestly, I don’t want the other guys ribbing me…they don’t go for the classical stuff,” he says quietly, looking away, and you think there might be a little pink rising on his cheeks.

His sincerity is palpable, and you certainly never expected him to be bashful about playing classical music. There’s a softness to him now, almost a shyness, that wasn’t present moments ago around all his entourage. It is like a yearning for one-on-one connection, and this part of him melts all your reservations and tugs at your heartstrings.

“Well, I do…go for the classical stuff, I mean,” you say quietly. You smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly as his deep blue eyes find yours again.

He looks giddy as he leads you to the second piano in the house, a baby grand in the far corner of the large suite. You sit down, opening the lid, and he slides in beside you. The heat of him rolls around you, the smell of his cologne and a day’s worth of sweat combining into an alluring combination that perks up your senses.

“Show me what you remember,” you say, and he starts to play, long, nimble fingers gliding gracefully over the keys. It amazes you that he committed everything you showed him earlier to memory so fast and so accurately. Something about it tightens a coil low in your belly. Unsure whether it’s your attraction to him physically or musically that has you so aroused, you swallow hard as he finishes abruptly.

You shake it off as best you can as you show him more of the movement, hoping the music might quell the buzzing in your veins. You go through it a few times, getting a little lost in the notes, as you tend to do. It only serves to stoke the fire in you when he picks up what you’ve shown him so quickly.

He finishes a phrase, and you move to show him the next, but his hand suddenly covers yours. Surprised, you look over at him to find his oceanic eyes searching your face so intimately that warmth blooms across your chest and your breath catches in the silence.

Slowly, Elvis leans over, cups your cheek gently, and kisses you. It’s almost chaste the way his incredibly soft lips press into yours and your surprise is so great that by the time you register what is happening, he is already pulling away.

His eyes open slowly, those lashes fluttering along with the fluttering in your heart and belly. Shock has you outwardly frozen but it’s as if he lit every one of your nerve endings on fire with the touch of his lips.

He must register your surprise as hesitance because his gaze changes to something akin to apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I shouldn’t’ve—”

Before he can get the rest of that sentence out, your body miraculously obeys you and you unfreeze. Boldly cupping his jaw with both hands, you pull him back to you and plant your lips on his.

It surprises both of you, and it’s a second before either of you relaxes into the kiss. This permission is all it takes, however, and then his mouth is languidly searching yours and his arms are wrapping around you to pull you close. Soft, short kisses alternate with longer more passionate ones, and you feel utterly spellbound by him, every inch of your body aware and alert to his.

Never in your life have you been kissed so well or so thoroughly. It’s as if the music in his soul must find a physical outlet, and the way he explores and opens you up to him is like him playing a new instrument. When his tongue rolls softly against your lower lip, you can’t suppress the low moan that comes out of you, causing you to open your mouth. He accepts the invitation readily, expertly, and the wet plushness of his tongue slowly begins exploring.

The warmth that sparkles and blooms across your chest travels lower still, sparking fires as it goes, until you feel your pulse throbbing between your legs. It’s nearly unbearable the way he stokes you without hardly trying. You’ve never felt so aroused so quickly or so completely.

Your eagerness is impossible to contain, your fingers buried in that luxuriously soft hair at the base of his neck, your body rolling towards his of its own accord, as if magnetized. You follow his rhythm, meeting his music with your own.

When he pulls back to trail kisses down your jaw, you are left breathless and clutching the lapels of his half-unbuttoned shirt. The nuzzle of his nose on your cheek as he finds and licks the tender spot behind your ear leaves you gasping. Pleased, he does it again and your entire body shudders.

Every inch of you yearns to be consumed by him. It’s never felt like this, not with any man you’ve been with. Those were fumbling amateurs playing one handed melodies in comparison to the symphony Elvis is invoking. While he is leading and in control, you sense as much eagerness from him as there is in you. It’s reassuring and flattering all at once.

There is an embarrassing amount of slick between your legs already, soaking the cotton of your panties and leaving you clenching your thighs together in search of friction. He must notice this as he kisses down your throat and across your décolletage because then he’s looking up at you for permission with those pink, swollen lips and dreamy bedroom eyes.

It’s unspoken, but you nod and he continues his sweet journey, one hand deftly unzipping the back of your dress while his lips follow gravity as it slips down your arms and reveals your chest. Pushing the fabric off and to your waist, his hand is then hot against your bare stomach. He hums in approval when his mouth finds the swell of your breasts that spill from your simple, beige bra.

A low whine escapes you. His apt response is to thumb your nipple to attention through the thin satin before lapping at the bud with his tongue. The result is a jolt of electricity shooting straight into your core, sending you clutching his neck and writhing against him. Expertly, he undoes the clasp in the back and abandons your bra to the floor in what must be a well-practiced motion based on the speed of it.

Goosebumps rise across your now fully exposed flesh, both from the cool air in the room and the way his fingers brush so lightly over your breasts. He seems pleased with the way your nipples stand at attention under his heated gaze. You don’t have the wherewithal to feel your usual self-consciousness; instead, the sight of his pupils blown black with arousal has you shivering with nothing but anticipation.

The combination of the way his tongue darts between his lips as he lightly pinches the hardened buds has you begging for more. “Please,” you moan and that’s all it takes before he’s lathing his tongue over and around the sensitive nubs, palming the fullness of your breasts. You can hardly stand it, how everything he does makes your body sing and want to scream his praises.

A quizzical look crosses your features though when he stops his ministrations and slides to his knees on the carpet on his side of the bench. For a second you are worried something you’ve done something to hurt or displease him, but when he beckons you towards him at the end of the bench with such arousal in his eyes it nearly knocks you over, you obey without a thought.

Elvis scoots you forward and kisses your belly, sending a new wave of tingles over you. He removes one of your low-heeled pumps and then the other, ghosting kisses along your ankles before running his large hands up the smoothness of your pantyhose, pushing your dress up with them. As if under a spell, you can’t help the way your legs fall open for him when his thumbs drag up the insides of your thighs. The little coy smirk that graces that beautiful face when he feels the damp that has soaked through to the gusset of your hose has your cheeks flushing and your lips parting.

You can’t bring yourself to be too embarrassed at how wet you are because the pleased look on his face at the discovery makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. He pulls on the waistband, forcing you to lift your hips, before gently rolling the hose down your legs until they are off and discarded on the floor.

What you don’t expect is how he begins peppering soft kisses up your now bare calves, at the inside of your knees, and then up your inner thighs.

A swell of panic hits the farther up he goes, and you jerk up, unsure of what exactly he’s meaning to do. The men you’d been with in the past had been rather direct about the whole thing—once the clothes were off, they buried their pecker inside you and thrust above you, all with varying levels of success in getting you off as they did so.

But not a single one had kissed up your thighs and spread them open with a hungry and expectant look like the one Elvis had now.

Looking down at him, confused, you ask, “What are you doing?” in a voice that is a little too apprehensive for your liking, but you need to know.

He cocks his head at you a moment, as if trying to determine your level of seriousness. Then his eyes shine with understanding and in that low, Southern drawl of his says the downright naughtiest thing you’ve ever had a man say to you: “You ain’t never had a man take good care of your kitty before, have ya? Give her all the love and attention she deserves?” He runs a fingertip lightly over the wet cotton at your center and you shiver.

He can’t possibly mean what you think he means.

You must be gaping because he rises on his knees and catches your lips with his own before breathing, “Close that pretty mouth baby or you’re liable to catch flies up in there.”

You are speechless, unable to form words, but the question is written all over your face.

He leans back on his knees with a contemplative smile. “That sweet little kitty of yours ain’t never been eaten, has she, baby?”

Oh my god.

It’s all you can do to bite back a moan and shake your head at him.

He looks positively gleeful about this development, his shining eyes taking on a whole new level of arousal. Then he seems to notice your trepidation and reigns himself in.

“That okay with you, baby?” he asks.

You had never even considered it an option before, or that a man might like to do such a thing. Maybe he’s teasing you? Suddenly you feel very conscious of the mechanics of the act and breathlessly mumble, “You don’t…you’re sure?”

“Oh, I am.” The smile of anticipation on his face seems to echo the sentiment.

The enticing thought of that beautiful mouth of his being down there on you outweighs your uncertainty and prudishness. You nod your head. “O-Okay.”

You’ve never seen a man look so thrilled at the thought of being between your legs as Elvis Presley is. “Don’tcha worry, I’m gonna take real good care of ya,” he says comfortingly. “You just lie back and relax and let me make you feel good, honey.” Then he places a kiss just under the waistband of your panties and you let out a little sigh.

The piano bench feels slightly warm on you bare back as you lay down. Elvis, grabbing under your thighs, pulls you to the edge, and your heart resumes its pounding. You truly can’t believe any of this is about to happen and steel yourself for him to rip off your underwear and go to town.

But he doesn’t.

No, he takes his time warming you up, as if he’s trying to get you used to the idea. He kisses down one hip then trails down the panty line. You tense the closer he gets to your core but then he only ghosts a breath over it before jumping to the other leg and kisses up the crease on that side. The ticklish sensation is almost too much to bear as he works his way up to the waistband again.

You are panting by the time his mouth is grazing from your belly button downwards, pressing into the soft curls beneath the fabric. He stops just short of that forbidden little spot where your aching clit resides, and you push up on your elbows to shoot him a look.

A grin spreads over his features, his eyes narrowed like a crocodile’s and full of desire and he watches you intently as he finally places a light kiss over that sensitive little button.

The sensation is nothing like anything you’ve felt before and the whole scene has your body flaming white hot. You don’t recognize the low mewl that erupts from your lips and the only thing keeping you from throwing your head back is the way his eyes are locked on yours, as if feeding off your reaction. Then he uses his perfect nose to nuzzle into it before placing a firmer kiss there.

“Elvissss,” you whine, unable to keep from throwing your head back this time.

“You like that, baby? I barely even started,” he speaks, his hot breath puffing over the slicked core of your panties. He kisses down, down until over your entrance, where he then tongues the fabric, pressing it up and into you.

“Honey, you’ve done soaked right through,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure if he’s speaking to you or directly to your pussy. You’re not sure you care for the way you moan, the way your body shudders and writhes, suddenly starving for anything he’s willing to give.

“Lemme see how pretty she is,” he says, and God, if his filthy yet somehow sweet words aren’t stroking you in such a way that you wonder if you could come from his lilting voice alone. He pulls your underwear to the side, finally baring yourself to him, and he whistles.

“Just lovely, and all weepy for me, too,” he says, voice thick with lust now.

The anticipation has your heart racing and your fingers clawing at the wooden bench with a whimper.

“Okay, baby, I hear ya,” he murmurs kindly, then hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties and finally slides them down and off your legs. Then his hands are pushing them apart and his tongue is lightly skimming up your folds.

You gasp at the soft and silky feeling, unready even despite his preparations. When he circles your clit and then kisses it, bare this time, you are so aroused you’re afraid you might weep. But the teasing is done, and he tests you expertly. His tongue flattens and takes in the full breadth of you, licking a stripe up your pussy that sends your hips rolling.

He seems to gauge every reaction carefully, giving equal and alternating attention to every piece of you. Nipping, suckling, and kissing your swollen clit into submission and just when you think that heated coil in your belly might snap you in two, he moves down and kisses through your folds. When he laps at the arousal dripping from your tight little hole, tongues it, and then plunges it inside of you, you find yourself screaming out his name.

You can feel him smile and hum at your response, the vibrations adding entirely new sensations to the slew of new sensations you are feeling. He thumbs at your clit as he laps at your hole, and you think you might hyperventilate with how fast you’re breathing and how hot you feel.

So completely attuned to you, he pulls back and gives you a break, despite your whimpering protests. His full lips are swollen pink and slick down to his chin with you, and when his lip curls up into a knowing but almost bashful smile, you think this might be the eighth wonder of the world.

“You alright? I’m doin’ okay?” he asks, his left eyebrow quirking.

You giggle, almost drunkenly even though you’re entirely sober, because the question is so absurd but sweet of him. “Yes, yes, yes,” you say, words slurring.

“Okay, good,” he says, nodding. Then he rises on up on his knees and commands you forward with a come-hither motion so deft and quick, it has you drooling.

You are powerless to resist and push your dazed self to your elbows on the bench. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply, lewdly letting you taste the tang of yourself on his lips. Distracted as you are by his wandering mouth, you aren’t ready for the way he slides two of those perfectly long musician’s fingers up through your silky folds and deep into your wet heat.

A shocked gasp quickly turns into a moan that he swallows with another kiss. He begins ever-so-slowly pumping those fingers into you and the rough pad of his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of your sex.

“Goddamn, you’re so perfect, so tight,” he breathes into your mouth.

You can’t stop the shiver that ripples through you. “I-It’s been a-awhile,” you pant. You can’t help but look down and watch the way he works you.

“Don’t you worry, baby. I gotchu,” he purrs, then curves his fingers just so and the pleasure that courses through you has you crying out.

Your brain is fuzzy, with only one thing on its mind. Luckily, Elvis seems to be reading it because he smiles that coy smile and returns those full lips of his to your clit.

For a moment you think you might die from the intensity of the sensations he’s procuring from you. Seems an awful lot like God gave him long fingers and a full mouth not only for music, you think. Though the way he’s playing you right now and the noises he’s coaxing out of you makes it seem like a whole different type of song he’s expert at.

The way he traces and flicks and suckles your clit, coupled with the obscene sounds coming from the way he’s fingering your pussy has you writhing on the bench and gripping his beautiful hair in your hands.

More, more, more, is the only thought left.

He hums against you with one last kiss and a wildly accurate thrust and curve of his fingers. The coil inside you explodes, then white-hot, full-body shudders violently overtake you as you silently scream and hold onto him for dear life as to not fly away into the stratosphere.

Your orgasm is utterly mind altering and earth shattering.

“Good job, lil’ girl,” Elvis coos, soothing you through the aftershocks with a lathing tongue.

You can’t think straight enough to respond, only whimpering from the empty feeling when he removes his fingers, then gasping again when he laps at the arousal pouring out of your core.

It’s all too much, and, overstimulated, you whine and clench and pull at him.

He sits up again, between your legs, looking mighty pleased with himself. “Come ‘ere, darlin’,” he says, pulling you up by your arms and sliding you onto his lap. Boneless and naked (save for the dress bunched in a ring around your waist), your legs fall open, easily straddling his hips. Your hands grip at his shirt and you bury your head into his neck, still dizzy with release.

He holds you steady. “Didja like that? Your kitty all happy and purrin’ now?” he whispers in your ear, sending a new set of shivers down your spine. All you can manage is a pleased hum and a nod. You kiss his neck, tasting salt on his tanned skin.

A soft moan escapes his lips at that. Suddenly, you become quite aware of the hardness in his slacks, pressing up near your swollen folds. The embers of your arousal have not died, and you kiss his neck again while slowly rolling your hips into his.

Groaning, he tightens his arms around you, holding you to him. You nip at the throbbing pulse point on his neck and are reminded just how talented and famous these hips of his are when he rolls them back into you in response. He’s rock hard, straining against his zipper, the tip of him bumping against your sensitive clit. You moan and find his rhythm, feeling the wetness between your thighs start to soak through the fabric of his slacks, creating a delicious friction.

Elvis pants heavily in your ear, murmuring curses and praises as he grinds into you. At this rate, you think he might come in his pants, which just won’t do. Not with the way your pussy is buzzing, and that coil is tightening again in your belly. No, you need him inside you. You need him to fill you.

You use what little returning strength you have and rise on your knees, away from his needy cock. The man actually pouts, his lower lip jutting out with a desperate little whine and it is so alluring you almost forget what you’re trying to do. You place a finger over his lips to quiet him, then set to the task of trying to undo his lavish belt and zipper.

Once he understands, he races to help, making much quicker work of the whole thing and finally his cock springs free. It’s quite long, and the deep pink tip peeking out of his silky foreskin is already shiny and weeping with precum. Of its own accord, your finger slides over his slit, circling the slick tip and spreading the wetness gathered there. He hisses. You bring your finger to your mouth, tasting the salty musk of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his hand palming his length. He gives it a pointed tug, then another, his lips falling open as he watches you.

He’s gorgeous in every way and it’s almost intimidating the way he looks at you with such open and vulnerable lust. You can’t bring yourself hold back or tease any longer, needing desperately to give him all of you, to give him what he needs. Hovering over him, you help line him up, then slowly descend onto his cock.

You are plenty wet—he’s seen to that—but even still, the stretch of him burns. It’s been too long since a man has been inside you like this and he is much longer than you anticipated.

A quiet, “Oh, oh, oh,” is all you manage to puff out as you bob slightly up and down, taking a little bit more of him with each tiny pump. He presses gentle kisses everywhere he can reach and murmurs encouraging praises with each inch that you conquer.

By the time you settle on the hilt of him, snug in his lap, you’re both groaning. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders because you are so full of him you don’t know what to do. You’ve never been so gorged and the pressure is a little frightening.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he slurs happily, letting you adjust around him. “Little Elvis likes you lots and lots, baby. S’like you were made just for him.”

“Little Elvis? H-He’s not so little,” you say with wide eyes, then giggle a little, which causes you to gasp from the tightness below and how it makes you clench even harder around him.

He groans. “If ya keep doing that, he’s not gonna last very long, darlin’.”

You try to move, but in this position and after that orgasm, you feel weak and a little like he’s spearing you in two. You’re almost too full, and the angle is not quite right. You wiggle in his lap, your brow furrowed, as your arms grow tighter around his neck. A low whine escapes your throat.

He notices your distress. Petting your hair, he babytalks at you, which under other circumstances might be strange for a grown man, but it comes so naturally to him somehow it both comforts and arouses you, “Oh, shh, shh, baby, s’okay. He’s a widdle much for ya, ain’t he? Sometimes he gets too ‘cited and gets ahead of ‘imself. But he’s gonna take real good care of ya, I promise.”

And with that, he gingerly shifts sideways, leans forward, and lays you down on the plush carpet under the piano. The movement has him sliding partially out of you, giving you some relief from the bursting sensation, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Your body relaxes.

He looks so gorgeous above you, with his raven hair falling in his eyes and a soft, bashful smile gracing his lips. You can’t help but smile back at him.

“That better?” he asks.

You nod.

Leaning down, he nuzzles your nose, then places soft kisses on your mouth. He coaxes you back to him, the heat building between you with each deepening kiss. So focused on the rolling of his tongue against yours, you don’t even realize he’s pressing deeper into you until he’s nestled almost completely, but much more comfortably between your legs.

You sigh contentedly into his mouth. The pressure still has you feeling full, but in a delicious, silky way this time as you finally relax around him. He rolls his hips smoothly, the strokes slow and deliberate, in time with the movement of his lips. Each stroke is better than the last as your increased arousal combined with his own slickens your inner walls.

“There she is,” he moans quietly into the crook of your neck.

That feeling is back, a chant of want, want, want running through your brain as the tension and fire in your belly begin to grow once more. When he bottoms out this time, your punctuated, “Ah!” is from pleasure and not discomfort. He’s managing to hit places inside you that you didn’t know existed.

You writhe under him, starting to meet his thrusts with your own, trying as you might to find that perfect spot he keeps slipping past. If only you had the right leverage…

It comes to you once you’ve hitched your legs up around his svelte waist. You lift your hips and plant your bare feet against the grainy wooden underside of the piano, meeting his next thrust with your leveraged one. It sends him deeper, driving into that little spot just perfectly. You keen.

“Oh, goddamn,” he moans along with you.

Each thrust seems deeper than the last with your legs pressing up like this. They shake from the exertion, but it’s worth every ounce of effort for the way you feel driven into the earth by his cock. Sweat drips off his face and onto yours as he showers your body with pleasure you didn’t know existed.

He thumbs your clit, timed perfectly with the piston of his hips, and you can barely breathe at the sensation. Gasping, your entire body shudders of its own accord as you hurtle towards another release.

“I…I…I…” is all you can seem to manage as your second climax starts to crest, and he grunts with effort above you, his eyes glassy with unbridled desire.

He mutters a string sweet filth that only fuels you forward, slurring and panting, “Oh, fuck, yes…such a good yittle kitty…good girl for me…look atchu taking ‘im so deep…never been s’deep…Jesus, I can see ‘im in your belly.”

You both look at the swell of your abdomen on the next thrust and this time he holds you flush against him so you can see the tip of Little Elvis bulge out the slightest bit. The moan you let out is obscene. Holding you at the waist, he doesn’t let your hips down, instead running the palm of his hand over the protrusion while he flicks your clit furiously. Then he presses down at the same time he thrusts as hard and as deep as possible.

Your climax hits so hard and so fast that it knocks the breath out of you, leaving you gasping his name, “Elvis, Elvis, Elvis!” Flaming white stars flash behind your eyelids as you flutter and clench around his length. Molten fire spreads from your core outward. You shudder and claw at him, at the bottom of the piano, at anything that will keep you tethered to reality while the rest of you shatters into a million pieces beneath him.

“Good girl, s’good fo’me,” he praises you through it, losing himself to you as you come apart.

You feel his hips start to stutter into you again because a primal need has him beyond the point of waiting any longer. Somehow, through shivering aftershocks, you have the wherewithal to force your eyes open, even as the rest of your body goes slack. He looks like Adonis in the throes of passion, his full and swollen lips falling open. In one fell swoop, he drops your hips and pulls his considerable length from you, his knowing hand pumping his slick-covered cock with expert precision.

Watching him come is a marvel and you make yourself commit this moment to memory, knowing it will fuel your arousal for years to come. He tenses above you, those sapphire eyes fluttering closed. Shivering tension ripples over him with a choked cry and through gritted teeth. Thick and warm white ropes erupt and splatter over your torso and you moan along with him. Then his eyes pop open pointedly as he watches himself cover you with his seed. The poignant, dramatic end of a brilliant symphony.

“F-fuck,” he pants, finishing off with another shiver. Exhausted, he catches himself just before crushing you with his weight, instead pressing his sweaty brow into yours. Your hot, heavy breaths mingle as you both try to come back down to Earth. He nuzzles his nose into yours before kissing your cheeks and your mouth.

Eventually, you find your words. “That was…incredible,” you say breathlessly, with no exaggeration.

He pulls back to look at you, with a goofy, pleased grin. “I told you I’d take care of you, Moonlight. And boy oh boy, was that a neat trick with the piano there…that part of your classical trainin’?” he says, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Putting that college degree to good use,” you say with a giggle.

His eyes go wide and then he laughs—a musical, beautiful, contagious sound—which fills your heart up in a way you don’t quite understand.

He crawls back and helps you out from under the piano. Your back is rubbed raw from the carpet, which he kisses gently with apology, but you barely feel the sting. You are too dazed and relaxed to worry about much of anything.

When he helps clean you up and pulls you into his big bed, slotting you in next to him, you want to savor every minute. How he smells delicious and masculine, how the heat of his long body envelops your own—you want to remember everything.

Exhausted, you fall fast asleep, sated and cared for, knowing that you’ll never, ever be the same.

*

taglist

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[employee210]

TSP FANDOM! ARTIST NEEDS YOUR HELP!

You may recognize @missazura from her art in The Stanley Parable: Ultra Deluxe.

She's amazingly skilled and dedicated, but she needs your help!

She needs to move into an apartment as quickly as possible. The weather in Malaysia is intense and the home she's lives in now cannot take it. Her home is damaged from termites, rot, and severe water damage.

Her computer equipment necessary to keep her job is at risk with every rain storm! She isn't paid a typical bi-weekly schedule and goes without money for weeks at a time. And even when she's paid, it's all spent on keeping the house her family lives in from going without power!!

OUR BASE GOAL IS 3,000 USD. EVERY DOLLAR COUNTS!

[jaminryker]

Urban Scent - January 2025 - Madisyn Pineda

Madisyn Pineda is Copperdale’s literary talent, weaving captivating stories that reflect the town’s charm. You may save my artwork, but please don't manipulate it, change it, or claim it as yours. Thanks and enjoy!

[s7nnydrop-flower]

* + The Evil Ballad + *

[Authors Note: This is part one of the book I am writing of our OCs ^^! You may take this as Canon, or not. :Authors Note]

*+ Chapter One: +*

*+ A Normal Day, Volume 1. +*

[Authors Note:

Hello! This is part one of Chapter One. I really do hope your enjoy, and stay tuned. - Madisyn

:Authors Note]

[Pov: Ekster and Exotic]

*Today was the day.

His blood collecting day, which this Magpie thoroughly enjoyed...*

*Ekster climbed out of his hammock, which was tied to a pair of branches, in a decently sized tree.*

*His graceful wings expanded, as his hair swayed within the breeze, and his eyes set onto the ground below.*

*Exotic crossed over and through the blades of grass, as the tuffs of feathers on her jaws blew back against her skin.*

*She seemed to be comfortable, more than she actually was...*

*She had spoken to the Deity's, earlier today. It had brought more worry than anything...*

*Yet, before she got a chance to think much more about it, a figure flew down from the tree tops. Causing Exo to let out a surprised chirp."

*The Magpie grinned, his fangs now showing and chuckled, before speaking,*

' ' Another bird? Well, ain't that a surprise? ' '

' ' Okay, firstly... Should I ask who you are? Or do you think I should already know? ' '

*Ekster tilted his head, as his wings shifted.*

' ' Most likely the second... But, I'll spare you trying to figure it out. My name is Ekster, and, you are? ' '

*Exotic gave him a suspicious look, and hesitated to answer. Though, soon, she did,*

' ' Exotic... ' '

' ' Well, Exotic, today is your lucky day! Becau- ' '

*Before the smug Magpie had a chance to finish...*

<Part One of Chapter One, End>

[Authors Note: Part two is coming soon!!! :Authors Note]

OC Credits: Exø

Author: Madisyn

@l3m0n-c0r3 @c-large-pancake-with-holes @w1llow-w1sp @ekster--exotic @azrael-1121 @teddythetriceratops

[vaneshifts]

INTRODUCTION POST

Hello! My name is Vane.

I'm 19 years old, Canadian, a Virgo and an ambivert with anger issues.

I've been attempting to shift since 2020, during the pandemic and my own personal crisis that made that year likely the most miserable point in my life. I have not yet shifted, but I have come very close, especially recently.

Below I've listed some of the fandoms I'm "part of" (often I find that fandom behaviour can be rather toxic and try to avoid it), places that I'm shifting, as well as some information about "fictional" places that you can use however you see fit to determine your image of me. I've also listed the rules and expectations of this blog, and if you don't agree with them, please DNI. If rules are broken, you will be blocked.

No anti-shifters

Keep your shifttok logic FAR away from me

No discouraging comments to myself or others

If you think my information is incorrect, please inform me POLITELY, and we can discuss it if you'd like (I generally won't post something if I haven't made sure my information is right, but everyone makes mistakes, so if I am in fact wrong, I'd be happy to correct it)

I don't approve of of any DRs specifically made for killing or hurting people and I do not support them, so do not encourage or speak about them on my page (that being said, I think the concept that you should NEVER hurt/kill anyone in any DR is bullshit, so if it's something like Marvel or ASOIAF, Maze Runner, etc. where it may become necessary, I think that is perfectly acceptable)

Race changing is a fake concept. You are already another race in another reality so stop fucking telling people it's bad

Age-changing is fine for the same reasons

Permashifitng is not unhealthy or bad, it is very possible, and if you choose to do it, I wish you all the best

All shifters are valid, including those who haven't shifted yet or who are still trying to reset from all of the misinformation they were likely fed from early shifttok so BE FUCKING KIND

If I missed anything, I may come back to update this list later

Now onto the more fun part!

Favourite Shifting Takes (of mine):

Permashifting; I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers

Shifting Realities VS Shifting Goals (mindset)

You Are Wrong (Don't Get Mad; I Promise I'll Explain)

Vane's List Of Names (Not A Take, Just Names For Your Script <3)

Fandoms:

Avatar (not TLA)

Criminal Minds

DC Cinematic

Harry Potter Golden Trio Era

Marauders Era

Good Omens

Game of Thrones

House of the Dragon

Hazbin Hotel / Helluvaboss

The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings

How to Train Your Dragon (Including DOB & RTTE)

Hunger Games

Jurassic World

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Once Upon a Time

Percy Jackson & The Olympians (Riordanverse)

Rings Of Power

Shadow and Bone

Shadowhunters

Six of Crows

Star Wars

Stranger Things

Supernatural

She-Ra

The Vampire Diaries

Teen Wolf

The Umbrella Academy

The Witcher (TV series)

This list will probably be added to at some point TBH

Places I Am Shifting To:

Criminal Minds [Tessa Grey]

Harry Potter Golden Trio Era [Finn Rosier]

Marauders Era [Kassidy Bane]

Good Omens [Katerina Tamarov / Kat Tyler]

Game of Thrones [Elaena Baratheon]

House of the Dragon [Elaena Targaryen]

Helluvaboss [Kat Morningstar]

The Hobbit [Kat Bane]

How to Train Your Dragon [Sky Bloodrave ¹ Sky Seastar ²]

Jurassic World [Tessa Grady]

Marvel Cinematic Universe [Nerissa "Nessa" Love]

Once Upon A Time [Aja Hope]

Rings Of Power [Chaereah]

Shadow and Bone [Katerina Lantsov]

Shadowhunters [Tessabelle "Tessa" Morgenstern]

Six of Crows [Tessa Bane]

Star Wars [Nerys Alastair]

Supernatural [Finn Hale]

The Vampire Diaries [Tessabelle Hallow / Tessa Hale]

The Vampire Diaries x PJO [Madisyn "Mads" Foster]

The Umbrella Academy [Number 8 / Kat Hargreeves]

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Patronus: fox

Marauders Kinnie: 75% Sirius Black, 25% Regulus Black

PJO Cabin: 12 (Dionysus)

TVD Species: Vampire

If you have any questions about me, my shifting journey, or shifting in general, please reach out and I will do my best to answer them! Happy Shifting! <3

[alldancersaretalented]

My fav solos this year

(please send anons or something, I'm down with bronchitis in 30°C weather :()

Solos

Avery Altobelli, Epic - "Heavenly Bodies" (Rudy Abreu)

Madisyn Amos, Elite Dance Pro - "A New Life" (Mandy Korpinen & Elizabeth Petrin)

Ellie Anbarden, P21 - "Somebody Help Me" (Madi Hicks)

Hallee Anderson, Larkin - "So This Is Love" (Kenzie Symanietz)

Harper Anderson, Concept Pavielle - "Paint It Black" (Brady Farrar)

Kennedy Anderson, VDA - "Come On Dreamer" (?)

Lilly Anderson, Larkin - "Cell Block Tango" (Michele Larkin)

Belle Marie Arauz, DT Miami - "How To Feel" (Ruby Castro)

Brielle Arias, Studio X - "Black And Gold" (Lia Dominique)

Finley Ashfield, Larkin - "Fools Who Dream" (Chelsea Jennings)

Melina Biltz, Rock - "Madness" (Crystal Huang)

Sofia Cuevas, Pave - "Locomotion" (?)

Kinley Cunningham, TheCREW - "Come Together" (Mollee Gray)

Aaliyah Dixon, Summit - "Take Me Oya" (Jay Jay Dixonbey)

Kensington Dressing, Evolve - "From The Ashes" (Chelsea Sebes)

Aria Du, Yoko's - "Je M'arreterai" (Megan Ellis)

Hope Edwards, OCPAA - "Winner Takes All"

Brinley Evans, Southern Strutt - "Silent Night" (?)

Gracyn French, P21 - "Chemtrails Over The Country Club" (Molly Long)

Kourtney Gampol, OCPAA - "Steam Heat" (Rachel Miller)

Regan Gerena, P21 - "That's Life" (Molly Long)

Lily Hackney, WFDC - "I Love You" (Gianna Adianez)

Sloane Hall, Southern Strutt - "Watch Me" (Leah Evans)

Lainey Hess, WFDC - "Between These Hands" (Gianna Adianez)

Reagan Hess, WFDC - "Twilight" (Gianna Adianez)

Izzy Howard, WDP - "Over It, Scene" (Maria Konrad)

Annsley Huff, Southern Strutt - "The Swan" (Shelby Barnes)

Desa Jankes, WFDC - "Find You" (Jessica Disalvo)

Eva Jimmerson, Renner - "A Mischievous Waltz" (Jordan Pelliteri)

Tayah Klimcuk, Pave - "Slow Me Down" (Courtney Schwartz)

Lily Knopps (Club) - "Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend" (Ashley Moffitt)

Mya Lanigan, Evolve - "Breakin' Dishes" (Lauren Herb)

Esme Lee, OCPAA - "Bring On The Men" (?)

Jillian Mahan, OCPAA - "London Bridge" (Hannahlei Cabanilla)

Savannah Manzel, Larkin - "Flowers In May" (Chelsea Jennings)

Scarlett Manzel, Larkin - "What A Feeling" (Chelsea Jennings)

Kennedy Marble, Club - "Mr. Monotony" (Jaycee Wilkins)

Taylor Morrison, DC2 - "My Discarded Men" (Tanya Emmer)

Avery Olsen, OCPAA - "Woman"

Helena Olaerts, Mather - "She Used To Be Mine" (Shannon Mather)

Roxie Onellion, Base - "Amor" (Kelly Inskip)

Addyson Paul, Pave - "The Garden" (Courtney Schwartz)

Emily Polis, VDA - "When I Go" (Jessica Malafronte)

Mila Renae, Studio X - "Voila" (Fiorella Baclit)

Dylan Reuss, OCPAA - "Favorite Crime" (Amy Berokoff)

Lola Rodi, Evolve - "Heavenly Bodies" (Chelsea Sebes)

Amaya Rodriguez, DUC Miami - "3 Breaths" (Chelsea Sebes)

Elsie Sandall, Club - "Beneath The Mask" (Chelsea Jennings)

Emma Santos, Studio X - "Have A Little Faith" (Avery Cardozza)

Berkeley Scifres, P21 - "Cornet Man" (Molly Long)

Tatum Self, Club - "Gorgeous" (Jaycee Wilkins)

Everleigh Soutas, DCDF - "Something New" (Molly Long)

Kayleigh Stoler, Enthusiasm - "Medusa's Curse"

Sailor Stormoen, Larkin - "Bloom" (Chelsea Jennings)

Kiera Sun, WDP - "Mist" (Renee Kester)

Macey Strickland, WFDC - "Heavenly Bodies" (Chelsea Sebes)

Ellary Day Szyndlar, Club - "Over The Rainbow" (Mark Meismer :()

Sylvie Win Szyndlar, Club - "Magic Within Me" (Chantel Aguirre)

Ella Venerio, DUC Miami - "Beneath The Surface" (Chelsea Sebes)

Greta Wagner, Summit - "Me And The Devil" (?)

Tinsley Wallace, Renner - "Broken Wings" (Chelsea Sebes)

Skylar Wong, Woodbury - "Just A Room" (Ricky Ubeda)

Fiona Wu, Yoko's - "Voila" (Erin Lamoyne)

Aliyah Yen, P21 - "Mink, Schmink" (Molly Long)

[blueharborhq]

TASK 004 — RANDOMIZER #1

Happy September, everyone! As we celebrate (nearly) four months of being open here at Blue Harbor, we'd love to introduce something new and exciting: a randomized interaction task! This type of task is one that we'd love to incorporate more consistently moving forward in order to ensure that everyone is making new IC / OOC connections, staying inclusive towards others, and having fun! Unlike previous tasks, THIS TASK IS MANDATORY FOR ALL MEMBERS TO PARTAKE IN, excluding those who have joined or taken up additional characters following the date of September 1st. Don't worry, though, it's relatively simple! Underneath the cut, you will find every character of BH split up into smaller groups of four ( two will be of five ). These groups were mainly chosen by an online randomizer, with minimal admin interference to make sure that everyone was paired with as many different members as possible, most of whom they may not interact with frequently. That being said, considering the sheer quantity of muns and characters, there may be instances of repeats (For example: A, who has four characters, being in two separate groups with B, who also has four characters) — so don't be alarmed if that's the case for you! That just means more opportunity to chat with someone.

By October 1st, we expect all characters within a group to have at least one interaction individually with each other. This gives you all four weeks to plot and work out a connection— be it random or otherwise — with every character assigned to yours, and every mun in your group! These interactions do not need to be complex, nor do they even need to be written threads. Since this is the first time we're implementing this sort of task, we'll happily accept interactions like texts / calls / facetimes for this, so long as you keep in mind that they will not count towards activity. Ideally, these interactions will not be dropped and will surpass just one reply back and forth; we really want everyone to put the most amount of effort possible into this, rather than doing the bare minimum because it's required. PLEASE NOTE: We will be keeping track as best as we possibly can, and anyone who does not start the required interaction within the given time frame (who has also not opened up a conversation with us to discuss) may receive a friendly follow up! Rest assured, if you wind up falling into this category, you won't be in trouble in any way! We simply want to understand how we can make future installments of this task better for you and improve upon it for next time!

That being said, if you feel as though you cannot complete this task for any reason, please reach out to us. This task is supposed to be something fun and mutually beneficial for all, not a chore! Nor should it be stressful in the slightest. So if there is an element to this task that you are unhappy with, so much so that you feel like you cannot complete it, we need to know. We're willing to chat, help and compromise to make sure that everyone is having a good time! You can do so via the main's direct messages or either admin personally on Discord, as the anonymous feature will remain disabled for the foreseeable future.

Ahead of time, we thank each and every one of you for your cooperation!

GROUP 1.

Deacon Edwards ( Laine )

Elijah Falvey ( Kellen )

Leandro Contreras ( Stef )

Safiye Aksoy ( Kris )

Valletta Cambridge ( Emily )

GROUP 2.

Rafael Moldonado ( G )

Giselle Finch ( Kau )

Rachel Han ( Claire )

Dante Kidd ( Stef )

Madisyn Huang ( Soph )

GROUP 3.

Oliver Ashford ( Alyssa )

Ash Williams ( Em )

Ruby Morrisey ( Kau )

Estefania Betancourt ( Velouria )

GROUP 4.

Maximilian Mohan ( Frankie )

Halide Dursun ( Hanna )

Theodora Nowak ( Ceecee )

Sawyer Marshall ( Alyssa )

GROUP 5.

Dylan Westwick ( Claire )

Warren Pearce ( Hanna )

Grayson Heller ( Christie )

Valentine Finch ( Laine )

GROUP 6.

Juno Behar ( Stef )

Theo Bailey ( Mina )

Jack Lynch ( Aaron )

Grace Connors ( Krys )

GROUP 7.

Dilara Kaplan ( Stef )

Calahan Macarthy ( Manes )

Eliana Kendrick ( Sarah )

Leonard Katz ( G )

GROUP 8.

Daniel Choi ( Krys )

Thalia Edwards ( G )

Ruairi Macarthy ( Riley )

Antonella Ibarra ( Talia )

GROUP 9.

Cassie Westwood ( Hanna )

Dahlia Young ( Krys )

Damian Escobedo ( Ceecee )

Lisha Katz ( J )

GROUP 10.

Sofia Escobedo ( Em - 2 )

Selina Vale ( Talia )

Leon Wozniak ( J )

Angel Wallace ( Sarah )

Trey Kingston ( Christie )

GROUP 11.

Jasper Finch ( Manes )

Phoebe Yates ( Soph )

James Bennett ( Eric )

Terry Lowenstein ( Laine )

GROUP 12.

Jia Kim ( Em )

Lainey Caldwell ( Nikki )

Jeanie Ramachandran ( Aaron )

Elspeth Sun ( Manes )

GROUP 13.

Berenice Henry ( J )

Isabel Guzman ( Alyssa )

Maya Jackson ( Krys )

Avery Chopra ( Bay )

GROUP 14.

Saul Weissberg ( Velouria )

Lincoln Welch ( Nikki )

Samuel Harrison ( Talia )

Liam Reed ( Em )

GROUP 15.

Scarlett Blackwood ( Caitlyn )

Antonio Beltran ( Ceecee )

Chance Underwood ( Kau )

Nilay Bailey ( Bay )

GROUP 16.

Arizona Ortega ( Kris )

Moshe Behar ( Riley )

Izulu Zakwe ( Emily )

Quintana Weisz ( Nikki )

GROUP 17.

Rory Anderson ( Ceecee )

Matty Foster ( Molly )

Lewys Stone ( Sky )

Micah Weissberg ( Frankie )

GROUP 18.

Josie Finch ( Em - 2 )

Nate Abadiño ( Kau )

Roman Daniels ( Soph )

Charlette Lowenstein ( Riley )

[fionamcgovern]

Final Piece #1

Materials and Title: I entitled my piece Lasting Fulfillment*, which is also included in my piece itself on the borders. I used my sketchbook, magazine cut outs, a regular pencil, and colored pencils to create this piece of art.

Complementary Colors: I used red and green as my complimentary colors. I included these as my background, with half of it being green at the top and half of it being primarily red for the bottom. I also included it when I shaded in the colors for my title, lasting fulfillment. I also included small question marks and asterisks in my complementary colors as well.

Inspiration: I got inspiration from Madisyn. I liked how in her piece, to create the background she used two different backgrounds from a magazine with one on top and one on the bottom. I also used similar colors to the background she used, and also used magazine cut outs to create a face on my piece.

Visual and Conceptual Goals: In my piece, I tried to focus on the concept of consumerism, and how despite being pushed at us 24/7 to buy new products, it ultimately is not what leads to fulfillment. On the top half of my art piece I collaged in a bunch of sayings that I clipped out of advertisements, trying to convince people to purchase various products. On the bottom, I created a sad face out of a picture of a galaxy I found in my magazine. This was to demonstrate that human beings are interconnected to the universe, and life is so much more than just saving up money to buy material items. Additionally, another visual component I used to demonstrate this concept were the question marks and asterisks surrounding my title. This was to emphasize that consumerism does not in fact bring lasting fulfillment, and the asterisks is a play on a common theme seen in ads. Asterisks are commonly present in ads (you can see it in the middle one in yellow font that I have on my collage at the top) and give a disclaimer which oftentimes minimizes the bold claims that these corporations are making about their product. I included an asterisks in my title, and included a note at the bottom left of my piece saying, "Consumerism may not actually promote lasting fulfillment. Participate at your own risk." Overall, I tried to use various visual elements such as the ones I just mentioned to demonstrate my overall conceptual goal that consumerism does not bring about lasting happiness, and that life is about so much more than just buying material items.

[andivmg]

who are your fav ‘influencers’/ people you watch on yt TikTok etc 🫶

okay i love how u put influencers in quotes bc i don’t view content as like an influence thing for me, i’ve learned that i kinda prefer other types of content idk you’ll see what i mean

on a similar note, i had to look through my following and subscription lists on yt and tiktok bc i could not think of one single person off the top of my head LOL but i’ll list out people whose content i enjoy when it pops up on my fyp or yt home page.

Danny (Bionic on yt): #1 obviii my man my man my man. BUT i will say sometimes i be bingeing his videos bc they are so unironically entertaining like if you’re into modded minecraft and don’t mind the target audience being younger kids then watch his videos i promise it’s not just bc i love him LMAO

@/hopeyoufindyourdad (Andra) on tiktok: i think she is so smart and i love all her takes on drama and all kinds of situations idk whenever she pops up on my feed i just know i’m going to agree with her on whatever she’s talking about

@/glownarrative (hannah campbell) on tiktok: BIG fan of her makeup reviews, i think she could classify as an “influencer” bc she does review makeup and stuff, at least that’s what i know her for. but, i just think she’s pretty straightforward and when i’m looking for new products i do go to her page just to see her take on how the products wear and apply just 10/10 good reviews

@/alloramomo on tiktok: idek how to describe the videos but it’s like short films but it’s kind of conversations between two people and they always leave me staring at my screen reflecting on what i just watched idk just. good.

@/carolinelusk on tiktok: Similar vein to Andra not just bc she’s a blonde with good opinions but also seems really smart and funny idk i just get good vibes from her

@/fathermareyuh on tiktok: SO FUCKING FUNNY. they make rlly good anime tiktoks idek how to describe the content but they’re just so fucking funny. if u like jjk, my hero, or anime in general u probably alr know but yeah big fan

@/avascreams and @/chloeforrero on tiktok: pretty, funny girls w deep voices, long yap sessions, good opinions, and who talk at the perfect speed.

@/cameronjerrard (Cameron) on tiktok: HILARIOUS. i see that blue bonnet, i’m SAT bc i know i’m about to giggle and hear some good takes on whatever he’s talking about

ik i already put danny on the top and he’s a youtuber but now i’m going w the list of youtubers. i know it would’ve made more sense to just put all the youtube people together but this is the way my brain went and i’m too lazy to go back and redo it so

Madisyn Brown: really good video essays, i’ll literally sit and watch every single one, i think she’s so smart. also she can SING.

Jordan Theresa: video essay girly!! so smart and funny, i love the way she edits her videos idk i just like her content a lot

Salem Tovar: completing my holy trinity of video essay/commentary girlies. funny, smart… need i say more

Mai Pham: the only actual influencer on this list, i love her vlogs and i think she’s so funny, relatable and down to earth idk i just think she’s so cool

D’Angelo Wallace: do i even need to say anything?

Kurzgesagt: one of my hs friends introduced me to this channel and i never looked back. always look forward to the existential crisis following an upload from them

[berrysims-lp]

Home for the time being

Neve brought Madisyn to the cottage in New Appaloosa and had Dawn come over just to make sure everything was indeed in order.

Madisyn: It looks beautiful Mrs. Elderberry. Dawn: Please, call me Dawn. And I had some of the best years and clearance in this place. I hope it will do the same for you.

Madisyn: I'm sure it will. I can already feel the calmness. Dawn: And whatever you may need, we are a quick call away and around a twenty-minute walk. Don't be shy to stop by! Madisyn: Thank you, Dawn.

previous / next

[missmaywemeetagain]

Read Need Your Love Tonight ✈️💙🔥...

It's 1961 and we're headed to Hawaii for the U.S.S. Arizona Benefit Concert! ✈️ This one is an older woman and Elvis, so buckle up, babies! All the pics are from the day/night of the concert, just cuz I know a little visual stimulation never hurts...😏

TW: SEXX, age gap (f > m), period appropriate ageist nonsense, fluff, Elvis in that gold jacket, a little sub!e for funsies

FYI: Gold Scarf ✨🧣✨comes out tomorrow for Sweethearts💕 & above tiers over on Patreon! Don't want to miss out? Join HERE ✨

March 25th, 1961

“Are you sure about this, y/n?” Margie asks you, yet again. She looks at the sign in your hand that you’ve got tucked in by your feet with doubt in her ever-practical brown eyes. “I mean, it’s not too late to just chuck it.”

You laugh, unwilling to let her change your mind. “Oh, come on, Margie! Have a little fun, will ya? It’s not like it really matters. He probably won’t even see it, anyway, so why not?”

“But it’s a little desperate, don’t you think? And it announces to the world that you’re practically a spinster at your age!” she laughs, poking you in your side.

You roll your eyes. “A divorcee is not a spinster, honey. Plus, it gives me character,” you say, fluffing your chic new bob. “Plus, lord knows Elvis Presley has plenty of young admirers. Some of these girls are just babies. They wouldn’t even know what to do with a man like him.” You wink at Margie salaciously.

“Oh, how in the world did I let you talk me into this?” she groans, teasing and giving you a smile that only a best friend could.

It’s not that her words don’t sting just a little though. You certainly hadn’t planned to be 35 years old and recently divorced, or for your husband—ex-husband—to be a giant cliché and leave you for his (much) younger secretary.

That’s why you treated yourself on this trip to Hawaii, using his money and dragged Margie, your life-long best friend, along for the ride. It was a huge bonus when you found out Elvis was going to be performing for the first time since the 50’s and for charity no less. You didn’t mind one bit when springing for the $100 ringside seats for you and Margie. It was a win-win-win situation.

Even though you’d been older than him and his target audience, Elvis intrigued and attracted you from the beginning. The young man with the sleek hair, cutting edge style, and wiggling hips set your heart aflutter even though you were married and, according to your mother, should be “beyond such things.”

Hey, there isn’t any harm in looking, was your thought.

You wiggle your feet under your chair to try and alleviate the numbness in your toes. Perhaps heels hadn’t been the most practical choice for this particular venture, but really all you care about (despite what you told Margie) is Elvis noticing you, even just a little bit. God knows you need this after all you’ve been through. And if that takes wearing a sexy outfit and making a ridiculous sign asking, “Am I too old for you?” in giant, bold letters to get his attention, so be it.

You may be in your mid-thirties and divorced, but you still look decent. And you don’t plan on being single forever. Something in you feels like if you can at least catch the eye of the most famous man on earth, you have a chance at catching another man sooner rather than later.

Your stubborn, fiery nature will come in handy tonight, you just know it will. Even as that too-grown-up shred of doubt telling you this is silly winds through your mind, you still have a good feeling about this.

Sitting through the opening acts, you find yourself wiggling in your seat, filled with an excitement you haven’t felt about anything in a while. The other acts are good—you particularly enjoy that the opening comedienne was a woman—but you are itching to see Elvis. In the flesh.

Finally, after what seems like forever, the main event begins. Your eardrums are blasted out by what must be at least two full minutes of young girls shrieking at the top of their lungs. Rightly so, you think as you watch the tall drink of water that is Elvis Presley strut onto the stage. You are blessing your lucky stars above for the divorce settlement because you are so close, you can see just how deliciously handsome the man is in person.

And, boy, is he.

Even having seen his perfect visage in movies on the big screen truly did not hold a candle to the broad-shouldered man in the glittering gold jacket standing on the stage before you. There is almost an innocence and perhaps even a nervousness in his deep-set dreamy blues. His dark hair is coiffed just perfectly and you watch his leg jiggle as he takes the microphone. A wave of heat rolls over you, flushing you from head to toe, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the temperature in the arena.

There is a boyish playfulness to him you do not expect of the seasoned 26-year-old entertainer. He is indelibly charming and likable, not afraid to laugh at himself or the insanity of the crowd around him, but it’s not in a disparaging way. It’s more like he still can’t quite believe it’s all for him.

The reason he’s always fascinated you becomes obvious now that he’s right in front of you. He is a walking contradiction—delicate feminine features in a sharp masculine package, a deep low drawl coupled with a light warbling tenor. Singing lyrics that make you think the dirtiest things and then he turns around and does a spiritual. You have whiplash in the very best way.

You’re so distracted by his essence and the hypnotizing way he’s working the crowd that you almost forget about your sign. When One Night croons out of him with the promise of his “sweet helping hand,” a fire lights under you and you fumble around at your feet and flip the sign up for him to see.

Come on, come on, come on, you think, tapping your foot. Look over here.

At this point you will accept anything from the singer—a wink would suffice. Anything to let you know that you’re not just a washed-up divorcee who’s too old or ugly to find happiness with anyone else. Even if that happiness is just for one night because of one small moment, it’ll be worth it.

He’s so consumed by the song, his eyes closing and the rhythm pumping through his whole body, that you’re not sure he’ll see you. Your fingers grip the sign anxiously. You’d rather not have to hold it up for the rest of the concert, and you are kicking yourself for not remembering earlier, but you’ll do what you’ll have to do.

The end of the song comes, to which he adds a toe-curling groan, and when he opens his eyes, they land on you. A bolt of lightning strikes inside you, filling your veins with a scorching desire at the way those pretty eyes fall on your sign. You wait with bated breath as he reads each word silently, “Am I too old for you?” He gives you a quick cursory glance and then starts to walk away.

“Thank you,” he says to the crowd as screams fill the arena. The opening chords of Are You Lonesome Tonight start to play.

Fitting song choice, you think a little bitterly. Well, at least he saw me.

You find yourself fighting back tears, the split-second moment feeling anticlimactic and dissatisfying. A bit of a punch to the gut, really. It’s the dismissal that really stings, though your logical brain tells you he’s concentrating on his work and your sign is likely no more than a short distraction.

Suddenly, Elvis stops. He turns back towards you and steps in your direction. Your breath catches in your throat when he points at you. It is as if his finger is connected to you by an invisible string, and you find yourself sitting up taller and leaning forward on the edge of your seat. Then, he tilts the microphone away for a moment, his infamous lip curling up into a delicious boyish smile.

“Never,” he says, looking you straight in the eyes.

There’s about a hundred horses galloping in your chest and you feel like you might melt into the chair or start shrieking like one of the thousands of teenagers behind you. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief. Margie elbows you in the ribs and you blink, and realizing he’s staring, waiting, you smile the biggest smile you’ve ever smiled.

He winks in response and then turns back to the band. You let out a shuddering breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding, dropping the sign on the floor.

“Oh, my god, y/n! He spoke to you! He pointed you out!” Margie whispers excitedly in your ear, bouncing up and down as if she too had been possessed by a teenage girl.

For once in your life, you are speechless and can only nod in her direction, your eyes never leaving Elvis. It’s like you are in his thrall and unable to do anything but focus on his voice and his beautiful face.

Ever the consummate performer, he uses his space well, walking from one end of the stage to the other as he brings the entire arena to quiet with the lullaby-esque ballad. Your frustrated tears from earlier have morphed into tears of overwhelm, of being moved by his voice and the melody. Combined with the lyrics of this particular tune, it feels like he’s somehow seen into your soul and is singing straight to you.

He's in front of you now, and you barely register the fact that he’s bending down, throwing his long legs over the edge of the stage to sit there, as if he weren’t performing for a crowd of 4,000. The girls shriek with even more fervor.

As he begins the spoken part, his legs dangling right there in front of you, he says, “I wonder if you’re lonesome tonight,” staring straight at you once again.

Every nerve in your body is at attention and you know you’ve flushed a shade of cherry red because he smiles knowingly at the effect he’s had on you. He looks away, continuing the rest of the spoken part, and you shiver despite the humid warmth.

Only Margie’s hand clamping over yours reminds you that you are still on earth and that this is indeed all real. And when he looks back at you and says, “I loved you at first glance,” the blood drains from your head straight into your belly and you think you might actually pass out, right there in front of him.

A choked noise escapes your throat and luckily Margie, knowing you as well as she does, starts squeezing your hand with a grip strength you didn’t know was possible from the tiny woman. The pain brings you out of your daze, and you breathe again as he looks away and finishes the song.

It was truly more than you ever could have hoped for and the last three songs of the set fly by. You don’t want it to end, but at least you accomplished what you’d set out to do, which honestly was a little bit of a surprise, despite all your talk at the beginning. For the first time in a long while, you feel a tad bit hopeful about the future. You know it’s probably stupid, this idea that a morsel of attention from Elvis Presley could make you feel valued again, but you feel it all the same. After all, if Elvis thinks your worthy of note, then you must be.

Take that, Mike. You and your secretary can shove it. The thought brings a little smile to your face.

A boisterous version of Hound Dog starts playing and you find yourself grinning from ear to ear, bopping back and forth with Margie. You can’t help but stare at those famous hips as he shakes them oh so perfectly in your direction and are quite mesmerized by them when Margie very pointedly bumps your knee with hers. Looking over, you see a short man in front of you bending towards your ear.

“Hi, Miss, I’m Joe. I work for Elvis, and he would like to see you after the show,” Joe says kindly, presenting it as more of a statement than a question. Your eyebrows shoot up to the sky and you look at him disbelievingly. “You and your friend, of course,” he adds quickly, with a disarming smile.

You shoot Margie a look that you hope conveys the appropriate amount of giddy excitement under the strategically calm look you plaster across your face. It’s one thing to be a mooning schoolgirl with your friend in the audience, but completely different once a very real and unfamiliar young man invites you to meet Elvis Presley.

You give the guy a once over and see the lanyard hanging from his neck that shows that he is indeed working as part of the show, lending some credibility to his request. Margie looks at you with keen eyes, then gives you a shrug of approval before you nod and agree.

“Come with me, ladies, or we’ll be caught in the crowd,” Joe says, ushering you two out of the area before the last song is over. Head spinning, you feel a little regretful that you are missing it, and you are almost out of sight before you realize you’ve left the sign on the floor.

The song and the sign should be the last thing on your mind, but you find your disbelief of the situation feels a little too much to handle as Joe brings you to a black door with a guard standing in front of it. If you had any doubt before, the nod of the guard and the way he instantly opens the door for Joe tells you that this might be real after all.

Margie loops her arm in yours as you step into the dark hallway and Joe leads you away from the stage and the shrieking applause of the arena. By the sound of the immense applause, Elvis’ set is finished and he must be taking his bows.

The butterflies in your stomach make you glad you had only a light dinner as Joe finally opens a door to what you assume is a dressing room. You blink against the light.

“Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. Elvis will be with you shortly,” Joe says before leaving and closing the door behind him.

You break away from Margie, who starts tittering around the room. You are so dazed you barely hear her.

“Are you listening to me, y/n? I cannot believe your silly sign worked! Elvis Presley—the Elvis Presley—wants to see us? I mean, you, really, but hey, I’m glad to be along for the ride! He is awfully handsome, isn’t he?” Margie rambles on.

All you can do is nod while your mind whirls a million miles an hour. Suddenly, all your confidence from before the show disappears and you feel incredibly silly. You’re almost an old woman, for god’s sake. What are you even doing here? What if Elvis comes back, sees how old you really are, and realizes his mistake? Oh, this might be one of the stupidest things you’ve ever done, and that’s saying something.

“Oh, no you don’t, missy. Don’t you give up on me now, not when you’re so close to the finish line!” Margie scolds, then puts her arm around you, leading you to the couch. She sits you down and turns your face to hers.

“He’s gonna take one look at me and run for the hills, Marg,” you whimper.

“Stop it—he will do no such thing. And keep your expectations manageable. We’re just meeting him, that’s all. It’s not like you are going to sleep with the man!” she laughs and shakes her head.

You don’t laugh and Margie stops abruptly. “Oh, my lord above, do you want to sleep with him? Do you think he wants to sleep with you?” she asks, lowering her voice to a whisper, her eyes widening.

This time you can’t help but laugh at her. “Okay, first of all, who doesn’t want to sleep with him? Secondly, I have no idea if he wants that. He’s the biggest star in the world, Marg! I don’t know what his expectations are of the women he brings backstage!” you whisper back, looking around as though there might be lackies lurking about listening to you two chirp away.

Margie now looks as nervous as you feel. She starts playing with her wedding ring in a self-soothing motion and you can’t help but fidget with the simple diamond necklace hanging around your neck.

“Look, it’s probably nothing, right? You just caught his eye and he wants to say hi,” she says, trying to be reassuring but it feels anything but.

“Yes, of course…you don’t think he’ll laugh at me, do you? Like he didn’t just bring us back to make fun of me, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t seem the sort to do that,” she replies, as if she knows the man personally.

Before you can respond, you hear people in the hallway, coming closer by the second. You don’t even have time to look in the mirror because the door opens and the room floods with a loud group of men.

You quickly slide your best confident and nonchalant air over your features, a skill well-practiced from your days going to Mike’s work parties with his insufferable partners and their equally insufferable wives.

The moment Elvis enters the room, the air shifts, as though his essence somehow defies physics and the atoms that make him up are different than the rest of yours. He is glowing, both with sweat and the high of his performance, his gold jacket abandoned to one of his followers along the way. His white ruffled shirt is soaked through with sweat and the sight has you beginning to sweat yourself. It’s as if his pheromones have already sent your hormones into overdrive, and you have the sudden urge to rip that sweaty shirt right off his body.

Instead, you dig your nails into your palm and wait for him to notice you. It takes a moment, what with all the hullabaloo around him. He’s still breathing hard from his performance and laughing with the men. You watch carefully as he pulls off his blue string tie and begins unbuttoning his shirt and rolling his sleeves up his forearms. The scene is so natural and intimately masculine in its way that it sends a shiver down your spine and reminds you that it’s been too long since you’ve had a man if this is all it takes to get you going.

The room suddenly feels very hot and it’s in that moment that Elvis sees you. He gives a low whistle. “Well, if it isn’t the pretty lady with the sign,” he says in his lilting Southern drawl, his eyes never leaving you as he makes his way across the room. Your heart flutters as though a hummingbird is caught in your chest. You stand to greet him.

“Mr. Presley,” you say demurely as he comes to a stop before you and takes your hand in his. The heat from it is blistering on your skin in the best possible way, and when he presses his lips into your fingers without taking those gorgeous blue eyes off you, the zing goes straight into your core.

“Please call me Elvis,” he says in a way that is sweet as pie but with an undercurrent of heat that causes you to blush. “And you are?”

It takes a second for you to remember your own name, and in that short break, Margie jumps up beside you. “She’s y/n, and I’m Margie,” she says, and you hold yourself back from shooting her a scathing look when his eyes shift to her with a kind smile.

A kind smile, but without the same heat, you can’t help but notice.

When he turns back to you and guides you back to the couch, Margie gives you a knowing glance and bites her lips in a smile, obviously trying to hold back a girlish grin.

It doesn’t take long for Elvis to cozy up to you. His arm ends up around the back of the couch and then your shoulders rather quickly, his long fingers drawing soothing circles on your dress. If you were younger and less experienced, this might have been salaciously forward. As it stands, however, sitting here so close to him that you can feel the heat radiate off his sweaty body, it is not even close to enough to satiate you.

Elvis keeps asking you questions, looking at you with endlessly deep blue bedroom eyes framed in long, dark lashes, smudged with remnants of what you assume is eye makeup. You answer his questions, nervous and coy at first, then with increasing candor, because all at once you come to a decision:

You want nothing more than to utterly ruin this boy, despite propriety, despite your reservations and low expectations from earlier. No, judging from the curiously passionate way he keeps looking at you and the increasing tightness in your lower belly, you very much know that you want to take him to bed.

Almost as if he can read your mind, he leans in towards your ear. “Would ya like to come back to my place, darlin’?” he whispers. The hushed, warm cadence of his voice sends tingles sparkling over your body. He’s surprisingly shy about the proposition considering how forward it is, and it’s all you can do to keep from straddling his spread legs right there and then.

Instead, you settle for a nod and a quiet, “I’d like that very much.”

With that, he wastes no time, popping up off the couch and announcing abruptly that it’s time to go. His entourage scrambles to attention, and Margie gives you a quizzical look as Elvis grabs your hand.

You smile at her in the way only a best friend can and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, as though she can’t quite believe your intentions. She’s nervous, you can tell by the way her brow furrows. She begins worrying her lip as the both of you are ushered out and down the dimly lit corridor.

Part of you thinks that perhaps you should be nervous, too. After all, you don’t know Elvis or his people. Yet there is something about him that is utterly disarming—a unique sort of charm perhaps, but it really is more than that. It’s a vulnerability you don’t expect from a man like him. A yearning to connect, maybe.

It’s something that makes him not so different from you.

Before you can really absorb what’s happening, you are whisked into a car with Elvis, Margie, and some of his people, and the lot of you are taken to the Hawaiian Village Hotel. Margie grips one hand while you splay the other on Elvis’ thigh. He lays his larger hand on top and threads his fingers through yours, suggesting a level of intimacy which surprises you. There is a neediness to it, and you have the distinct urge to take care of him in whatever way you can. A knot of warmth grows deep in your belly at the thought.

You feel calmer than you should because, despite his fame, every second you spend with Elvis he becomes less of an untouchable superstar and more of just a man. Even though in any other circumstance you might be afraid being in the company of so many strange men, this feels more like you were meant to be here all along. As if everything in your life has led you to this very night. You are excited, to be sure, but not afraid in the least. In fact, you are feeling more confident than you have in a while, an anticipatory excitement building in you with every passing minute.

Once you get to the hotel, Elvis does not want to let you out of his sight, or even his grasp, which makes it a little hard to convey to Margie all these thoughts of yours. It’s not until you abscond to the bathroom that you are able to get her alone, and even that gains you the cutest little boy pout from the young man who now seemingly has his sights set on only you. You escape only after telling him you must freshen up and give him a long kiss to the cheek, which you notice turns him a little pink.

Margie is beyond hesitant to leave here without you. “Don’t you think you are taking this a little too far, y/n?” she asks you with worry in her eyes.

“Marg, I know what I’m doing, and I’d be crazy not to take this chance. You know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t. And it’s not like I’m some young, innocent thing he’s taking advantage of, am I?” you remind her, checking your makeup and hair in the mirror.

“I guess not. But promise me you’ll be careful! And that you’ll call me. I’ll worry if I don’t hear from you,” she tuts.

“I know and I will. You are the best friend a girl could ask for,” you smile, hugging her.

“I know I am,” she says, nodding, then whispers, “You better be ready to share all the details when you get back. A married woman can still be curious, you know.”

You laugh and say goodbye before Margie announces that she’d like to be taken back to your hotel. A few men hop to and she’s off before you know it.

Once she’s gone, Elvis grabs your hand and pulls you back into his suite of rooms, alone.

“You go on and make yourself comfortable, sweetheart. I just need to take a shower and get all this grime offa me,” he drawls, turning to the ensuite bathroom.

Emboldened by the quiet and the dark, you grab his hand and pull him back to you. Cupping his pretty face, you plant a long, lingering kiss full of promise on his lips. You can feel his surprise, at first, but he quickly relents and wraps his arms around you, deepening the kiss. Feeling him pressed against you sends your body into overdrive. Besides an angry and cliché tussle with the mailman after Mike had announced he was leaving, you hadn’t been with anyone in quite a while. That coupled with the raw, magnetic pull that had been growing all night between you and Elvis has your toes curling and your heart racing.

Elvis may be young, but he sure does know how to kiss, you think. His lips are incredibly soft and pliant and gentle, but you can feel his passion brewing just under the surface in the fevered way his hands dig into your back and his cock twitches in his slacks.

Even though you are loathe to do so, you break away first. “You’d better go shower,” you command, smoothing the ruffles on his shirt.

“Y-Yes, m-ma’am,” he manages to choke out, nodding voraciously. With one last peck to your cheek, he absconds quickly, and in his haste leaves the door open a crack. He undresses in what must be record breaking time, which you can hear from how quickly his clothes drop to the floor. Just thinking of him wet and naked mere feet away has slick gathering in your underwear. It takes everything in you to not follow him in.

Yes, you think you just might ruin him tonight, in the best possible way. Honestly, you’re not exactly sure where this self-assurance is coming from, other than the fact that he seems very taken with you and you have nothing to lose. You’re sure he’s quite experienced—there’s no way he wouldn’t be with his age and level of stardom, and while that should give you pause, you still have nearly a decade on the man. While your sex life had dwindled recently, there were plenty of better years when you and Mike went at it like rabbits.

You sit on the edge of the bed, opting not to take of your dress. There’s something about the fact that he will be naked (or nearly so) with you being fully clothed when he walks back in that entices you in such a way that it sends a shiver down your spine. Of course, it would’ve been prudent of you to wear sexier underwear, but you suppose your white lace set will have to do. Plus, you aren’t entirely certain you will be wearing them for long, anyway…

True to your prediction, the shower turns off in record time. You cross your legs and lean back on your hands, casually but expectantly. Elvis is breathless when he flings the door open, as though he just ran a sprint, droplets of water still glistening on his skin. He looks at you with hopeful, needy anticipation.

He's an absolute vision. Never has a man looked so good, you think. God surely spent extra time crafting this one, what with his high cheekbones and sparkling blue eyes and perfect lips. You make no secret of the way you take in his whole body, either, and his lips part and his eyes widen and you can’t tell if he’s maybe a little self-conscious by the way your gaze is raking over him.

You don’t care. The rapid rise and fall of his chest as he watches you tells you he’s enjoying it. His towel is slung low, wrapped and tucked in around his waist. There’s no hiding how his cock is hardening beneath it, the terrycloth twitching and tenting right before your eyes. Between that and the disheveled state of his wet hair, it makes you want to lick him dry in more ways than one.

You uncross your legs slowly and use one finger to beckon him forward in a come-hither action. You’d seen him do the same in one of his movies last year, but my oh my, how the tables have turned. He gulps visibly, his eyes drifting from your legs to your finger and back again, then pads towards you on the plush carpet until he’s standing right before you.

Looking up at him, you bite your lip coquettishly and see his eyes dilate. Your gaze drifts down his chest to his stomach, then follows the little trail of hair that goes from his belly button and disappears beneath the towel. You can’t help pressing your lips right above his navel and you feel him shudder against you, which you take as a sign to keep going. Kissing across his soft but lean stomach, then down that little trail, you open your legs and grab his hips, pulling him forward to you. He trips over his own feet to get there.

When your hands skirt the edge of the towel and begin to pull it open, his hand stops you. You look up at him to find him shaking his head bashfully.

“Y-y-you don’t h-hafta do that, m-ma’am,” he stammers out, belying his nervousness. You can’t seem to piece out why, exactly, because by the quite prominent erection he’s sporting right in front of your face, it’s evident that he’s excited by the notion. Perhaps he’s used to pretty, young things who don’t know what they are doing, or maybe the notorious 50’s rebel is a little old fashioned. But if there’s one thing you became quite skilled at in the last few years (in the failed hopes it might help your marriage), it was how to make a man fall apart in your mouth. You’d even developed quite the taste for it.

And something about the way he is calling you “ma’am” in his delightful and polite Southern accent has you licking your lips. “Oh, I know I don’t have to, baby,” you coo at him, “but I want to.” And with that, you unravel the towel and let it drop to the floor.

Elvis lets out a choked groan and his hands flail as though he wants to cover the magnificent member that springs forth before you, slapping up against his stomach. You swat his hands away, lips parting with a sigh as you take him in.

He’s intact, the red tip of him nestled under lighter foreskin. Perhaps that why his cheeks are as pink as they are. You’d heard women titter in whispers about uncircumcised men being “ugly” or “unclean,” and while you didn’t have any personal experience with it, it does not turn you off in the least. Quite the opposite, if fact, as you can feel your arousal soaking the fabric between your thighs. What is beyond evident is that God didn’t just give him a pretty voice and a pretty face—he’s got a cock to match.

“Perfect,” you sigh and smile up at him, rubbing encouraging little circles at his hipbone with your thumb.

He lets out a shaking breath and a look of relief passes quickly over his features, but there is still a vulnerable hesitance about him. It does something primal to you. You just want to eat him right up.

But before that, you think he’s due for a little teasing. It’s the least you can do after the show he put on for you earlier and how it had made you ruin your panties to watch him live on stage. Pressing your lips along the cut of his groin, you feel the tickle of the course thatch of hair he’s got curling around the base of him. He shivers violently with each kiss, holding back a strangled moan as you get closer and closer to the place he wants you the most. Not seeming to know what to do with his hands, they flounder a bit before resting lightly on your shoulders, the heat of them blazing through your dress.

Using just the tip of your pointer finger, you run it under and up his large ball sack, noticing the way they seem to draw in closer and the way he jumps when you do so. Your other hand reaches around to grab his perfectly round ass cheek to keep him near and steady. The cutest little yelp falls out of his mouth. You smile, finally dragging your finger up the silky soft flesh covering his rock-hard shaft.

He jolts, the long length of his cock bouncing toward you, knowing and eager for what you have in store for him. The tip of your finger circles the slit of him, already weepy with precum, and you see how sensitive he is around his foreskin when he sucks in a short breath as your finger circles that, too.

Without warning him, you run the tip of your tongue from base to head, savoring the clean but still musky scent of him as you go. You look up to see his eyes roll back and his lips part, a whisper of “Goddamn,” falling from his mouth like a prayer.

You kiss and lap your way back down then take him in your hand to tilt his cock down to you. The heavy feel of him in your palm coupled with the way his hands tighten and dig into the fabric of your dress has you knowing you are on the right track. You pump him once, twice, three times, your wrist twisting and changing pressure to see what makes him moan the most. When you find the right combination, you swirl your tongue around his leaking tip before closing your mouth around it.

The low keen that vibrates out of him is desperate and sensual. Your thighs tighten around his legs, boxing him in, and your pussy clenches around nothing, yearning for friction. Right now, you concentrate on taking him in your mouth, lathing your flattened tongue up and down his penis while you suck in, sealing yourself around him.

It’s then that his hands finally fly up to your hair, carting through it, and you can feel him holding back. It’s good that he knows you are in charge, and he fully submits to how you begin working his balls and the hilt of him with one hand as you inch his ample length further into your mouth.

Obscene moans are falling past his lips now, only getting louder when you match them with your own, the vibrations causing him to thrust a little down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants as you press him past your gag reflex, your throat tightening then relaxing around him. His legs tremble and you pull off him for a moment to catch your breath, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to him still.

Elvis whimpers and you smile up at him, using your hand to pump him fully. You reckon he’s not going to last long in this by the way he’s crumbling so beautifully in front of you. The urge to want to choke on his cock comes over you so strongly that you can’t wait any longer. You take him back down your throat quickly enough that his eyes pop open in surprise and his hand finally tightens in your hair the way you want it to.

He's bigger than Mike in every way, but you don’t let that deter you. No, you feel quite confident as you open your throat for him as best you can, all the while working him with your tongue and hand. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you could conquer the world, despite your age, despite being divorced, because you are going to make the king of rock and roll himself unravel at your feet. The thought has you soaking your panties as Elvis murmurs your praises.

“I-I-I’m not gonna…last…gonna blow if ya keep this up, mama,” he pants, trying to pull away as if not wanting to sully you. But you are far too experienced and far too aroused for such sentiment. Instead, you grab his ass in both hands and press him so far down that your nose hits his pelvis. Feeling him tense and shudder, you give him every trick at once, relishing his pleasure as it serves your own. His strangled cry fills the air as he pulses in your mouth, shooting his salty release straight down your throat as you swallow around him.

The pleasured run of expletives he’s moaning must be loud enough for others to hear, but that arouses you even more because you are causing it. His body shakes hard through his orgasm, and he bows over you, clutching your head in an effort to stay standing. When you finally pull off him, his saliva-covered dick is still heavy and hard.

Ah, youth, you think with a smile.

“Oh, oh mama,” he says breathlessly, “that w-was…oh lord...” Then he collapses next to you on the bed, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.

You shift your body sideways so you can look down at him in his fucked-out afterglow. Somehow, he’s even more beautiful now than he was before, both innocent and debauched all at once, his high cheekbones flushed and his eyes dark and sparkling with lust. You can’t help but run your hand down his heaving chest, just to prove that this vision is real.

The action focuses him and he looks over at you, concerned, his hand cupping your cheek. “You okay? Y-ya really din’t have ta do that, honey,” he says quietly, his dark brows furrowing together handsomely.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, baby. I loved it,” you say, smiling. “Can I show you how much?”

His eyes widen and he nods.

As bold as you’ve ever been, you take his other hand in yours, tucking it under your dress. Slowly, you run his fingers along the inside of your thigh. His callouses catch on your silky stockings and you hear him hum in approval when you reach the past where your garter belt holds them up and your soft, bare flesh is exposed to his touch. There is no stopping you now, and when you guide his fingers to the sopping fabric between your legs, you watch as his lips part in what can only be described as a reverent, aroused awe.

“Ohhhh,” is about all he’s able to get out, and your body yields to him, legs falling open of their own accord as a sigh tumbles from your lips. You dip his fingers under the band that separates you and press him into the slick, and that’s all it takes for the boy to snap to attention.

In a fast, fluid motion, his lips capture yours, and he reverses your positions so you are lying back on the bed. As his mouth explores above, his fingers mirror below, caressing through your slick folds before circling your clit. It only takes him a moment of experimentation to find what makes you quake and roll in his hand—he’s obviously skilled in the art of a woman’s body, you’ll give him that.

You moan into his mouth when he pushes two long fingers up into your wet heat. Your pussy clenches around him, tight and needy, reminding you it’s been neglected for far too long. Pumping wickedly slow, he uses his tongue in your mouth to mimic what he’s doing to your clit with his thumb. God, you want him to devour you whole, you think as your nails dig into the bare flesh of his back and he curves his fingers inside you just so.

“Elvis!” you gasp and that cheeky lip of his curls up into that famous smirk. It turns your stomach gooey and molten, and your cunt squeezes demandingly around his fingers.

Kissing down your neck, his descent is thwarted by your dress. You whine when his fingers leave you and he pulls you to sit up. In one fell swoop, he deftly unzips your dress and yanks it up over your head, discarding it unceremoniously on the floor. Hungrily, his eyes rake over your form, and the scrutiny would usually have you a tad self-conscious, but he’s on you so fast, nipping at your skin, that you couldn’t care less what you look like.

The boy is proving quite proficient in removing undergarments, unclasping your bra with such skill that you barely realize it’s off before it joins your dress in a heap on the floor. You can’t think about much of anything with how his lips pepper your breasts with kisses, and when he attaches softly to your nipple, suckling there, the zinging sensation shoots straight through you and into your aching pussy.

You want him everywhere, your soft sighs of, “yes, yes, yes” urging him on. Running his hands up your legs, he slowly pops each clasp that holds up your stockings, his thumbs massaging maddening circles on the sensitive inner flesh of your upper thighs. Shivers ripple through you when he starts rolling the silky fabric off each leg, kissing each new inch of skin he exposes as he goes.

“Look at these pretty yittle sooties,” he coos as he takes off your heels and stockings, his hands massaging your sore arches. Your body, already on high alert, nearly levitates off the bed at the delectable it-hurts-so-good feeling. His lips press into your ankles, slowly trailing their way back up to your sex.

Oh, he’s good. You didn’t expect this, though perhaps you should have. The closer he gets to the ruined gusset of your panties, the faster your chest swells. It’s been a long time since any one has been down there like this, and you almost stop him, but the feel of his mussed damp hair tickling your thighs has you in quite a state. You suppose turnabout is fair play when he lightly and quickly presses his tongue into your core over the fabric, teasing what you hope is to come.

He switches gears and makes surprisingly quick work of your garter belt. His eyes flash in the darkness as he takes your panties in his teeth, dragging them with a playful growl down your legs. Completely exposed for him, he yanks you to the edge of the bed and pushes gently on your knees, spreading you open with a delight you didn’t know was possible.

“All that for me, mama?” he asks quietly, running the tip of his finger through your dripping arousal before putting it in his mouth and licking it clean. It’s so wonderfully dirty, making your cunt throb for attention.

“Yes,” you breathe, nodding furiously. When he licks his lips, you think you might die from waiting, but then he’s on you, his tongue lathing wide and flat from your ass to your clit.

You don’t recognize the sounds coming out of your mouth, the sensation of his wet softness exploring your most intimate areas being so overwhelming that it is hard to focus. He kisses and swirls around your puffy little nub, and your fingers fly into his dark hair, clasping the wet strands. When he hums against you in response, the vibrations have you gasping.

He continues his work, his tongue pointedly lapping through your swollen folds to your entrance. You think you might be dreaming when he begins fucking you with his tongue, and the tightness in your belly clinches when he flicks his finger over your clit rapidly.

“Oh, god,” you groan, hips undulating against his face, needing more of him. You had set out to ruin this man tonight and now he is undoing you piece by piece instead. He is a responsive and intuitive lover, you realize, as he replaces his tongue with his much longer fingers, pressing up into your body with precision.

Gaping, you push up on your elbows as he pulls back, and you catch the stunning sight of his pretty face slick with your arousal, looking at your cunt with determined reverence. He finds that spongey spot up inside you and takes that moment to fix his mouth to your sensitive bud and your eyes roll back in your head as you arch off the mattress to be closer to the heaven he’s bringing you to.

Fire spreads from your belly into the rest of your body, and you feel your climax closing in on you rapidly, despite part of you wanting this to last forever. When you realize he’s moaning against you and rutting against the bed, it sends a whole new set of fireworks through your nerves.

He’s getting off on this, you think. My pleasure his getting him off.

And there’s nothing sexier than that.

Adding another finger, he fucks you faster, harder, all the while massaging your clit intentionally with his tongue. He is a man on a mission now, and the searing wave of heat crests inside of you. All it takes is the guttural moan he lets go against you and you break apart.

Your fingers dig into his scalp and you thrust into his face as you come. It hits you hard and you cry out as he fucks you through it, catapulting you from your sensitive body to somewhere in the stratosphere.

Your eyelids flutter as you float back down to earth. The feel of his tongue licking up your release has you shuddering against him.

“Oh. Oh,” is all you can seem to manage, and you stare up at the ceiling wondering what good deed you did in your life to deserve this.

You feel Elvis slide his body up yours to lay beside you. He kisses up your neck until he reaches your lips, and you taste the tang of yourself on him. It shouldn’t entice you, but it does. Lying there, his naked body pressed against your side, you feel the hot heaviness of his erection hard against your hip.

“Best poster I ever made,” you breathe out, your filter completely gone after your mind-blowing orgasm.

Elvis chuckles in your hair. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman’s age, young man?” you tease, poking into his side.

“Hey now! I jus’ wanna make sure I don’t hurt ya. Don’t wanna send you to the home quite yet,” he smirks, then bites your shoulder.

“Oh, one of us is going to the home alright, and it’s not me,” you retort, pushing him over and flipping on top of him. “I’ll show you.”

He grunts as you straddle his hips. “Yes, ma’am, you’d better show me,” he says coyly.

“Good boy.” You grind down on him.

Being in your 30s has never been so sweet.

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[madamlaydebug]

Aging Parents

The Cycle of Life

by Madisyn Taylor

When we begin to deal with parents that are aging, it can be a good time to examine your life together and familial past.

For most of us a natural part of the cycle of life is when our roles as children start to shift from that into caretaking roles where are parents are concerned. This can be as major moving a parent into a retirement facility, or coming to the realization that it’s necessary to check in with them more often than usual. Whatever the case, such a shift is momentous as it signals a time of confronting our own mortality as we confront that of our parents. In addition, it can bring up issues about how well they cared for us when we were young. We may also find ourselves consumed with fear at the thought of losing them, even if we’ve been on our own for a very long time.

Talking to other friends and family who are going through similar experiences can be a large source of support. They can help us look at both the unresolved past and the unfolding present, and we are free to talk only about ourselves. Sometimes we need the kind of undivided attention a friend can offer in order to deal with the material that comes up at this time of our lives.

In many ways, this time of life signals a rebirth as we examine our individual past, as well as our familial past. As our parents’ lives move toward completion, we are able to see what they did with their time on earth, what we have done so far with our time, and what we might want to do with the time we have left. These challenges and blessings are all part of the cycle of life.

[beautiful-celebs-pics]

From Madisyn's music video - May 26, 2023

[secrettyrant]

// QUIRKS, HABITS & MEMORIES

Despite her aloof and stoic demeanor, Nina always wears the faintest of grins to the right side of her mouth. It's as if she's mildly amused, fascinated and curious to be in the situation she's in and it has a hint of smugness.

Her questions resound as statements more often than not, and Nina sometimes has to repeat herself to actually gain an answer for a genuine inquiry she has.

It's wildly known that she's a lesbian, but it's never a topic she talks on or discusses and she never brings any dates or relationships she nurtures with other women fully into her life. Only two or three have been her plus one at events but she introduces them as friends.

She constantly checks the time with subtle glances to her watch or phone. Despite this, Nina is never in a rush and all of her movements are at a leisurely pace.

Enunciates words precisely and usually interjects the middle of people's sentences with the start of her own.

Will abruptly change the course of the conversation if she doesn't like it.

Only smokes Treasurer cigarettes and imports them from England.

Nina's wardrobe mostly consists of smart and formal wear, she doesn't own a pair of jeans. However, her casual style is quite Scandi and breaks away from the monochrome entirely.

Has managed to land and close accounts, deals and investments with some of the worst hangovers of her life.

She's very selective over who she lets her hair down around, as reputation matters more to Nina. The friends that know her away from her professional facade would have stories about her that seem entirely out of character.

She has three phones, work, personal and then personal-personal.

Nina has several properties that are used for income on Air BnB, and contrary to the immediate assumption, they're actually all quaint little cottages in the English, French and Italian countryside.

Her "thing" growing up was horse dressage competitions but after a nasty fall from her horse, Amadeus, she stopped. She still loves horses and Amadeus is still alive, she just doesn't ever ride him.

The only time she's ever been late to something in her life was with Felix to their grandfather Gustav's funeral. They were both having a comedown and, of course, Nina was quick to throw Felix under the bus upon arrival.

Despite never outwardly showing warmth or appreciation for others, there are some people in Nina's life that she has locator spells on for their safety. Felix, Oskar, Henrik and Madisyn.

Even though Nina stands at the impressive height of 6'3, this doesn't deter her from wearing heels. If she can be taller than her brothers at events, it's enough to bring a genuine smile to her face.

She has never had many "close" friends while growing up, but there was one. An heiress, Julia Carrington, who died under mysterious circumstances when they were both eighteen. She can rarely speak about Julia without there being signs that she's close to tears.

Is astute within alchemy magic and even black magic, but Nina prefers the financial power of Zenith rather than spending her time at Asphodel.

Tends to "collect" people and friends like trinkets or ornaments, something her mother also does. This possibly could give the feel that Nina only spends time with certain characters due to what she may gain, or even for her own curiosity as if she's hanging them up for display to admire.

[penspagesandpulses]

Book Review: A Noble Protector by Madisyn Carlin

THIS BOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I knew it was going to be amazing, but *ALL THE SQUEALS* VARRICK AND GWYN ARE SO ADORABLE AND I LOVES THEM AND I NEEDS MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Book Blurb She’s an outcast. He’s a dying prince. Together, they may be the kingdom’s last hope. Outcast princess Gwyn Yesen has…

[monriatitans]

The image was made in Canva; check it out at the [referral] link here!

"Ta-Da!" List: Monday, December 30th

I share my "Ta-Da!" Lists so everyone gets updates and I have reminders of what I've accomplished.

To learn more about "Ta-Da!" Lists, and other ADHD life hacks, check out Jesse J. Anderson's book Extra Focus: The Quick Start Guide to Adult ADHD.

Abbreviations

- O&T: Opinions & Truth Blog - WGS: The Weekend Game Show - ASO: Artist Shout-Out - LPS$: Let's Play Some $#!7! - COTMQ: Cause of the Month Quote - TMA: TitansMonriArt - RP: Rendezvous Point Bookshop - BMAC: Buy Me a Coffee - TDL: "Ta-Da!" List

"Ta-Da!" List

✧ throughout the day: 1. Business: a. WGS: gave a human artist, Daelin Strause, an ASO on O&T and several other platforms; yesterday's LPS$ VOD was uploaded to Odysee; continued preparing the COTMQs for January b. RP: added books to bookshelves, with the help of dezeen, then re-alphabetized them c. O&T/WGS/TMA: continued preparing the Wrap-Up posts; shared today's TDL to several platforms 2. Personal-ish: a. YouTube: watched/listened to shorts/videos by, mostly in order, The Jimquisition, Ashley Embers, Listen2Kristen, ADHD is the new BLACK, Adam Conover, The Financial Diet, Mina Le, Robert Reich, How to ADHD, Mom on the Spectrum, Upper Echelon, Leeja Miller, Madisyn Brown, and Jim Sterling b. Chores & Miscellaneous: did laundry; did the dishes; picked the recipes for this week; folded the bedspread, washed yesterday, with partner; checked the mail c. Read: some of Divergent Mind d. Games & Gaming: played FFXIV with partner and alone

— 

And that's it for today! Thank you for reading!

May every decision you make be in the spirit of fairness and may the rest of your day NOT go to $#!7!

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Like what you see and wanna know when there's more? Click here to Subscribe for updates and/or hit the Follow button! Enjoy what I do? Please consider supporting via Buy Me a Coffee | BMAC!

My videos are available on Twitch, YouTube, The Titans' Discord, Steam, Rumble, and Odysee! For more about me, click here! This post contains affiliate links.

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To provide educational material for game designers and artists, and some fun reads, I created a bookshop, powered by Bookshop.org, the Rendezvous Point (RP)! Check it out here!

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Originally published to https://opinionsandtruth.wordpress.com on December 30, 2024.