#sky high lovin

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

[ambermaitrejean]

"in my skin and bones, I can soar" Photo by Amber Maitrejean

Listening to: Dante Leon- The Sky

[doll-elvis]

Just spreading some love, hope you know how special you are 🫵🏻💋

giggling and kicking my feet rn 😭🫶 thank you!

and don’t mind me- just bowing down to the lovely and incredibly talented lady (🫵) who was the first to give us “big daddy elvis”

you have my whole heart for what you have done for this fandom!! the Shakespeare of our time I swear

[thebestofoneshots]

SERIES MASTERLIST

Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Summary: You meet Sirius and Regulus at a family vacation in the Caribbean, but things don't go as planned and you end up losing contact once the trip is over. Years later your family moves to England and you get accepted at Hogwarts where you finally meet Sirius once again, along with all of his friends. One of them with a mysterious secret, that you'll uncover as you embark on your own Hogwarts adventure. Mostly canon-compliant. This IS a wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it.

Read Gilded Constellations on AO3

Read the French Translation by @nagareboshi-chiyo

Paring: Sirius Black x Reader / Remus Lupin x reader / Wolfstar x reader

Chapter average: 5k - 6.5 k

Content: Smut in later chapters, Poly!Marauders, throuple, graphic descriptions of violence, MAJOR and minor character death (this is The Marauders Era guys, you know), jealousy, angst, pining, love triangle, LGBTQ+ themes, The Wizarding war 1.0, implied child abuse, possible proofreading errors, mental health struggles, hurt no comfort, hurt with comfort, period typical attitude, first war with Voldemort, canonical character's death, fluff, Requited Love, F/M/M, mostly canon-compliant.

Status: Ongoing (Weekly updates)

♡ Indicates SMUT

PLAYLIST

01 | Summer Breeze

02 | Escape

03 | Bitter Sweet Symphony

04 | Rainy Days and Mondays

05 | Good times

06 | Crazy Little Thing Called Love

07 | Peaceful Easy Feeling

08 I Fooled Around and Fell in Love

09 | The Fairy Feller's Master-Stroke

10 | Black Dog

11 | Do Ya

12 | You really got me

13 | Rebel, Rebel

14 | Maybe I’m Amazed

15 | No One Like You

Interlude (Q&A Event)

16 | Boogie Wonderland

17 | Tonight’s What It Means To Be Young

18 | Friends will be Friends

19 | Silver Bird

20 | Bad Moon Rising

21 | Fox on the Run

22 | Long Long Way From Home

23 | Hungry Eyes

24 | Peace of Mind

25 | I’ll get Even With You

26 | Hooked on a Feeling

27 | Can’t Take My Eyes Off You

28 | If You Want BIood, (You’ve Got It)

29 | With a Little Help From My Friends

30 | Bridge Over Troubled Water

31 | Strange Magic

32 | Come a Little Bit Closer

33 | More Than a Feeling

34 | You Belong to Me

35 | Chill of Desire

36 | Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

37 | Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

38 | Let the Good Times Roll

39 | Running With the Pack

40 | Hot Stuff

41 | Urban Adventure

42 | Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

43 | Sympathy for the Devil

44 | No One But You

45 | Hold The Line

46 | Comfortably Numb

47 | Let Me Take You Home Tonight

48 | Dust in the Wind

49 | High Hopes

50 | Love the One You're With ♡

51 | Some Guys Have All The Luck ♡

52 | Twentieth Century Fox

53 | Too Much Love Will KiII You

54 | Sail Away Sweet Sister

55 | Noone Together

56 | Who Wants To Live Forever

57 | Play the Game

58 | Staying Power

59 | Break on Through

60 | Stone in Love

61 | Mr. Blue Sky

62 | Born to be Wild

63 | Something About You

64 | Put Out The Fire

65 | Spell Binder

66 | Hot Love

67 | What's On My Mind

68 | Mysteries and Mayhem

69 | Livin' Thing

70 | Back Talk

71 | We've Only Just Begun

72 | Relentless 

73 | Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’

74 |

75 |

.

.

.

BONUS TRACKS:

Your Theories, The Note, The Costumes, Sirius and the Chimney, Sirius and Vix after the bad moon, Evans and Vixen, Remus and Vixen at the infirmary, Remus holding Sirius at DADA, Remus and Sirius’ height difference, the FOXSTAR picture, Art by @nineloseteeth, We're going French,

Leave a comment telling me if you want to join the tag list

A/N: Most Poly!Marauders fics are oneshots, where the relationship between characters is already established, and they're all happy and pleased with it. No issues, no drama, but I WANTED the drama. Couldn't find it, so I set myself up to write the story behind the stablished relationship. I wanted to know how they started dating each other, the jealousy, the will they won't they, because getting into a poly relationship can't be an easy task, and I wanted to explore that story. If you're interested: Welcome to Gilded Constellations!

[aconflagrationofmyown]

This Era can have me any way it likes

he’s so daddy

[tmntxthings]

。・゜・*･゜ﾟ･*･*:*･゜ﾟ･*・゜・。

author’s notes: something short & sweet for the new year, also I’d like to express my gratitude this year to all my mutuals, to my love of tmnt, it has brought me here and I thoroughly enjoy the art & fics you all share, cheers to another year full of turtle lovin’

warnings: fluff, unedited, drabble (super short), aged-up characters, new years theme

—————————————————————————

It was always crowded this time of year at Times Square. But the sheer amount of people flocking the streets always put Leo on edge. As a teenager this was a prime moment to use to his advantage. Get lost in the crowd. People aren’t paying attention to the strangers around them. Their eyes are focused on the screen. On the count down. On the huge sphere in the sky.

But he had grown a lot since then. Even a good disguise couldn’t cover up the fact that he was over six feet tall. Now that, would draw eyes no matter where he went. So he kept to his territory, the rooftops, the many perches one could find themselves on with the multitude of advertisements.

It was always interesting to see humans this far up. But tonight was special. They’d thrown confetti, and it would dance through the wind. Donnie used to stick up his snout, calling it trash, a waste. It seemed to be at least a million pieces of colorful paper. Litter to Dee, but to Leo, it was different.

He could see why people made their way to this spot. It was a sight to behold. It encapsulated the year, highlighted the moment for the one to come. He never missed New Years in New York. No matter how many times he’d seen the ball drop before. Sometimes the wind would carry the confetti so high that he could reach it. When he was feeling really sentimental he stuffed his pockets with a few coordinated colors that surely someone could guess.

When the count down started, he watched as the humans got ready. They surrounded Time Square on rooftops, with boxes full of confetti, bundled up for the cold and ready to make their first tosses.

Five! Four! Three! Two! One!!

Cheers erupted and fireworks lit the sky. That was signal enough for the workers to start, throwing handfuls of confetti. It rained down onto the crowd. Couples were kissing. Friends and family were hugging. Everything was just, perfect.

“Do you wanna throw some?”

The voice startled his revelry. He met eyes that sparkled, with a hand outstretched bursting with color. He waited. You did too.

He tilted his head. So did you. Then he realized this wasn’t some dream and you were real, alive, talking to him, all the way up in his territory asking if he wanted to partake in the tradition. In littering he guessed Donnie would snark. But Leo wanted to. So he dropped down from his spot, landing next to you.

You didn’t flinch. You waited for his palm to open, and dumped the paper in his hand. Wisps escaped from the exchange but Leo was quick to toss and you were ready with more to give. You smiled. And so did he. He wondered absentmindedly if you knew him? Had he saved you before? New York knew of their vigilante heroes whether they publicly supported them or not.

You took in his appearance as if he was a long time friend. Your presence was one that brought Leo comfort. And he went through the entire box without pausing. When that was over he thought you’d maybe thank him, or bid him farewell, but instead you hopped up on the edge of the rooftop. Instincts gave way and Leo’s hand was already reaching out to catch you if you slipped. But you sat down, legs dangling off the edge as of the drop wouldn’t be one to kill you.

You then patted the spot next to you for him to join. To watch the flurries of color float through the air and make their way down. He sat next to you. You told him about your year, the highs, the lows. You asked about his. You talked about what you hoped this new year would bring, your goals, the future. You asked about his plans.

He smiled, because he always had many of those. It was effortless with you, and that was strange in itself. To be sitting here with a stranger, a human, talking as if he was just another person. And maybe he was. Maybe in this moment. It was nice. You handed him a blue piece of confetti, and he pocketed it.

[marinas-drafts]

Honeymoon

A Sky High Lovin’ segment, the swingin’ 60’s

Summary: If weddings are for the bride then it suggests that Honeymoon’s are for the groom -a stupid cliche you had dismissed until your dashing groom proves a little inexorable in his intent to “educate” his new bride on the long Learjet flight to Honolulu

Warnings 18+: (sex, dubious consent) I am about to possibly over exaggerate these cautions but I find it necessary, particularly for anyone who is used to reading my work because this is by far the most dubious consent piece I ever ever written and the theme is entirely narratively sympathetic to entitled husbands and female objectification. So, as it’s me, of course there’s love and tenderness but it’s also got -repeatedly denied requests to stop during sex, innocence kink, possible male enjoyment of a recent virgin’s discomfort, nasty baby talk, worry about a man being unfaithful if you deny him, talks of teaching you how to take him, (possible grooming?!) assumed husbandly entitlement to a wife’s body, archaic views on gender roles… y’all, I ripped off Pricilla and went full Lana Del Rey and glorified breaking a woman into her husbands tastes, like, that’s the theme and it’s reveling in it so, enjoy but heads up 🌷🎀🌷

Repost here from my main: @precious-little-scoundrel

There’s something very salacious in the simple act of walking across the tarmac amidst a swarm of reporters clicking away with their cameras, ready to print the image of your little figure pressed against his side, images for all the world to look at and know what occurred to you last night.

What you two did. How he made you his. On your wedding night.

He made you a woman, his woman and the whole world knows it now. There’s something so damn dirty about this, even -or perhaps because- of how traditional it is. The ring sits with a comforting weight on your finger as he holds your hand, and your belly aches from your husband drawing his pleasure from your virgin body, your thighs trembling as you try your best to keep up with his long strides in your kitten heels. It’s so proper, it’s everything he ever wanted, and it makes your cheeks burn beneath the generous layer of makeup.

He looks painfully handsome and happy this morning, impeccably polished in the bright sunshine and you wonder at his duality. The way he can clean up and regain his proud suavity when last night you had seen him mussed, tremblingly tender and near unhinged in his passion while consummating your union. A dab of pomade, a double breasted jacket and his wife’s little hand in his -he’s utterly in possession of himself now and is the fuckin’ American dream incarnate right in this moment.

He’s very proud as he introduces you to some of the familiar press faces, and very gallant as he guides you up the few steps into the Learjet, broad palm searing your lower back and you wish you two could have remained tangled up in sheets, honeymoon and travel arrangements abandoned indefinitely. Just you and him floating together in a sky of crisp sheets and tangled limbs.

The photographers crowd in after you, soaking up the shy way you cuddle in close as he tucks you into his side, sympathetic to your own desire to be alone but too happy to begrudge anyone a glimpse at his little prize. Uhem, bride. The amount of satisfaction he finds in you is palatable to all here, his arm around you holds you close and grounds you even as his face splitting grin proclaims that you were a tight but obedient fit last night.

Your eyes burn you’re blushing so hard and that makes him grin harder and it’s pavlovian that smile, you can’t help but grin back, harder and crinklier than his and that stokes his joy further and soon y’all are giggling over memories the photographers will never be privy to. Those are yours, frantic and tender and aching.

Even the ever hungry photographers are glutted by the loved up display you give them, and soon they are departing and the plane door is shut. Then it’s goodbye America, off to Honolulu.

The tiny jet crew and the couple of boys from his paired down entourage settle into their seats as the jet roars down the runway and lifts off, effortless, soaring and sleek. Beside him you are restless, shifting and jittery on the leather seat, though he is gratified to see the demure way you cross your ankles and the ladylike poise of your spine even surrounded by the comparative privacy. His perfect southern Belle, whose every thought and action and word is to reflect well upon him and keep his name from disrepute, he couldn’t have chosen better. Your mouthwatering submission last night proved it.

You squirm again. Maintaining the modest coverage of your pretty little shift dress, the one accented with navy bows that coordinate with his suit, requires you to keep your upper thighs pressed together tightly, squeezing the bruise of your freshly opened little flower as it pulses distractingly, as if in flustered shock at its sudden required usage. Throbbing, sticky and hot.

“What’s my lil lady doin all that fidgetin for, hmm?” he asks you, tone solicitous but his eyes glint, “Plush leather seats not soft enough for my baby’s bottom?”

You startle and blush, just as he knew you would, and it’s adorable really, the way you can still be bashful after months of foolin and despite the recent intimacy of the night before. And it’s downright precious that you are so sore and achy after he had been so painstakingly gentle when he took you. You had no clue how sweet he’d been, the amount of self sacrifice he had shown in his languid slide and shallow thrusts, tender kisses and gentle grip. Resolutely holding back the absolute wreckage he could unleash on your poor, widdle unsuspecting cunt.

“Just excited.” your body vibrates as you shake your arms to highlight your explanation, gesturing to the wide blue sky out your window and the decadent interior of the jet.

He grins down at you and kisses your cheek, reaching for the seatbelt fastened at your lower belly and he flicks it open with his thumb, the heat of his hand branding you like an iron for the brief contact. “Lemme show ya round then, baby.”

He folds your hand in his again and weaves you down the aisle between the padded seats and towards the back of the plane, the occasional stray crew member meekly ducking towards the cockpit. You two pass the music lounge with its built-in piano and electric fireplace, then the kitchenette with its circular bar and spherical burst of lights coming out of the wall like cascading planets, back towards the little bedroom. You marvel at the designs, the colors, the unabashed wealth of it all floating thousands of feet above solid earth.

Happy and giddy you tuck into his side and he holds you close, arm snug around your waist, satisfied to show his little wife all he has to offer her.

“Y'know,” he serves as your guide, supplying details and anecdotes, most of which you already know but would listen to, enraptured a thousand times to keep him free and easy with his conversation, “Frank n' i didn't really get along when i first started out. ‘Said my music was brutal n' ugly. But we get along now. met 'im in person right after i met you. Reckon' ya rubbed off on me 'cause now we're good friends n’he lent us this jet to defile as we saw fit." his tongue pokes between his teeth, amused at himself and you find there is something cutely self-deceptive about his rare fits of humble bragging. “He’s got a mirror down here, nice big ole Broadway style vanity with it, bright lights n’low counter.” you’re far back into the plane now, he holds back a dividing curtain and you step into the little hallway dressing room right in front of the inauspicious bedroom door, “Frank uses this setup to primp before goin down the ramp to meet fans or shovin off for the next concert, reckon it’ll serve for the lesson I wanna show ya.”

Curious as to his plan, you look to him, both his image reflected in the huge, bare bulbed mirror and his own dear face beside you, more than a little pleased to see what a striking couple you make in the reflection, with his tailored suit and your chic smock, an IT couple without a doubt. It makes you feel pretty, wanted, a little proud maybe. That you won out of all those other hopeful girls. He sees your pleased expression in the mirror, the way your hip cocks and your expression morphs to your best kittenish smile. You’re preening. You think you’ve made it, think you’re at the summit of what life can offer and he may be partial but he thinks you wear smugness rather cutely. Makes him wanna shake ya up, rumple you a little, remind you who gave you all this. That your new image and importance and identity are due to being Mrs Presley.

He scoots up behind you, wrapping his arms around your belly and pulling you close to him, his chin settles atop your head. “Likin what you see?” he asks slyly, staring at the reflected image that will be on every magazine and newspaper tomorrow, the King of Rock n Roll and his perfect little darling who thinks she’s a woman now that she took cock once.

He runs his hands along your body, broad palms gathering then smoothing out puckers and rolls in the fabric of your dress as he follows the curve of you, breast to thigh and back up, then back down, further this time. He squats a little behind you and his clever fingers hook in your hem line and begin to draw it up, little by little exposing more and more leg in the mirror.

“Oh, no I-“ your hand flys to the apex of your thighs, pressing the fabric against you and keeping a covering there as his gathering has pulled your dress nearly to your little secret place, “what are you doin Elvis?” you ask, a little unsure and bashful of him exposing you in this somewhat public place, even if the crew is nowhere to be seen and the curtain is drawn.

It’s obscene to rumple up the perfect couple, all the starch and pomade that make Elvis Presley and his new bride the envy of the world. And it’s worrying. He does not know you omitted underwear today, the feeling of the fabric chafing and holding in the heat of your tender pussy too much to bear while maintaining a proper face on the tarmac.

“Gonna show ya somethin,” he repeats, eyebrow quirked at your “no” and the nervous way you are almost cupping the last few inches of your dress over your private parts.

He keeps ahold of the fabric he’s gathered up so far and takes to running his knuckles up your side soothingly again, till he notices there’s no band or catch on your hips as he glides up.

“You hidin somethin from me, honey?” he asks, already knowing the answer and the reason for your flaming cheeks, “Keepin secrets from your husband already, denyin him his right?” he tuts and your pretty coal rimmed eyes fly open in denial as you shake your head and pull your hand away. “That's more like it.” He nods approvingly, and ever the showman he waits a minute, building the suspense as his hands continue to map out your clothed body as your breathing quickens. In the mirror both your eyes zero in on the barely hidden triangle between your legs. Then with a flourish and flick of his wrist he swoops the hem up and a rush of cold air hits your exposed pussy. You slump into him and await his verdict. “Darlin, what’s this?“ he asks you gravely, his eyes very dark in the mirror and there you are, pristine up top and entirely bare below, it’s -vulgar. Vulgar and salacious with a fully suited man behind you shaking his head in disappointment that you’d be so careless on your first day as Mrs Presley, risking flashing the photographers or the flight crew because you were too delicate to stand a little fabric. He expects more of you, and he knows you know that.

You mix your explanation with your apology, looking like an eager to please little foal on shaky legs, and he accepts it with another tut and a hum as he rolls your dress up methodically until its bulk is beneath your armpits. The shame you feel in being so exposed is your own fault, your own doing, you know that.

If you’d obeyed you would currently have some demure scrap of silk covering you in the full glare of the showbiz mirror. But now you are bare to his blazing eyes. Your handsome new husband inspects you closely in the mirror, his ringed fingers trailing over your hips and over your belly, swooping up your ribs and tickling the underside of your breasts. Back down he goes, hands gliding and palms warm and broad, spanning much of your abdomen in his reach, down and down till he is petting your mound. Your arms dangle listlessly at your sides, entirely unsure what your part in this is, except to submit to whatever he wishes.

“You say your lil pussy is tenda, hmm?” he understands your motive now, and coos solicitously over your discomfort, even as he smirks at the notion you’re sore from that pathetically gentle love making. It snaps something primal deep inside him, or at least, he thinks that’s what made the decision for him, the decision to enlighten you that last night may have been real nice, but it weren’t typical. He can’t have a wimpy wife, he knows you’re made of tougher stuff, just needs to be coaxed out of you. “A little discomfort ain’t no reason for ya to risk showin the world Mrs. Presley’s goods, is it?” he observes and you nod in abashed agreement.

“No it isn’t,” your tone is fervent and you are so eager to make amends, “I’m sorry Elvis, I wasn’t thinking, I’ll do better.”

“I expect you to.” he says, not unkindly but you gulp and nod anyway, unmoored by his effortless authority. “Now, let’s see about this lil owie, hmm? Spread your legs for me, c’mon wider, that’s a good girl.”

You moan as his hand engulfs you’re throbbing heat, cupping the wounded little place and pressing it firm but gently with his palm. He can feel the thud of your heartbeat down there and the sticky proof of your excitement at just being near him. There’s heat pouring out from you too, a lotta heat. Half of it arousal no doubt, but it’s angry down there like a woman gets during her menses. Puffy and sweltering against his palm.

It’s gonna feel indescribably good around his cock.

“Now we’ve opened ya up,” he explains softly in your ear, “she’s gonna get all fussy down there if she’s left empty for too long.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror with a worried look, unconvinced that emptiness is at all the cause of your discomfort. You feel like something got rearranged down there and needs to be left to mend itself in peace. Preferably in a hot bubble bath. The one luxury this floating palace doesn't have.

“You trust me, don’t ya?” he asks your fretful expression proddingly, “Don’t want ya to close back up all th’way. Go too long and then we’d be starting from scratch each time, you understand baby?”

That does make sense. You swallow your fear and shake your head agreeably. Why shouldn’t you?

He was so tender last night, so romantic and gentle and chivalrous. He had kissed away all your fear and worry into the fluffy bed, sending you careening into bliss and flinging you up to the stars before gently pressing in when you least expected it. It had hurt then, sure, a little pinch and an uncomfortably full feeling he helped soothe by tilting your hips with a courteous pillow beneath them.

Making love had been nice, unexpectedly nice.

And better yet had been the sight of your gorgeous groom, shaking in effort to hold back his vigor as he worked himself in and out above you, gentle and kind, slowly losing a grip on his decorum and letting out sounds of pleasure and praise. There had almost been a whine on his lips as he stalled suddenly and clung to your shoulders and spilled inside you, cementing your union. It had made you feel gloriously happy, and a little smug to see him come undone from the feeling of being inside you.

He earned your trust.

“I understand.” you assure him, the little kisses he is pressing to your neck making you brave. You’d like to see him come undone again. If that means he has to go inside you again then you’ll accept that. Maybe he was right last night, maybe it’ll be even better today.

“That’s my good baby.” he praises you, pleased and handsome over your shoulder, “Gonna turn you into the best little wife the world has ever seen.” he starts to drag his fingers through your bruised petals and you make a ugly little grimace at the soreness before seeing how unpretty it looks in the mirror, consciously changing your expression to demure acceptance. The shiny pink of your lipstick highlights the baby doll serenity of your gentle smile.

“Take me to bed, please, Elvis.” you try to play along with him, desperate to show him your excitement and desire to please.

“Aww now, we’re not goin’ to bed this time, darlin, we’re gonna have a lil lesson so you ain’t in the dark bout marital duties and all that.”

You stiffen in his arms, confused and wary. He keeps nuzzling at your cheek and neck. You had anticipated that there might be adventurous trysts once married, sure. He had proven himself fond of messing with you outside the bedroom during your courtship, fingers playing with you under tables and in hotel elevators. You had prepared for him gently making love to you on a picnic blanket under a Hawaiian moon. Maybe in the tub, or heavens -perhaps the kitchen if he was ravenous. But you’re concerned now that you haven’t grasped his entitlement fully, you’re still trying to understand what he means by “lesson” and why he led you to this vanity. You have a shaky feeling that your embarrassment at being flashed in front of the mirror is about to pale in comparison to what he has planned.

His hand goes from petting your sticky folds to rubbing and swirling, calloused fingertips worrying your bud till you’re nearly keening in enjoyment. He hasn’t looked you in the eyes in a minutes. You keep watching his face as his expression goes from intent to hungry, watching himself fiddling down there with your pink petals as he gets you primed. Primed for the two insistent fingers that plunge into you with no warning. It’s easier this time, having had a coke bottle up there, even just once, did the trick, his fingers meeting far less resistance than last night. He’s made his mark, claimed ya and stretched ya. Never the same again.

His movements burn for you, tugging and persistent as they are and you wince, can’t help it with the way his elegant digits are caressing your sore walls at a foreignly fast pace. You hope that maybe not looking at the rough act will ease your discomfort, like looking away from the needle poke when giving blood helps you keep from getting queasy. The sounds though, wet and squelching, are unmistakable despite the hum of the jet's engines. You watch his face, hoping he’ll look up and meet your eyes, but he’s transfixed by the sight in the mirror of his fingers disappearing into you.

“Gimme your hands, baby.” his sudden instruction startles you as you had flown far away in your mind, trying to reconcile the conflicting amounts of embarrassment and arousal you feel under his heated scrutiny. Who knew married life would cause such a upheaval inside?

“Yes sir.” you present them palms up, and he jerks his chin,

“Now baby, listen, you’re gonna replace my hands while I get myself ready, alright, gonna keep my progress for us. C’mon, hand on each side, pull your lips apart, gonna spread your snatch nice n wide so you can really see the mechanics of the thang. The act.”

The act? What act - you figured if this was going to happen to you at the vanity he would spin you around and set you on the counter, take you kindly as you sat. He had licked you in a movie set bathroom like that one time. Your brain scrambles in confusion and panic, supplying the only familiar acts and positions you’ve tried so far. A man can’t take a woman standing, he can’t, it wouldn’t fit, or at least, it wouldn’t be nice, surely and he wouldn’t be anything but nice-

“Now,” he’s speaking up again, “squeeze your arms a lil, gotta keep your dress nice and clear of the exhibit, ok?” he snickers at the way your dress is bunched beneath your underarms.

You make a respectful noise of acknowledgment, too nervous to say more. Your folds are puffy and slippery beneath your numb fingers as you pull your labia apart like he instructed. This feels new, keeping clothes on while being intimate. It feels…irreverent and dirty somehow. Just like standing here, your whole reflection lit brilliantly and his eyes still glued to that place between your legs.

You watch him pull away from behind you and start to methodically undo the buttons of his double breasted suit jacket, sliding it off his lean arms and folding it carefully over a towel rack, “Ya see, darlin,” he explains, as he undoes his cuff buttons and starts to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, “it's only proper you know what it looks like when we're joined together. I’ve got no desire to keep ya in the dark bout somethin God says is a good thing. This isn't the olden days, I don't mind having an enlightened sorta gal. So long as you don’t turn into the bra-burning sort of enlightened.”

He meets your eyes then as he gives you a look from under his lashes, admonishing you to stay away from such nonsensical, feministic, man-hating company as his deft fingers pop open the button of his slacks and he pulls himself out, weeping, thick and ready. You had no idea he was already so fully excited, your legs begin to tremble anew. He looks larger like this, somehow, all poshly dressed and admirably sauve in the mirror as his cock juts out of his tailored slacks, a single indecorous vulgarity marring his pristine Ken Doll image.

You flush red hot at the sight of him

lazily pumping himself as he saunters back to you, his hand yanking and pulling to chub himself up and then a thumb swirling around the uncut tip. He’s leaking and messy already, a profusion of precum wetting his hand and you give a silent prayer of thanks that at least he will add to the slick, hopefully ease the slide.

He doesn’t waste time with romance, he takes his place again behind you and this time you feel him sliding between your cheeks and then your legs, the feel of his open fly and belt against your bare butt. Due to your obediently spread lips, it’s perfectly visible when he slides through your folds and pokes out the other side, a pink, blunt, oozing cockhead playing peek-a-boo in your garden. He bumps your clit again and again with it until you are huffily shivering in his arms.

“Elvis are you really gonna-“ you can’t bear the suspense of it, you have to ask him his intentions, if he really means to make love to you standing up.

“-really gonna fuck my new wife in front of this state of the art mirror?” he laughs, thinking he knows what your quibble is, “Goddamn right I am, be a crime to not avail ourselves of the experience.”

He punctuates his enunciated vocabulary with rough thrusts against your bud that have you shaking and coming…just a little. Just enough for him to be sure you’re ready to take him.

“Fuck me?” you repeat in a panicked whisper, “B-b-but I’m your wife, Elvis!” you object, wounded.

He gets confused, stalling with his hand as he lines himself up with your freshly excavated entrance, “Whadda ya mean, honey?” he asks kindly, reaching around to tilt your chin towards him, but you sense that there’s an impatient edge to it.

You tearfully explain to him how your mother and other women have told you very explicitly you that men don’t fuck their wives. They make love to them. You are very adamant regarding it, and he ought to know better.

“Why baby, that’s the single greatest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” he declares in fond amusement, smooching your tear stained cheek and resuming his rutting through your folds, “You gonna trust some ole ninnies over your husband? Baby, I gave ya a real nice wedding night cause I love ya and you’re my special girl and I thought it your due, but I ain’t gonna be saddled with a wife who can’t meet my needs when I need a quick fuck, ya hear me? Case in point is now, my dick’s about to fall off from all this chit chat.”

You suppose there’s a great deal about marriage that is far more complicated than movies and books and Sunday potlucks led you to believe. It’s hard balancing how to please your husband as you ought with retaining some dignity that will make him respect you. You can’t imagine Elvis ever not respecting you, it’s too ingrained in him and what he wants isn’t to humiliate you, it’s what he needs to be satisfied. And you so badly want to keep him satisfied, you know deep down you’d do unspeakable things to keep his attention on you, perhaps that is where your shame comes from. It’s less about his expectations and more about the fact you’d throw away all your mother’s teachings before causing him to go elsewhere for comfort and acceptance.

You turn your head to him and pucker your lips for a kiss of acquiesce, which he obliges. His hand is still firm on your jaw as he deepens it, and it’s heady and passionate and loving and -he’s breaching you suddenly. A squat and flex and tilt of his hips and then he’s snagged your hole and he is pressing up and up and up and you whine into his mouth as his foreskin rolls back in your canal, an extra friction against your raw walls.

“Elvis!” you beg, breath caught in your throat at the burning sting of him as your hand flies up to clutch at his arm, secure around your hips, “its it’s-” you flounder with a word to adequately describe the delicious pain of it as he goes deeper.

He mouths messy and moaning at your neck and you can feel his belly shaking against your lower back, his cock twitching at the feeling of getting dipped in your silky channel. It makes you cringe in discomfort.

“You’re so goddamn perfect and warm as anythin,” he praises in a slur of kisses and moans as he flexes up and up.

The farther in he goes the more it loses any snuggly quality and instead feels rather like getting slowly impaled. You shift your stance in front of the mirror, legs spreading of their own accord and eyes squeezed shut in concentration at just trying to breathe. It goes on forever and you start to try to go up on your tip toes, to get away from it, from him, to lessen the fullness and the deepness of his assault somehow. He persists. You try to scramble up him, leveraging your weight on his forearm till your little feet are nearly off the jet floor.

His answering chuckle vibrates your back, “Looks like you’re tryin to learn how to levitate, honey.”

You scramble harder in a vain attempt to get taller, to elongate your poor vagina somehow, to keep him shallow

“T-that’s all I can take, Elvis” you try to tell him when he’s only over half in.

It's an honest declaration, to your hyperventilating self he feels impossibly big and certainly every bit as deep as it felt last night when he took you discreetly beneath the sheets in the good ole fashioned missionary position.

Your eyes widen as he doesn’t stop, just goes on and on and on, as your breaths get more panicked, shallower with each inhale, on the verge of a panic attack until he stalls and starts to pet your belly and kiss your cheek in an effort to bring you back down. “Breathe babydoll, breathe for me. Calm down, satnin, you took this all last night. you can do it again, I knows ya can.”

You've long ago started to whimper when he didn’t listen, half in pain and half in fear that he isn’t stopping, that he isn’t being as nice as he was last night. Why isn’t he stopping? oh why, why, “I can’t, I think I’m not made for it.” you wail as you writhe helpless in his arms, a pounding ache between your legs and a strange flutter in your chest.

“No, no, don’t say that baby, please don’t say that, you’re perfect baby, just perfect.” he pleads a little frantic, rubbing his lips along your cheekbone to collect your tears, “Only need a lil breakin in is all, this won’t always be so rough. I’ll fix ya honey, I’ll make it better. Don’t you go objectin’ to the heavenly proportions God gave ya, or what he gave me neither. We were made for each other.”

Hearing the tender worry in his voice soothes you, even more than his comforting touches, knowing he isn’t indifferent to your struggle, he just wants what’s best for you as any good teacher would. You take a breath, a large breath and it feels like it made him sink deeper somehow. You bite back a sob.

“You can do it.” he says in your ear, his voice shaky from how badly he needs to be moving inside you, “Please baby, let me in, I’m hurtin’ real bad, if you could just see lil elvis you’d feel so bad for the poor guy. Let him in, you can take it, let him in, let him in his lil house. That’s it, that’s it just a little bit more.”

The man lied. There was nothing “little” about the more he gives you when he bucks up that last bit and buries himself fully inside, balls snug against your butt.

“Oh, i’hurts.” you moan, tears leaking through your clenched eyes, smearing your immaculate cat eye. “hurts -I-I can’t, Elvis.”

“You can.” he declares firmly, trying so hard to stay in control, to gather the last shreds of his gentlemanliness, “More like -you *are* doing it. Look, come on. Baby! I said look! Open those eyes and watch how well you’ve taken me.”

You pry your clumping lashes apart and slowly your eyes drag from the reflection of your faces pressed together, down to your breasts where his hand is crushing a velvet bow in his grip, down your belly to to his forearm barred around your hips. Down to that place where you join.

“Where’d lil Elvis go, hmm?” He teases like you’re playing hide and seek, and you let out a watery laugh, rolling your eyes at his babying tone, “Where'd he go, darlin? Oh, there he is,” he pulls out a tiny bit so the pink veiny length of him peaks out from between your lips, “there he is -wait where’d he go?”

“Elvis. Stop. Stop, that’s so dumb.” you beg through your sniffling giggles, the fiery stretch of him temporarily forgotten.

He laughs at your embarrassment and pulls out further this time, then snaps his hips back up to the hilt of him, drawing a pained cry from you “Who’s my bestest girl, hmm? who’s that? Shhh, shhh, Das you ain’t it? Look at’chue, doin so well. I need ya to stand straight baby, let those heels touch down. I mean it, plant your feet, don’t cry about it, no reason to cry, you gotta relax.”

You’ve heard him use the same tone of voice when helping Red’s puppy get a burr out of its paw. Pitifully you obey him, planting your feet and it feels like you’re riding a telephone pole, the way he’s stiff and unyielding, deep inside you, plumbing the depths of your belly.

“That’s more like it.” he hums in throaty appreciation of the snug fit of you, “Alright now, ‘member the job I gave ya?” he reminds gently as he starts to thrust slow and deep, watching as your face crumples in grief, “Hold yourself open baby, it’s very important you watch this, I need ya to understand you’re perfect for this, gotta let go of ma arm, c’mon now.” he pries your grip from his forearm and brings your hand back down to your puffy heat, “Spread yo’self.” his accent deepens as your body struggles to take him, clenching around him in an effort to expel him, and only serving to make him moan in bliss. “Look a’that.” he marvels, sounding utterly worshipful of the way the glistening pink length of him slowly comes into view, then slowly disappears -absorbed inside you, your painfully stretched little hole fluttering hopelessly at each dragging inch of him.

“It still really hurts.” you observe childishly through gritted teeth, your pained body fighting the fuzzy headed arousal you feel while watching the obscene display of him sliding in and out of you for a few languid grinds.

“That’s cause you’re so tense, loosen up baby, -actually, here.” he shuffles you forward and you make a reckless sound of disgruntlement at the feel of him shifting inside you with each baby step, “Here, knee up here.” he hooks his hand beneath your knee and props it up on the counter, somehow making this worse and better all at once with the new angle.

“Ow, oh god, you said it would get better.” you accuse, biting your lip in savage self reprimand after it. Foolish girl, to risk making him unhappy and frustrated, stoking his wandering eye.

“It will, dammit, it will. I'm gonna need you to hang in there and play with your lil button till it does, alright? Bout to burst back here with all this startin and stoppin.”

“Ok.” you whisper, feeling a little more steady with the firm counter beneath your knee, opened up a little for the intrusion of him.

He pats your hips and presses an appreciative kiss behind your ear, nearly drunk off your sweet little struggle to be good for him. It makes his heart soar and fills him with wild wants, makes him reckless, and a little mean somehow, like crushing rose petals to gain the scent.

“Now, I know I made love to ya last night, darlin,” he pets the bulge of his cock in your belly and you shudder in anticipation, “cause that’s what weddin nights are for, but now you’re a wife proper you gotta learn how to take cock without so much whinin and clingin, alright? Made ya a woman, didn’t I? so do me proud, act it.”

With this emboldening commission he presses one more kiss to your neck before pulling out before driving in, hard. And then he does it again, and again and again at a pace you’ve seen him maintain on stage but never, never imagined him using with you, against you, it feels like.

You shriek and your knee slides further apart with the violent rocking, trying with terrible desperation to find solace and feminine satisfaction in the guttural groans and huffed out praises your husband vents as he takes what he needs, flaming eyes glued to the mirror and the place where he plunders you.

You are really trying, it just hurts so damn much.

You know you’re lucky, you cling to that even as he spears your cervix again and again with gusto that suggests your panicked clenching is the best damn thing he’s ever felt in his life. You’ve heard from other women, older women trying to counsel you, prepare you for what lay ahead, that some husbands didn’t even bother trying to make sure their wives were slick enough. That the dry drag and burn of a man can make the stretch truly unbearable. It keeps you grateful that the lewd sounds now causing you to blush are testament to the flood of slick down there. It keeps you grateful meek even as you wail and smear your makeup with your gasped out shock.

He should slow down, he should moderate his thrusts, cherish his wife. He can see you’re struggling and panting and crying and somehow it’s all just a drug to him, the gorgeous little dolly he crafted so perfectly this morning looking utterly overwhelmed and defiled by his cock. It’s enough to make a man lose his bearings and forget his mama’s teachings on how to treat a lady.

The beast won’t be tamed. And so Elvis Presley begins to babble a stream of apologies as he exerts all the energy of his able body in fucking his young wife, like the deeper and harder he goes the more likely his lil swimmers will have the chance of making themselves a nice comfy home in your sweet womb:

“oh goddamn baby I’d stop if I could, but yer squeezing me like a vice and I just…I just can’t stop baby, be good, be good, don’t cry on me, be good for your husband, baby. You’ll get used to it, we’ll train your pussy baby, just gotta get through these early stages. Early stages and it’s, it’s normal, just a lil skittish is all, ain’t no way god made me want you this bad just for you to be cold. Ain’t no way, I can feel it when you’re dancin to my music, you want it deep, you crave it deep, you were born hungry. Oh goddamn, yes, yes, fuck yes, baby, I’m sorry I’m sorry, yes, keep squeezing me like that …….”

It is not talent on your part, this clenching that has him snarling in rapture with his eyes rolling back in his skull, it’s pure creature instinct, whether trying to expel him, bring him deeper or milk him fast so this agony will end, you don’t know. All you know is that his force is terrifying and you’ve never seen something quite as erotic as the pristinely polished beauty of his face morphing into ravenous determination.

Your panic flares one last time, unwilling to allow yourself to coast into enjoyment of this filthy usage without a fight. “Please, Elvis please -enough!” you gasp, even as something seems to have shifted inside you, a tilt or a nudge, whatever it is, it’s a spark of something dangerous.

“Listen here now,” he pants in frustration, one of his hands leaving your hip to fly down to your clit and rub it viciously, “i don’t have a particular hankerin to pin you down over the tabletop, face down ass up, and make this marriage work but I will if I have to. So be a good girl n’ quit all your whinin, show me some of that grit you show when I’m teachin ya on the mats. Don’t wanna make me do nothin rash, but I ain’t gon’ have my honeymoon ruined cause my wife is insistent on bein’ an obstinate lil’ brat!” his voice his shaking with effort, “now, open ya self up!”

It spooks you, this inexorable side of him, white hot lightening ripping through your nerves. Suddenly you’re alite. Scientists might be quick to give credit to the clever little rhythm his thumb strummed over your clit but till the day you die you will swear it was instinctive obedience that had you spasming and then gushing, suddenly relaxing and drawing him in, pliant and eager. Subdued at last.

“Aww baby, oh baby that’s it, oh thank fuck,” he gasps in relief as he feels the change, “I’ve gotchu, you know I gotchu always, gonna help ya get over that damn hill, gonna drop ya off that cliff gentle like.”

His movements are not gentle, if anything they speed up, but his hands cradle you, his mouth caresses you and he places his own knee beside your own, glued together everywhere except for the snap of his pelvis. There is a razor's edge here, in the sensations his body is drawing from yours, and it is an edge upon which you wobble, tipping now towards pleasure, then pain, then back again to pleasure. It confuses and overwhelms you, makes you moan and keen and beg like an animal in heat, the jet crew and all your ladylike deportment forgotten.

“Oh dear god Elvis, I- oh, oh, please don’t stop!” you’re suddenly shouting in a shocked beg, something irreversible building and this isn’t your standard *nice job buddy that was swell* orgasm approaching, it’s one of the *well done sir, I think I just died there for a minute* variety. It’s shaking, and thrumming and burning up your entire body, suddenly making lyrics to his well worn songs take on an entirely new meaning.

“Lordy mama, tryin to let the whole plane know I’ve broken ya in at last?” he teases, finding it heavenly the way you move with him now in an easy give and take, the smacking of your bum against him and the happy slack of your mouth driving him to madness.

Gone is the suave man of myth and envy, here is an animal instead, mounting and mauling and claiming you with ferocious devotion and you take it like a jerking rag doll, whining in need where you were once whimpering. He’s proud of you. If he had breath to laugh he would at the way you suddenly look dazedly disbelieving in the mirror right before your body seizes up and pleasure annihilates all your senses.

Your legs give out and you slump, having only the vaguest awareness of the fact he’s beginning to grunt and cry out himself, using you like a writhing receptacle, coming unglued behind you as you begin to melt on him like butter. There ain’t much thought or chivalry to the way he grabs at you, a hand beneath each knee and folds you in half, split open in front of the mirror as he ruts every last drop of satisfaction into you. He hears himself hollering as if through a tunnel, something that the fight crew, if asked, would paraphrase as being “oh goddamn, you are more perfect than anything.”

You are numb and pounding down there, the last frantic usage of your pussy an ordeal you endure with cock dumb acceptance. The way his face draws up and crumples shortly after, and then slacks in bliss -it is the single most violently arousing thing you’ve ever witnessed. Feeble as your energy is, you feel a surge of feminine pride at the way he mumbles and moans and finally shakes to a stop.

“That’s it, oh you’re so beautiful.” you moan, watching as his hair falls into his bleary, slow blinking eyes as he comes back to the surface, “And you’re mine.” you sigh, content.

“Mhmm, yours.” he coos, jostling you a little on his cock and he snuggles closer somehow, you think you feel his seed start to dribble out despite the sizable stopper inside you, “Well, bless your heart darling, I’ve got ya folded like a camp chair. Ha!” he gently folds your legs back down, pulling out of you with painstaking gentleness on the way down, “That weren’t very gentlemanly of me, was it?” he teases.

You sway dangerously once placed on your own two feet and you don’t even have the chance to fall, he never lets go before he realizes what’s needed. He picks you up and sets you on the counter, you pool back against the mirror, boneless and debauched, legs stuck bow legged from such a long ride and a vividly puffy pussy leaking his seed onto the counter. He tucks himself back in with still shaking hands. He won’t be fully back down to earth till Honolulu’s runway, he thinks. Just in time to carry you off the plane. And begin it all over again.

Married life, he could get used to this.

“It was perfect, you’re perfect.” you slur earnestly as he returns to you and unzips your dress, hauling it over your teased you hair, baring you fully as you sit on the counter, kicking feet thumping against the cabinets in your patten leather heels

“Nah…perfect -that would be you, Mrs Presley.” he kisses you deeply, before taking you in his arms bridal style and carries you into the bedroom, conscious but uncaring that you’re leaking all over his pristine shirt sleeve.

This next part oughta involve washcloths or wet wipes. But that would require leaving your sweet arms and facing a jet crew that just heard him railing his tender young bride.

Yeah, he’ll just use his mouth.

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog@aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo

[druidwolf21]

As per the votes, here's some loving smut with everyone's fav space viking!

Leman Russ/F reader

Content warning-

sexual content

A bit of fluff

Homesickness

Saying I love you during sexy time???

@moodymisty @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @lemon-russ @beckyninja @jaghatai-khock

Hope you like some sexy lovins

Words and meanings

Skitja- fenrisian curse

Volda Hamarrki- the mountain range of fenris

Skitnah-dirty/foul

Aett- clan hols/ heath fenrisian name for the fang

Stormurstjórn- stormcaller (I used this as a little pet name

Skíthof- another fenrisian curse

Gmorl-fate

The fire roared and blazed, spitting sparking embers across the marbled guard as you stared listlessly into the light. The book you had been reading hung limply from your hand as your eyes followed motes of flames dancing from one cindered log to another as it's warmth gently toasted your skin.

You allowed your eyes to wander from the embers to the room you sat in. Cold steel walls rising high above you, dispersed with woven tapestries of great battles and flickering oil torches. You sighed wistfully as your sight fell on a painting of a forest, trees frosted with diamond snow and silvered icicles, shadowy wolven figures dancing through the wood with amber eyes that seemed to glow.

You fisted the furs on the bed you had perched on as you threw the book aside and fell backwards, staring at the canopy above you, willing it to turn from soft cotton into the grey fenrisian sky. Squeezing your eyes shut and inhaling, you could almost smell the frozen sap, warm mjord and smelting iron that hung perpetually through the halls of the fang.

But home was a long way away and no matter how hard you willed it, upon opening your eyes, the dream of Asaheim faded into the distance. Your memory of warm meals and warmer company left a bitter taste in your mouth as you swept a hand across your face. Your thoughts were dragged back into the present by a wet nose against your thigh and a quiet whine.

Resigning yourself to your current situation, you drag yourself upright, smiling gently as you come face to face with golden eyes and a maw of teeth as long as Eldari daggers. Thick lines of spit coated each fang as the beast breathed heavily in your face before letting out another low whine.

You snorted and place a hand on the wolf's snout, playfully pushing it away.

""Skítja, fenki!" You curse "what have you been eating, your breath is worse than...well I don't know, but it's bad!"

You recoiled as your question got you a long, hot lick from your bare ankle to the top of your thigh. You hopped off the bed and rushed to an oaken dressing table, ripping a towel from a drawer and dragging it along your leg.

"you are so gross" you laugh lightly, dropping the towel and walking back over, pressing your face into warm fur and inhaling deeply.

"I guess you miss home too, huh?"

You nuzzled in deeper, wrapping your arms around the giant canine as far as you could, twisting your fingers through coarse fur and feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of it's chest.

"I promise, as soon as we can, we'll take you back home, back to Volda Hamarrki. Me, you, Russ and Geri, does that sound good?" You whispered, trying to stem tears before they fell

"we'll go back, away from this Skitnah ship, feel the snow under our feet again"

The tears flowed freely as you buried your face, gritting your teeth, willing them to stop as you fought to push the home sickness from your thoughts.

"Making plans for me, my little Stormurstjórn?"

You spun round, hair whipping around as you turned to face the owner of the deep voice that thrummed through you.

Lemans grin faltered as he saw your face, wet with tears, he threw down his thick cloak as he rushed over, dropping to a knee and cupping your face gently.

"my heart, what happened? why do you cry?" His face darkens and a snarl starts forming on his face, his hands and eyes gliding over you "did someone hurt you? If someone touched you I'll.."

You shake your head gently, looking into lemans icy blue eyes and smiling shyly.

"no my lord, I'm fine, just wishing for the comforts of home"

You see the tension leave your primarks body as he leans back slightly and your heart fluttered as his easy smile found his face again. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before pressing his forehead against yours.

"The Aett may be far, but you are here and that is home enough for me" he murmured, his voice as thick and sweet as honey mjord as he brushed the tears from your face.

You pulled away and pressed your hands to his cheeks, admiring the way the dying embers cast a warm glow across his face and down his neck. His eyes shone, almost reflective as the light flittered and sputtered.

A thick golden braid had fallen over his shoulder and You leant back in, running the hair through your fingers before pressed a kiss against his lips. His arms wrapped around you and you felt like you were melting into him as he returned your touch, running his tongue along your lips, deepening the kiss.

You gasped as a callused hand found your ass, snaking beneath the metal blue dress you were wearing. Leman took advantage of your shock, pushing is tongue into your mouth and tasting you, his other hand locked in your hair. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you sucked his tongue, tasting mjord and smoke, earning a growl in return.

You separated and leman admired the mess you had become already, lips pink and cheeks flushed.

"I can give you a taste of home, if you miss it so much" he smirked, running his tongue along his fangs.

You rolled your eyes and grinned, before leaning back in for another kiss.

Russ took this as an open invite and swept you in his arms, dropping you on the bed and slowly slid your dress off your shoulders, peppering kisses and bites marks down your neck and shoulders as he swept the garment from under you and tossed it to the floor. His hand gripped your waist and ran down your thighs as he took a perk nipple in his mouth and ran his tongue around it, he grinned again, lifting himself from your breast to look at you.

Your eyes were slightly glazed as your chest rose and fell, looking at your lover with doe eyes.

He returned his gaze to your body, trailing his tongue down your stomach before reaching where you wanted.

He lifted your thighs higher as he dove in, licking and sucking on your pussy like a starving man. You gasped and instinctively locked your fingers in his hair.

His tongue felt rough but throne did he know what he what he was doing

Your moaned his name, hips jerking fruitlessly as he held you down, his eyes locked on your face as you came, your hands tightening in his hair as your orgasm rocked through you.

Leman rose, licking away your taste from his lips as he looked down at his work, you lay, flushed and gasping on the warm fur across the bed.

Just the way he liked it

He quickly made light work of his own clothes, throwing them into their own heap next to yours

Your eyes grazed over his body as he stalked towards you, trailing down his broad, scarred chest, following the line of his abs and the trail of hair, lower and lower...

Leman, climbed over you, his braids tickling your skin as he gently gripped one of your hands, locking it next to your head and gazing down at you. You felt your cheeks flush at the intensity of his eyes. The concern, care and feral arousal in his stare raised a heat in your core.

"my little queen" he whispered in your ear, as he slowly slid inside you, inch by inch filing you. You moaned as you felt yourself stretch to your limit, his dick reaching deep inside you as your back arched, pressing your breasts into his chest. He pressed a kiss to your cheek and slowly withdrew, before sliding back inside you, over and over.

"I'll fuck all the sadness right out of you"

You moan his name as he ground into you, one hand still gripping yours as the other held your thigh up, fucking you deeper than you could imagine. His dick touched every part of you as he filled you, over and over. The knot in you stomach getting tighter and tighter...

"L..leman right there!" You mutter into his ear, biting at his lobe "p please"

"Skíthof" he cursed as he felt you tighten around him, "so tight for me" your muscles fluttering around his cock as he drove deeper into you as you came.

Yes, scream my name, you belong to me, my sweet, my heart

You panted as you finished, wrestling your hand free, you gripped around his neck and looked deeply into his eyes.

"I love you, leman" you sighed, biting you lip as the feel of his driving into you, the sound of his breath and skin on skin and the heat from his body drove you towards another peak. "I love you, my wolf"

A brief look of shock passed across Russ's face, his movements became erratic and he growled and dropped his head to your shoulder as you felt him finish, feeling his cum fill you up as he jerked into you, pushing it deep inside your pussy and biting your shoulder, marking you as you cried out, finishing with him.

You stayed like that, wrapped under the body of your lord, his face pressed into the crook of your neck and your arms around him, his dick still wreathed inside you as his cum slowly leaked out.

The reality of your words set in

I love you leman...

The sweet comfort of your afterglow vanished and you blushed furiously.

"did I seriously say that for the first time DURING SEX?!" You screamed internally

Finally, you felt your partner moved, slowly raising off you, his locks tickling across your breasts sending goosebumps across your bare skin as he looked down at you wordlessly, the blue galciers of his eyes looking down at you, almost searching.

"mmm my lord I.." you stutter, trying to find the right words.

He silenced you with a firm kiss, grinning that stupid sexy grin. But despite the smug smile creeping across his features, his face was soft and he met your confused look.

"And I you, my Gmorl"

You lay in shock for a moment, your brain twisting at what was happening as leman pulled away from you and stretched, looking over his shoulder at you. You sat, bolting upright.

"I.. you..."

He smirked at you over his shoulder before rising to his feet and throwing your dress at you.

"come then, sweet one, do you still wish to see fenris again?"

He loved the way your eyes sparkled and you jumped off the bed towards him, clutching your wrinkled dress to your chest.

"really?? We're going home?" You laughed and spun and leman felt his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

He shook his head and bared his fangs in a wide love sick smile

"anything for you, my little love"

[aconflagrationofmyown]

☝🏼 this is the face of a woman who has sniffed out his intentions for the bride ok? And that right there 👆🏻 is the face of a man desperate to retract that passing comment that outed him. But come 1973? oh he’s done with such niceties baby

…did the bride happen to be late, too?

Elvis at Red Wests’ wedding July 1, 1961. Elvis was supposed to be the best man but since he arrived late with Anita, Joe Esposito had to step in!

[aconflagrationofmyown]

you must get this all the time but every time i see the gifs/clips of Priscilla + Elvis walking to their honeymoon it literally makes me feral because all i can think about is sky high lovin’ - do you have any other plans for the plane? more 70s elvis on the lisa-marie perhaps?

I actually don’t get it often but it thrills me so much!!! Ha, I feel bad for just glamorizing the hell outta it but, isn’t that what all the biopics are doing? High budget fanfic? 😏🫶🏼

Anyway, yes I am working on a 73ish Sky High Lovin’ and it’s a dark, psychologically warped smut fest with post divorce E on board his jet.

muah 🌹

[therealslimshakespeare]

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House of the Dragon Fics 🩸

My Mother’s Child (Aemond x Allicent)

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Hotspur Percy & Kate Mortimer ⚔️

To Scold a King

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Austin/Callum/Reader Fics 🪐

The Three of Us series

The Three of Us

The Three of Us (brat behavior)

Tis the Damn Season

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Gale Cleven x Reader Fanfiction 🔧

For the Hope of it All

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John Brady Fanfiction (mota) 🪴

Garden Variety Happiness

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Harry Crosby Fanfiction (mota) 🧳

Four Week in New York

Headcanons

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Dear John 💌

John “Bucky” Egan Fanfiction

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Backseated (sneak peak) 🏛️

Rosie Rosenthal Fanfiction

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Those Who Can Masterlist 🚬

(Masters of the Air integrated AU)

Note: my blog and writings are strictly 18+, this means that we are all adults here enjoying free connection and art. The themes of this particular story are mature, at times harrowing and for some, potentially intolerable. No worries if the latter is your case, feel free to move on or block tags. On the other hand, please take responsibility for your reading, I provide warnings as a courtesy but I cannot cover them all and if something doesn’t sit right, please exercise adult autonomy and make your way to the nearest exit. Xo

Rifle Broads

Ida’s Law

Showers

First Night

What Took Him so Long?

Sanchez

The Kids aren’t Alright

Favorite Escape

Radio

Strip Search

Female Complaints

Greatest Fear

Candy? -as in Kendeigh?

Set in 1945:

My Fellow Colonel

The Passion of Johnny

A Wedding and a Willy

Hardwoods: Proposal #1

Rosie x Ida Intimacy Journey:

Part 1: Wedding Night

Postwar Blurbs:

Synonyms

Lizards

…and far more to come 🥰

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Friends in the Crucible ✈️

Hell Island

Flamingo-Phobia

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Austin Butler 💄

Good Ole Fashioned Loverboy

Sweet Nothin’s

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Austin/Elvis 🪺 Crawfever

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Elvis Presley Fanfiction ⚡️

Sarge and Lil Mama

A Whole Man is Hard to Find

But then…Gigi 🍒

Sky High Lovin’ (series Masterlist of mile high club one shots)

[scariusaquarius]

Hello, Lyn! Would you perhaps be willing to write something for number 71. “Kiss me, quick!” with Hawks? 👀 (I was Narnvaeron perviously, I don't know if I mentioned changing the username and avatar lol).

Of course I remember you!! I hope you're doing well, sweety! Happy New Years Day!!

Send me a Pairing and Prompt! // ACCEPTING

Keigo 'Hawks' Takami x Reader

71. "Kiss me, quick!"

Undercover missions could go one of two ways: A) No problems encountered, and the mission goes incredibly well or B) every single thing that could go wrong does.

Unfortunately for you and Hawks, the mission you both were on decided to go with option B.

Currently, you two were in the middle of a battleground; trying to weave your way in and out of the different alleyways and buildings in hopes to losing some of the villains that had caught wind of who you two were, and though Hawks could have flown the both of you out of there, he had unfortunately encountered Dabi, of whom had burned a ton of his feathers off.

So, the sky-high hero was reduced to the ground and the man was frantic. He held your hand tightly as you led him, doing your best to find a busy part of the town in hopes of losing the villains.

Coming upon a packed flea market, you tugged Hawks' hand and hissed as he stumbled slightly.

"Come on, I got an idea!"

"Really? I thought the idea was to run like hell."

He was panting slightly, sweat running down his temple and neck, and you said in earnest.

"Well, we can't hope to outrun them like this. You're wounded, I'm winded, and we need to find cover and fast. Here, take this!"

You indiscreetly stole a couple of hats from one of the clothes vendows and slipped it onto his head, making the man's golden eyes widen in awe.

"Oo, disguises? Good thinking, dove! I've always liked playing dress-up."

There was a tone to his voice that revealed his lack of enjoyment, but you paid him bo mind as you yanked some shawls from another vendor without them looking and quickly scuttled away to wrap the shawls around yourselves.

Pulling out your sunglasses, you could have laughed at the way Hawks' face scrunched and flinched as you practically smacked them onto his face.

Turning around, you scanned the crowd before cursing when you noticed the villains coming your way. Luckily, they hadn't spotted you two yet, but they would the closer they got.

So, you turned to Hawks and grabbed him by his shirt, making his eyebrows shoot up as you hissed.

"Kiss me, quick!"

You didn't give him a chance to initiate, slamming your lips against his, and Hawks swore he was going to combust from blushing so hard. His hands were hovering over your hips in shock before the man melted, pulling you closer and pressing into you.

Your hands splayed over his chest before wrapping around his neck, and the man hummed softly as your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

It was bliss for him, the feeling of your soft lips against his making his mind reel, and Hawks could help but to smooth his tongue over your bottom lip; silently begging for entrance.

You allowed it, your tongues intertwining, and you could hear the scoffs of disgust as the villains passed you both by.

With a nibble to your bottom lip, Hawks pulled away before smirking and raising his sunglasses so his golden eyes could look down at you, his cheeks flaming red.

"Gotta say, I wasn't expecting that, but I wouldn't mind a couple more of those."

You were embarrassed, muttering.

"I saw it off of a movie and thought it would work."

"Oh, yeah? You sure you didn't just want to get some lovin', sugar?"

He wriggled his eyebrows, and you rolled your eyes, grabbing his hand and quickly guiding him to safety.

"You're insufferable."

"Give me another kiss or two, and I might stop~"

[bloodyrib]

♬ you put the boom boom into my heart you send my soul sky-high when your lovin starts ♬

[donotquestionmyinsanity]

One of my favorite head cannons/AU’s in the MCU is that Bucky and Steve are actually immigrants, and the government is trying to cover it up because the want the public to think their Captain America is a “pure bred, beer sippin’, gun lovin’ American”.

And Steve knows they’re trying to cover it up and it annoys him, but he understands people will take him more seriously as Captain America if he acts like he’s from America. Bucky is confused as to why he’s going along with it, because Steve is very proud of his country, but he understands when Steve explains. But still, he thought the Avengers knew.

I mean, it’s completely in character for Tony to go snooping, and Natasha seems, to him, like she’d know everything about you before meeting you. And he just assumed they told the others.

So he was very confused when Tony asked questions about America before he and his mother immigrated, under the guise of research. He thought he was messing around and told him ridiculously untrue statements. Such as “the sky was actually purple” and “if you went to the top of the skyscrapers, God would high five you.” Silly stuff like that.

So when Tony says he should answer truthfully, he says “I don’t know” and looks confused.

“You don’t know?” Tony asks. “How do you not know? You lived there, yes?”

“Well, I did. Starting in 1933.” Steve answers truthfully. Tony get’s confused at that, as does Natasha, who was in the room. Bucky was reading “The Great Gatsby” but looks up to watch the three of them talk.

“But you were born in 1918?”

“Yes.”

“In Brooklyn.”

Steve looks at them weirdly.

“No. In Poland.” He answers them and Tony’s mouth drops. Natasha stares at him as if trying to figure out if he was lying.

“But your name’s Steve Rodgers. That’s an American name.” She objects. Steve looks a bit annoyed at remembering that.

“Yes. The stupid register man couldn’t pronounce Mikolaj Lewandowski.” He said in an annoyed tone, which Bucky snickers at. Steve shoots him a glare. “Oh shut up. You got to keep your first name.”

Tony turns to Bucky, now out of his shock. “You’re also from Poland?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. I’m from Russia. But my boat stopped at a Polish port where Steve and his mother got on.”

“I thought you met in Hells Kitchen. That’s what the museum said.”

And then Steve and Bucky explain how the government is keeping it a secret, and Tony and Natasha love it. Because secretly, Captain America is an immigrant, which they find hilarious.

[unboundprompts]

Hi! Thank you so much for your wonderful blog! Could you please do prompts from songs that feel ✨orange✨? Some energetic, bright, optimistic lines would be so nice! Thank you in advance!

Orange Prompts

-> writing prompts from songs that feel orange. feel free to edit as you see fit.

"I don't know the way, but I know that I belong out here on this journey that I never thought I'd make." - The Color of the Sky by Thrice

"Welcome to the land of the permanent sun where the flowers are melted and the future is fun." - The Valley of The Pagans (feat. Beck) by Gorillas, Beck

"You are the bullet in my head." - Spiderhead by Cage The Elephant

"You are my radio. Turn you up when I feel low. You are the soundtrack to all I know. You are the rock to my roll." - Rock To My Roll by Anarbor

"How can I help it if I like the way she makes me feel?" - Break Up Every Night by The Chainsmokers

"You know I talk too much. Honey, come put your lips on mine, and shut me up." - Talk too Much by COIN

"Who needs money when love is gold." - Rock To My Roll by Anarbor

"I turn each day into night, I stand there waiting for you." - Natives by blink-182

"Let's go paint the town on our way home." - Razzmatazz by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

'You're only going up from here." - Bummerland by AJR

"Well, he talks like an angel, but he looks like me." - Brazil by Declan McKenna

"Lovin' you's a recipe for disaster, hurts like hell but damn it's fuckin' heavenly." - Crazy by Makeout

"If I'm feeling right, I'll go out tonight and meet some strangers like me." - High Low by The Unlikely Candidates

"Tell me where we were and what we did last night." - Suicide Sunday by The Friday Night Boys

"You got to know that I meant it when I said that I liked you." - Ghost by Confetti

"In your head, I'm a junkie for your desperate love." - My Heart Needs to Breathe by The Faim

"Nothing has changed, he is the same." - He Is The Same by Jon Bellion

"I've found love in the strangest place." - Problems by Mother Mother

"We'll be the envy of the gods above." - The Cult of Dionysus by The Orion Experience, ORION, Linda XO

"Loving is easy when everything's perfect. Please don't change a single little thing for me." - Loving is Easy by Rex Orange County, Benny Sings

"What keeps me sane is you." - Paradise by Bear Ghost

"Well, maybe I'm a mess. And maybe I'm depressed. And maybe I'll just find out who I am, and I don't like who it is. And I'm a wreck. I do it for the sex. And maybe I gotta realize this is as good as it gets." - Good As It Gets by Little Hurt

[film-in-my-soul]

Hard to be Soft | 2,546 | stereobone / @stereobone

Summary: Eddie's had sex on a bed before. A lot, actually. Face down, usually, sheets dirty, barely able to breathe, someone holding him bruise-tight and pressing his face into the mattress. But Steve, Steve kisses him soft, hands caught up in his hair. Not to pull, just to feel him, or something. Steve kisses Eddie like he wants to keep him.

The Best Remedy | 3,098 | beetlesandstars / @beetlesandstarss

Summary: “Wanna get off with you,” Eddie murmurs like he’s admitting something dirty, something forbidden. “Yeah?” Steve breathes. “But,” Eddie smoothes his shaky hands down Steve’s back. “I think I might pop and die immediately.”

better in the dark | 3,242 | AO3 / Anonymous

Summary: Now Steve can smile what he’s been told is his sexiest smile. “Does that mean you’ll want to do it again?” He mimes checking his watch, even though his watch is somewhere on Eddie's bedroom floor. “Because not to brag or anything, but I’ve been known to go a few rounds in a night. Give me, like, half an hour, maybe twenty minutes.” “Well, I’ll be,” says Eddie. He looks adorable and extraordinarily fuckable with a blush staining his cheeks. “Will Harringtonian wonders never cease.”

Do Me, Baby | 3,285 | beetlesandstars / @beetlesandstarss

Summary: Steve takes a breath, fiddling with the phone cord. "Look, tell me to shut up, but, um. I could, like… help you?” A pause. Then, voice disbelieving, Eddie says, "Help me?" “Yeah, like, talk you through it.” Steve cringes. He sounds so stupid. Hi, Eddie! Want me to teach you how to jerk off again?

go ahead, go way low (in my honey-lovin' arms) | 3,558 | Gorgeousgreymatter / @gorgeousgreymatter-x

Summary: Honestly, there is a small (maybe not that small part) of Eddie that’s expecting to get punched for this, but that’s not what Steve does. Eddie’s pretty sure it’s not loud enough for anyone else to hear, thankfully, over the sound of whatever explosions were currently playing out on the screen in front of them, but Eddie does. A breathy little noise, almost like a purr, when Eddie’s nails just barely skitter over Steve’s scalp. Interesting. 

Please see below for more recommendations!

ink you up | 4,560 | Adure / @toburnup

Summary: "It looks good." Steve takes in the fine black lines, notes how the skin is raised and red. Figures it must be new. "When did you get it?" "Oh, I did it last night." Steve looks back up to Eddie in surprise. "You did it? Like to yourself?" He laughs, tosses his empty into the sink. "Hell yeah. Why not?" Steve drains his own and leans back. "I could never." "I could ink you up." Eddie looks at him like he's assessing, eyes trailing from fingertips back up to shoulders and then up to his eyes. "Would be a good look for you."

memorize my number, that's why I got a phone | 4,581 | QueerOnTilMorning

Summary: "So how have the shows been going? Score any groupies yet?" Shit. Eddie's never going to get a better opening than that, is he? He laughs, high and breathless, his heart beating a stampede from his chest up to his throat. "Actually, that's an interesting question, Steve, and it brings me to an important point. Something I've been wanting to talk to you about for a while, some relevant information I should probably divulge, but I thought it might be prudent to wait until I was out of punching range." "Sometimes I can't keep up when you talk," Steve says. "You wanted to tell me something?" "Yeah. Yes. I absolutely did, and I'm going to tell you. Right now." Eddie twists his rings around his fingers, takes a deep breath, and says, "I'm gay, Steve." "Oh," says Steve, and Eddie dies a thousand deaths, each more intricate and painful than being eaten by demobats. Then Steve says, "Boy groupies, then?"

hands of loving | 5,397 | kafkian / @kafkian

Summary: ‘Proud owner of twenty years pent-up hormones and counting.’ Eddie sighed, looking up at the sky and muttering something under his breath that Steve didn’t catch. Steve was so surprised he stopped walking. ‘What?’ Eddie loudly didn't say anything, continuing on their route. When Steve caught up to him, he was bright red in the face. ‘No way,’ Steve said, stunned. ‘You’re a virgin?’ Eddie rolled his eyes. ‘Shut up, man.’ ‘No, I didn’t mean – just. Really?’ Steve asked. ‘You've really never ...?’ ‘I run a DnD group, got held back in school twice, and live in a trailer with my uncle,’ Eddie said flatly. ‘What part of that screams dick magnet to you?’

In the Woods Somewhere | 5,526 | AidaRonan / @aidaronan

Summary: Steve grew up hearing campfire stories about the Black Woods Monster. He just never expected it to be real (or for it to want to seduce him.)

Eddie's Spectacular, Awkward, Very Safe, Very Fun First Time | 5,557 | alligator_writes / @riality-check

Summary: "Though he’s never had it, Eddie thinks sex will be its own kind of story. He has three (3) thoughts in that moment: 1. He’s hard. 2. Steve’s hard. 3. He wants to ram Steve into a mattress, like, yesterday."

I'll Be Your Captain | 6,029 | plutosrose / @plutosrose & yammz / @yammz

Summary: When Steve gets out of the bathroom, he gets exactly five seconds before Eddie is crowding him against the wall. “Why are you dressed like a Playboy centerfold?” Eddie reaches out to run his fingers along the ascot like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Were you a stripper at one point and just forgot to mention it?” “This was what we had to wear every day at that stupid job,” Steve manages, feeling a little like he might drown in Eddie’s intense and focused gaze. “Making three dollars an hour.”

Anything Goes in the Winnebago | 6,207 | ChronicRabbit

Summary: “Harrington’s got her. Don’tcha, Big boy?” That’s what Eddie had said to him with that huge shit-eating grin he always seemed to flash after one of his cheeky little jokes. Because it was a joke. There was no reason for Steve’s heart to thud in his chest like it was trying to escape the prison of his ribs. He was so fucked.

Scorpio Moons | 6,377 | Oonionchiver / @azrielgreen

Summary: ‘Hi.’ Eddie flinches hard, tries to back up but he’s already pressed into the wall so he just sort of bangs his head. ‘Ow, hi, hello, um, sorry.’ It’s Steve. Steve Harrington is standing in front of him. Eddie reverts back to a single celled organism. ‘Sorry for what?’ ‘Sorry?’ Steve blinks, gives a little smile. ‘My bad, start again?’ ‘S-sorry?’ Eddie would actually rather be a single celled organism.

At a medium pace | 7,147 | dartlekey / @dartlekey

Summary: "Okay, okay, fine. Jeez. You're not stupid, man, I'm stupid. And a baby." "As you said." "As I said," Eddie agrees, and takes a deep breath, "and I'm also a liar, because I didn't pop those stitches falling out of bed, actually." Steve blinks, mercifully leaning back. "No?" "Nope," Eddie presses out. "Actually, I was, uh." He forces himself to exhale, and says, "I was trying to rub one out." Steve stares at him. "What?" "You know," Eddie says nervously. "Crankin' the hog. Whacking off. Jerkin' the gerkin. Stroking the one-eyed snake -" "No I got that," Steve says, and Eddie immediately shuts up, "you're saying that's how you tore your sutures?" "Yes." "By -" "Yep." "Oh my God," Steve says faintly, then starts laughing.

So Newly Charming | 7,604 | glorious_spoon / @glorious-spoon

Summary: Eddie leans against the van to peer over his shoulder as he connects the leads. He’s close enough that Steve can smell him; close enough that he can feel the shift of air on the side of his neck as Eddie breathes. If it were one of the kids, he’d shove them off and reassert his personal space, but it’s never really bothered him when it’s Eddie. It’s distracting, but Eddie is always kind of distracting. Steve doesn’t mind.

Can you pass this to Steve? | 7,772 | Thisusernameisunavailable

Summary: Note passing goes awry for Eddie when a simple prank goes a little too far.

t'hy'la | 8,036 | sparklyslug / @sparklyslug

Summary: “Because of biology,” Steve supplies, trying to steer this thing back on track. “Because of Vulcan biology,” Eddie sighs, and seems to give in. “Okay,” Steve says slowly, “But what–” “Because of Vulcan sexual biology,” Eddie grits out, and puts his face back in his hands. So he misses how Steve goes bright red, thankfully. Given how the tips of Eddie’s ears are a vibrant green, he’s in a similar situation. “Oh, well,” Steve clears his throat. “No shame in that, Ensign,” god, he’s fallen back on rank now, if Eddie wasn’t so clearly a mess he would absolutely make sure that Steve never lived it down. He attempts a laugh, his mouth dry. “The birds and the bees do it, after all.” “Fuck youuuu,” Eddie groans, parting his fingers to stare balefully at Steve. “The birds and bees aren’t Vulcans, Steve.”

come get your man (he got lost in my DMs) | 8,446 | hexiewrites / @hexiewrites

Summary: It’s weird because it’s not that weird. Actually, the weirdest thing about it is the guy seems to be commenting from an account with his entire name attached. It’s just weird for Eddie to open up his notifications and see: Steve_Harrington replied to your video: Great job, this was really excellent. Loved the way your pitch changed subtly to indicate that Aeilin was turned on! Which. Again. Weird for multiple reasons.

600 Square Feet | 9,412 | InkandOwl / @sfintii

Summary: There’s no response from Steve and Eddie is contemplating swapping out his bun for donuts when Steve starts laughing. A full bodied laugh that has him pressing his wrist to his mouth to keep from losing his lunch all over the car and Eddie finds himself smiling despite his confusion. “Are you— Are you experiencing a medical event? What’s happening here?” Steve chokes down some water and sighs, “My parents really sold me on this idea that I was gonna get out of school, go to college for business, take over for my dad, live in some— some mansion on a lake.” He gestures between them, “And now i’m waiting on tourists and sharing table scraps with Eddie Munson.” Eddie huffs out a small laugh, “Bit of a downgrade, huh?” “Are you kidding me?” Steve shoves his fingers through his hair, “This is— kind of perfect, actually.”

the moon changes colour | 9,647 | jk_rockin / @jkrockin

Summary: Steve gets bitten by a strange dog one hot summer night. It takes him a month, and a little outside help, to work out what's wrong with him.

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