#sky high fanfiction

[awkward-halfhug]

saving grace | warren peace x reader

summary: you have some bullying problems. Warren helps out

contents: Ron Wilson Bus Driver's daughter!reader x warren peace (because my sister said she wanted to see Ron Wilson mentioned and I said I can do u one better), cw bullying, chocolates, birdsong

2.4k

(also on my ao3)

Bang. Bang bang. Your fists are softer than they should be against the thin metal. The knocking half hearted at this point.

This is the second month into the school year, and you've found yourelf in this exact scenario nearly every day. It's always right as you're heading to lunch. No matter where you happen to be, you're grabbed in broad daylight, hauled to your locker, and trapped there by one means or another, until you can figure your way out.

It's not the same people every time. They seem to rotate out. You think maybe they're on a schedule. Wonder if they coordinate with eachother and see what day is good for each of them. The idea makes you smile a bit, though it really shouldn't. Organized crime.

You don't always see who it is, but even if you do, it doesn't matter. Sky high doesn't have the best track record with this kind of thing. So, you mainly keep your predicament to yourself. Your teachers have enough to worry about, molding young superminds and all that. And your dad...you just really don't want your dad to worry.

It's not all bad though! Sometimes the cafeteria gets a bit too loud for you anyways. It can get pretty rowdy, especially when the students use their powers to show off to eachother (even though they're not supposed to outside of gym). So, really, a nice enclosed space isn't the worst place you could be, all things considered.

You sigh. It would be better if you had tater tots, though.

You hear footsteps down the hallway and perk up. Start banging your fist against your locker door in earnest.

"Excuse me? Hello?" You wait a moment and frown when there's no response. Try again.

"Would you mind opening my locker please? I'm inside of it!" Because that wasn't clear, surely.

"Whats the combination?" You hear, muffled. You grin in relief.

"It's 123"

Silence.

"Your locker combination is 123?" The voice is incredulous, maybe a little bit judgy.

"They find a way in anyway, it's easier for the janitor if I keep it simple so he can remember." You defend to the stranger through the metal.

You hear a sigh, and then the clicking of your lock, and then finally, the door opens.

The sight that greets you is not the last thing you expect to see, as it's not one of your bullies. But it's pretty close. Warren Peace is standing in front of you. The perpetually glaring, incredibly intimidating Warren Peace is your savior. Who would've thought?

You almost forget to climb out of your locker except he starts to look at you like you're stupid, and that's usually your cue to jump into action.

"Hi!" You say and he flinches. Too loud, woops.

Warren puts his hands in his pockets and turns to leave, this interaction apparently over for him.

You close your locker and hurry to catch up to him. "Thank you so much. I was getting hungry."

Warren nods. "Yeah, well..." He scratches the back of his neck.

It takes you a minute to realize you're headed outside.

"Did you already eat?" You ask.

"Lunch is almost over, so yeah."

You frown. There's probably not enough time for you to go get something and eat before fifth period. You brighten when you remember the chocolate your dad keeps in his mini lunch cooler. And you happen to be heading out that way.

"Do you like chocolate?"

"Why are you following me?" Warren looks put-out, but not for much longer, you decide.

"I'm thanking you."

"You already thanked me." He sighs.

"You didn't answer me. Do you like chocolate?" You persist. It's an important question, after all.

Warren pinches his lips together, looks like he's internally debating answering, and then reluctantly says "Yes." Before picking his pace up a bit so he's walking ahead of you out the school doors into the courtyard.

You speed up to match him, almost. "Good! Awesome. Follow me." You smile into his confused face and lock your arm around his before pulling him toward the school bus. He could get out of your hold easily, you're sure, but he doesn't, so he must be at least a little curious where you're going.

Your dad is on the other side of the bus when you arrive. You can see him practicing what might be karate moves under the shade of a big tree.

Warren looks less curious and more wary now as you tug his arm forward.

"What are you–?"

"Hey dad!"

You feel Warren startle beside you at the same time as you watch your dad startle in front of you. You watch him fall onto his butt after a particularly enthusiastic kick.

"Oww" your dad moans, and you grimace.

"Sorry."

He waves you off as he stands, giving you a smile through the pain. "It's okay, kiddo." You watch his eyes widen when he notices Warren beside you and he straightens his posture.

"Oh! Hi there, I'm Ron Wilson, bus driver", your dad whips out a business card and hands it to a bemused Warren. "And this little ray of sunshine's dad."

Your dad smiles at you proudly and you smile back. His eyes then flicker down to where your arm is locked around Warren's and a a weird expression crosses his face.

You flush and drops Warren's arm. Warren rolls his shoulders back like he'd been held captive against his will, which is just silly, and could finally stretch his muscles.

Warren glares at you a little as he makes eye contact with you before nodding at your dad. "Warren."

"You guys new friends?" Your dad asks, less excited than he usually is to meet new people. His eyes were still staring at where your arm was around Warren's.

Are you friends now? You're not sure. You don't remember the last time you made a friend, but a friendly gesture seems like the start of a friendship, right? That's how it was in kindergarten, you think.

"Warren helped me out with something at school today" you feel Warren give you a look and ignore it, "and I wanted to give him some chocolate to thank him. Do you have more in your lunch? I'll pay you back."

Your dad's features seem to clear up a little. He looks at Warren's eyes instead of his arm. "Oh, well that was nice of you! Sure, sure. What do you like, Hershey? Nestlé?" He goes to his cooler in the bus and starts rummaging around to find the goods.

You look up at Warren with an excited smile, and you watch as his glare loses heat almost reluctantly.

He rolls his eyes and leans toward you slightly. Murmurs as your dad is still in the bus. "I had stuff to do, y'know. Why am I out here meeting your dad?"

You frown. "It's not a proper thank you without sugar." You tell him. You want to add duh but think that'd probably be rude.

He snorts. "Ah. Well then, of course. Proceed." He says it sarcastically, but he's still standing there so you know he wants the chocolate just as much as any sane person would.

Your dad backs out of the bus with his arms full of mini chocolates. Smiling, he gestures Warren closer with his head.

"Well, don't be shy!" Your dad jostles his armfull until Warren slowly walks over and takes some chocolate, looking pained. The effect is lost though, when he takes his time sorting through the chocolates until he finds one he wants.

Warren starts to back away but when your dad says "take two!" Warren doesn't hesitate.

"Uh, thanks. Sir." The words are clumsy in Warren's mouth and it makes you smile.

"Thank you dad!" You say as you take two for yourself. "See you later." You give him a kiss on the cheek and lead Warren back to the school where fifth period is probably starting.

You walk in silence through the doors and hide your chocolates in sync when you see Mr. Boy in the hallway.

The bell rings and when you turn to say goodbye to Warren, he's already gone.

———

It's a week later before you really see eachother again. You have gym together but nothing else, what with your ability to perfectly imitate birdcalls deeming you hero support, and him being a hero and all. Your hero, you giggle to yourself.

Distracted, you don't see the boys until it's too late. Two sets of arms are around you from the sides before you know it, hauling you up and, predictably, to your locker.

You think maybe by this point you should just resign yourself to the routine completely, but you can't help yourself from struggling against the hold. No one helps you as you look from face to face of your peers. Some look on with pity, some pretend not to see, and others don't care. A couple even laugh.

You feel stupid tears prickle at the backs of your eyes in frustration and struggle a little harder. Your attackers gasp and you think you've done something right, but when you twist around, you see the source of the change isn't you, it's Warren. He's got a hand on each of the boys' shoulders, and as you watch, smoke rises from his hands. He squeezes, and the boys' faces screw up and their bodies try to cringe away from him.

They drop you. You're too amazed to worry about your stinging tailbone. Although, no, actually that does sting really bad.

Warren's expression is barely any different than his usual one. Which is to say, it's intimidating. But now his brows are furrowed in disgust as he glares at them.

The kids manage to wrestle out of his hold and run off before he can grab either of them again. Warren turns back to you. He sighs heavily.

"So. That keep happening?" He asks, with an almost uninterested tone. Almost.

You nod. He nods back, thinking, as he looks around them. Glares at the people who make eye contact.

He takes a deep breath. "Well, are you hungry or are you just going to sit there all day?"

"Oh!" You must look silly sitting on the floor like that. Probably an improvement to how you look being shoved into your locker, though. You wipe the tears from your cheeks discreetly and start to get up, when Warren grabs your arm and gently pulls you up.

He still looks bored when you're up and closer to eye level with him. But he can't fake nonchalance when he just stepped in to help you.

Your earlier thoughts come to mind. Your hero indeed. You're staring at him in awe when he clears his throat.

You're still both standing in the hall as bystanders walk past, uncaring, into the cafeteria.

"Sorry, yeah. Thank you. Again. Thank you so much." You smile your most grateful smile at him and he actually starts to look uncomfortable.

"I meant, are you going to lunch? They're gone." Warren stays standing in the hallway, waiting for your answer.

You can, now, you realize. You can actually go to lunch, and eat food, and not have your stomach complain at you the rest of the schoolday. You almost can't believe it.

"That would be nice." You say, in awe once again.

"'Kay. Go in then." Warren lifts his eyebrows and gestures for you to enter the cafeteria. You walk to the line and Warren follows behind.

After loading up your tray, you stand a few feet out of the line and stare out at the tables of kids eating and talking and laughing together. You don't know where to go now. There's only one empty table, and you watch Warren walk past you and sit down at it.

You look around for another few seconds before making a decision.

Warren looks up mid-bite as you put your tray down at his table. Place the pudding cup from your tray onto his. You look at him in silent question. He just stares at you for a moment, before returning to his food. He pulls the pudding a little closer to him. You take that as permission and settle down to eat.

Lunch is a quiet affair, but peaceful, and you find yourself smiling into your broccoli.

———

At first you think it might be a coincidence, when you start running into Warren right after the lunch bell rings. It could be a coincidence still, you think. But it's a coincidence that's happened every single day since he chased off those kids harassing you.

It could be a coincidence, but he sure does look like he's waiting for you, as he stands leaned against the hallway directly outside your classroom, and straightens up when you exit.

It could be a coincidence, you admit. Maybe. But you hope it isn't.

Each day you walk side by side to the cafeteria, as if you'd agreed to it. As if this was something you'd always done. You didn't, and you hadn't. You love it.

He's quiet, and brooding, and intimidating and lovely. These days you can't tamp down the fluttering in your stomach in fourth period as you anticipate the bell. A different sort of anticipation than you're used to. A good kind.

You try to dial down the smile as he looks over at you.

"What?" Warren frowns suspiciously.

"Nothing! Nothing. Just happy." You fold your hands together in front of you and hum as you head toward the food.

Warren lets you step in front of him in line and you each load up your trays before heading to a table.

Your table. Both or yours. You sigh happily.

It's technically, perhaps, just Warren's table. But since you sat with him that first time, you've continued every day since, and he hasn't shoo'd you off yet! It feels like a definite win.

"Hey Warren..."

Warren grunts in acknowledgement, shoving a fry in his mouth.

"Would you call us friends?"

He pauses in his fry-eating. Looks at you. Looks back down. Steals your jello.

"I mean. If that's what you wanna be."

You frown. Not as enthusiastic of a reply as would be optimal, but this is Warren you're talking to.

"Do you not want to be friends?" You can't help but ask. The evidence makes it seem ridiculous but you have to know.

He steals your plastic spoon and opens his pilferred jello. Speaks quietly. "If you want to be friends, we're friends, okay?"

It sounds like an admission to you.

"Are you sure you don't just like me for my food?"

Warren cracks a tiny smile, obviously relieved. "Who says I like you?"

"Little birdie" you grin coyly.

"Oh, and which bird would that be?"

You imitate a Blue Jay and Warren laughs.

thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging/commenting, it means a lot ♡ and if you have requests or ideas, feel free to let me know in my ask box

[ivorydragoness44]

Warren Peace x Reader: Interest

Word Count: 766 Warnings/Notes: Slightly confused Reader, mention of growing embarrassment (brief), friends asking a lot of questions, implied crush on Warren Peace. Cute moment with Warren. Summary: The Reader is a little late to lunch, but just before they make it to their table of friends, another student asks them out. How will the group of friends react to the news?

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  It was not usual for you to be a little late to lunch. Sure, it was only by a few minutes, but you were hungry.   With your lunch finally in your grasp, you made your way around the tables already occupied by the normal chatter of other students. Normal may not have been the best word choice for minors with super human abilities, but it was for you. Most days.   You caught Layla’s attention as you neared the table. Her friendly smile, however, was lost to you as your view became obstructed.   Halting with a piercing squeak of your shoe, you waited in confusion.   “Hey,” he said. A student that you recognized from a few of your classes stood in front of you.   “Hi,” you gave a small smile in acknowledgement.   He took a moment’s breath and scratched the back of his head. “Um…”   “Is everything okay?”   “Do you want to go out with me?”   Your eyebrows shot up. “What? I-I mean, no. No, thank you.”   A strange mixture of emotions bubbled around and you made a mad dash around him before the heat of embarrassment from a few fumble of words spread. With long quick strides, you finally made it to the lunch table.

  Is being a teenager always like this? Why were emotions so complicated some times?   “What was that about?” Layla asked, bringing you out of your thoughts.   Setting down your food, you took a deep calming breath and sat down beside Warren. “Oh, um, he asked me out.”   A page crinkled to your right, but your friends were otherwise quiet.   Layla leaned forward, her pigtails swaying slightly over her green salad. “And?”   “And I said no.” Confident. Self-assured with your decision, though seemingly small in comparison to other more pressing issues, felt good. And why shouldn’t you?   “Good for you,” Magenta nodded in agreement.   “But why?” Zach asked, his nose scrunching in his bewilderment. “Do you not like him or something?”   “It’s not that simple,” you said between bites of your food.   “And why not?” He pressed, making you laugh a little.   Patting a napkin over your mouth, you sighed quietly. “Well, firstly, I’m not going to go out or date someone that I don’t like, or not interested in. Heck, I’ve barely talked with him.”   Layla and Magenta nodded slowly. “Sounds reasonable enough.”   “Any other reason?” Will asked, peering over Warren’s hunched form.   You laughed, “What, you want a detailed list or something?”   “That sounds a bit excessive,” Warren smiled into his book.   “Unless the list is for myself, out of curiosity and to better understand my own reasons and stuff.”   “And what would you put on the list for that guy?” Ethan asked, pulling your attention away from Warren.   It was nearing on hilarious by how invested they were about such a short conversation. If it could even be considered a conversation.   “For one thing, he never returned the pen he borrowed from me, and I saw him break it while fiddling with it. So, there’s that.”   Will burst out in laughter. “Is that why you don’t want to date him? Because—”   “No,” you stopped him. “I just don’t like him. Especially in that way. If I’m not friends with, or just can’t even imagine myself holding his or anyone’s hand, then I’m not going out with them.”   “Oh,” Will looked down, “sorry.”   “No biggie,” you smiled reassuringly, before returning to what remained of the food in front of you.

  Curious concerning friends. You were grateful for that. They each showed it in their own ways. And as invested as they had become, you were relieved that neither one of them had asked one question in particular. Who are you interested in?   Your eyes drifted from your lunch to the inky text in front of Warren. “Good book?”   Glancing over at you with a smile, his voice was soft, warm. “Yeah. It’s the third in the series.”   “Cool.”   As your eyes both pulled away from each other, you caught movement from under the table. The motion was slow and short. Had you been deeply involved with something else, you might have missed it entirely. Warren had lightly bumped your knee with his.   Could you ever decipher if he was flirting with you or just being a delightful silly friend with gestures like those? You were not sure. But one day you would know, and you hoped that it was both. Why not?   Smiling to yourself, you nudged your knee to his twice. Though as you retracted, his knee met yours again and remained there.   This should be interesting.

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Hi! Thank you for reading! I seem to be writing more Warren Peace now lol I have other ideas/WIPs that I'm working on, so I hope you're ready for that.

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Part 2 to this fanfiction

[plussizefantasia]

CozyTober Day 10: Unsanctioned Halloween Party

Tony Stark x wife!reader, with a healthy dose of Iron dad thrown in

WC: 1.1k

a/n: This one kind of got away from me and I left the end kinda open in case I want to come back someday but I like how it turned out. Reblog if you liked it and Day 11 should be out in a little bit (i'm working on it as we speak)!

You used to think that couples' costumes were cheesy and unoriginal. Then you started dating Tony, who could sell a hair dryer to a bald man and suddenly you were wearing couple’s costumes every year. You two had gotten to the point that you felt the need to one-up your own costumes every year because literally nobody else was on your level. This Halloween you had gone to the ‘Stark Spook Spectular’ together as Beetlejuice and Lydia, you in the poofy red dress and Tony in the classic black and white suit and crazy wig.

You had partied the night away with your friends, danced, drank, and did some truly epic karaoke. When the clock struck 1:00 am you bid your goodbyes and had a car drive the two of you to your brownstone home a couple blocks away. 

“Wonder what Pete’s up to?” Tony spoke into your hair as the two of you leaned into each other in the backseat.

“He said he was gonna go to Ned’s and watch some scary movies while eating his body weight in candy.” You think back to the conversation you had had with your non-quite son earlier that day when he had stopped by after school.

“Good. Normal kid stuff.” Tony replied pulling out his phone. He had a habit of doing that when the two of you were on the way home. He would check in on the security system from his phone, you supposed it was so he could be ready for any situation he might walk into.

You weren’t expecting his shout of “What the shit.” and the way he suddenly sat up and more-or-less launched you up into the air. 

His small mutter of apology was quickly overshadowed by Tony shoving his phone in your face, the live feed of your living room displayed on the screen.

There, in plain view of the camera was Peter Parker, frantically trying to keep the nearly 200 hundred teenagers that filled your house from destroying the place. It would be adorable the way he threw coasters down and pushed shoes off your coffee table if you weren’t so pissed that the kid had thrown a party in your absence.

It wasn’t long before you turned the corner onto your street and could see and hear the damage for yourself. Lights strobed out of your windows and you could hear the music that was blaring even in the car with the windows rolled up and down the street. 

The car slowed to a stop in front of your house and you jumped out of the back, not even waiting until the wheels stopped rolling. Tony paid the driver and raced after you entering the front door only seconds after you did.

The music while appropriately themed for a Halloween was about 15 dB too loud and drowned out whatever your husband was trying to tell you.

You wove through the throngs of teens, glaring at any who dared to make eye contact with you and tried to make your way to the access panel in the kitchen. The only physical interface for FRIDAY is on the first floor. A few buttons later the music stopped. 

Shouts of confusion and anger were heard but none really registered in your mind. A frantic Spider-boy slid around the corner and into view, his arms laden with empty bottles and glasses.

“Hey, who touched-” He stopped. His face drained of color and he froze right where he was. 

You cocked your hip out and put on your strongest don’t you dare face. You ran your tongue across your front teeth and tsked at him which was enough to startle him from the “freeze” state he had succumbed to.

‘Mr and Mrs. Stark!” You didn’t even notice Tony was standing behind you, his own dad-face activated and in full force. “I-I can explain.”

“Don’t.” You put your hand up. “Even bother.”

You took the deepest breath in the history of deep breaths. “If you do not live here you have ten seconds to get out.” Nobody moved. 

“Ten. Nine.” Tony started counting behind you and every single person in the house jumped into motion. 

Teens spilled out into your front yard and you’re even sure you say some start to climb out of windows, too afraid that they would still be within the walls when Iron Man reached zero.

You waited for the house to empty, dead-eyeing kids as they walked past you, before turning back to a pale-looking Peter. Still standing in the same spot and with arms still full of trash. 

“Here is what is going to happen. We-” you motion at Tony and yourself “are going to go upstairs and change out of our costumes. You are going to clean however much you can during that time and then we are going to talk about this.” 

“Don’t leave, I know where you live.” Tony tossed his way before ushering you up the stairs and into your room. He helped you unzip your dress and you took his wig off for him.

“Is it bad that I’m kind of happy?” He spoke up.

“Only if it’s bad that I am too.” You responded. “Why are you happy?” You ask him.

“I just get so worried about the kid, I mean he’s so smart and he’s got the whole world on his shoulders. I just wish he’d loosed up sometimes.” Tony spoke with a rare vulnerability in his voice. “What about you?” he asked back, “Why are you happy.”

“Well, I know that we’re not his parents, I know that. But it’s kinda nice to have these normal moments ya know? It feels like tonight, we’re not owners of a multi-billion dollar cooperation and celebrities and spies and superheroes and all of the million things we are every other day. It just feels like we’re Mr. and Mrs. Stark, and our son has just thrown an illicit party while we were gone and it’s all just so very… normal.” 

During your rant, you slowly walked across the room so that you were standing behind Tony. You wrapped your arms around his middle and rested your forehead on his back. 

“I think-” you paused, “I think it’s okay that we’re happy, as long as we don’t tell Peter.”

Tony’s frame shook as he laughed and you could feel the slight tension he was carrying bleed out of him.

“We better get down there, kid’s probably freaking himself out way more than we ever could.”  Tony moved you in front of him and kissed you softly. “Ready to go be the most normal non-parent parents in the world?” 

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment.” You nodded and said deadpanned. Breaking moments after into a small fit of giggles that had your husband smiling at you with love in his eyes.

[naniskys]

Stay (For A Little While)

“I want to tie one for you too,” he said, almost as a question. He had finally looked up, meeting Pete’s gaze. It was silly really, the way looking at Niran made him feel sometimes. It was another one of those things that he couldn’t quite find the words to explain, these little moments between them that felt just slightly too far out of his reach to fully grasp. or Pete and Niran end up at a temple, Pete's not quite sure he believes in it, but there is something else he can believe in.

Pete/Niran, Wu the Series, 1.7k

Read on Ao3

[hyugaruma]

Apples and Oranges (Ranmaru x Reader)

♡

His favorite thing about you was your skin. Soft, unmarred, a sweet expanse for his callused fingertips to explore, to pinch, to squeeze. Smooth like silk beneath his palm, unsullied by no one but him. The lines of indentation left behind from your clothes, like dunes for his fingers to travel between. The way your flesh seemed to mold so perfectly within his none-so-gentle grip, like you were made to be melded with him, for him.

“Ranmaru,” you mewled, halfheartedly pushing away his hands as they found themselves being roughly shoved under your shirt, pads of his fingertips digging into the softness of your belly.

Ranmaru was never one to take to your, or anyone’s, resistance, his unforgiving palms making their way right back up your shirt. You knew better than to reject him, to defy him, to be anything other than compliant and pliable for him. Like putty for him to mold between his hands. Pinned to the couch beneath him, it was as if you were completely and utterly under his control. It was always like that. And you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Ranmaru nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, the gentlest of gestures that you could have received from him, but you knew that his intentions were anything but. Goosebumps prickled across your skin as his cool breath ghosted against your sensitive neck. For a brief moment, you imagined him tearing into your throat like a vicious animal. The thought made you shudder, from fear or excitement you were uncertain.

His teeth nipped at the skin just above your carotid; he could faintly feel the quickening thrum of your pulse against his lips. He’d never let it be known, but this made him shudder, too.

His second favorite thing about you was your naivety. Always the one to believe the best in him, make excuses for any and all of his actions, the first one to be waiting for him in the wake of all his cruelty and deceit. Always with that sweet, innocent, pathetic look on your face. So ready to accept him for all that he was, and all that he ever would be.

Members of Doubt were surprised when you made your debut by Ranmaru’s side. Like the rabbit in the clutches of the wolf, except they assumed you the prey so ignorant to your plight that you didn’t even realize the beast that was ready to consume you. Ever obedient, by his side, as if someday your loyalty would pay off. It never would. Everyone knew it. They didn’t realize it, but you knew it too. And yet, it was a dark plunge you were willing to endure for even a moment within Ranmaru’s grasp.

There could be no greater difference in the world than the two of you. And neither you nor Ranmaru would have had it any other way.

[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.

[darrenpeace]

Ow, I almost forgot it existed

I also drew a cover for the second chapter of Jetstream’s origin story (by @nicnerdyfan), as a reference to this illustration from pinterest. It was quite a long time ago actually, I really liked this pic that moment

[happypeachsludgeflower]

So does Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky get an honorary membership to the Mile High Club??

[lucy-the-cat]

The Red Queen Midnights Collection is a series of AUs set in the Newblood Queen universe, a Mareven role swap au where Newbloods Rule, Reds are still oppressed, and Silvers exist in a hazy space in-between. Read the main series here

Sweet Nothing (Queen!Mare makes Maven her consort), Would've Could've Should've (something about Maven and Elara), You're on Your Own Kid (Elane bonding with Maven), and You're Losing Me (Maven & Cal rise to the throne together, but still become estranged) are already in the works. These polls are for determining the rest of the order.

[bifairywife]

[grips your shoulders] your unpublished fic isn't bad, it just lived in your wip folder for a while and you've reread it 15 times over

being insecure about your writing/ wanting it to come out well is totally normal but i do like to share that showing it to a friend helps ease the nerves and having a beta-reader is a huge help with knowing what works with the fic and what can be improved

[chaoticgood-munson]

So I was just reminded of my first bad boy awakening

Remember him? Warren Peace from Sky High. Angry fire boy who hates the main character Will Stronghold

Okay now hear me out. Stranger Things, but make it Sky High. Eddie is Warren. Steve is Will, Reader is Layla (the girl who can control plants). In the end, reader chooses Eddie because THAT'S HOW IT SHOULD'VE BEEN IN THE MOVIE!!

[awkward-halfhug]

back to you | warren peace x reader

summary: it's been years since warren peace drove you out of his life. now you're back and he doesn't know how to handle it.

contains: estranged childhood friend!reader x warren peace, light angst

1.2k

(also on my ao3)

Of all the things in Warren's past that he thought might come back to haunt him, the one he didn't count on was you.

It's been years, nearly a decade, since Warren last saw you. Since his dad got locked up and his family fell apart. Since he started lashing out at everyone around him, pushing everyone away, pushing you away.

It's been so long he almost assumes he's mistaken. But no, that's you, introducing yourself at the front of the class. Your eyes. Your nose. Your fidgeting hands. The sight of you hits him like a physical force in the chest. Winds him. If he was standing, he'd have to sit down.

He sees your eyes sweep across the unfamiliar faces of your new classmates, dread forming in the pit of his stomach knowing your eyes will soon snag on him. He feels like a deer in the headlights when you finally see him but he can't bring himself to look away. He sees when the recognition lights your features. A smile starts to bloom on your face and Warren sucks in a breath. Then you tamp it down, hesitant, uncertain. He can still read you like a book.

You finish your introduction and then you're walking toward him. No, toward the open desk directly behind him. He should stop you. Say something.

He doesn't.

You sit behind him quietly and open the textbook the teacher tells you to. He hears page shift against page and it sounds like judgement.

——

At lunch you try to sit with him.

He sees it coming; has been keenly aware of your presence in every class you've shared since homeroom. He doesn't have to lift his head to know you're hovering over his table, hesitating despite every other seat being empty.

Just how he likes it. Right. Warren sighs.

You hear it. Misinterpret it, no doubt.

"Umm…" You laugh nervously. Shift the lunch tray in your hands. Seem to come to a decision and sit without asking.

"Do you… I mean, you probably don't remember me. Or…do you?" You look at Warren with hope in your eyes and his chest aches.

He clenches his jaw. Looks back down at his lunch. The Mac and cheese suddenly unappetizing as he pushes it around with his fork and waits for you to recognize his dismissal.

He doesn't know why he does it. Why he hears your quiet gasp and refuses to look up. All he knows is that you smell the same as you always did and something in him feels like a little boy again, with the neighbors whispering as the cops drag his dad away. Your little voice as you run up to him on his porch, asking him what's going on.

Shame licks at his neck and the tips of his ears and he can't look at you. Doesn't want to see you. He's back there and it hurts again.

You shudder in a breath and Warren stands, doesn't even take his lunch tray as he flees the room.

——

Warren wants to ignore you. Wants to shut out the memories you've dredged up, but he can't. Because it's not just memories of his dad he's remembering now. Or how brokenhearted his mom was over everything. He sneaks a glance at you as you sit a few seats down, and catches your eye. And the look he sees on your face is exactly the same one you wore years before. The very first time he ignored you as you called out to him. He'd been picking little fights with you for weeks, but he hadn't ever flat out ignored you. You'd looked just like this. Disbelief, betrayal, and raw hurt line your features as you stare at him from across the room. Not even pretending to pay attention to class, just trying to make sense of him.

He can't stand the feeling of shame and anger that comes with thinking about his past. But the shame that fills him knowing that he caused that expression, so many times before, and now he's done it again? That shame is so much worse.

He's done a lot of things he regrets while he was acting out. Hurt a lot of people with his words and actions, but most of all you and his mom. The difference is, he's made things right with his mom…

——

The sixth period bell rings and Warren waits for you just outside the classroom door.

You startle when he says your name, then linger, confused and wary, as you wait for him to speak. But he doesn't know what to say.

Warren sighs. Grits his teeth against the feeling and shoots his hand out just as you turn to leave.

Leave him. Alone. Like he's always wanted he thinks wryly. Mentally rolls his eyes at himself. Not from you though, he's come to realize. Over the years and all at once over the course of a day, it's become painfully clear. He's wanted to be left alone. Still wants to be left alone, mostly. But not by you. Never you.

…He's missed you.

His hand curls around your forearm, stopping you in your tracks.

"Wait" he says, louder than he'd intended. He clears his throat discreetly.

You look back at him. Stare into his eyes with your puppy dog ones, confusion and little bit of hope swirl in your expression.

Warren stalls, hand still gripping your arm. He doesn't know what to say to fix this. But you wait patiently for him. You were always so patient with him, even as children. He pictures little you, sitting on the steps of his porch, waiting for his mom to be done scolding him for whatever he'd done that day to earn an earful. It was a frequent occurrence—he was a stubborn kid. Time to stop being a stubborn almost-adult.

"I'm sorry" He tells you. And it's weird how easy it is to say. Easier than he thought it would be– he doesn't say a lot of apologies these days.

You take a minute to stare at him. As if judging if he's telling the truth. You must conclude he is because your eyes soften. Your mouth tentatively smiling.

"Yeah?" You ask him. As if encompassing your entire teenage years. Is he sorry for your lost friendship, all the little fights, how he's treated you, even today, all of it?

"Yeah" he says. Air rushing out of him like relief, because you're making it so easy on him and he knows he doesn't deserve it. "Yeah. I am."

You nod, and smile. Like all is forgiven, just like that.

He worries for a minute, as you stare at eachother, where you go from here. He's rusty with this whole 'friendship' thing. But he shouldn't have worried. You were always the leader between the two of you.

"So, where do you want to go to eat? I'm thinking this new pizza place I saw over by the–"

You take his arm and pull him toward the school doors and start to rattle like you used to, before everything.

He just listens, nodding where appropriate, as he feels something settle inside of him. It feels like coming home.

thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging/commenting, it means a lot! ♡ and if you have requests or ideas, feel free to let me know in my ask box

[ivorydragoness44]

Warren Peace x Reader: Good Book

Word Count: 355 Warnings/Notes: Established relationship, no kissing just hand holding, and a slightly oblivious Reader but all because they are reading. Summary: Reader sits down outside to read a book and Warren eventually finds them. Will the Reader notice he is there, or be too involved with their book to realize Warren’s sitting next to them??

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

A break. Escapism, even. It was exactly what you needed. Being a student at Sky High was a little different than an ordinary school. But no less stressful, you were sure. With a book in hand, you found yourself in one of Warren’s favorite places to read. Anywhere quiet, to be honest. Or, where one could more easily drown out the usual chatter of the other students. It was why you found yourself at the front steps of the school. And as you began to read where you had last left off, the world around you seemed to fade away.

Warren recognized you as soon as he stepped foot out of the building. No one was even remotely near you, as if some unseen bubble surrounded you in your content state. When he drew closer, he saw that you were indeed reading a book. Not a textbook this time. Sitting down to join you, he soon realized that you were so involved with the story, that you had not noticed him yet. He could only hope that when you did come to your senses, that he would not accidentally spook you. He placed his backpack on the space beside him and took out a book of his own. Flipping to the bookmarked spot, his thumb expertly held the pages in place. With his right hand, he reached out for your own. Weaving his fingers with yours, he rested his arm along your thigh. A quiet laugh tried to break through the smile on Warren’s face. Still, you had not looked away from your book. Lightly, he bumped his shoulder to yours. Leaning closer, he spoke softly. “Hey.” You blinked in recognition, returning mentally to the reality around you. More so from the gentle squeeze to your hand. “Oh, hi,” you smiled at Warren. “Sorry about that.” “Good book?” He asked, brown eyes appearing to sparkle. “Yeah.” “I thought you’d enjoy it.” “Thanks again for letting me borrow it.” Warren smiled adoringly and it made you glad that you were already sitting down. “Anytime,” he said, thumb rubbing small circles over the back of your hand.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Thank you for reading! :)

Reblogs are greatly appreciated

[writersblockhellsworld]

Hello everyone! I've been posting a lot of Sky High Dreams stuff and plan to do more so I figured like my Fantasy Life AU, I could start sharing the lore :] so let's gets into...

- WHAT IS SKY HIGH DREAMS? -

Sky High Dreams (SHD for short) is a Pokemon fanfiction that's been a slowly building dream of mine since I was a kid who was first REALLY getting into fics. So like, nine, lmao (for referenc, I'm seventeen). It's a proud project of mine, even if it hasn't been a main one! It's very dear to me :>

Currently, we're on an overhaul of it! I've been pretty quiet about it but considering I'm not making any chapters soon, I'm not too worried about spoiling a book that won't come out for at least another 7 months or something lol everything I post for SHD is pretty much concepts and ideas that will be/are being fleshed out. Everything is up to change! That's the beauty of it all!

Here's what to know for the plot/story!

- SHD takes place in the Kalos region approximately 8 years after the XY games. We follow three protagonists: Atlas, Kimikko, Marilyne, who all cross paths and work through their shoved aside problems via each other while also tackling Team Voyou. Team Voyou is the evil team; they're a group of humans experimented on to become Pokemon-Human hybrids with the DNA of Legendary/Mythical Pokemon! Their goal is to get revenge on the humans who tortured them for all theirs lives. Their leader is Cecelia the Celebi hybrid/Project Rewind.

- SHD includes many returning characters who'll get their own timeskip designs and lore updates as long as a bunch of new ones! There's also a rather detailed timeline in my google docs that I'll likely share soon. For anyone wondering of the details.

- All my stories are angst heavy. THIS IS ONE OF THEM! The TWs can be extensive with Team Voyou alone and the representation of trauma is realistic. I do not write angst for the sake of it. There is purpose and meaning. And you'll see a LOT of instances of mental health and trauma in many of my works, including SHD.

And now you all get a bunch of concept art to generate ✨️hype✨️

Just from this year alone though there is PLENTY. For some of those, go through the story: sky high dreams tag!

If anyone wants any more info, asks and comments are welcome! For now, that is all! Thank you and goodbye!

[aconflagrationofmyown]

do you think you'll ever write something with the kind of reader that the 60's airplane honeymoon fic had? it doesn't even have to be smut I just loved that dynamic of elvis and his newlywed sweet naive little wife

It’s a delight to hear that an older fic has been read and enjoyed -and even more of it is wanted?! Oh that makes me feel all sorts of lovely, thank you.

I honestly hadn’t planned on more, but then again, that entire piece came to me with the first three or so paragraphs and then languished till I thought up a plot. So it’s very isolated in my head, but if there was interest for more and or prompts shared, I’d be happy to see if I could cook up some other story in that narrative.

I am curious, do y’all miss my reader insert fics? I know I’ve been doing almost exclusive in-universe writing and original characters aren’t everyone’s favorite at all times. 🎀

[darrenpeace]

A friend of mine, @nicnerdyfan, recently has released a second chapter of Jetstream’s origin story!