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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

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Welcome to Germany, Mrs Presley

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: After the birth of your firstborn twins and his subsequent deployment, you and Elvis reunite for the first time at a German Airport. Sweeping romantic scores and idyllic kisses in the rain may have to wait for hungry babies and overly full breasts…the latter problem your husband may or may not have a chivalrous desire to aid you with

Warnings; yes, this is the lactation “kink” you were promised, I tried to not make it icky, I swear I did, but beware if that’s not your thing 💋

Also note: I will be changing lil mama in this series eventually to an original character instead of reader insert. This one has remained an insert as I started it that way, although the reader is referred to by the name “Elaine” at the very end 🥂

Enjoy: AO3 Fic Link

“Welcome to Germany, Mrs. Presley!” the kind hearted stewardess pulled you away from your panicked survey through the window of the crowd on the tarmac. Promoted by the stewardess’ concerned smile you turned yourself to the task at hand -bundling up the babies in their carriers to prepare them for the torrent of snow outside.

October born Memphian babies as they are, they’ve barely seen the outside of Graceland as the season turned cold, and impromptu as this flight has been, you were still prepared with blankets and woolen caps and fuzzy socks on their tiny feet. With all these precautions in place only their noses were susceptible to freezing off in the blizzard and that really couldn’t be helped without suffocating them and- oh god, you were a nervous wreck.

Elvis had been arranging for you to join him in Germany since he married you, right after going into the army, it had always been the plan. But his first plan -to make a family with you, out of you- had worked a little too well, and you had been stuck at home with a complicated pregnancy of twins contracted on the wedding night, a terrible bout of mastitis following that, while he got shipped off across the globe. Evocative letters and the few stilted phone calls were all that had kept you going, a keen awareness that both of these could be intercepted having cooled the initial honeymoon ardour of your arranged union. A kind friend had alerted you to these available seats on this commercial airline and, tired of waiting for arrangement to come together for private jets, you’d torn apart your room to pack and roped Dodger into being a traveling companion and pack mule, and the four of you made it to the terminal with ten minutes to spare. Vernon had called ahead to tell his son that his young wife was hauling herself and her twins over the ocean posthaste, and you hoped to god that Elvis' previous insistence on you waiting to take a private jet had been out of concern for your comfort, not desire to prolong separation.

When you’d said as much aloud to his grandmother she’d scowled at you and made a significant face at the twins, as if to remind you that he’d been the one hell bent on having you, not the other way around.

You scan the waiting crowd outside in hopes of seeing him, noticing multiple fan signs held aloft in greeting for you and his babies, and wondered how rumors could spread that fast. And there was always the shock you felt that some people would freeze their toes off just to catch a glimpse of the gal Elvis the Pelvis had wedded and bedded.

You grab a baby carrier in each hand, your “yittle” hands and arms having grown strong and defined in the past months just from hauling your progeny around, and Dodger determinedly manages the luggage. You bump between the airplane seats, shuffling sideways and maneuvering yourself and your precious load, smiling when making eye contact with one gawking passenger after another, even having to make small talk when the disembarking line stalls only a couple yards away from the exit door. There’s a bottle neck happening up there, just out of view, no more passengers managing to get out the door and passed a charmingly stuttering young husband who’s giving the plane Captain the same working over he gave his commanding officer - the one that procured him a furlough to come pick his wife up from the airport with zero notice.

“Elvis!” you holler, ignoring the fascinated way people’s necks swivel to watch two individuals they've only read both filthy and devine things about in the newspapers interacting in real time.

“Mamas! that really you?” a very darling and familiar voice carries over a couple dozen heads in the tubular space and it makes you want to giggle over how desperate he sounds. Like he’s rescuing you from the lion’s den instead of a commercial airline.

Elvis has a massive trust and appreciation for the common man, the set he came from, except when it comes to their treatment of you. Public feeling towards you has been exacerbated negatively by the newspapers stirring up filth and he’s nearly gone nuts with worry in the ten hours it took the plane to arrive in Germany.

“Yessir, it’s me alright.” you yell after a giggle and the rest of the crowd joins in good naturedly.

“W-w-well, well come o-on o-o-out then!” he booms in exasperation.

“Can’t.” you holler, “you’re clogging the drain, daddy.”

“Oh well, I’ll be-“ and then there’s a sudden shuffling and the Captain starts waving people on again.

You make eye contact with a withered little lady who is right up ahead of you, her ancient smile lines craggy and you feel a little validated as she alone beams at you from where she is still pressed against the side of her equally weathered fella. You’ve found it’s this ancient generation, the one before the commercialized, sterilized, American household set, who didn’t really bat an eye upon reading a tapped phone transcript of Elvis assuring you that he’s “gonna stuff your yittle cunt to the brim as soon as you’re back with me again, gonna pump you full, darlin. Yer gonna be gushin out with every rut but I ain’t gonna stop, ain’t gonna stop till we’re half dead the both of us, and you got a gallon of baby gravy leakin outta ya. I swear it lil mama, I’ll get you full again, just hang in there, hang in there, oh goddamn, I hear ya whinin, those tiny fingers of yourn ain’t doin near enough, are they….”

‘Soon as you were back with him. That was the promise, and here he was now, he couldn’t even wait for you to disembark before trying to get to you. And the weathered dame smiles at you, and you wonder if she’s thinking of the times she rolled in the hay with her man, sat on him under a blistering sun when he was working his tractor, maybe made a dozen children in a room shared with two other couples. Back when no one gasped at the notion that married couples must entwine and rut and spew in order to make those “three little curly heads in a row” that everyone still sought after.

She looks happy for you, she looks passed you back at Dodger and you know grandma is proud that someone’s out there not being a hypocrite and just acknowledging, revelling even, in the fact that marriage is a very primal thing.

Elvis, feels close to vomiting as he smiles and waves and even signs a few crinkled napkins as people file past him onto the jetbridge, standing ramrod straight in his uniform beside the rest of the plane crew who politely act as if he’s a member, not an embarrassingly frantic husband. A famous, frantic husband. A husband who keeps spinning his service cover round and round by the bill in desperate need to see his little woman come into view.

He’d left you to fend for yourself at Graceland, still hemorrhaging and fighting a life threatening infection in those pretty tits of yours that he had been so sure would feed his children as dutifully as the rest of you had proven to be. But they’d rebelled, they’d swelled up, they’d grown hard knots and made you sob in pain and still you went down to the Memphis train station and clutched his hand smilingly until the locomotive's gaining speed had torn him from your grip. He’d never been more proud of a human in all his life. And then he’d been worried sick ever after.

Not even married a year and he had inadvertently broken his promise that you’d always have him, always be a family, never be apart if you’d just be his wife. You’re healthy now, you’d assured him over the phone. Been feeding the children like a prize milk cow, even feel well enough to go down to the Graceland gates and stand and chat with the fans, have even stuck your dainty hand down south and played with the previously torn little petals of your cunt. You assure him all is back to normal.

You can be a dirty, dirty liar, though, you don’t know it but Elvis does, he has seen the way you convince yourself you are grand so others don’t worry, when you’re not well at all. Your welfare and wellbeing is hai to ascertain, he’s your husband and he’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. If he could just see you over all these ‘tarnal heads —

—god what a vision. His wife. Twelve hours on a plane and all it cost you was a droop to your eyelids that vanishes the moment you catch sight of him. That old spark in your eyes lights up and your face burns red as a smile splits your cheeks apart and he loves you so badly, loves knowing this ravenous joy hasn’t caressed your face since last time you saw him, he alone provokes that look.

You are easily managing two carriers between the rows of seats and your hat is fetchingly tilted, your hair is curled and your coat is the one he ordered from the magazine and he’s gonna have fun peeling those nylons off your legs and — there’s still an ocean of people between you two but despite your moderate height, you two manage to keep the grinning eye contact as the distance jostles and ebbs closes and he plucks you forward by a outstretched hand, making you trip over your heels for the first time in this whole ordeal and he squats with you to let you set the carriers on the ground and before you can rise back up to your height, he’s kissing you ravenously in front of all the onlookers. My god he is comforting, his hands cup your cheeks with fevered concern and his warm tongue plunges familiarly and without prelude, his powerful embrace engulfs you, crushing you into himself like he’s gonna tuck you inside his heart. He’s your sanctuary and you slump into him, nearly knocking his hat off in your desperation to rake through his growing locks.

“Ma darling” he pants against your cheek and you both rise up from your semi squat.

Below on the tarmac, through the glass of the jetway, a dozen flashbulbs pop to capture this moment, the crowd of fans is screaming and the crew beside him titters. It’s what you signed up for, life and love in the fishbowl of fame, and he gives you an apologetic grin before you smooch it off him, and move to the side so grandma Dodger can pat his face. He gives you his arm and you both swing up a child apiece with ease, shuffling along the jetway to the immense relief of the remaining passengers. He can’t choose where to look, your face or down at the infant swinging at his side, peering over to look at Miss Ella as you carry her. He finally looks straight as the terminal comes into view, a literal light at the end of a tunnel, and he gnaws his lip and slows his stride and squeezes your hand rhythmically.

“I’m sorry it’s so public.” you murmur, knowing a private jet would have spared him all this. “I just couldn’t bare it any more.”

And even if he had been of a mind to begrudge you your rash action, hearing you unabashedly admit you missed him that much soothes everyone little worry he has harbored that now you’ve got these babies you wanted, you may have gone off the idea of a husband. Particularly one as testy and hungry as he can be. He is starving for you and it only grows as he registers in relief that you’re eyeing him up appraisingly, taking in the adjustments that “rigorous army life” has made on his physique and face.

He looks older, he knows that, but not in the way of it being the sad, sulking, pudgy fella of before, he’s chiseled and broad and virulent now and he sees you lick your lips in between smiles. You married a sad boy, you’re returning to a capable man. You knock your forehead against the patch at his shoulder like an interested cat and he snickers happily just as you both walk into the gauntlet of the terminal.

“C'mon Dodger, stick close.” he commands her and keeps craning his neck to make sure she’s not separated by the crowd despite her gripes that she’s quite capable.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, “it’s your wife you should be frettin’ bout, get ‘er a room to relieve them yams of hers, they’re near burstin and she’ll catch another bout of the clogged ducts if she keeps being so damn prudish bout nursin in public-“

“W-what the hell is all this bout y-you, you -?” Elvis comes to a full halt in the middle of the busy thoroughfare and looks frantically from her to you. You want to curse her for her tactlessness in scaring him after all the fretting he’s subjected himself to, but in all honesty, you have not nursed in eight hours and the agony you forgot for a brief moment upon seeing him again comes to the fore at the mere mention of your engorged state. You can feel yourself leaking and each shuffle rubs the fabric pads against your nipples and makes you want to whimper.

“I need a room to feed the babies before we get in a car.” you whisper the plain truth in his ear while standing atiptoe as more flashbulbs go off, capturing his look of recognition and the scarlet flush that burns his face at your confession. The tell tale vein in his neck thumps to life and you aren’t sure if it’s panic or desire sending his adrenaline through the roof. Neither will the captions under the photos in tomorrow morning’s paper.

The thought of his wife’s breasts full and heavy and warm with his hands still so cold from the winter chill makes him want to hold them and bury his chilled nose between them and -he needs to get you a room. Hates himself for being so hungry for you when your eyes are watering upon closer inspection and his children must be close to starving. Oh god, how often do infants eat? Will they be stunted for having to wait? He’ll spank the hell outta you if this little plane ride costs Jesse or Ella a single inch of height or a roll of fat.

You can see all this chaos flit underneath his crimson blush until Dodger grunts in so suggestive a way that it rouses him and suddenly he’s a man on a mission, the same man who got a furlough in record time and arranged your status on the board of the March of Dimes.

Mr- umm, that’s Private now- Presley snaps his fingers and tells a man he needs a room, the man gets him a whole lounge, Elvis gets you all guided through a throng to it, and Elvis thanks the man with such charming profusion the fella downright forgets the brusque order preceding it.

He spins around a few times in the lounge as if he can’t figure out what to fix first and you laugh and make your way to the couch, setting your carrier down and starting to undo your heavy mink.

“Right, right.” he mutters as the obvious hits him, your presence working that old steady calm on him. He feels like he takes his first true breath of German air then and sets to work.

Always, he doesn’t know how you manage it for him, but a soft smile, a head tilt and eyebrow arched in gentle direction and suddenly he’s got his feet back under him, even here as he arranges his children by the sofa -dear god he has kids, those are his kids-

and helps you with your coat. You sit yourself down and he stands ready for the next softly spoken order.

“Could you help me unbuckle them, darling?” your sweet guidance spurs him and he’s squatting, face to face with his baby he hasn’t seen since it was fresh popped into the world.

“Hey lil mister.” he whispers, half astounded to see something so little and fragile with his eyes staring back from beneath a mountain of blankets. He has to will his hands not to shake and has to try about five times to get the buckle undone, he’s being so timid about the clasp and maybe pushing too hard on his baby son’s belly. He swivels around to you after he loses track of time watching his child stare back, but baby boy starts to scowl and of course, of course there’s a point to this, so he swivels back to you and finds you undoing the buttons of your silk blouse and you’re so damn lovely as the inches of creamy skin begins to swell into view and he longs to touch and then there’s a wet patch and those pretty little nipples peek into view and a dribble of white from them startles him, and he makes a noise he hasn’t ever heard himself make.

“Whoops!” you laugh pained, leaking and swiping the flood from the one released breast before popping the wet finger in your mouth.

You reach for the baby and he pulls his gaze from your leaking breast to hand him over, and you smile shyly in thanks, and he wonders if it embarrasses you for him to watch but he can’t help it, you look so perfectly in your element as you tuck Jesse in the crook of your elbow as your other hand guides your nipple into his shiny little mouth. He latches on eager and you moan in pain and relief. Elvis hears his own breath come out in a ragged exhale as if he were sharing your feeling.

“This place sells soft drinks, yeah?” Dodger’s voice shakes him like a rocket going off as he remembers his grandma is here too, he nearly falls back on his ass in his haste to turn towards her.

“Yes’m, reckon they do.” he agrees, “different currency though, and you’ll get mobbed by the press outside.”

“Well, hand me some of them Nazi bills or whatever they use over here.”

“Dodger-“

“Hush boy, I’m in need of a coke and you’re in need of a minute alone with your family, I can handle it.” she makes a motion with her hand and he stands up and digs in his pocket and places enough currency in her palm to buy her a coke and a few mink coats, too.

She rolls her wise eyes and he suddenly hugs her hard, missing her and the home she represents. She strokes his back for a good minute before patting him and disentangling, going straight to the door and exiting without giving the sea of cameras even a sliver of a view of your makeshift oasis.

Poor little Ella has begun to fuss in her carriage and he spins around and drops to his knees to tend her, joints cracking hard against the frigid airport tile.

“No, no, no you’re ok my girl, you’re gonna be ok, oh no, oh shh it’s ok, it’s ok.” his worry for his daughter makes him forget his unease and he collects her out of her own mound of fluffy blankets and hold her to him, rocks her back and forth on his knees, face looking torn between adoration and terror that she won’t be pacified. It’s just a small cry and some baby faced puckering whimpers but you’ve never seen him look more devastated that she won’t respond. “How long’s it been since ya fed her?” he asks, voice raised and tone a little harsh.

“Just a couple hours,” you soothe, running a pacifying foot up the top of his thigh since your hands are occupied, he understands the gesture for what it is and his posture softens and he starts patting Ella more confidently. “I brought formula, Elvis, it’s just me that needed…”

“Course, course.” he swallows and hates how unsure he is, how stilted he’s making everything by this strange brand of insecurity, “I’m sorry for bein’ all -for doubtin your capabilities.” he makes amends and you can’t help but feel terrible for the lost look on his face. “I don’t got any nowhere to speak from, do I? -leavin my wife and children behind after all I promised.”

“You didn’t leave.” you reiterate the point you’ve hammered on him over the phone a dozen times, putting Jesse on your shoulder to burp him as he was so lackadaisical in his nursing he nearly fell asleep, “You were commanded away, and no one here blamed you for that except yourself, and I forbid it.”

“It weren’t right-“ he’s got Ella calmed down now he’s looking down at her with all of the remorse of a man who orchestrated a family for himself and then left them high and dry the minute they came to fruition.

“-really Elvis, I forbid it, that kinda talk,” you whisper and he looks up at you with those big eyes and a curious set to his mouth, like he wants to protest your command but it’s also everything he needs and more, “I forbid it ruining here and now, what we’ve got now -which is us, together, just as you promised. This!” you gesture between his kneeling form and yourself, each with a child you so lovingly made, “This is what your promised me, or nearly, if you could just, just not dwell on it any longer. Be here with me, please?”

He grabs your hand from Jesse’s little back and kisses your knuckles fervently, all that gentlemanly sweetness he showed you on your wedding night when he told you that it would hurt, but he’d give you babies and love and joy and forever in return. You’d sat atop him and done the deed yourself, impaling your virgin body on every hefty inch of him, and in return he had given you those babies you’d always wanted. And love, he gave you that, security, direction and a devotion you weren’t quite sure you had a large enough heart to match, but my god you wanted to try.

“Yes, yes Darlin I - oh god you’re…you’re d-d-dripping all over the place.” the mood shifts towards comic as he watches your neglected breast splutter out sweet milk into your silk shirt and you offer him Jesse in exchange for Ella.

Jesse’s head lolls back alarmingly once his daddy’s got him, his blue eyes half lidded in a mommy’s milk coma. Elvis giggles at it. “Son of mine, you’re plastered.” he takes an elegant finger and traces the tiny nose down to the little button chin, “Guess I should tuck him back in.” he sighs regretfully, hating having him out of his arms for even a minute, but also knowing he needs to get you back to the house in order to have any real and extended privacy.

You hiss as Ella latches on vigorously, and he looks up from his work on Jesse’s carrier in concern.

“All’s good.” you put on a brave smile, the one you gave him as the contractions started to hit, the one you gave him when you sank down on him fully for the first time and tried to be brave about the feeling of a cucumber in your keyhole. He may have not had that much quality time with his family as a whole so far, but he’s been studying you for years. He spots bullshit.

“You’re dirty little liar.” he tsks but he can’t help his smile, you look so bashful and then haughty about it.

“I just, I hope she’s hungrier than him.” you explain, and somehow you have a great deal of elegance about you, he thinks, sitting in your pressed skirt and heels and hat and curls with your shirt open and leaking ripe tits gushing at every mewling sound the infants let out. Its fascinating to him just how, well -full- they look, how it’s like a leaky faucet or a break in the hose or…precum, dribbling and oozing without coaxing and it’s making your whole breast shiny from the mess of it and -he can’t help it, he licks his lips, and you don’t miss it, even as he blushes scarlet at the desire that flashed across his brain.

You don’t out him, the jive of your relationship still feeling somehow precarious, like there’s a old shyness in the air. You pat at Ella’s bottom encouragingly, trying to keep her eager as her daddy still kneels and watches. She’s already starting to slow. And your breasts ache, they ache terribly still despite the munchkin’s having their dinner. You wonder about this shyness, you wonder about the way he’s shifting on the floor, the way his licked lips shimmer and the way you have a sneaking suspicion that the force of both your yearnings is so strong you’re playing safe until it can explode in some contained environment.

At some point he stopped just watching and took to leaning over your lap, the better to watch and stroke little Ella’s cheek as she sucks down what you give her. “A goddamn miracle, she is.” he whispers in awe and you nod in agreement, “We made this.” he states as if in shock, “We made these!” he boyishly exclaims, swiveling back to look at a conked out little Jesse before he turns back to you.

“We did indeed.” you grin warmly and he bites his lip, hands running up and down your thighs atop your skirt.

The familiarity of his old touchiness soothes you, and you lean over to kiss him gently, Ella already having let the nipple slip from her lips, sated with a measly meal after all that formula. You dribble on the cuff of his sleeve during the kiss and his eyes lock on the white stain seeping into the wool. You watch as he impulsively brings the sleeve to his mouth and sucks the moisture. His eyes blow wide, and you suck in a breath.

“I d-dunno what I-I-“ he protests his rash action.

“No, no, Elvis, would you -do you…” you lick your own lips and look down at Ella as she snoozes in a tryptophan dream, your engorged breast neglected.

You gently set her beside you on the couch while he clutches at your legs, waiting breathless to see if your mind is as compatibly wicked as his own.

“I need you, Elvis, I really do, please.” you whisper it so pained that he’s drawn closer as if it were a sirens sing -his woman needs him. “It’s not wrong, is it?”

All you’ve ever learned about any of this has been from him and the good book, and neither said nothin about forbidding anything done between couples in love. His tongue darts out and he shakes his head vehemently, even as his face burns scarlet across his cheekbones.

It’s like a slow movie kiss, the way you both gravitate towards each other, he rising up higher on his knees and leaning over your lap and you inclining yourself towards him.

You lift up a heavy breast and he’s so close to it his hot breath makes your wet nipple burn and tighten impossibly more, he pauses, open mouth puckered right before, eyes flicking up to yours with a wild need for assurance.

You put your other hand to the back of his head, knocking off his army hat and lacing your fingers through his shorn locks, gripping and guiding him that last inch, and then he’s there, his searing mouth engulfing you just as you remember from when you were a milkless maid.

“Please, please.” you gasp out, pushing his head closer and you see the broad line of his sturdy back ripple beneath his army greens in a shudder before he gives you what you need, mouth tightening, tongue dipping, cheeks hollowing. He sucks.

You moan in agonized relief, tugging his hair unconsciously and he moans back as the shockingly sweet deluge of you coats his tongue and slides down his throat. His heavy lidded eyes fly open at the taste, so sweet and refreshing and he finds that it’s not just the heady eroticism of it, or even the soothing closeness you’re both finally managing here and now that makes him float -it’s the truly comforting state of being clasped to your breast like this and being looked down upon so adoringly by the mother of his children. His arms wind round your waist and he locks his hands together at the small of you back. You’re a wonder of creations, an unfairly beautiful creature with a near unbearably impressive use. Rather like your tits, he thinks, and that makes him snicker around you little bud and you “oh ha!“ prettily in surprise at the vibration before settling and stroking his face.

“That’s it, that’s perfect, daddy, please a little more.” you whisper as he guzzles down his children’s sustainance.

He wouldn’t think of stopping, redoubles his efforts just to show you how invested he is, that this is no favor he is doing you. The painful throb between his legs, pressing as it is against your shin, ought to be proof enough to you he finds this nothing less than agreeable. His frostburned nose is warming up, nestled against burning hot flesh as it is, and he takes a chilled hand away from your waist to reach out and grasp your other breast. You gasp in shock and pain as out dribbles more milk, running in rivulets over and between his knuckles, down to his wrist.

“Oh my lord, there’s so much.” he groans in appreciation, greedily switching his spigot of choice and latching onto the other tit eagerly and your head falls back from the overwhelming feel of being taken care of.

“So good to me.” you marvel, dragging your hands through his hair, anchoring him still to you and he hums, his eyes growing heavy and milk settling warm and calming in his gut. “Always so good to me.”

You’re not suprised to feel the hot splash of what must be a tear on your breast, his sniffles just a little audible above the lewd noises of his suction and moans. This is you two, this is back to how it ought to be. You can feel him as he settles back into place with you, his whole body relaxing and leaning in. You flex your foot and it makes your leg brush against where he’s pressed to you and he bucks against your shin helplessly, a hand back on your waist and the other hefting your breast to his mouth. He ruts against your leg, months of absence and abstinence turning him into something no better than a dog in heat as he leans across your lap.

He pulls away with a gasp as if he’s been submerged this whole time. His face is glossy and his lips puffy and the collar of his shirt is wet from some of the milk he couldn’t catch. He looks wrecked and dazed and you thumb at the messy corner of his mouth. He reaches out and squeezes the breast he just deflated and laughs at the way it sags.

“Don’t.” you whine, a little shy but he just giggles harder and keeps jiggling it until you have to laugh, too.

“You all better now?” he asks soft, and your face is swimming in front of him, his hand staggers upwards on its way to clasp your cheek.

“Heavens, are you milk drunk?” you laugh, his whole expression hilariously childlike.

“Feel a lil funny.” he nods, slumping back on his knees but keeping his hands on your knees.

“That is becasue all the blood is down there.” your shiny black shoe toe nudges the tent in his pants and he grins bashfully.

“Well, hang on now!” he speaks up after a moment, frowning at one of your breasts and you look down to find a bead of milk gathering to drip again, “I just drained you!” he protests with wounded pride to your offending breast, “I just drained ya, and you're already drippin, what’s the big idea?”

“Elvis baby,” you laugh merrily, “It makes up to replace what comes out. Nursing encourages more production.”

“Sure but -but this is excessive!” he’s being louder than usual, inhibitions gone out the window the minute he’d sucked titties like a starving newborn while wearing his country’s uniform. “Hell, they ain’t gonna win this time.” he shakes his head and leans in again, “Gonna keep you comfy now you’re here wi’me.” he swears competitively before latching on again to the fuller breast and swallowing down the fresh brewed batch.

You can feel the relief mounting in your chest as that final little bit gets drained, soon there won’t be any more for him to suck out, so while you can, you take the opportunity afforded to you, one you never thought you’d have. You place your hand against his throat to feel it work as he swallows you down, a motion he is familiar with, one he does around your throat every time you swallow his release. It makes him growl in want and he laps around your bud as he ruts and stares deep into your bright eyes. The fan of his eyelashes flutter against your breast and you push back his hair, thumbing at his eyebrows, he goes a tad crosseyed as his pupils blow out and suddenly the desire for a nap is mighty powerful in him. He giggles, nipple falling from his lips, and you giggle too, through your blush, and cradle his head.

A hard knock on the door snaps both this pretty moment and the line of drool from his lips to your nipple. He rolls and scoots out of your lap and back on his ass like a soldier out of his foxhole and you hear Dodger’s voice saying something about the car being ready through the muffle of the partition.

“Right, right, ok.” Elvis hollers, vigorously wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand as he watches you do up your soaked shirt with nimble fingers.

“You’re really drunk, I think. You sure you’re alright?” you murmur, watching as he blinks and shakes his head as if he’s got water in an ear.

“Maybe.” he hiccups and then looks horrified by it, “Lordy, really don’t know what’s wrong with me, I-I-ill be fine i j-just a lil…what’s in that stuff anyway?” he nods at your now (sadly, deplorably, regretfully, criminally) covered breasts.

“Nutrients and sugar, I guess.” you chuckle, choosing to strap Ella in yourself, since he seems a little woozy.

“More like moonshine.” he gripes and then gasps in shock and you see what he does about the same time, a massive wet patch on the crotch of his khakis that he pokes at as if he isn’t sure when he’d spilled a drink in his lap.

“You didn’t!” you exclaim in gleeful shock and he gives you a warning look but you’re too far gone in smug satisfaction at making him blow a load just from tiddy sucking that you keep grinning down at him manically.

“I-i-I didn’t!” he insists, flustered and bewildered, “I don’t remember doin it! Wasn’t even touching m’slef.”

“You looked pretty happy there for a minute.” you tease merciless.

“Hell mama, how am I gonna stand up without makin it run ery’where? Gonna be goddamn humiliatin goin out there with wet pants.”

“Your jacket covers that area.” you soothe, ascertaining that the patch is high enough up.

“Not when I stand up it won’t, whole load is gonna run down ma leg an’drip on the floor. That’s three loooong months worth of cream right there, lil mama.”

Dodger knocks again and he looks up at you half panicked, “I’m coming in, all this press doin my head in.” she hollers in warning.

“Yes of course, come on in!” you encourage her while reaching down into the carrier and snagging the burp cloth, “Here, sop it up!” you hiss at him, extending the cotton cloth and he looks at it incredulous for a brief moment before the door opens and he spins away to shove his hand and the fabric down his pants and collect the mess so it doesn’t streak his pant leg upon standing up.

He has to give ya credit, it sorta works. He pulls the sodden rag out of his waistband and turns around to see his grandmother helping collect the luggage and you smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt. He thinks he sees a shiny patch of fluid on the shin of your nylons. He shivers again.

Dodger makes no comment on your wet blouse, she expected as much and the mink you don again covers it just fine. Elvis she observes with a critical eye and a shake of her head, he’s a hopeless case really. He looks a mess, not in any particularly blatant way, just the dazed light in his eyes and the plump of his lips and the wet around his collar, the glow to his cheeks. He looks like he just enjoyed himself somehow, though the HOW remains a bit nebulous. One can only hope the papers put it down to familial affection.

There are reporters from every paper outside, American and German and British, and then the fans to boot. It’s all rather rude just to plunge ahead through the well wishes and welcomes so you and he walk arm and arm through it all, a baby carrier strategically carried in front of him, and dish out pithy replies to an abundance of questions.

-“You look lovely, Mrs Presley! So glad to see you recovered!”

-“Oh my god I can’t believe it’s them!”

-“Did she really fly commercial?”

-“How do you feel about her going around unaccompanied, Elvis?”

“She weren’t unaccompanied,” he shakes his head, “she was with my Grandma.”

-“Can we see the babies?”

“Sure ya can!” he tugs the blanket down past Ella’s chin but as the bulbs go off and her eyes crinkle sadly he quickly snaps back the hood of the carrier, “Aww, she ain’t a fan of your lights, man.” he apologizes, a huge smile on his face as the crowd coos and he almost forgets in his pride to not raise the carrier up and expose his accident.

“You look a little, uh, wet, Elvis.” an oft encountered American journalist has the audacity to reach out and touch the soaked collar of his shirt, a shit eating grin on his face.

Elvis tenses and his stride beside you gains speed but the slimey columnist keeps pace, “So much meltin snow out there, man,” your husband tries to grin for the cameras, “I’m from Memphis, I dunno how to handle that stuff, gets on ma trousers and collar and er’ryrhing.”

“Sure, sure.” the reporter nods, “Bet you’re glad to have your wife on this side of the pond but there’s gonna be a lotta disappointed Frauleins.”

“They won’t be disappointed for long once they get to know ‘er.” Elvis states with jovial certainty. You can’t help but beam.

“You can’t blame them for being sore,” the guy won’t be put off or dislodged from your side as you exit the airport out onto the frigid sidewalk, “not every dame was born to be a cum guzzler.” the guy acts as if he’s agreeing with something Elvis said while throwing this tabloid trash back up into your face.

You positively refuse to flinch at the reference to the bugged phone call but Elvis stalls to a complete halt right beside your shiny ride, looking over at the man with deathly hate in his eyes, “The hell did you just say?” he inquires, terribly quiet.

“I was just quoting you, man.” The guy throws his hands up defensively and you duck and scoot around Elvis to help Dodger load the car, watching your husband coil up for an attack out your periphery.

“You’re quotin a newspaper that coughed up a couple million in damages for illegally tapin’ a private call!” he explodes and if anyone was unaware of what spurs him to grab the fellow by the shirt front and pin him to the hood, they are now informed. “If you ever, and I do mean ever,” he goes on, fist crushing the guy's diaphragm and voice shaking in terrible, hushed rage, “say or repeat or even so much as think of my wife like that again I’ll ruin ya. I don’t mean your job, I don’t mean your life, I mean I’ll ruin ya so bad you’ll wake up everyday wishin your mama washed you out with a douche when she had the chance. You hearin me? Yeah, yeah, what’s that? You’re sorry? That’s reaaalll nice of ya, you should be sorry. Alright, alright, I’ll take your apology but yer gonna apologize to my lil wife, too, you hear me? Go’on now, you scummy sunnuvabitch, you don’t even deserve to look at er.”

You lean against the inside of the car door, straight backed in your heels, family all packed inside the cab and await the windless reporter to get his voice back enough to stammer out a “apologies, Mrs. Presley, I didn’t mean to be inappropriate, I didn’t mean to-“

“We all know what you meant to do, you ungentlemanly bastard,” your husband shakes him by his collar and you glance uneasily at the gathering crowd but they seem mostly sympathetic, “You’re tryin to shame an admirable woman for her God given talent of pleasin her husband -and for likin it while she’s at it. Well you ain’t gettin away with it, not this time.”

When he lets go of the man, the guy nearly catapults into the crowd from the force of the shove. He meets no helpers among them and ends up face first on the cement.

Elvis saunters back and holds the car door open wider and motions you into the cab, you take your seat. He clears his throat before turning back around and dipping his hat to the throng, “Night yall, god bless.” before scooting in beside you and the ride takes off to your new home, your new life here in Germany.

Dodger’s eyes are smiling around her coke as she sits between the babies, watching proudly as Elvis settles next to you and heaves out a long breath.

“Always some bastard tryin to ruin a nice day.” he murmurs but it fades into a happy little sigh as you reach out and take his hand, your head leaning on his shoulder, finally snug beside him again. You smile, knowing he’ll raise your son right, kindly, respectfully.

Elvis’ pant leg beneath your fist is wet and you sneakily pat him there beneath his coat flaps. He nuzzles your hair with his nose and you feel his hot breath tickling your ear as out comes a deep whisper, “Don’t fret o’er that, Elaine, there’s more where that came from.”

#mine #sarge and lil mama #welcome to Germany Mrs Presley #elvis fanfic #Elvis fanfiction #the most wholesome breeding kink you ever did see

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