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precious-little-scoundrel · 4 months

Text

|| Marlon

Summary: after a strange interlude during one of their latest bike excursions, Elaine is left reeling at the new reality of sharing, and the insistence by the men around her that no more discussion is needed on the matter. Bereft, adrift and not a little curious, Elaine’s rather sure she’s finally crossed that damnable line that Elvis first nudged her up against.

Warnings: 18+ only -smut, hot tubs, pats threesome mentioned, sorta a foot job but only because that’s the only discreet body part nearby?? not trying to make that weird. public play, emotional (and some physical) infidelity. Elvis is in his Bastard era, be warned.

Authors note: this is a fragment but it may be all j ever produce on this subject, we shall see. It was requested and so here it is, such as it is. I always love answering Headcanons and theories so if this sparks interest, confusion or anger, lemme hear it. And Honestly? For those of y’all not into this? It’s not essential enough to be read or considered canon for Sarge, the breakdown of their marriage having only a small part to do with this. This entire side quest is a bit more of an exploration of Elaine, so feel free to leave it be if it’s not for you.

Apologies ahead of time for the poorly edited and misspelled content lol 💋

Circa: 1967ish

“I just saw the silhouette of a very attractive woman ridin’ an attractive man I thought I’d lend a hand.” Marlon answers her straight, Elaine deserves that with all the bullshit she has to deal with these days -threesomes included. And the kitchen is finally empty of kids. He knows whatever arrangement the Presleys have with the redhead has to be more concession than ideal. The least he can do is admit something he’s never hid before, even from Elvis himself: Elaine Presley is uniquely capable of giving him the hots and something about Elvis Presley mismanaging her magnificence tickles the masochistic tendencies Marlon has had it suggested to him by therapists might have a root in childhood perversity. Neglectful parents and weird nannies and that sort of shit.

Marlon doesn’t know. Sat at her kitchen bar, drinking her daughter’s lemonade, Elaine is owed this much, an answer to why he opened that tent flap and slurped cunt when he’s barely so much as held her hand before, not even during mealtime prayers. She’s got to be some sort of neglected if she can’t shake it, or maybe she’s wickeder than those gentle eyes has them all thinking.

“That’s not enou- thats, Marlon, you said yourself everyone used to…go at it..during those trips!” she hisses the last part as if there’s some shame left to this household where the man of the place flaunts his dalliances like it’s part of the press tour for the latest trash comedy. His wife’s dignity and pain be damned.

“Ma’am, I’m just a man.” Marlon insists- Elaine is in love with her husband, after all.

“That’s rather my point!” Elaine warms to it, “-there were a lotta couples you coulda lent a hand to and there were a lotta men loiterin’ about but only you chose to ‘lend a hand’ and you chose…us! Why! Why?”

“Have you seen the couple you make?” he asks levelly.

“What was that, Marlon? What was that?” she begs again, eyes no longer soft but wild and shimmering.

“You’re not this stupid, Elaine.” he takes a sip of lemonade Daisy made just for him, “Even if he likes it best when you act like you are.”

She doesn’t even bat an eye at it, and Marlon thinks it’s a damn shame, a crime really, for any man to wear a woman down this far. Maybe Marlon is as bad as her husband for pushing on the bruise he made. Can’t be helped, he’s always been an opportunist. He can be honest even if it’s a ugly, masculine, virulent truth that makes a mockery of vows and roles and institutions like marriage and dreams.

“Wanna show me just how clever you really are, little lady?“ he’s risen from his seat, sauntered over to her by now, no contact, except for his thumb that tugs at her bottom lip, thumbnail at the root of a tooth. Her eyes are brimming with tears -they both know it’s not sadness. If she were a woman to cry from sadness she'd never have a dry eye.

“The house is full.” Elaine sounds hoarse.

What a flimsy little objection for so virtuous a woman. The way Elaine chases his thumb as he retracts it tells him -try again, when it’s empty, test me once more.

Summers are long in Palm Springs, there’s always more lemonade to be drunk. He’ll be back, they both know that. For now, the house is full. He sits back down at the table. Elvis and five children and a buncha good for nothings he calls friends come in wet from the pool twelve minutes later. Marlon curses, he could have brought her to climax twice in that time. If only she’d stop looking at him like he’s planning to steal her from her husband, give it a few months and she’ll not be wary but eager for it.

Summer turns to Autumn and Autumn to Winter and the Presleys choose to ring in the new year in the gentle climate to California after a bracing Graceland Christmas.

Marlon doesn't know what a Presley Christmas is comprised of except for hearsay from Daisy’s long over the phone account and the toys shown him when he dropped by as soon as they were in town. He’d brought his own kids, the ones near at hand, to play for a bit and the rest had taken to them well enough while Daisy sat beside him and told him about the roller blades she’d gotten. He imagines a sickeningly happy affair with stiff smiles and a great deal of bling bought by Elvis and Elaine getting fucked in a Santa lingerie set.

Marlon doesn’t know about Presley christmases.

But he’s learning about their New Year’s -it’s past twelve, the kids are abed and champagne has been toasted, wishes swapped and the nighttime air rustling the palms has been obliging enough to even be a little brisk and chilly. Just for atmosphere, he guesses.

It’s nice as the hot tub they’re all in is bubbling like hell’s cauldron, with the jets on full blast and their buddies -Elvis’ buddies from the way Elaine is the only woman amongst thirteen men- are stacked in it like sardines. Marlon is here because he hasn’t driven himself home yet, he supposes, otherwise she’d be very alone.

The guys, the other twelve, they’re swapping stories and being loud, noisy and obnoxious as Elaine relaxes in her seat, frothy bubbles lapping around her clavicles and her neck, that lovely neck laying back on Elvis’ outstretched arm as he nearly forgets she’s there. She’s such an extension of him by now, her face lax with this chance to relax even as there’s hubbub all about.

Marlon, he can’t stop watching her and the way her eyes flit and flutter when the jets hit right, the way she melts into Elvis and the way he tolerates her adoration even here. Even at the beginning of a new year. Marlon wants to smack the man for telling anecdotes when he should be-

…

-hell Marlon doesn’t even know what he expects that Elvis should be doing, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong or mean. no not at all in fact, he’s acting like a longtime married man and letting Elaine Presley vibrate beside him in euphoria unadmired. Talking to his buddies when Elaine Presley is turning to a puddle next to him and all Marlon knows is:

-if it were him, oh if it were him.

If it were him, Elaine would be melting sure, and he’d be watching every second of it like it were the meteor shower of the century. Turns out, even though she’s not his, he’s still watching all the same.

he’s still watching and forgetting to laugh with the cues when everyone else does. But she forgets too, floating away somewhere that makes her lips curl up a little and her face shimmer with sweat and steam. her legs float to the top of the roil from the jets, there’s a little giggle at the buoyancy. pink painted toes surfacing right in front of Marlon’s face opposite her.

He sees her, she looks to Elvis. To see if he notices.

He doesn’t.

That precious giggle of hers is lost in a roar of manly laughter over some unfortunate movie set story, as is the way Marlon’s hand reaches in the foam and puts his palm over the little pruned toes right in front of him, snapping at them with his hand like she’s a kid and he’s playing shark amongst the bubbles.

Elaine’s head swivels from watching Elvis to sending a questioning look towards Marlon.

She catches his eye, holds it. curious and pleased he’s in the same mood as her, stories and memphis mafia forgotten. A connection fizzles between them and she giggles again at having found a playmate.

But then he doesn’t let go, even as her foot goes down in the water, on the ledge, near between his legs and suddenly this isn’t playing shark.

Her posture goes rigid as Marlon starts to rub that dainty foot, engulfed in his warm hand, hidden by the discreet bubbles. He dared. It took her aback, it was offensive and flattering and she felt a violent fear at being suspected and then a pang of jealousy over the unlikeliness of it.

Between the warm water, the firm press of a man’ hand and the pummeling of the jets, her head starts to crane back again against Elvis’ shiny, toned bicep and the picture of a woman enjoying herself next to her husband but not from him shouldn’t make Brando so rash and angry but it does.

She fights for a minute but only in the way of guarding her face. but it’s been awhile since she’s been the center of someone’s universe -beyond a peg that this whole carnival that their life has turned into revolves around. perhaps a step of infidelity to let Brando see the pleasure he gives her, to see her the way Elvis once told her only belonged to him, but it was Elvis who cracked the door first, back in that tent, back in the spring.

Elvis notices, at long last, not the eye contact of a friend and his wife but the mewling body language of his woman. Not that Brando is holding her foot beneath the churning surface but that she looks nearly to the brink of orgasm from the jets. And snuggled up to him as she is -Elvis smirks. Of course his widdle baby is excited, sensitive little creature that she is.

Elvis thinks he’s being secretive when he keeps chatting with the guys but sneaks his hand to her bathing suit, not even looking over at her as his fingers find her seam and wiggle under.

Just the motion of his arm visible and Marlon sees the reflection in her face the minute her husband's hand begins to stroke her. His grip tightens on her foot involuntarily and she moans.

Her eyes are utterly focused on Marlon and it’s well that they are, if she were to tear away that frantic gaze he’s mad enough to make a scene right here and now, hopeless and damaging as it would be. But he has her eyes and the power that is in the caress of his thumb. He can see it, Elaine is imagining he’s stroking her instead of Elvis, using that suggestive tempo on her arch as a conduit to replace the coax of Elvis’ calloused pads against her bud.

Elaine braces her hand on Elvis’ thigh as she nears, just a reflex as he speeds his fingers up and she’s grips his thigh, almost wanting him not to intrude on this moment even as the brink nears. And Elvis, he thinks she’s trying to reciprocate but he is hardly in the mood for it, that would ruin his little game so he takes her hand away, puts it firmly back on her own lap and keeps up his pace against her slick petals.

When she comes, Elvis can feel her bow up beside him and without even looking he is smirking around his cigarillo, her legs kick out in a spasm and he feels bad for whoever’s crotch is opposite her. He smacks at her pussy once, twice, before quite obviously turning away from her to ask Charlie something related to arrangements.

It’s a damn game he likes to play with Elaine, seeing as she don’t mind it, she gets some benefit from it and he’s seen that face a million times, he doesn't need to look.

But Marlon.

Marlon’s gaze on Elaine is heavy enough it feels like the caress of aftercare all on its own, and some stinging part of Elaine’s battered heart feels loyalty to him for that. for watching her, delighting in her even as everyone else snickers or ignores.

She flexes her foot in his hand.

Her flex touches tender flesh and up to where he is pulsing and firm between his thick thighs. It startles her, somehow not expecting either the usual anatomy or else -not this level of arousal. Not to this degree, not in public, not when her husband just claimed her so casually. Her eyes sting at being flaunted as his little plaything, the one she’s been happy to be since that honeymoon train ride down to Texas. It feels belittling suddenly, and it’s Marlon’s aloof admiration to blame.

She flexes her foot again, heel firm to his base and eyes unwavering. A little repayment, a little show of thanks. It’s too much.

Marlon covers his eyes with his hand as if to wipe the mist away. Her coal smudged eyes are scorching his face and her foot, such a lowly part of her, and yet it’s pressing and he’s wanted her to admit to wanting for such a longtime and suddenly there’s the feel of his warm release flashing against Elaine’s foot in the broiling hot tub for an instant. Only an instant splash and a thob, then it swirls around them all, lost and sordid and utterly misused.

A waste. A deadbeat hope. A torn confession.

It’s late when they all get out, Elaine can barely meet his eyes now, dazed she willingly did that herself. Up in their room Elvis shucks his wet shorts off, relaxed and in a good mood to tease her about her being so needy for him in the tub as he leaves the shorts where they drop on the carpet and puts himself in her, into his wife, his plaything, his darling.

And God help her, for the first time in her life Elaine’s mind wanders to someone else as Elvis’ face is buried in her neck, huffing in pleasure over her swollen state.

After a long while of waiting for them to show again downstairs, the Memphis mafia laugh it off that the mister and missus must’ve gotten distracted -and it’s lights out and manly predictions about a noise complaint and a happy start to the new year.

Marlon goes to his damn car, he exits that beautiful house into the balmy night air with its twinkling stars and strong humidity that will now forever be tied to the curls at the nape of her neck and the beads of moisture on her nose, and he saunters away from Elaine Presley’s house where Elvis Presley gets to go home. Go home to lose interest and gain interest in that gorgeous woman at whim. Brando leaves it and gets in his car and stares at the single light in the house that’s still glowing for far too long.

Upstairs, throbbing and staring at the beamed ceiling and its whitewashed villa tile, Elaine startles at the sound of a car starting and pulling out of the drive. It’s late for a loitering guest, but Marlon was always one to loiter when it came to her family. Loiters with the kids and loiters with Daisy, accepting her adoption of his Godfather responsibilities with ease Elaine wants to hate him for, and he loitered in the tent on their motorcycle drive when Elvis and Elaine should have been left alone to be husband and wife, yet -he loitered. That once he had stayed. And no one speaks of it, that night gone by, though it tumbles around in Elaine’s mind like the jets that battered her flesh tonight, fresh as anything: the feel of Elvis’ shock at Brando’s presumption and then her husband’s pride warring with his excitement and for her -the feel of a man licking at her while her husband was inside her. How Elvis can think such a night can be tabled for all further discussion is beyond her, and Elaine stares at the ceiling and prays for forgiveness for this wild curiosity that has finally led her astray. She’s as bad as the papers would make her. Voracious and untamable in her appetites, finally it’s gone beyond Elvis alone, even if he was the one to crack open the floodgate with his hubris.

Now she wonders about an older face, a broader chest, almost fleshy shoulders and a hairy belly in the glow of the jacuzzi lights, Marlon had looked a man, older and impressive and unfamiliar compared to her precious and ever more pristine husband. And she had seen behind the screen of his hand the flash of agonized ecstasy her touch had caused him. She had made another man lose it. Someone besides Elvis. She knew, hypothetically, that a whole generation of boys had grown up tugging themselves to pictures of her, half of the barracks has been besotted and not in a wholesome way. But to have an older, impressive, commanding man enjoy her, want her?

Elaine throbbed.

There had been an emotional and sexual adjustment that Elaine had to make when she went from marrying a controlling manchild to being his emotional ballast and superior after losing Jo. Elaine hadn’t had a chance to think twice about how suited to it she was, how natural it felt to ease Elvis through it, whether she herself found it nice or not, whether it’s what she needed or not. Or what all she lost as she did so. It had been like pulling teeth to have him back in her bed at all, to have him something besides manically cheerful or pitifully morbid. She understood him. She didn’t even blame him. But it didn’t change how very -open, it left her to the slightest firmness of intent shown by another.

She’d been enjoying stepping into Gladys’ shoes, she’d been enjoying tossing off the role of being Elvis’ dolly and becoming his nanny, all of it had been a show of his trust in her until the load had become too heavy and when she turned to someone to rest her head, she found her husband's head already in her lap.

Until Marlon.

Until a grunted “huh” above her in the stuffy garage as she worked on the bike, only for her to look up and to find it wasn’t Charlie or Marty snickering at her for being all greasy again. It had been a wide stanced superstar looking at her like she was a specimen he wanted to inspect.

It had been Marlon and he’d come to meet her, to talk to her about bikes, to admire her shape in leathers and he stayed because Daisy liked him so.

Or maybe he’d stayed for Elaine. That had been reprehensible to imagine before tonight, perhaps only because if there was a man out there who would dare try to take her from The King, it would be him. And before now that had been impossible, not even fathomable or feasible, if she didn’t think it she wouldn’t invite it, she was sure. Marlon Brando wasn’t a good man, but he could be kept contained if kept at arms length.

Now though, that vision of him staring tonight, the feel of his hand stroking her, competing with her husband for her pleasure -there’s no ignoring now how he looks at her, has looked for some time, the way he loves to see her riled but not at him, strange how he’s never infuriated her like Elvis endeavors to on a daily basis. As if he knows his very presence is thrumming enough for her. And he wouldn’t want to see her vibrate apart. Not fully. Only because she’d hate that so. But if she ever asked he’d take her apart like a little marionette and then glue her back.

Rattling, that was more Elvis’ speciality, rattling her apart. She was tired of buzzing. If only he could always be one thing, but lately he was a myriad and she felt married to a performer more each day until she lay beneath him and wondered how Marlon would feel penetrated deep within her.

Elaine hears Elvis and his shower turn off at the same time she strains to hear the mechanical creak of the gates opening to let Brando out.

“Still layin’ how I left ya, hopin’ f’more, baby?” her husband asks her as he turns the light out and lays against her warm and familiar and moist.

In the drive, Brando bites his lip and forces his gaze from the rearview and the darkened house in it and speeds out of the hills. Daisy will call again soon enough, the call again and again, and if he’s lucky he’ll hear about how Elaine is from time to time or even hear her voice briefly as she answers before passing the receiver off to her little girl. Those are certainties in the new year.

It’s wicked of him, but his hopes are entirely different. They’re of her calling, and not another excuse being made.

Just Elaine calling to tell him “the house is empty.”

Taglist:

@prompted-wordsmith

@powerofelvis

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

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@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

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@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

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@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

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missmaywemeetagain · 11 months

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Sweet Symphony 🎻❤️‍🔥🎹, a '68 Special Era One-Shot

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

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

Mature 18+ || Word count: 9.2k

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

For my most patient baby, @savedrebelcreation 💗

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

Sweet Symphony

A ’68 Special Era Request

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my god.

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

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

“That okay with you, baby?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your orgasm is utterly mind altering and earth shattering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That better?” he asks.

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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hooked-on-elvis · 3 months

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[BEHIND THE RECORD - Elvis onstage from 1969 to 1977] "I Can't Stop Loving You"

Written by country singer Don Gibson, who first recorded it in 1957, RCA Victor released "I Can't Stop Loving You" in 1958, and it became a country hit single. The song was covered by many artists over the years, most notable one being Ray Charles, in 1962, due to how he turned the tune into a No. 1 single on the Billboard chart.

Elvis Presley performed the song in many iconic concerts of his career - from 1969 into the 70s.

The first time Elvis Presley was recorded singing "I CAN'T STOP LOVING YOU" was during one of the American Sound Studio sessions, on February 1969. It wasn't an official recording tho. A jam version of the tune was recorded while EP was warming up with his musicians so they could cut the songs that would be released in his LPs for the times following — "From Elvis In Memphis" being the album this recording session was intending to create at first.

Not long after this recording session, "I Can't Stop Loving You" was worked up as a number to Elvis' concerts. Rearranged, the song gained a more dramatic tone than we can listen to from how it originally sounded in Elvis' voice at the recording taped at the American Sound Studio previously, so from this moment on Elvis would perform the tune in quite a few iconic concerts of the latter era of his career, the very start being during his comeback to live performances on July/August 1969, onstage at the International Hotel's showroom in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Soundboard audios with "I Can't Stop Loving You" recorded during his concerts, including in 1969, were released on some his live albums throughout the years, such as "FROM MEMPHIS TO VEGAS (IN PERSON)" [recorded in 1969], "ELVIS AS RECORDED AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN" (recorded in 1972) and "ELVIS: RECORDED LIVE ON STAGE IN MEMPHIS" (recorded in 1974).

Live performances of Elvis singing the song were also officially taped, and they are very known to the fans for obvious reasons because they are part of some of the most notable moments of Elvis' history as a performer.

First official taping of EP performing "I Can't Stop Loving You" live took place during one of his engagement seasons at the International Hotel on August, 1970, as released on "Elvis: That's The Way It Is" documentary, then again on April 1972, filmed for "Elvis On Tour" documentary, and not long after that another performance of this tune was filmed during the "Aloha From Hawaii via Satellite" concert, on January 1973.

BUT, BEFORE WE CAN GO TO THOSE FOOTAGES, HAVE YOU LISTENED TO THE JAM VERSION RECORDED IN STUDIO IN 1969?

— NOTE FROM AUTHOR I love sharing Elvis' performances of the same song over the years, but what I would really love you to listen to now is the 1969 jam version of the song we're talking about, for it sounds so different from the live performances the fans are already very familiar with. I didn't knew about this recording until a few days ago and I loved it so much that this track is the reason why I needed to talk about this song. You will read about the moment EP was recording this song soon after.

Elvis Presley in the waiting room of the American Sound Studio, early 1969.

▼ FEBRUARY, 1969: "I CAN'T STOP LOVING YOU", RECORDED AT THE AMERICAN SOUND STUDIO, MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE.

Song starts at 0:35

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Album: American Sound 1969 (2019)

It was an American Studio tradition: paying tribute to the chief with a rendition of “This Time,” a Chips Moman-penned hit for Troy Shondell in 1961. Elvis had heard about the rite, and he serenaded his producer at the start of the February session with the few lines that he knew, segueing into Don Gibson’s “It’s My Way,” a song he had asked Freddy to check out the year before. Plunking along on his acoustic guitar, laughing at his own mistakes but singing his heart out, he drew the band into another Don Gibson number, “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” which he would transform into a dramatic show-stopper six month later in Las Vegas. Excerpt from "Elvis Presley: A Life In Music" by Ernst Jorgensen and Peter Guralnick.

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— NOTE FROM AUTHOR COOL, ISN'T IT? 😍 Have you heard the 1969 jam session version before? Don't know about you but I just can't stop loving it. So, now let's hear how that baby sound onstage.

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[FOOTAGE]

LIVE PERFORMANCES OVER THE YEARS

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REHEARSAL ▼

July, 1970.

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LIVE ONSTAGE ▼

"Elvis: That's The Way It Is" (August 1970) "Elvis On Tour" (April 1972)

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"Aloha From Hawaii via Satellite" (January 14, 1973)

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RECORDED LIVE ▼

Live at Convention Center Arena, San Antonio, TX (April 18, 1972)

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Live at Madison Square Garden (June 10, 1972)

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High Sierra Theatre at the Sahara Tahoe Hotel, Nevada (May 13, 1973)

Live at Mid-South Coliseum, Memphis, TN - March 1974

Song starts at 0:38:

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I can never get enough of how Elvis' history is so amazing. ♥

What are your thoughts about the jam version of "I Can't Stop Loving You" by EP? I'd love to hear from you.

By the way, do you like this track-to-track-history posts? I've written some so far but I have some others I'd like to share too. If you have any requests, any Elvis Presley songs you'd like to know more about the recording sessions or comparisons of the times a same tune was performed live by Elvis over the years, feel free to hit me with it. I sure will have great fun researching it for you.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis the king #elvis fans #elvis history #elvis fandom #60s elvis #70s elvis #elvis music

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be-my-ally · 1 year

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We can't go on together (with suspicious minds) fic. 1.

first post! i've been working on a mini series of these, where the reader confronts Elvis about his other girls and his reaction to being called out. I think we're going to go for a classic and name the series Suspicious Minds? This is the first, completely inspired by that phonecall with anita, and the story from priscilla about Elvis' reaction to her divorce request.

Pairing: Elvis/afab!reader (I imagine BDE but I think you could probs picture whatever era you like)

Summary: Reader is upset at being forced to watch Elvis constantly touching and kissing other girls - his solution? fuck her until she doesn't care anymore.

warnings: 18+, blowjobs, sex, demanding!Elvis, jealous!Elvis, possessive!elvis, idk yandere? maybe a little? slight dubcon, especially in the second half. tiniest breeding kink. arguing as foreplay, references/allusions to infidelity, mention of pregnancy. Reader is definitely being manipulated here. Elvis is not being nice.

wc: 5.7k (this was meant to be under 2k whoops) I kind of hate the last couple of lines but if I didn't decide I was done there this was gonna go on forever so there we are!

The fact that Elvis kisses forty girls a night is neither here nor there, they are indiscriminate from one another and don’t mean anything - you know that. He simply has to kiss as many girls that he finds unattractive as much as those that catch his eye; although whenever he argues this point you’re uncertain if he truly knows how to be unattracted to a girl of any kind. But you’ve so far taken it at face value - he was yours at the end of the night and you were in his bed, in his home, and honestly that’s all you cared about. You could let the other girls have their seven seconds with him.

You probably, at this point in your relationship, cared far too much about him but he made you feel like no-one else has ever done. You wonder sometimes if he even knows how love feels - or if he just truly has to be permanently in love to live, he says it so easily and freely. Regardless, you can’t help but believe him when he says he loves you. There’s just something about him, a strange magnetism or force that allows you to forgive and forget a lot more than you usually would. Constantly desperate for his approval when really he should be begging for yours. You’d beg him to pay attention, accuse him of being distant and he would somehow always turn it back onto you - “You’re just so damn needy,” and “I can’t just rush off to see you when you want, I’m a busy boy Darlin’,” until he became exasperated; “Lord, stop naggin’ me woman.” You accepted it, in a way you wouldn’t from anyone else - you simply argued your case as much as you could, hung up the phone, sobbed, and then ran to him gladly when he offered you any scrap of attention. Why didn’t he like you enough to listen if he claimed to love you?

It’s not the girls at the concerts you worry about, throwing themselves up at him, clawing at him - that display of unwomanly desire is as unattractive to him as can be, entertaining rather than arousing, and you know that for him it really is all about putting on a good, memorable show for the audience. It is as much a part of his stage personality and persona as his jumpsuits are; women and girls go to see Elvis expecting to come home kissed.

It’s the afterparty girls you find difficult. It’s when you see, from across the room or even from right beside them, his hand inching up their thigh; when their legs tangle together, or he pulls their feet on his wide spread thighs that you start to feel like its wrong. You mind it less if you’re not there to see it, and you can tell Elvis knows this too - judging from how often you’re sent home to Memphis, only called back to Vegas every few weeks. Whenever you talk on the phone you ask him about the other girls - if there are any, if there’s anyone special. He always denies it and reminds you over the phone that “I’ve only got eyes for you little darling.” But that “a man’s got needs mama” or even, “I’m a polite boy baby, I can’t just shove em offa me!” And you agree - he can’t exactly shove girls off of him, but maybe he could just…invite them over less?

But really who knows what else he is supposed to do. It’s not like there’s a precedent for this, nor is he likely to listen to your suggestions. So you accept it all, simply as part of the price of being allowed to maintain rotation in his orbit.

But still it’s hard. Especially when it’s been days since you last had the chance to really see him, or spend any time with him and he’s sat there lapping up the attention from these goddamn groupies like a sultan with his harem. You can’t help but go cold to his advances, giving him one word answers when he deigns to talk to you across the room. You can tell you’re annoying him, he hates to be publicly defied especially from one of his women - from his main woman, and you can tell he’s chewing his cheek by the clench of his jaw when you respond again in words of one syllable. As if to annoy you further you watch him shift in his seat, spreading his legs further apart, and laughing as he tips his head back in response to whatever blondie to the right of him says. It causes the fabric of his trousers to go taught, and his neck muscles tighten - veins appearing to tense. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and you close your eyes for a second. He’s unfairly attractive like this, in fact, he’s blinding to look at and you can’t help but shift your thighs together.

When you open them he’s staring back at you. You inadvertently make eye contact and he winks. You forget for a second you’re angry at him, and can’t stop the heat rising up you. But then you watch his arm flex around the girl to the left of him and you regain your senses, looking away with a flick of your hair. You count to a hundred, pretending to keep the conversation up with Jerry while you wait to glance over again. When you look over again he’s whispering in her ear, and you can’t help but glare. He seems to sense you, and looks over her cheek to you. He leans back and nods to his dressing room door. You purposefully ignore him, turning back once again to Jerry. A second later you can hear movement behind you and Elvis’ voice rises above the noise of the conversations around you; “I’m sorry sugar, but I’ve got some business to see to.” Your ears are attuned to him, and you have no idea what the conversation you’re in is anymore, listening to hear what this business was and trying to judge from the sounds what his movements are from behind your back. A second later you don’t have to try and guess as his hand touches your elbow,

“Come on now darlin’ lemme borrow you for a sec.” You look at his hand on your elbow and your eyes narrow at him, but he’s looking at you like he’s daring you to say something, playfully half expecting you to make a scene. But that’s not your style and he knows it. You flick your head back around to Jerry and Charlie and say,

“Sorry guys, the ‘King’ called.” You add a sarcastic edge to your words and playfully roll your eyes. You turn around to head towards his dressing room and jump as Elvis’ hand connects with your ass - propelling you forward, he walks you towards the door laughing as the boys behind continue their conversation as if you were never there.

You pull away from him as soon as you’re on the other side of the door and look at him affronted when he shuts the door with a definitive click and turns around, practically leering at you and rubbing himself over his trousers.

“Oh, you must be joking.” You scoff, you can’t deny you’re almost always turned on around him, but you do have some level of self respect.

“Come on now baby, don’t be like that, thought you’d wanna help me out?” He pleads, looking at you hopefully.

“That fuckin’ groupie gets you all riled up and i’ve gotta be the one to deal with it.” You roll your eyes again, crossing your arms over your chest. He frowns,

“Well - if it’s such a chore don’t fucking bother.” He shrugs, and looks down at himself, “I’ll just….deal with it myself.” He rubs again before untucking himself from his trousers - his cock jumps when it hits the slightly chilly air, and you can see his foreskin tighten a little in response. He licks his palm ready to get himself going but pauses before he touches himself. He looks down, looking like a kicked puppy, “Never thought you’d wanna leave me like this though little mama,” he touches himself once, twice, starting to peel back his foreskin from his head, “please baby, help me out?” He’s talking in that utterly stupid baby voice of his, and even before the question is fully out of his mouth you know you’re going to give in, that you can’t resist him.

He practically whimpers a further. “Please baby? Please!” and you know you’ve had it. You’re incapable of denying him any further. You move as if he’s got you on strings, dropping to your knees in front of him. You can feel your wetness start to form - the response to this position is pavlovian at this point. You nod once,

“Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.” He looks down at you and winks, starting to gather up your hair in his hands to hold it away from your neck and face. He brushes a finger down your cheek and taps it against your lips,

“As if you had a choice.” Despite the slightly sinister statement you can’t help but find his confidence endearing and you giggle, already feeling better now that he had you alone. Proof that he chose you.

He’s always gentle at first, allowing you to lap at him, tiny kitten licks as you gaze up. This time is no different, you feel like you’ve been there for half hour, although its probably closer to three or four minutes by the time he starts to insistently push his head against your lips. He lets you control the pace for the moment and you obediently bob up and down on him. He looks down at you, his lips are in a little pouty grimace, and his pupils enlarged so that the clear blue of his eyes is barely visible. He’s clearly losing the battle at staying hands off, and this is even more true when a moment later you feel his grip on your hair tighten. He pulls you further, causing you to choke slightly before you adjust to the deeper motion and it doesn’t take long before he’s completely controlling the pace and depth.

He speeds up, his eyes slightly manic as he thrusts forward, fucking into your mouth even deeper and remaining deeper to match his quicker timing. He drops your hair and with one hand he holds the back of your head, while the other creeps around your shoulders and neck to rest on the base of your throat, his fingers gently wrapping around. He pulls you all the way off, and a trail of drool connects you before you lick your lips, his precum and your spit mixing into a bitter tasting foam. He nods at you and you take a deep breath, allowing him to pull you forward once more. You hollow your cheeks, and use all the techniques you have, swirling your tongue and humming, and it doesn’t take long before he’s pulling you tighter, harder and quicker, and after that barely any time at all his hips stutter and he’s releasing down your throat, his fingers stroking where he can feel you gulping it down.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

He leaves you there, he’s normally very generous - but today he doesn’t even order you to touch yourself. It feels like he’s proving a point, that he gives you what you get. That you’re no different to him using the other girls who get him hard. There just for him to use you, get off. You feel frustrated, and hurt, and a tiny bit like a groupie or whore yourself. But, then he’s sweet as can be the next day - showing you off to reporters, planning a trip to Hawaii together and while you still feel slight unease at how you’ve been treated, you otherwise quickly forgive and forget.

——-

There’s a party at Graceland tonight, you’ve barely seen him and you huff as you fetch yourself another drink. He’s ‘holding court’ in the music room, playing to other’s requests when you head back to the kitchen. By the time you return he’s sat on that impossibly long sofa laughing and talking with the boys and girls on either side of him and mingling around the room. There’s nowhere for you to sit and you consider the floor for a second - but quickly realise that the place that puts you out of the way of people would put you directly at his feet. You hope he looks over at you, pushes the girl off who’s sat next to him to make room for you. But he doesn’t - instead you watch him lean over to whisper in her ear. You’re openly staring from the doorway now, as he cups her cheek and pulls her in for a kiss.. There’s raucous laughter in response from everyone else, and from the angle - when he opens his eyes mid-kiss - you make eye contact. He doesn’t even flinch when he notices you. He pulls back and pats the top of her head, she grins - clearly satisfied with herself - and he heaves himself up. Whether to go to you, or just to head out of the room in general you don’t know - by the time he’s stood up you’ve stormed out.

You take a few deep breaths in the slightly chilly outside air, and walk far enough away that you can look back upon the house. It’s shimmering slightly from the heat within, the windows are steamed up from the volume of people and you can see little plumes of smoke from the sheer number of cigarettes and cigars being consumed escaping into the night whenever the door gets open and closed. You’re not sure why it’s getting to you so much, but it’s like he’s trying to prove a point at the moment and you just have to accept it or find your limit. You can’t help but let a few tears escape, it’s humiliating, to be treated like that in Vegas or on the road is bad enough but in your own home is almost too much to bear. But maybe that’s the point - it’s not yours really, it’s his and you’re not your own person anymore, you’re his. You stand out there until you can feel a chill setting in and head back inside, slipping upstairs and past the groups of people without saying goodbye, and climbing into bed.

You don’t sleep, on edge waiting for him to come up, but you do feel yourself drowsing. When he does come up he ignores your body in bed in favour of the ensuite and by the time he reappears in his pyjamas you’re drowsing again. He slides in behind you and you almost inaudibly huff as he drapes an arm over your midriff, tucking a leg over yours. You huff louder, and pull away, turning around from him to face the other side of the bed. He tries to push up your nightgown and stroke your back but you reach your arm around to bat his hand away, you’re certainly not in the mood tonight. Not after his behaviour. “No Elvis. Not tonight. Not after you’ve had those girls all over you.” He pulls away and huffs.

“Come on darling, you’re being a bitch.” You roll over and pretend to be asleep. He ignores you.

The next morning you wake up and he’s gone but in his place, on his side of the bed, is a huge box. This isn’t rare - he often bought you presents, or left you clothing to be worn and normally you loved it. It wasn’t even because of the materialism of being bought the pretty things - the dresses and the jewellery; the shoes and the lingerie but rather the possession of it. Owning things he picked out for you with every expectation that you would, of course, be wearing it when he next saw you. Normally this gave you a thrill - he didn’t even need to write it on a note anymore. It was just understood that you would, when such a box appeared, be bedecked in an outfit that would loudly proclaim you as histo those in the know, if not the world. His flashy, expensive but very specific fashionable and feminine style obvious to everyone who knows him. You peek inside the box to see a flash of green sparkly knit fabric and a red jewellery box resting on top, undoubtedly containing something absurdly over the top and expensive that he expects to see you in. Not this time though. This time the dress can stay in the fucking box it arrived in and you’re going to wear your jeans and a top you bought all on your lonesome. You’re not even going to look at whats in the red box. You feel outraged that he thinks you’d simply forgive and forget his behaviour the night before because he bought you a present. It's even more humiliating than being so publicly embarrassed; the implication that you can be bought so easily.

You storm out of the bedroom once you’re dressed and your hair is brushed - it’s not styled, which would usually irk you (and him) but you’re honestly too riled up to care. The time for calm is over and you feel like you’ve been pushed to the edge too many times now. You burst into the den, the door slamming open, furious that you feel so out of control. So unlike yourself.

“El you can’t treat me like dirt and then try to buy me off.” He’s cut off in the middle of a take of a song. You can hear the recorder still whirring - that’s going on the tape forever. You’ll make them destroy this copy later, (or Elvis himself will you’re sure) he’s obsessive about keeping everything possible but its unlikely he’d want evidence of his lack of control of you here. The boys all turn to stare, their instruments faltering to a halt and Elvis spins around, before he’s even facing you you can tell he’s utterly furious. He’s practically shaking.

“-Get the fuck outta here!” He roars, pointing at the door; “fuckin’ hell what do you think you’re playing at?” he tugs at his hair in frustration and you cross your arms. If you leave now and he doesn’t follow you’ll lose what nerve you have. You can only imagine how you’d end up regretting your outburst, simpering apologies to him later if you left now.

“No.” You actually stamp a foot, and your brain is going fifty miles a second trying to regain your dignity, “No Elvis I won’t. I want you to listen to me.” He puffs out a short breath and starts to stalk towards you. Charlie puts his hand out onto his forearm, perhaps anticipating that with his temper and fury so high he might do something he’d later regret. But he’s unwilling to physically hold him back, and Elvis simply shakes his head at him and shrugs him off instead rushing forward and clutching the top of your arm.

“Turn that recording off!” He shouts as you struggle against him pulling you towards the door.

“Elvis! Let me go! Let go of me!” He uses your momentum of your struggle against him to almost trip you over, catching you across the waist and lifting you bodily out of the room. You continue to struggle, thrashing about in his arms as he lifts you up the stairs into the kitchen. He practically drops you when you reach the empty room and you attempt to jump away from him but he holds you steady with that same grip on your upper arm, swapping over to hold your wrist. He practically growls at you;

“Let’s go baby.” He drags you upstairs to his bedroom, despite your protestations, and slams the door behind himself.

“I ain’t about to have it out with you with all the boys lookin’ on in, like I can’t control my goddamn woman.” He leans in to sharply whisper at you and you laugh cruelly, finally managing to pull away.

“Maybe thats because you don’t have a woman to control Elvis. I ain’t been your woman in a long time! How can I be if you’re away all the time doing god knows what with god knows who! Or even being here and doing it!” His chest is heaving as he takes in your outburst. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“Little girl, I’m not having the same argument with you twenty times over. We’ve already had this discussion and you’re really turning me the fuck up about it. I’ve got needs. I don’t know what you want me to say mama.” He’s clearly annoyed, but still trying to come across earnest - as if he doesn’t understand what’s angered you so much.

“I want you to say that you actually give a damn Elvis. That you give a damn about me. About how I feel about it. About how if you promise me there ain’t another girl that there ain’t another girl that the boys are whispering about.” He rolls his eyes at you.

“You’re not around all the time baby; I don’t know what you want me to say to you - I love you. That should be enough; why isn’t it enough for you? There ain’t no one I’d rather be with, it just ain’t always possible mama.” You absolutely can’t stand the glow that you immediately feel as he professes his love for you and it spikes your anger once again - since it comes attached to absolutely no attempt to deny his sheer infidelity.

“Well, you’re not around either, and it’s not a choice I make to not be there for you. Maybe I should do like you do - after all ain’t a woman got needs too?” You placed your hand on your hips, chest heaving at the volume you’d not realised you’d reached.

“Don’t you dare lil’ girl, I told you there wasn’t anyone else. Don’t threaten me like that. You won’t like what you get back.” He tuts and shakes his head, and you’ve no idea where your sudden boldness comes from;

“What? Afraid I’ll like them more?”

He roars at you, throwing himself at you, pulling your hands up. He shoves his lips on yours and you have no choice but to acquiesce to his tongue’s insistent demands that you open your mouth. He growls against your neck;

“I’m gonna make you see right now. Gotta show you, you belong to me lil mama. To me.” He pushes you down to your knees and it barely occurs to you to struggle. He’s gathering your hair in his hands - pulling it away from your face as you realise the argument’s clearly made him hard - the bulge in his trousers evident from your close angle. He pulls your head back with his grip on your hair and his other hand trails down your cheek to your neck, his fingers stretching around it. Just a presence there. You look up at him with wide eyes and a flushed face and he stares down at you.

“You’re gonna ‘pologise to me for messin’ with my work. And for accusing me of all that shit and you’re gonna do it right now.” Your mind is gone, his eyes somehow holding you captive and all you can do is nod. “Right then, get little Elvis out baby and get to it.” He nods down at you and you quickly grasp his meaning, your fingers shaking as you fumble through unbuttoning his trousers. He is, like usual, not wearing any boxers so there’s no other fabric barrier that you have to get to before you’re able to pull his cock out. He pulls you by your ponytail and you immediately kiss the head, licking the tip and down in long stripes. He allows this for a moment before taking the hand from around your throat to slap his dick against your cheek - before insistently nudging it against your lips. The moment it’s in your mouth he pulls you down on him, barely giving you time to catch your breath. He’s rougher than he usually is right from the start and it's a struggle to keep up.

You’re a mess of day old mascara and tears from your eyes watering, and spit and drool when he pulls out. Pulling you off of him entirely. He crouches in front of you and wipes at your face with his thumbs on each cheek before he pushes you backwards, although he supports your fall back with a hand under your neck - lowering you completely to the floor. He moves quickly to unbutton your jeans, tugging them down impatiently. It doesn’t occur to you to struggle, and while a little part of your brain is shouting at you to stop being stupid, that you’re losing the argument, that this wasn’t what you wanted to happen, a larger part can’t get over how good he looks in this moment - nor the anticipation of what you’re sure is going to be some pretty spectacular sex. “I hate you in these, baby.” You smile. That’s why you wore them.

“Oh,” He smirks back at you. “I get it. Tryin’ to prove a point huh?” He grasps the legs as they unroll past your ankles and yanks. You hear the tearing as they split straight down the seam. “Point made Darlin.” He’s infuriating. He pushes your panties to the side and circles your clit, rubbing down before pushing into the pooling wetness. He slides in one finger, and it slips straight in so he immediately pulls it out to add a second. He pumps them a couple of times, crooking his finger in just the right spot to make you jump around him, your hips grinding of their own accord. You whine when he pulls them out, shoving them into your mouth and he drags you back closer to him. His other hand steadying his dick and he slips his other out of your mouth to better support his body. He pushes in, you’re wet as anything but barely stretched and you can feel every inch of him as he pushes into you. He stills for a second as he bottoms out, and you shiver around him. He looks back at you, his eyes blazing and his hair flopping forward, out from where it was so carefully slicked back. He’s still mostly dressed and it feels so wrong to be able to feel his slacks and open shirt resting against your naked skin but you forget all about this when he pulls you almost all the way off and slams you back down. He thrusts like this once, twice and the noises that come out of your mouth are obscene, your eyes rolling back. “That’s r-right my t-t-tight lil woman,” he stills for a second to kiss you and you clutch at his shoulders for balance as you try to get closer to him. He tugs at your lip before working his way down, sucking onto your collarbone. The heat is building in you, and you can feel it in your thighs, your pulse jumping, but his slow rocking motion isn’t enough to get you properly close;

“El-Elvis, baby, baby, need you, need you to move.” You stutter out and feel his smirk against your neck. He then, if you didn’t know better, seems to lose control - his hips rocking in his signature way, as he fucks into you rapidly back and forth.

His bedroom carpet is plush and expensive but still isn’t particularly comfortable to be rocked against as your t-shirt rolls up but he seems completely uncaring to the comfort of your skin being rubbed raw, focussed on his fingers getting you off and fucking into you as deep as he can get. You claw into the carpet as he makes your back arch in pleasure as he pulls away and drags you back onto him. You can feel the bruises forming in the shape of his fingertips on your hips.

He’s out of breath with the exertion of the act and you can feel the sweat and heat coming off of him, as he thrusts so deeply it makes you choke as your head rocks forward. He lets out a breathless huff of laughter in response;

“That’s right darlin’ gonna make you feel it.” You moan, and he continues, “Only way to get it through that thick skull of yours is fucking it into you.” He slams into you, and you shake as the words and his motions push you over the cliff. He continues talking but you can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears, and the noises coming out of your own mouth as you ride out the wave - his fingers and cock moving in the exact same way to coax you through it. He removes his hand and you feel like you can breathe again as you feel everything pulse around your core. He grips your thighs, “No-one else could fuck you like this, make you take it like this.” He punctuates his point with a rotation of his hips, pushing into you as much as he can - deeply rocking you, and you can feel his head knocking against your walls. You tremble, overstimulated from your brief orgasm a moment ago but still on the edge, “You think anyone else could make you feel like this?”

You rapidly shake your head, stuttering out a response, “No, no, nn-o.” He lets out a breathy, tiny gruff chuckle,

“No you’re damn right baby. They couldn’t.” You moan, can’t help yourself and you feel him jump inside you,

“Gonna knock you up darling, gonna make you mine forever.” and his hips stutter as you feel the pulse of his cum inside. You’re shocked at his announcement, but you feel yourself twitch in response and he goes to touch you again, feeling where the two of you join, his cock still inside, sliding his fingers up and down, and that’s apparently enough to send you over the edge again. When you come to he’s slipping his cock out of you, although he remains leaning over you to talk in your ear;

“You interrupt me workin’ again doll, with shit like this, and you’re out. You understand me girlie?” You nod again, it’s like you’ve been struck cock dumb - you can barely even remember what you were annoyed with him about. He rubs your stomach and places a light kiss on your neck, he murmurs against your skin; “You can’t be jealous if I’ve given you somethin’ no one else has.” He pulls away from you and redresses himself - well, pulls up his trousers and rebuttons his shirt. You lie there, panting, on the floor feeling his seed trickle out of you. He holds out a hand to you and it seems to take a lot of effort to take it, but you grasp his hand and he pulls you up in one tug. He holds you close and kisses you hard on the mouth, “Put your present on,“ he glances to the box on the bed, and you nod, “Knocked some goddamn sense into ya now, haven’t I.” He declares it proudly, satisfied that you seem to be meek in agreement with him, and you smile back at him unable to even deny that his fucking you has caused you to agree with him. You turn away from him to head into the bathroom, clean yourself up a little and you can finally talk again as you go, your voice scratchy, “Don’t worry Elvis baby, I ain’t all amped up still.” You can practically feel him smile.

“That’s good, honey, that’s real good.” He pauses, “If you can behave yourself you can come and join us, if you like, after you get yourself touched up.” You’re inspecting yourself in the mirror, responding with forced casualness,

“Course!” As you assess your body, still flushed and littered with tiny bruises, you crane around to look at your back and wince at the carpet burn evident there. You shake your head, what a ridiculous thing to have done, when the bed was right there. You hear him leave and take a shaky breath in - how are you gonna sort your hair from this clearly debauched state. You glance down, looking at his fingerprints on your hips and sides, and consider your stomach for a moment. You wonder if he truly has, in his anger, joined you together for eternity. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but on every other occasion he’s ensured you’ve taken every precaution, short of abortion. Should you douche? You jump suddenly as you hear him sprinting back into the room, as if he could hear your thoughts he bursts into the bathroom.

“Forgot to say mama,” He pauses and jabs his pointer finger at you, “you let that baby stick. It’s the only way to prove it to you. You let it be.” You start to protest,

“Honey, sweetheart, do you…do you really think we should be doing this? That we should?”

“You sayin’ you don’t want my baby, Sugar?” You lock eyes with him in the mirror and rapidly shake your head,

“No-no-no! No! Elvis, No! Of course I do! I just, is this the way it should be done?” He laughs,

“I don’t see how it makes the slightest bit of difference, we’ll have to go again, later, make sure - don’t see how we can tell which does the trick. Just that it’s done.” You turn to look at him properly,

“We-ell ok then Elvie baby, let’s do it.”

Later that night, when you’re sat watching a girl practically climb into his lap you feel a surge of pride - he glances over at you and winks - and you think, that's right have him for the second, but I’ve got what you really want; him all the time and his baby in my belly.

#elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis fic #elvis presley fanfiction

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devil-doll13 · 11 months

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Some House of Wax/Sinclair Brothers Headcanons I’ve had in my head that I’ve already shared w the server but… The rest of the world deserves to know.

Related to gif, Vincent is the ‘medical expert’ of the house solely because he’s the one who knows the human body/first aid the best. I mean, in the movie we see him stitching up those wounds on what’s-his-face pretty neatly, right? This is also part of the reason why he automatically reaches for Bo during this scene.

Given his birth date was sniffed out by fans before me (1970) and this man looks like he’s a cosplayer sometimes, I truly believe Bo idolised Elvis Presley as a kid, and maybe a bit as an adult as well. He still enjoys listening to rock n’ roll from that era when he’s in a good mood. When he’s in a bad mood, or doing his business™️ in his sex dungeon/basement, that’s when the Marilyn Manson comes on.

All of them have had an alt phase of some sort. For Vincent it was goth, for Bo it was rivethead/industrial rock and for Lester it was grunge.

Les is also down bad fucking horrendous for alt people in general. Yes, he has magazines stuffed down his sofa, yes, they used to be Bo’s.

Bo is allergic to nuts. He also gets really nasty hay fever. I also think possibly him having sensory issues/picky eater could’ve led to meltdowns as we see in the opening. And really, it’s the 1970s/80s do you expect his parents to understand or sympathise?

In contrast, Lester has the constitution of a Greek god somehow and has probably eaten some absolutely vile shit as a kid.

I know most people interpret Vince as sweet and shy but… While I do think he’s more measured and withdrawn compared to Bo, I also think being the ‘favourite’ in terms of being Trudy’s little art prodigy contributed to a sort of spoilt brattiness esp as a kid. (Exhibit A: The ‘Bo Sux’ fridge art in the opening) As an adult, there’s still a sense of entitlement to him. What I’m saying is that he’s an insufferable art nerd lol. He definitely isn’t toothless and his arguments with Bo aren’t necessarily one-sided, he’s just capable of ignoring him when he wants to; he’s used to his twin, after all. While I do think he’s capable of being soft, don’t forget this man killed a woman in cold blood and recorded it. I also think he can get snippy enough during arguments to combat Bo’s generally sharp tongue.

Speaking of which, everyone in the (surviving) family knows ASL. It’s necessary when communicating with Vincent.

Again with how prolific a killer Vincent is, I suspect he may be the one who does the most murder out of all of them. Bo is the handsome ‘face’ of Ambrose, and Vincent is right under the seedy underbelly with a knife, ready to spill guts (and then sew it up again once he’s got them in the workshop). Lester is similar to Bo in that he mostly just guides people toward the town, but I do think he gets his own notions sometimes.

From a more x reader perspective, Bo strikes me as a man who’s most charming when he’s not trying to be. Of course he can put on an act for victims/tourists, but those are just empty words, y’know? Also, has a kinda cheesy side.

I know everyone has Jonesy as Lester’s dog but… I think she’s really Vincent’s. In the movie, she’s always seen with Vin or in the house of wax itself, it’s only when he dies that she goes to Lester. I actually think Les is a cat person (tell me he wouldn’t actually encourage their hunting habits for his own personal collection…) while Vin is a dog person. Also, hot take I think Bo loves snakes and reptiles.

Given that the House of Wax and Ambrose itself is a big ol’ art project, and we’ve seen the state of the church (permanently in the middle of dead ass crusty Trudy’s funeral) I think there may be a sort of difficulty letting go of their past in the brothers, maybe some hoarding as well (I mean we haven’t even seen some of the other houses in Ambrose but this is just speculation). We get the sense that Ambrose is a place where time stands still, forever, until its conservationists finally die. Idk I’m talking out my ass here

#feel free to agree disagree criticise hate love flip flop #I’d honestly love to hear other people’s thoughts and headcanons too #I was talking in the server about this but I love how this fandom has just sustained itself on tumblr it’s really beautiful #Vincent Sinclair #Bo Sinclair #Lester Sinclair #House of Wax #House of Wax headcanons #headcanons #my writing

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hearts4court · 11 months

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“Miss’d ya, baby”

60s!Elvis x fem!reader

warnings: kissing, mentions of sex, the Colonel, alcohol, smoking. short story, spelling eras, 2nd person POV!

Summary: It’s always fun going to see your fiancé, Elvis Presley, after one of his shows especially when you both been drinking a little.

| Main Masterlist | Elvis 2022 Masterlist |

Tonight’s show was great. The music was great, and so was your fiancé, Elvis. like always.

After the show had ended and while you were standing up, after Elvis disappeared from the stage, you were escorted to the backstage to see him.

Upon seeing you, Elvis smiled. “Hey Darlin’ ya enjoy the show?” he grinned wrapping his arms around your waist, after taking off his guitar. “miss’d ya, baby.” he hummed.

“I loved it El, as always. you’re so talented~” you spoke to him in a low tone, brushing your lips against his, wrapping your arms around his neck, making him smirk, he smelled like sweat and alcohol, two smells you have gotten use too.

Elvis had crashed his lips on yours after a minute, letting his hands roam down to your ass and gripping it, pulling your leg up to his waist.”Thank you, angel. You’re my inspiration..” he said in a whisper before kissing you again, lifting you up.

Giggling softly you placed one hand on his cheek and the other hand on the back of his neck, playing with his greasy hair.”El-“ you choked out from the kiss, making him pull away.

“Elvis.. Can’t ya wait till, we get back to the hotel?” your voice is low and calm but also teasing, in response you got a low hum from him.

“Elvis, my boy! Fantastic show, might i say!” You and Elvis snap y’all’s neck to the familiar that made you cringe every time you heard it. The Colonel. Or at least what Elvis and others calls him.”Ah, Miss. y/l/n. what a pleasant surprise. I hope you enjoyed Mr. Presleys show.” Colonel spoke with slight annoyance in his voice. He wasn’t very fond of you, he believed you would tear Elvis down in his rise to fame.

“Mrs. Presley. Is gonna be her name soon.” Elvis said after a moment of silence between you three making you giggle and run your hand through his hair. “I put a ring on her finger, now all i have to do is get rid of her old last name, and she’s all mine.” he said kissing the top of your head and setting you on the ground.

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Elvis and you growing old together, having children, and getting married.”I did enjoy the show, Colonel. Why, thank you for asking.” you said with an small attitude, you were sure he’d pick up on.

After the Colonel walked away, you and Elvis continued with y’all’s cute little moment.”Let’s go back to the hotel.. can’t wait to take this pretty lil’ dress off ya, and bend ya over that bed..“ Elvis said, tracing your body shape with his hands, licking his lips. “Kiss your pretty face and body.. leave hickeys..make ya cum..over…and.. over… and-“ he got lost in the thought of you, and although it did make you more wetter than you already were, and make you crave him more, you stopped his rambling.

“Elvis Aaron Presley!” you slapped his arm slightly with a small blush. “Maybe instead of rambling on about what you’re going to do to me..how about you do those things..” you say in a flirty tone, biting your bottom lip slightly, messing with his tie a bit, causing him to smirk.

You were in for a very..very long night with Elvis…

#elvis presley x reader #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis presley smut #elvisaaronpresley #austin butler x reader #austin!elvis smut

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vintageshanny · 11 months

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I loved reading everyone’s top three Elvis songs last week! I could talk about this man’s music all day. ❤️

So my question this week is: What are his three most underrated songs? These would not be on a greatest hits album, maybe he never (or rarely) performed them live, but when you listen to them, you just think it’s a crime that not more people are enjoying them. Let me hear about them and why you love them!

I’ll start:

Milkcow Blues Boogie - This is very early in his career, and you can just tell he’s having so much fun with it. I love him speaking at the beginning in his cute accent, and I love his interesting vocalizations and the way he hits those falsetto notes.

After Loving You - His voice in this era just does things to me, it sounds so soulful. I love everything about this song - the handclaps in the background were a perfect touch. Also, if you change the lyrics to be about a man, this could be me (and probably all of us lol) singing to Elvis. 🥰 “Honey all the rest is gonna have to be second best…I’m no good for anyone after loving you.”

Tomorrow Night and And I Love You So - Yes, I’m cheating with a tie for this one. A ballad from the beginning of his career and one closer to the end. I love how sweet and earnest he sounds on the early ballads. On And I Love You So, you can hear him hit those beautiful rich low notes. Both of these, to me, show his ability to take a song and make you feel like he’s singing directly to you. His ability to use the emotion in his voice to connect with the listener is truly amazing.

Let me hear your thoughts! Tagging those who participated last time, but anyone please join in! ❤️

@whositmcwhatsit @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @ellie-24 @plasticfantasticl0ver @lookingforrainbows @prompted-wordsmith @flwrs4aust @iloveelvis @argeriant18

#elvis #elvis Presley #elvis music #underrated songs #i love this man

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matttgirlies · 18 days

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Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - sexual refrences, drug usage

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 9

Matt sent two first-class plane tickets. My father took a leave of absence from his duties in Germany, and we flew off to Los Angeles, where Matt was filming Fun in Acapulco.

We stayed at the Bel Air Sands Hotel, and Matt was the perfect host. He’d pick us up in either a white Rolls-Royce or his famous gold Cadillac and take us on a sightseeing tour along the ocean to Malibu or into Hollywood.

My father was impressed with Matt’s hospitality, but not enough to forget why he was there—to talk about my education and my future at Graceland. Matt didn’t want to jeopardize the deal they had already made, and every time my father brought up my schooling, Matt would find a Hollywood landmark to point out.

“And over there, Captain,” he said, changing the subject as we cruised down Hollywood Boulevard, “is Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I’m sure you’ve heard of that. If you get out here, you can see all the stars of your era, their handprints and footprints. There’s Betty Grable, you remember her, don’t you? Marilyn Monroe, Kennedy’s friend, and if you look hard enough, you might spot Trigger’s hoofprint.” As my father stepped out of the car, Matt added, “I don’t think MacArthur’s are there yet, but I’m working on it.” We all laughed at the incongruity of General MacArthur bending over the wet concrete next to Jane Russell.

After a few days, my father and I flew to Boston and he and James enrolled me in the school Matt had chosen, Immaculate Conception, an all-girls high school, while Matt himself remained in L.A. to finish the film.

Before I left, he assured me that he’d be home soon and that he’d see me in a few weeks.

Matt and I planned to live together at Graceland eventually, but we’d told my parents that I would be staying with James and Angela, so when I arrived in Boston, I moved into their home. James assured my father that I’d be in good hands and not to worry.

The concerned look on my father’s face moved me. It was such a helpless look filled with doubts and fears about whether he was making the right decision. Only time would tell. He returned to Germany and I settled into my new routine.

In the beginning James drove me to and from school, where word of my identity soon leaked out. As I walked down the hallway, heads would turn and whispers would start. Once, a note that was being passed in study hall ended up on the floor. I saw my name on it and picked it up.

“Her name’s y/n,” I read. “She’s supposed to be Matt Sturniolo’s new girlfriend. If we make friends with her, maybe she’ll introduce us to him. Oh, God, wouldn’t that be neat!”

I didn’t know who the writer was, but I couldn’t mistake the meaning. The friendly smiles concealed intentions to get to Matt through me. Consequently, I was afraid to get close to anyone at school, and began to feel lonely and unhappy.

Living with James and Angela was also difficult. I felt out of place in their home, and did not want to be an intrusion in their personal life. I began spending more time with Grandma at Graceland, often staying all night, and gradually, almost unnoticed, I began to move in my things. By the time Matt suggested that I move into Graceland, I already had.

But living on “the hill,” as we called it, was isolated. The only people there were Grandma and the maids, and during the day, the secretaries, Becky Yancy and Patsy Sturniolo. Patsy was Matt’s double first cousin (her mother was Mary Lou’s sister and her father was James’s brother) and also served as James’s confidante. We were close, and after school I would go into the office to talk with her and Becky. But James felt my visits kept the girls from working and finally he put a sign on the door specifying: no one belongs in the office unless they work there, or have an appointment. I knew that meant me too, so I curtailed my visits.

There were other restrictions. I was told that I couldn’t have girlfriends over because strangers weren’t allowed in the house. One day, I was severely criticized for sitting under the trees on the front lawn. I was playing with Honey, the poodle Matt had given me for Christmas, when a friend of Angela’s drove up and told me that I was making a public display of myself.

Even at school, I felt restricted because James was still chauffeuring me there and back. Without my own car, I couldn’t leave the school grounds to take a drive at lunch or when my classes were cut short. At last I asked James if I could use Matt’s Lincoln Mark V and reluctantly, he agreed.

That evening I went for a drive. With the radio blaring and the windows wide open I sped down Highway 51 South, enjoying my newfound independence. I pulled up in front of Patsy Sturniolo’s house and said, “Hop in. Let’s go for a drive.”

Patsy introduced me to Leonard’s Drive-In, where we would spend at least one night a week when we didn’t go bowling or to a movie. But I went out less frequently when the two hundred dollars that my father had given me rapidly began slipping through my fingers. Matt had assured my father not to worry about money, that if I needed any, his father would give it to me. So, with gas added to my expenses, I had no choice but to approach James, as Matt had instructed me.

Hesitantly I walked into his office. I was nervous about talking to James, who had a sharp tongue and said exactly what he thought. Finally I said, “Mr. Sturniolo, I was wondering if I could have some money. I’m spending a lot on gas, which doesn’t leave much for anything else.”

“How much do you think you need?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll give you thirty-five dollars. How does that sound?”

Thirty-five dollars sounded fine at the moment, but it didn’t go very far, not with movie tickets, gas, and clothes to buy. Two weeks later I asked him for money to go out with Patsy.

“Hot damn,” he snapped. “Didn’t I just give you thirty-five dollars?”

“That was two weeks ago, Mr. Sturniolo. I can’t stretch it any further than that.”

He stared angrily at me and then his face softened.

“Well, I guess things can get pretty expensive,” he said, counting out another thirty-five dollars. “Now you and Patsy be careful driving out there. You know there’s a lot of accidents on that highway. Why don’t you call me when you get to the theater?”

At the time his caution surprised me, but remembering what Matt had said about Mary Lou, I knew that this was also typical of the rest of the Sturniolos. They always felt better if you called when you arrived at your destination and again before you left for home.

Matt phoned later that evening. In the course of the conversation he asked, “How are you doing on cash, Baby?”

“Funny you should ask that,” I said, mentioning his father’s reaction when I asked for money.

Matt started laughing. “That’s my dad. He’s always been tight. Getting money from him is worse than going to the local bank, even if you’ve got good credit. That’s why I have him taking care of my bills. Every penny’s accounted for. I wouldn’t trust anybody else. Too many thieves. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him.”

I ended up laughing too. Matt’s sense of humor was contagious. He laughed about things that often wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, yet anyone around him would usually end up laughing too.

Unfortunately, Matt forgot to speak to his father. Rather than ask for handouts, I resolved to earn my own money. I began modeling part-time at a boutique near Graceland. When I told Matt about my job, he said, “You’re gonna have to give it up.”

“But I’m enjoying it,” I said.

“It’s either me or a career, Baby. Because when I call you, I need you to be there.”

I quit the modeling job the next day, which left me with very little to do. I started spending even more time in Grandma’s room. I liked being with her. She was always in her favorite chair, ready to share her loving stories about Matt.

Most of them dealt with his early years and the family’s struggle against poverty. Suffering and worry seemed to be the very fabric of Sturniolo’s lives. Any time Matt failed to call home for two days in a row, they worried that something terrible had happened to him in California. Matt’s enormous success and wealth notwithstanding, they were convinced that some misfortune was going to snatch it all away from them. Sometimes all this talk of suffering depressed me.

My only relief was Patsy Sturniolo, and I went to her every chance I got. But then Grandma complained that she was being neglected. She reminded me that Matt’s old girlfriends used to stay with her every single night he was gone. Torn, I couldn’t wait for Matt’s return.

I anxiously waited for his call. It usually came in the early evening.

“Hi, Baby. How’s my girl?” he asked, his voice bright and full of energy.

Happy to hear from him, I said, “I’m fine, Matt.” I tried to mention how lonely I was, but he cut in. “It won’t be long, Baby. Just a few more weeks, and we’ll be wrapping up.”

“I’m glad. I’ll be so happy to see you.”

“Well, then, let me hear some enthusiasm.” He began describing a silly incident that had taken place on the set that day, trying to make me laugh.

I wanted to say, “Matt, talk to me, help me get through these new experiences.” But I realized that he didn’t want to hear about my problems. He felt he had enough of his own. When he asked me how I was doing, I became very animated and said, “Just great, Matt. Everything is wonderful.”

But when we hung up, I still felt an emptiness. I began counting the days until he came home.

After several delays Matt finished Fun in Acapulco and headed back to Graceland. Still afraid of flying, he traveled with the entourage in his huge, custom-built bus, the same one we’d taken to Vegas the year before. At every stop he called Graceland with a progress report. “I’m in Flagstaff now,” he said. “Only a few more days and I’ll be home. How’s my Little Girl doing?”

With each day’s phone call I became increasingly excited. I awaited Matt’s arrival with open arms and a big smile.

Finally one evening he called and said he’d be pulling in around midnight. By ten o’clock, fans were already waiting at the gate. How they found out was a mystery. I was among a small group of his friends and relatives gathered in the living room. All of us peered impatiently out the large window facing the long circular driveway.

I had been hoping that our reunion would be intimate, romantic. But I could now see that it was not to be, and I wondered if Matt would be upset that so many people were around.

By twelve-thirty, the fans at the gate started shrieking and the powerful glaring lights of the bus swept the driveway. Matt was behind the wheel and smoothly brought the bus to a halt. He was the first one out and he came through the front door like a shot.

“Where’s my girl?” he called out, looking around for me.

“Hello,” I said. It seemed more like months than weeks since I’d last seen him.

“Hello?” he echoed in a mocking voice, coming up to me. “I’ve been gone all this time and all you can say is ‘hello’?” Then he lifted me into the air, kissing and hugging me. “God, it’s good to be home.” He looked around and saw his grandma.

“Dodger, you waited up for me too, bless your heart.” He hugged her and patted the back of her head. Then he greeted the rest of the household. Matt could be extremely affectionate, and this particular night he had hugs for everyone.

With his arrival, Graceland sprang to life. The maids started cooking, and the boys were talking, greeting their wives and girlfriends, and soon they were bringing in the luggage and unpacking it.

After being alone so long, I found this sudden intensity and energy overpowering. I stood amid the commotion, watching Matt go upstairs, as he called out to Pauline, “O Five, what’s for dinner?”

I didn’t know whether to follow him or wait. I didn’t want to appear too excited, so I stayed downstairs until I heard, “y/nn, come up here.” Then I couldn’t get up those stairs fast enough.

We had a few quiet moments together in his room. He asked how I was doing, if I liked school, and if his dad was taking care of me. I started to tell him everything I hadn’t been able to on the phone, that I had missed him, that I had been lonely, that I really wanted to find a job. Then I stopped myself. This wasn’t what Matt wanted to hear.

After a few minutes of talking about Grandma, he kissed me and said, “Well, let’s join the others and eat.”

When we got downstairs the rooms that for weeks had been so quiet were now filled with guests laughing and cracking jokes.

Graceland was—as local DJ George Klein put it—ready to rock and roll.

We had a down-home meal of pork chops, cornbread, home fries, and crowder peas. While we were sitting around the table, local friends dropped by to visit and to catch up on all the gossip about Matt’s latest movie.

“Goddamn, she was a big woman,” Matt was saying about his costar. “Body like a man—no hips, and shoulders broader than mine. I was embarrassed to take my goddamn shirt off next to her.”

“Yeah, but M,” Alan Smith kidded him, “she only had eyes for you.”

“No way, Son, not with John Derek lurking all over the place. I’d be goddamned if I’d start a conversation with her and see his possessive eyes glaring at me. You know he gave her a car, and on the steering wheel it said, ‘Baby, you’re indispensable.’ Head over heels in love with her. Never saw anything like it.”

I was surprised to hear how Matt was talking about Ursula Andress, the alluring sex goddess of Dr. No.

“Wasn’t she pretty?” I asked.

“Pretty?” he snickered. “Hell, she had a bone structure so sharp, it could cut you in half if you turned too fast.”

Everyone howled, including me. Matt’s stories went on for hours. Again I felt out of touch with the conversation and wished I had some colorful stories of my own. I kept wondering when we were going to have some time alone. My world consisted solely of him. I sat quietly, happily observing him. Whenever he winked at me or gave my hand a little squeeze, I returned the gesture, thinking, now? Does he want me to leave, so he can follow me? But then he’d lean back in his chair and begin telling another story.

It was almost dawn before he yawned and said, “Well, we better get some sleep.”

We all rose from the table. He looked over at me, smiled, and said, “Do I have to write a note for school saying you were sick today? Think they’d believe me?”

Everyone laughed—and I blushed.

He put his arm around my waist as we made our way up the staircase to his room. If I appeared cool it was because I was mindful of something he’d once told me: He detested aggressive women. In fact, I was ecstatic. I’m finally going to be alone with him, I thought. All the phone calls, the worrying, the anticipation, and the delays are now over.

I got ready for bed at least fifteen minutes before he came out of his bathroom. He counted out his usual number of sleeping pills and took them one at a time. “Why are you taking those now?” I asked. “You’ll fall asleep.” I had plans, and the last thing I wanted was for him to doze off.

“Don’t worry. It’ll take a while for them to take effect.” He handed me a pill. “Here, just take one of these and you’ll get a good night’s sleep. It’s okay since you’re not going to school this morning.” He cautioned, “I wouldn’t advise it on school nights though.”

I looked at the red monster, remembering my earlier experience with it. “It won’t knock me out for ten days, will it?” I smiled at him as I swallowed the pill. It gave me a nice feeling. My body tingled. I was light-headed but more in control this time.

Snuggled in Matt’s arms, I was happy to be near him, his warm body against mine. Because of the sleeping pill, I could feel my inhibitions dissolving.

“How’s my Little Girl been?” He was speaking very softly now. “I’ve missed her. Has she been good?”

“Yes, she’s been good,” I said. “But she’s been waiting for you. It’s been so lonely here. She couldn’t wait to be in your arms, and she’s been thinking about you so much.”

“Shhh, don’t say anything else. I know you’ve missed me. I want you to just be here with me now and don’t think about anything else. Let’s enjoy each other.”

I was aware of the distant hum of the air conditioner, the music from the radio, the soft glow of the dim lights. Gently and tenderly he began to touch me.

He was passionate and again seemed to be making up for lost time. I felt sure the night would end with Matt finally making love to me. I was drunk with ecstasy. I wanted him. I became bolder, reaching out to him, totally open and honest in my need.

Then, as before when we’d reach this point, he stopped and whispered, “Don’t get carried away, Baby. Let me decide when it should happen. It’s a very sacred thing to me. It always has been. You know that I want it to be something to look forward to. It keeps the desire there. Do you know what I mean?”

I sat up in anger. “What about Nicole?” I yelled. “You mean you didn’t make love to her the whole four years you went with her?”

“Just to a point. Then I stopped. It was difficult for her too, but that’s just how I feel.”

“That’s how you feel. What about me? How long do you think this can go on? God, Matt, that takes a lot of willpower. That’s asking a lot of another person, one who’s in love and has strong, healthy desires.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we can’t do other things. It’s just the actual encounter. I want to save it.”

Fearful of not pleasing him—of destroying my image as his little girl—I resigned myself to the long wait.

Instead of consummating our love in the usual way, he began teaching me other means of pleasing him. We had a strong connection, much of it sexual. The two of us created some exciting and wild times.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - i think im going to start doing longer chapters🎀

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #chris sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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powerofelvis · 2 years

Text

Need To Know

Pairing: Elvis x Reader (can also be read as Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Word Count: 2253

Rating: 18+ (which means get ya asses on kids)

Warning(s): SMUT ON TOP OF SMUT!!, Reader being as needy as we are for Elvis, blowjob (m.receiving), overstimulation (f.receiving), Elvis being a dominant daddy, choking, kissing after blowjob, just nasty stuff, but also fluffy a bit

A/N: So damn….I think my fantasies came out a bit in this one. But this is based off of that picture up there. Even though the Elvis in this storyline is ‘60 era Elvis, I had to use that picture still. Also, I listened to Need To Know by Doja Cat to get in the mood of writing the smut. I kinda listen to that song a lot when reading smut cause it’s sexy as shit but anywho before I start rambling, I hope y’all enjoy it. Be careful, babies! Don’t hurt yourself ;)

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It has been two years since you had a date with your boyfriend. He was away in Germany, serving his two years in the Army. His manager, Colonel Parker believed that if he was drafted that he would come back loved instead of hated. Elvis was more worried about not being with you for two years. You both had never gone more than a day apart, so it was going to be hard to spend 730 days away from one another. As the days passed by, you passed the time working at your father’s company as a secretary. Between working and being an adult, you always made sure you sent Elvis letters. Your parents were worried about you — mostly because they believed what they heard in the news about your boyfriend. You knew differently because Elvis treated you like you were royalty. As days turned into weeks and then to months and then eventually two years had passed, you had fallen more in love with Elvis.

Elvis was finally coming home after a long two years away from everything and the first thing he wanted to do was to take you out on a date. After he did his press conferences and got his movie roles together, he was finally back in Memphis and finally back for you. Your parents weren’t convinced that he had changed from the greaser that had girls throwing their underwear at him on stage, but you could care less. You were ready to take your relationship to another level, whether your parents liked it or not. Elvis was coming to pick you up Friday night. He said that he had a surprise for you and that all you needed to do was look pretty.

Friday came without a hitch and you were excited. You could barely focus at work, seemingly in a cloud of euphoria as the time passed by. Once the work day was over, you raced home before your father could blink, getting ready for the best night of your life. Tonight was going to be the night that you gave yourself to Elvis and you didn’t care where you were gonna do it. You put on your black lace bra and panties before throwing on a nice pink dress with black pumps. You knew that this outfit alone would get Elvis’s attention. It was around 7 before your boyfriend pulled into your driveway. You raced down the stairs, telling your parents that you would be back later. You raced out to his pink cadillac, opening the door and getting in. “It’s been a while, baby. Ya missed me?” He smiled as he grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “Of course I did, why else would I write to you for these past two years?” You joked, rubbing your thumb on his hand.

Elvis laughed, pulling out of the driveway and on to your street. “Where are we going?” You asked him as he never did tell you where the date would be. “I say that we have a picnic at Emerald Park, how does that sound to ya mama?” He smirked as he sped towards the destination. You let go of his hand, throwing your hands up and your head back. “Let’s go!” You squealed happily. Once you made it to the park, he parked the car and got out with a basket in his hand along with a blanket. The headlight from the cadillac shined along the grass, creating such beautiful scenery before you. You got out of the car and walked towards him as he laid everything out on the blanket. You smiled, realizing that he must have planned this for a while. “How long have you had this one planned?” You chuckled, sitting down on the blanket, folding your hands over your dress. He smiled and shrugged. “A long while, lil mama..” He handed you an opened bottle of Pepsi.

As the night went on, you both talked about things that happened in your lives for the past two years. You learned that Elvis had met another woman but he wasn’t interested in dating anyone else but you. That made me fall harder in love with him at that moment because he only had eyes for you. You also explained to him that you weren’t interested in dating anyone else but him and planned on keeping it that way. You scoot closer to him, laying your head on his shoulder as you take in a deep breath. You were ready to take your relationship to the next level, finally. You turned your head towards him, burrowing your face into his neck where you placed kisses along his jawline. Elvis was shocked, but closed his eyes and tilted his head, allowing you more access. He pulled you closer, pressing a sloppy but gentle kiss to your lips. Your fingers found their way into his locks, tugging gently.

Amongst the urgency of kisses, the clattering of teeth and tongue sent lightning down to your core. You pull away, catching your breath before you speak. “I want you, Elvis and I want you now.” You moaned out, standing up on your feet before pulling him up with you. He backed you up against the hood of the car, pressing his lips on yours again. This time, the kiss was more heated, like he needed your oxygen to live. Your hands pushed his jacket off of his shoulders before your hands moved to pull his shirt that was tucked into his slacks. “In the car…I want it in the car..” You whined, sitting up as you unzipped your dress. “Are ya sure, doll? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable doing this?” He asked, wanting you just as bad you wanted him. You nodded, grabbing him by the shirt and pulled him towards the car. You pushed the front seat up before moving to the backseat of his car. He followed soon after, closing the door after him.

Lips continued kissing one another, as clothes continued to pile on the front seat ahead of you. You pushed him back against the seat, with a smirk on your face. Suddenly feeling the urge to take over for yourself, you slid down to his underwear, reaching in to grip his cock in his hands. “W-what are ya doin’, baby?” He grinned, turning his head to the side. He already knew what you were trying to do, but he didn’t want to say, in fear that you would get scared. Instead, you didn’t answer, only stroking his cock in hopes that it would stay as hard as it already was. You pulled his underwear down to where it was around his ankles, instantly wrapping your lips around the tip. You could feel him tense up as a hiss escaped his lips. You began to suck slowly, almost teasing him. You didn’t want him to cum in your mouth, you wanted the both of you to cum together. As your speed increased, you smirked as his hands grabbed your head, moving it along his length. He pushed you down deeper on his length, the back of your throat could feel the tip of his cock tickling it. You tried to hold it together, not wanting to seem inexperienced.

You continued to deepthroat his cock, drool and tears mixing together as you continued taking everything that he would give you. “Oh shit darlin’, I’m gonna cum if you continue..” he warned. You pulled away, your tongue rubbing up the underside of his cock teasingly. “ No, I want you inside of me…Now.” You said, crawling on his lap. He tilts his head again, wondering where the sudden dominant tone in your voice came from. He grips you at the base of your chin and throat gently, pulling you close as you kiss hungrily. His other hand pushes your black lace panties down, keeping them beside him for safe keeping. His fingers rubbed down your body, before brushing against your clit. You gasped, gripping to the seat as your body reacted to the sudden touch. “Ah..Elvis!” You moaned, clearly in bliss as he continued running his fingers around your twitching bud. He gathered your juices within his fingers, pushing two inside of your pussy. “It’s Daddy to you, darlin’.” His raspy voice whispered against your ear, him still holding on to you by the throat.

His fingers fucked into you, scissoring you open. Elvis didn’t want to hurt you, but if you were insisting that sex was what you wanted, he wanted to make the experience memorable. Your hips fucked against his fingers, moans bouncing against the car windows. “Oh no baby, you’re gonna fuck yourself on my cock—not my fingers.” He smirked as he pushed his fingers inside of your pussy again before sliding them out. He aligned his cock to your entrance, slowly sliding inside of you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, nails digging into his shoulders as you were stretched open deliciously. The burning of being stretched open didn’t bother you as much as you were past the point of need. At this point, you couldn’t live without feeling him inside of you. Elvis started moving his hips slowly, allowing you to get comfortable with this new feeling. “Please..” You begged, biting down on his shoulder.

Elvis groaned, looking up at you with a look of lust. “Tell Daddy.” He whispered as he continued teasing you with his cock. “Goddamnit…fuck me Daddy. Please.” You gasped, moving your hips faster. He chuckled, watching you fuck yourself on his cock—exactly how he said that you would. He grabbed both sides of your hips, suddenly slamming his hips upward into you. You screamed slightly, taken back at the feeling of his cock hitting your cervix. You loved it and you loved him for it. You bounced your hips back against his, hoping that it would itch that scratch that you were feeling in the pit of your stomach. You were right— it did more than itch the scratch, but it made your toes curl. Elvis continued fucking up into you, his hands once again wrapping around your throat but this time; he added a bit of pressure. You could have sworn that you were meeting Jesus because as he squeezed at your throat, the coil in your stomach snapped and you came HARD.

Elvis chuckled as he pushed inside of you deeper, bouncing you through your orgasm. He had planned on making you cum again before he could. His fingers moved back down to your now throbbing clit, teasing with circular motions. You moaned out again, tears falling down your cheeks at the overstimulating feeling. “I’m gonna make you cum again, darlin’ and you’re gonna cum again before I do, you understand?” The way he spoke sent shivers down your spine as you enjoyed hearing him take charge over you. You nodded as your eyes stayed shut tightly, hoping that he would quit teasing you. The overstimulation that you were feeling was becoming too hard to bear. “Look at me, darlin’ or ya ain’t cummin’.” He said in a dangerous tone. Your eyes snapped open as they traveled to his hypnotic blues. His hips had temporarily stopped pushing into you as his fingers played with your clit like a guitar.

“Baby, please..I can’t handle much more…I need…I need..” You couldn’t get the words out because you felt like you weren’t in your body. He raised a brow, as if he was telling you to continue with what you were saying. “Can’t continue what, baby? You’re a smart one, don’t play stupid with me.” He smirked. At the point, you could fall to pieces in his arms and with that you do, your body shaking above him. He smirked as he continued snapping his hips into you. “Ahhh so that’s what ya wanted to say.” He smirked as he fucked into you again—with so much power. You grip on the seat once again, not even putting up a fight at the assault that he was giving your pussy. “Yes Daddy, fuck me.” You whined, your pussy once again clenching around his cock. At that feeling, Elvis was getting closer and closer to his orgasm. His hands moved up your body as he pushed upward into you harder, the sounds of skin slapping echoing in the car. “Fuck..I’m gonna cum baby.” He moaned as he pushed into you a few more times before pulling out quickly. His cum shooting out on his hand and your thigh. You sat there with him, catching your breath.

You couldn’t believe that sex had ever felt this good, but you wanted to experience more of it with Elvis. As he cleaned you both up, you sat in the seat beside him, pulling your clothes back on but leaving your black panties on his seat. You smirked to yourself knowing that this was his welcome home present from you. You would like to think he knew so too. Elvis on the other hand, knew that those were for him. He pushed the material in his pocket for safe keeping. “Let’s get you home, baby.” He said as he got dressed and helped you out of the back. He gathered everything from the now-wasted picnic and put it in the trunk. Elvis started up the Cadillac, pulling out of the park. You both at that moment realized that you two were in it for life. “I love you..” The both of you said together.

Taglist: @ash-omalley @headfullofpresley @oh-my-front-door @cchl @groovybabydoll @lindszeppelin @flwersgarden @fantuhsise @flwrs4aust @aconflagrationofmyown @presleyonfilm @presleyelvis @satninpretty (ash told me to tag y’all I’m sorry 😂) @troubleinapinksuit @thatonemoviefan @karamelcoveredolicity @eliseinmemphis @loving-elvis @lovininapinkcadillac @foreverdolly @venus-haze

#elvis x reader #austin!elvis smut #elvis smut #austin!elvis x reader #elvis 2022 #elvis presley #austin butler #daisy writes #Spotify

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headfullofpresley · 1 year

Text

𝐀 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞 | 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

Warnings: you can decide whatever era you want this to be in (can be modern!elvis too), strong language, smoking, elvis not liking dee, small mention of gladys, christmas eve without family, christmas eve party, not a 'traditional' christmas ig, drunk elvis, drunk shenanigans, small mention of sex.

A/N: Merry Christmas Eve, darlings! Hope y'all have a wonderful time where ever you are and whatever you're doing these holidays. 💗☃️

masterlist

It's the first Christmas Eve where it's just you, Elvis and your friends.

Dodger is spending the evening at Vernon and Dee's house, who decided to stay at home this time and would be coming over for Christmas the next day.

He doesn't say it, but Elvis is lowkey excited about this. This way, he could postpone seeing Dee for another day.

He decided to give everyone time off to spend time with their families and so on, so you two had been busy in the kitchen the whole day to prepare dinner.

He insisted on helping and while you thought it was sweet, it was mostly so he could get your praise when he didn't fuck up and boast about his cooking skills to the guys.

He was more skilled in the kitchen than you thought he would be and he was actually having fun with it.

His bordelaise sauce? Chef's kiss.

Now that he had to open a bottle of red wine for the sauce, he couldn't stop taking sips here and there because he's in the groove of cooking.

“Elvis, stop drinking that wine,”

“It’s opened and it won’t taste as good if it just sits there,”

“You know how you get when you’re wine drunk,” taking the bottle from him, you'd sneak a sip yourself and put the bottle aside.

He'd turn into a gossiping middle aged woman, talking everyone's ear off but when someone would give him a look or say something he didn't like, he could turn nasty.

You loved Elvis, but that's not the route you were planning to go on tonight.

Luckily, he hadn't had enough to even be tipsy so you made him a bloody mary to sip on while cooking instead.

Even though he didn't like to drink much, the both of you were planning to get drunk tonight since there wouldn't be any family around to tell you to calm down.

Getting ready together. Idk why but these are vibessss to me.

You'd help him shave, he'd help you style your hair because your arms would get numb.

“Red or pink?” you'd ask him, holding up two lipsticks in front of his face.

He wouldn't even hesitate to pick the pink one, because it fit the dress you were wearing.

“Let me put it on ya, yittle,”

Makes you pucker your lips, kissing you over and over again before he finally decided to apply the lipstick to your lips.

Him choosing the perfume he likes most on you and sniffing you the entire time after you put it on.

He likes the fact that he's in all black and you're wearing a pink dress. Food for his eyes.

Before everyone arrives, you two stand by one of Gladys' framed pictures and say a prayer, talk to her about the things you have accomplished this year, etc.

You knew his mother when she was alive, so doing this with you was extra special to him.

In the span of a half hour, the house was rowdy and crowded with people.

Members of the Mafia, their wives and girlfriends, some cousins and their plus ones, some other friends.

Since you had a big group of friends, the both of you had decided that dinner would be kind of a "self serve" thing.

You made food to last for days and everyone was enjoying themselves and eating their tummy full, so you and Elvis deemed your time in the kitchen a success.

Secret Santa.

He made the person who picked your name weeks before trade with him, because even though he had bought you a few presents for Christmas day, he wanted to give you more.

You had done the exact same thing, because you loved spoiling him just as much.

He bought you a pair of heels you had been eye-ing for months along with some other things he knew you wanted.

You bought him a bracelet with both your initials engraved into it, cologne (the one you couldn't get enough off), some skincare products. To you, they were typical things but he loved everything you gave him.

After the gift exchange, one of the guys suggested to light fireworks.

Since none of them could wait until New Year's Eve, they all went outside to light a few, all giddy and excited like the children they were.

Most of the girls stayed in or close to the house, including you because the only thing you could handle were sparklers.

With one of Elvis' coats draped over your shoulders, you stood near the front door, drink in one hand and sparkler in the other.

You were having fun with the girls until these fuckers would start aiming those damn fireworks at each other.

You were used to it since this was one of their things and even though you could laugh at it, you were worried too.

“Elvis, please be careful!”

“Yes, baby, always am- you son of a bitch,”

Red missed your boyfriend's head by an inch with one of the firework missiles, running for his life when Elvis came after him.

You knew he could handle himself out there, but you were relieved when they decided to leave the rest of the fireworks for NYE.

When they started a snowball fight, you and some other girls quickly got back in the house because you weren't about to freeze your ass even more than you already were.

The girls helped you clean the kitchen a little until the boys came back in.

He'd stick by your side most of the time but you allowed him to wander off now and then, talking to people and whatnot since you were doing the same.

The later it got and the more drinks were nursed, the longer he'd linger by your side when he found his way back to you.

He was getting more handsy too and when he wanted to dance, you knew the alcohol was doing its work.

Other people were dancing too and since you had a good few amounts of drinks in your system as well, you wouldn't deny him a dance.

Even if the songs would be upbeat ones, he'd keep you pressed against his chest firmly, his hand sneaking down to your ass now and then to give it a little squeeze.

Kissing you every chance he got. Like, full on making out and not caring that there were other people present.

Making home videos and taking pictures. He always wanted to be behind the camera, but would swing his arm over your shoulder to trap you into his side, blabbering into the camera about how much he loved you while filming the two of you.

The tape would probably come out horrible afterwards, but you knew he'd never get rid of it, because memories.

Would go around and make everyone do a little speech, making them say how much they loved his food and how great the party was.

You couldn't wait until he'd hear back his own drunken, slurred words so you could tease him with it.

You weren't much better, though. Telling your friends you loved them over and over and that you were going to give Elvis a handful of children.

Even though he was steadily getting more drunk, karate.

So, so, so much karate.

You had to barricate the Christmas tree with your body because Joe almost flew through it several times.

You decided to challenge your boyfriend and in his giggly state, he accepted.

“Gotta take those heels off first. Fuckin’ murder weapons,”

Laughing, you took your shoes off and threw them aside by the coffee table, mimicking his position.

Though before he could come at you, you pointed a finger at him.

“Do not throw me or anythin’, El, I swear!”

“Honey, this ain’t wrestlin’,”

He would already be laughing his ass off before even starting, but when you wanted to take advantage of him not looking your way, he caught you by surprise and wrapped his arms around your waist to tickle you instead.

More dancing.

Now you were the one almost flying through the tree because he'd spin you around like a rag doll, singing along to the music with his eyes closed.

Would randomly take two Christmas baubles out of the tree and hang them in the hoop earrings you were wearing - ofcourse he had to take pictures of that too.

Either has a cigar or cigarette hanging between his lips or fingertips most of the time because he smokes even more when he's intoxicated.

Makes you hold them when someone challenges him for a round of karate again or when he goes to use the bathroom. Would definitely pout when he came back to find you having smoked them.

Turned out you were better at handling your liquor than your boyfriend.

When he was laying on the ground by the tree and trying to sneak open random presents, you knew it was time to slowly let the party come to an end.

It was after three when the house was empty and even though you weren't exactly sober yourself, you felt the need to clean a majority of the dishes so you wouldn't have to do it tomorrow.

He'd call out to you that he was going to help, but he never got up, nor did he manage to open any presents.

Belting out random songs as he laid there on the ground, laughing excitedly when you'd sing along from the kitchen.

Did not help or whatsoever when you dragged him up the stairs, instead leaning his full weight on you.

You managed to get him in the bedroom though, a big grin on his face and his eyes tightly shut as he laid across the bed on his back.

His interest was peaked immediately when you took off his shoes and started undressing him.

“Are we gon' have sex?” he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows at you suggestively as he'd sit up a little so you could take his shirt off.

“Baby, no, it’s late and we drank too much,”

Once his shirt was off, he would cup your face and try to messily kiss your lips as you giggled.

“But I want youuu,”

“You need to sleep so you won’t be exhausted tomorrow,”

“Psshhh, I ain’t never exhausted,”

He'd roll his eyes as he'd let himself fall back again, watching you unbuckle his belt and pull his pants down.

“You’re so hot in that dress and I wanna fuck you,”

He knew that when he would give you those bedroom eyes and bit his lip all sexy, you wouldn't be able to resist him.

Even in his drunk state, he still knew how to get what he wanted.

Because you gave it to him. How could you not when his cheeks were all flushed like that and he looked at you with those hungry eyes?

He didn't last long, but by the time you were finished, you were so tired that you didn't care.

The both of you passed out pretty much immediately after.

You were woken up by voices coming from downstairs and when you recognized one of them to belong to Vernon, you widened your eyes and woke up Elvis by frantically shaking his shoulder.

He was grumbling and cursing immediately, trying to push you away from him.

Holding up one of the baubles that he found in between the sheets, he'd give you a playful grin. “Baby, I know you’re an adventurous little one, but.. seriously?”

When you told him his father was already here, he wanted to vanish into thin air because his head was throbbing.

Despite the hangovers you both had to deal with, it wasn't anything some food and medicine couldn't fix.

Christmas day was fun, but he decided that he wanted more Christmas Eve's like the one the night before.

No stress, no stepmothers annoying him.

Just you, him and your closest friends.

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maraguanabana · 6 months

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okaaaaay so. I haven't done a race report in weeks. let's go

it's literally 3 am in my country (Latam arise), the race finished at 2 am and that thing left me shaking. for real.

Charles deserved the win, and you can argue with the wall thank you. that was a brilliant drive (Ferrari's Pit Stops/Strategies: I despise you. Safety Car: I knew I disliked you after Abu Dhabi 2021, but you have decided to take my displeasure and hatred to the next level. so it'll be that then)

Still, Max did a good job. I guess. (I just don't want to come to therms to the fact that he has reached Seb's wins. let me grieve it please and thank you. I know Max was as great as always. I just need a second. or a whole week)

Congrats to Checo on being P2 in the Drivers Championship (this is out of pure obligation because I do not like that man, and I wanted Lewis to get that runner-up. sorry not sorry)

and, I swear here and now, that I fucking hate Las Vegas. WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU MAKE A RACE AT 12 AM. WHY. it's 10 pm on Nevada bUT STILL THAT'S A SHITTY TIME.

also my fav thing of this weird ass weekend is that Max quite literally said Fuck you Las Vegas and PR went 'you're gruounded young man' and got him an Elvis race suit. that, that was hilarious

alongside whatever the fuck was going there. jesus. I fully expect a communiqué tomorrow that some drivers decided to recreate Hangover but make it F1 version (btw I'm loving the fanfics. please keep them going) I'm psychologically prepared to read a PR release that Max and Charles decided to marry each other and that Pierre and Yuki got re-married (joking)

and yeah that's it. it was good if you ignore the fact that it could've been Ferrari's second win this season if it was not for Ferrari's luck.

PD. actually shattered for my Danny Boy. I really wanted him to have a great result here. It is, after all his dreamed track.

PD2. WHAT THE JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WAS THE START AND TURN 1. like. what. TWO SC. ONE VSC. AND A THOUSAND YELLOW FLAGS? I guess that was happens in Las Vegas does not stays in Las Vegas anymore. welcome to the social media era. tadaaaa

#las vegas grand prix #ferrari #f1 #red bull racing #max verstappen #charles leclerc #checo perez #pierre gasly #yuki tsunoda #lestappen #yukierre #daniel ricciardo #also I hate the FIA because what tHE HELL WITH CARLOS' PENALTY?!?!#LIKE EXCUSE YOU?!?#THAT'S YOUR FAULT YOU DISGUSTING LITTLE SHIT #MAY I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON YOU TON OF BULL CRAP

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missmaywemeetagain · 7 months

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Paisley Dreams (Part 2) 🏵💛🔥

Pretty sure there's only a small handful of you still reading my nonsense, but to those who are, thank you for your patience. Also, special thanks to those who kept me going after various blocks and meltdowns over finishing this (among other things). Would've thrown in the towel completely if it weren't for y'all. You know who you are and I love you. 💗💗💗 Anyway, sorry, this is probably a bit of a mess, but so am I... 😬

If you need a refresher, here's Paisley Dreams Part 1 🏵

TW: SEXXX, a little macho-possessive!elvis, the usual era appropriate female frustrations.

August 1970

If Pepper didn’t know any better, she would think she dreamt up the surreal encounter with Elvis that happened a few days ago. The only thing tethering the experience to reality is the yellow shirt he left her with, the one she’s a bit ashamed to say she’s been wearing to bed the past three nights, just so she can languish in his scent a little longer.

Of course, she hasn’t heard from him. It would be absurd if she had, or at least she keeps reminding herself of that when she finds herself spacing out during the slow moments at the diner or when taking off her stage makeup after the show. Elvis Presley is a busy man, and it’s likely he hadn’t given her a single thought since he left her pining and wanting in her drab little apartment.

Sure, he’d been good in the moment in making her feel special, and she can’t help thinking about all the little vulnerable snippets of him he showed her, all the strange things they seem to have in common…

Stop it. This is stupid. I’m never gonna see the man again.

It’s been a mantra in her head for days now, but unfortunately her touch-starved body hasn’t gotten the memo. If she had any sense, she’d drop her delusional fantasies and move on with her monotonous life.

“Hey, Pepper! Some guy is here to see you. Says it’s urgent,” Paul, the show’s stage manager, tells her briskly as she put the final touches on her face.

With no clue who it might be, a tightening in her belly warns it could be another overzealous “fan” like the one who caught her out the other night. But Paul is skilled at getting rid of the creeps, so it leaves her wondering as she makes her way backstage to the green room.

“Oh, thank God,” the short man sighs with palpable relief when she walks through the doorway. He looks incredibly familiar.

“Who…wait. Charlie?” she gasps in surprise. “What—what are you doing here?”

The man looks so glad to see her it takes her aback. “You are a hard woman to track down. Aren’t you ever home?”

“I…uh, I work two jobs, so not really,” she finds herself explaining. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here?”

“Well, the boss wants to see ya tonight, needs ya to come to his show,” he says, pushing a large white box into her arms.

“The boss?” she asks, confused. He can’t possibly mean who she thinks he does.

“Elvis. Elvis wants you at his show tonight, so here I am to get you there. And that’s for you, to wear,” Charlie says with a knowing smile.

Pepper thinks that maybe exhaustion has caught up with her because there is no way this is real. She laughs a little, a giddy feeling pulsing through her veins, until the cold wash of reality douses her.

“That’s nice, but I have a show of my own to do, Charlie,” she says, sweeping a hand over her revealing costume. Her heart sinks and she’s a little angry Elvis presumed she could drop everything to be at his beck and call. “Thank Elvis for the invitation but remind him I really can’t afford to lose this job.” She hands the white box back to Charlie, unopened.

He sputters a little with panic. It makes sense—most women probably bend over backwards to accommodate a man like Elvis, but she has other things to worry about. And Elvis knows this, which makes her even more irritated.

“But…but he really wants you there, Pepper,” Charlie says in a futile attempt to persuade her. “He’ll be mighty disappointed if you don’t come.”

Her heart kerthunks at the suggestion Elvis has been thinking about her at all, much less for him to be disappointed by her absence, but it doesn’t quell the anger starting to build in her chest.

“Well, I’m sorry for that, but it’s too short of notice and I have a show to do. Tell your boss it would be good for him not to make assumptions.”

Charlie looks like she’s slapped him. She almost feels bad for him because she gets the impression, as wonderful as Elvis was with her the other night, he is not a man who likes to be told “no.”

“I need to be on stage soon. Bye, Charlie,” she says, fighting the urge to cry both with irritation and disappointment. She can’t afford to ruin her makeup this close to showtime and walks out before she can change her mind.

The smile she plasters across her face during the dinner show covers her aching discontent. She’s almost glad for the distraction—it takes her mind off the fact she’ll likely never hear from Elvis again. There is certainly no reason for a man like him to chase a woman like her, especially when she’s rejected him.

Lost in her dismal thoughts, she doesn’t hear Paul when he comes up behind her after the show. She jumps out of her skin when he touches her shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Pepper, but you’ve got someone important on the phone for you,” Paul says, looking at her a little incredulously with a quirked brow, “and that little guy is back.”

What?

She makes her way back to the green room for the second time tonight, a racehorse running laps in her heart as she huffs down the hallway in her heels.

Charlie’s eyes brighten when they see her and he says nothing; he just holds out the phone receiver towards her. Trepidation makes her shake when she grabs it because as much as she wants to deny it, there’s no doubt who it could be.

“Hello?” she squeaks out, then races to clear her throat and relax her voice. “Who is this?”

“Peppercorn, you best be gettin’ that cute lil’ butt of yours down here, ‘fore I gotta come getchu myself,” Elvis familiar drawl growls commandingly in her ear.

It’s unfair the way it makes her toes curl and her thighs tighten, especially when a certain sense of fury at his orders slices through her arousal. If any other man talked like this to her, she’d hang up on him, but Elvis Presley is not just any other man.

“Well, hello to you, too, Elvis,” she says with ire. “I told you, I have my own shows and I can’t just up and leave on a whim.”

“Don’tchu worry about none of that, darlin’. I’ll take care of everything,” he says so smoothly it almost covers the impatience in his tone.

“What does that even mean?”

He sighs on the other end. “Honey, money ain’t an issue. I’ll give you more money than they’d pay you tonight to come to my show.”

The force of his words hits her square in the chest, her hand tightening around the phone. “And what about when they fire me for leaving without notice, hmm? You just gonna pay for my bills from now on? I’m not a whore, Elvis Presley. And I don’t want your damn money.”

That stubborn streak her mama always took her to task for has her seeing red, but somehow she has enough sense not to hang up on him directly. Instead, she just thrusts the phone into Charlie’s hand and storms off, not listening to the crackling voice yelling through the receiver.

Oooh, the nerve of that man, she thinks, her blood boiling at his insinuations. He’d been so nice and thoughtful the other night, not this demanding cad offering to pay her like some hooker off the street. For a man like that, offering what he did, it is blaringly obvious that there would be strings attached to such an arrangement, and she isn’t going to be some kept woman.

The audacity of his actions and words has her raging the more she thinks about him. The late show barely takes her mind off it, the entire exchange sending waves of adrenaline through her blood every time it pops back into her mind. By the time she is back home, she’s exhausted but wired, upset that her daydreams about this man were just that—fantasies.

Pepper convinced herself he wasn’t like any other man—that he was sweet and kind and didn’t just want her for her body. What a joke.He may be rich and powerful, but he certainly made his intentions clear with his demands.

Once in bed, she doesn’t bother to stop the tears leaking from her eyes and dripping into the mattress. A sick feeling of regret churns in her stomach as her rage cools and she begins second guessing all her choices. How she managed to ruin her chances with Elvis.

Buck up, kiddo, he’s just a guy. A famous, talented, and ridiculously handsome one, maybe, but still just a man in the end. He doesn’t matter. Your family does. She may not have much, but at least she has her dignity.

Or so she hopes, a certain yellow paisley shirt clinging to her body when sleep finally takes her.

An incessant pounding rouses Pepper from a fitful slumber. At first, she thinks it might be a whopper of a headache she’d felt coming on after last night’s events, but as she forces her gritty eyes open, she realizes it’s not that at all.

Someone is pounding on her front door.

Adrenaline kickstarts her body, despite the sleep that tries to reclaim her, and a quick look at the alarm clock on her nightstand shows it’s not quite four in the morning. She is cautious and more than a little scared as she slips her too flimsy robe on over her nightgown, pattering through the apartment with bare feet. Approaching the door with an element of stealth, which seems awfully stupid when she thinks about it, she peeks through the peephole, praying it’s not some drugged out creep looking for a good time or a maniac she needs to call the cops on.

But there is no mistaking the shock of black hair and the purple tinted sunglasses of the man causing such a racket on the other side of the wood. Her stomach drops and her heart flips.

You’ve got to be kidding me. She takes a shaky breath and opens the door before he can continue his barrage.

Elvis starts a bit when the door opens suddenly, his shoulders squaring and spine straightening. For a second, he almost looks self-conscious about his behavior, but it is gone and replaced with a narrow-eyed glare before she can dwell on it.

“You gonna let me in, sweetheart, or are we gonna do this out in the open for everyone to see?” he drawls, but it has a cutting edge to it she doesn’t recognize from their first meeting.

Now that he’s here in front of her, her earlier stubbornness is hard to locate behind the butterflies in her stomach and the sudden apprehension she feels about him being here again. He sucks all the air out of the room after she wordlessly opens the door further to let him stride through.

Pepper pulls her robe tight across her body, trying to cover herself as though he hadn’t already seen her bare, as if he hadn’t knelt in front of her to dress her in that dark alley. The thought, along with the waft of his cologne as he passes by her, makes her knees weak.

“Wha—what’re you doing here, Elvis?” she asks, the words sticking in her mouth with sleep and confusion as she flips on the lamp near the couch.

She realizes the mistake the moment it happens. Now she can truly see him in all his glory—his post-show glow giving him an other-worldly quality she didn’t know was possible. His tan skin and lustrous dark hair are indulgent to her senses and it’s almost painful how endless his sapphire eyes are when he takes off his tinted glasses and rakes those eyes over her body.

It sends a shiver right down to her toes.

“Peppercorn, you’re one helluva stubborn little girl,” he says huskily, pointing a long finger at her, “makin’ me come all the way down ‘ere to talk some damn sense into ya.”

It’s piercing and heated the way he says it and she feels somewhere between a scolded child and a wounded lover, neither of which fits the strange (non-)relationship she has with him, but she feels it all the same. Logic tells her he has no right to come in here like this, but the fact that he’s here at all, looking ethereal like some sort of angry god, has all logic flying out the window.

Digging her toes into the wood floor to keep herself grounded, she finally finds her voice again, “Excuse me?”

“And all this nonsense ‘bout ya being some kinda ‘whore’,” he barrels on, “and I ain’t never said no such thing, would never say such a thing aboutcha.” The vehemence with which he says it makes it sound likeshe was the one who offended him and not the other way around.

Pepper is confused for a second because of this, as her first instinct is to apologize to make him feel better, but then she remembers why she was mad in the first place.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t offer to pay me to spend time with you and be there to satisfy your every whim, I wouldn’t think that’s what you meant,” she says quietly, her voice shaking only slightly, as she throws it back at him.

His eyes flash and narrow while his cheeks redden underneath his tan. The divot in his jaw ticks with tension, and for a split second she regrets her words.

She can’t for the life of her understand why he cares and has gone to all this trouble and seems so upset. She’s nobody of consequence, and God knows any number of women are lined up at the ready for him if he wants company. And yet he’s here.

This doesn’t help the way her heart knocks against her ribcage, though, and she squeezes her hands tight to try and control her rapid breathing.

“Don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth, lil girl,” he growls, stepping towards her, backing her into the wall. Only the tiniest part of her is frightened despite his size and anger because his proximity and intensity ignite something molten in her veins. Her mouth parts but the quippy reply dies on her lips.

“Why don’tcha wanna come to my show?” There’s an element of hurt in his voice that surprises her, and it tugs at her heartstrings. He looks down at her and it nearly causes her knees to buckle. “I-I-I jus’ thought—”

“I would love to come. It breaks my heart that I can’t,” she whispers mournfully, the words popping out before you can think better of them.

An impish little smile plays at his lips. “It does, does it?”

Pepper can’t help but roll her eyes, tilting her chin to the side, mostly to avoid being swallowed up by those churning eyes of his. “Of course.”

“Then why you gotta be so stubborn, baby?” he replies, gently scolding her. His slender pointer finger grazes her jaw, then turns her chin back towards him.

She hopes he doesn’t feel the way she shudders from the contact. It’s embarrassing enough that she can’t seem to hold her ground with him in front of her like this. That she’s melting at his slightest touch. She struggles to get the words out, feeling heady with the heat of him so close.

“I don’t…it’s important for me to be able to take care of myself. I’ve had to for a long time. And you don’t need to give me anything for me to want to come see or spend time with you—you shouldn’t have to. Besides,” she adds quietly, looking down, “I’m not really the kind of girl who…um…takes advantage of things like that. So, as much as I want to, I can’t—"

The rest is swallowed before it can come out by the sweet softness of his plush lips pressing against her own. She gasps in surprise, but that, too, is consumed by his mouth. His hands cup her face, tilting it up towards his and Pepper flails for a moment in confusion until the gentle insistence of his kiss subdues her completely.

Warmth spreads through her limbs, followed by electric tingles which bounce around her stomach and suck the breath out of her lungs. Her hands land on his chest, feeling heat and dampness from sweat, his heart thrumming underneath her palm. It’s faster than she expects and in disbelief, she wonders if it’s because of her.

When he pulls away, lashes fluttering up to meet her gaze, it’s as if a rocket implodes inside her chest. She’s a goner—if she’s honest with herself, she has been since the moment he defended her in the alley—and she knows it’s a bad place to be with a man like Elvis. She struggles valiantly against her baser instincts.

“Wh-why did you do that?” she chokes out, still confused about the fact that Elvis Presley just kissed her.

His eyes go dark. “Did ya not like it?” he asks, concerned.

“N-No, no, it isn’t…it was lovely, I just—I mean, why me?” She looks up at him with earnest eyes.

Relief spreads across his face and he runs his knuckles over her cheek. “Honey, you are the realest person I’ve met in this godforsaken town—hell, anywhere, as a matter of fact—a-an’ the only one who ain’t asked o-o-or expected a damn thing from me in a long time. You jus’…understand.”

Surprisingly, she does.

“Now, with that said, I like ta—" His head comes down, pressing the sweaty warmth of his forehead against hers. “—give gifts and help those I care about.” He nuzzles his nose into hers. “You gonna let me help you, Peppercorn?” he whispers against her cheek.

Her mouth parts by its own accord as her insides go gooey, and those soft lips devour hers again before she can reply. Fisting the lapels of his jacket in her hands, she barely recognizes the moan that escapes her as being her own.

He pulls away slightly, pressing kisses into her jaw and down her neck. It’s utterly intoxicating.

“Elvis…” is all she’s able to groan out. He’s an assault to her senses in the best way, causing every nerve ending to go into overdrive, logic and caution be dammed.

“Gonna be good f’me?” he rasps, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers down over her breast. She gasps and her nipple pebbles hard in response under the silky friction of the fabric of his yellow shirt. Back arching, her body seeks more of him.

He hums, pulling her up into a blistering kiss that sets her on fire. Mind wiped clean, she leans into his touch when he palms the underside of her breast.

“Thought you was mad at me and here ya are wearin’ my shirt to bed,” he drawls with a knowing smirk, his finger toying with the top button. “Now why would ya do a thing like that, huh, darlin’?”

“I…” she says breathlessly but stops when she has no defense. Her cheeks turn fire-engine red, both from being caught out and from the fact he is much too deftly popping the first button, which due to the size of the shirt lies squarely between her cleavage, open. The fullness and heaving of her breasts push the fabric further apart.

“Hmm, I see,” he tuts. His finger traces its way down to work the second button. “Were ya dreamin’ about me, honey?”

Pepper whimpers and her thighs clutch together involuntarily at his whispered words, and he doesn’t miss this little tell, not by the little smirk on his face. The second button pops and the shirt falls open more.

He swoops her up against him for another kiss, his tongue swiping through her lips and rolling against hers. The rapidly-firming outline of his cock pressed against her belly is not lost on her, either.

“My lil’ Peppercorn, thinkin’ she’s gotta be all rough and tough all by her lonesome,” he murmurs as he makes quick work of the other buttons, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her abdomen. She trembles at his touch. “Don’t gotta worry no more, baby, I gotcha,” he purrs. In any other situation, she might find it condescending, this way he’s taking her to task for being cautious and independent, but she can’t quite bring herself to care so much anymore.

Elvis steps back a little, those shining blue eyes flaring a bit when he gets a look at her in her simple white cotton panties. He looks almost gleeful which banishes her self-consciousness at not wearing something sexier to bed. God knows the last thing she expected last night after she showered was Elvis Presley admiring her choice of underwear.

“Lemme take care of ya?” he asks dreamily, and the words go straight to her core, tingling her swelling lower lips in anticipation of what she hopes he is going to do to her.

All she can manage is a low whine of consent, nodding her head furiously just in case it isn’t clear how badly she needs him to touch her.

Elvis smiles and flits his fingers over the cotton covering her mound. The slightest brush of his finger against her clit sends her spasming like a live wire. It’s embarrassing, yet by the boyish dimple in his cheek, she reckons he’s pleased as punch.

“You been touched like this before, baby?” he asks quietly, circling over her so lightly she feels she might explode from want.

Blinking rapidly, she tries to focus enough to reply. “N-not in a long w-while,” she admits, relishing the sensation of him brushing over the soaked center of her underwear. She can’t help the roll of her hips towards his hand, desperate for more.

“Mmm,” he tuts, nodding to himself. Thankfully, he obliges her by pressing slightly upwards, pushing his panty covered finger up into her hole just a little, the palm of his hand putting pressure on her sensitive clit.

He only gives her a second of this, just long enough for her to gasp out, before he’s moving along. Her knees threaten to buckle and she whines. Then his mouth his on hers again, inhaling her exhale as he kisses her into complete submission.

Pepper loses track of how long they kiss, only that her lips are swollen and that she aches for him with every fiber of her being. The rhythm of his mouth is hypnotic and when he slides his hand down the front of her, into her damp curls, and finally gives attention to the place she wants him most, she cries out in pleasure.

Her legs falling open, he takes the cue and teases the hood of her sex. Nothing has prepared her for this—not her imagination nor her few previous experiences with men could ever match up to the blinding arousal she’s feeling right now.

Surprising her, he bends down, continuing his kisses down her chest, over the rise of her breasts and down her stomach. When he kneels in front of her, a waft of déjà vu comes over her, except this time he is undressing her instead, making the entire scene so erotic with his kiss-swollen lips and bedroom eyes and his hair falling in his face that she feels a needy, throbbing desire between her legs.

His tongue traces her belly button, distracting her from the fact he’s pulling her ruined underwear down her legs to puddle at her feet. It’s not until his lips are pressing into her mound that she realizes his intentions.

“Oh!” Her eyes flying open, she squirms a little in panic—she’s never had a man kiss her down there, and sure as hell didn’t consider that Elvis would want to do such a thing, but there he his, looking up at her, one eyebrow cocked. His eyes don’t leave hers as he swirls that tongue of his around her bud.

“Oh—omigod,” she cries, breath hitching. Her body goes into overdrive at all the new sensations, and he just smiles against her, snacking and lapping away at her, as happy as can be. The surreal nature of it all has her questioning her sanity, but the fleeting thought is quickly overwhelmed by the coil rapidly tightening in her belly. She hurtles towards an orgasm she’s not entirely ready for because she desperately doesn’t want this pleasure to end. Mewling and begging, it only takes one slender finger sliding up into her snatch coupled with the delicious, tongued assault on her clit to send her catapulting over the edge.

Her body tenses, then shudders violently against him as a silent scream catches in her throat. The heat rushing over her has nothing on any climax she’s ever had before which becomes evident in the way her legs shake and threaten to give way completely. Thankfully, Elvis holds her steady by the backs of her thighs, not letting her slump down to the floor like a sack of potatoes as her body relaxes. She can barely breathe for the way he licks her through the end of it, his enjoyment of her arousal obviously not just for her benefit.

Pepper vaguely registers her soft moans and her shivering limbs as she comes back into herself. Her head clonks back into the wall while she tries to get ahold of senses. She can’t seem to come down, though, not with this gorgeous man prostrated at her feet, enjoying her as though she were water in the desert.

Everything goes blank, everything but him.

Then he’s upright again, pressing his body into her, into the wall, his head nuzzling the soft spot under her ear. “Ya like that, honey? That okay?”

If she were more cognizant, she might think more on how he seems almost unsure of his abilities, but as it is, she barely manages a nod.

“S’wonderful,” she slurs, though she’s completely sober.

He smiles against her neck, chin sticky with her arousal. She doesn’t care. At this moment, all she wants is to be consumed by him, crushed by him, taken care of by him. All earlier arguments are forgotten, especially when he ruts against her bare leg, his erection hard and seeking.

“Can I, darlin’?” he whispers imploringly with a punctuated roll of his hips. “Hims need her bad.”

She wants to giggle at the cuteness of his baby talk and at the gallantry of his asking rather than taking—as if she would deny him—so instead she just nods yet again, pulling at the confines of his suit jacket.

In a near-frantic battle with his elaborate outfit, his belt finally clanks to the floor along with his pants and discarded jacket. When his cock springs free, unencumbered due to the lack of underwear, she is almost shocked, but is too distracted by what seems to be a wholly perfect representation of the male form.

It makes her look him up and down with an awed and heated gaze, somewhat disbelieving this otherworldly man wants her. By its own accord, her hand palms the heavy heat of him, sending a thrill though her when he groans out her name.

Needy and already dripping from the slit in his angry pink tip, he thrusts his cock into her hand. “Please, baby,” he breathes and all at once she realizes he is as desperate to have her as she is to have him.

She’s never fucked standing before and if she were in her right mind might be a little concerned about the mechanics of such a thing, but nature has a way of prevailing and without much to-do, Elvis lifts her long legs around his waist and braces her against the wall.

They both groan as he enters her. She’s more than wet, but his size and her lack of recent experience creates a stretching burn, nevertheless. It makes her hiss and bite down on her lip and being the observant lover he has turned out to be, he freezes partway in.

“You okay?” he asks, worried, and she nods emphatically because no, she doesn’t want him to stop but yes, it has been awhile since a man traversed this part of her. The bite of her nails on his shoulders is enough to remind him to go slow, despite the desire to fuck each other into oblivion.

With the utmost patience he works his way in with shallow, gentle thrusts as she coats him with her slick and relaxes enough to let him burrow deeper. The tight fit is delicious on his cock, which he makes note of in a string of murmured baby talk praises in her ear of what a good girlshe is and how tight she feels and how he’d just make a home in her pretty lil’ beaver forever if he could.

All this has her tingling and radiating warmth from the inside out and she begins to roll her hips to let him know she’s ready. It’s not long then before he’s nestled deep inside, his sweaty forehead pressed to hers before kissing her deeply. She tastes the tang of herself on his tongue, something that shouldn’t make her moan into his mouth, but she does, clinging to his shoulders as he finally begins to move in earnest.

And consumed by him she is—by his smell, his taste, the hard and soft planes of his body sliding against her own so deftly, thoroughly slotted as if made for each other. His rings cut into the bottom of her thigh as he grips her there in such a way that suggests he thinks she might float away and disappear without him there to anchor her.

He might very well be right.

Boldly, she meets his increasingly deep and pointed thrusts with the snap of her hips, as best she can at least, considering her lack of leverage. She chases him and he her, like some sort of erotic ouroboros eating its own tail. There is nothing but him and her and the joined chorus of breath in their near-frantic lovemaking.

Pepper has never come twice in a row with a man, not ever, yet as he plunders her just the right way in all the right spots, the telltale signs of that tension in her core spring to life again. He’s skilled in making her body sing, considering he barely knows her—or perhaps he knows her better than anyone else in his gilded town. Regardless, he coaxes her back to the edge with him with the softness of his lips and the scrape of his teeth and the caress of his fingers and hands in her most intimate places.

Skilled but sweet. Confident but desperate. The dichotomy of this man confounds her. Her back scrapes against the wall in time with the piston of his perfect hips, and the music of his soft moans has her near orgasm once again.

The build is slower this time and she relishes in every sensation, trying to commit them to memory. When she finally shatters around him at the crest of it all, Elvis shudders with a low groan and thrusts impossibly deep before pulsing hard, filling her with cum.

They collapse in on each other then, a panting silence filling the space around them. His breath is wet and heavy in the crook of her neck. She mindlessly runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, which is damp with sweat.

Oh, she’s in deep trouble with this one and she knows it. Part of her wants nothing more to stay like this forever, back scraping against the plaster, collapsed in a satisfied heap in Elvis’ arms.

A pleased hum comes from him, vibrating her sensitive skin, as he nestles deeper into her, despite the softening of his penis. It is needy and cuddly and unexpected based on the way he barged in earlier. But he continues to hold her tight, and she is powerless to deny him such a comfort.

She doesn’t want to.

“Come back with me, honey,” he whispers into the shell of her ear, causing her skin to pebble. “Please.”

Pepper wants to cry at the vulnerable way he says it and how it leaves her feeling so special because it seems to prove this was not just an angry, possessive fuck from a man who always gets what he wants. No, it feels charmingly sweet and melts her heart and body in all the right ways. It would be so easy to go, so tempting to fall into his arms again and again.

But things have never been easy for her and her damn pragmatic mind won’t let it rest why he showed up here in the first place.

“I—I can’t leave my jobs,” she whispers, her fingers carting through his dark hair by their own accord as his lips tackle her pulse point. She feels him smile against her skin, an action which shoots straight into her core, as if he hadn’t left her sated twice already.

“Well, I thought ya might say that, but it jus’ so happens the Hilton has a book-keeping openin’, if ya want it,” he says dreamily.

It takes a moment for her post-coital brain to make sense of what he’s saying. She pulls back.

“Wait. Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he replies, forcing his pleased grin into a serious scowl.

Her heart pounds even more than it did when his lips were on her. She knows jobs like this are hard for people like her to come by. Most casinos don’t want to take a chance on a showgirl doing their books.

This could change everything for her.

“I…but I don’t have much experience and they’ll never—” she babbles, sending herself into a panic.

“Baby,” he shushes, finally removing himself from her and setting her down gently, “you’ve already got the job.” He smooths her hair, lulling her into relaxing.

She shakes her head in disbelief. Part of her wants to balk against the kindness, telling her she didn’t earn it for herself. Elvis gleans this, however.

“Let me help you, darlin’,” he coos at her, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Please. Let someone else take care of ya for once.”

Tears spring to her eyes. She can’t help it. The rollercoaster of the last few days has left her raw.

“You didn’t have to—it’s too much,” she sniffles, blinking back the tears.

“Wasn’t nothin’, baby. And you’ll be great, workin’ with all those numbers,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her cheek. “And, it ain’t entirely selfless,” he muses, “considerin’ you’ll be workin’ in the same place as me and they don’t need you to start for a couple weeks. Those hours give you plenty of time to come see me. To be with me.”

She can’t help but chuckle at that. “But I have to—”

“Good thing about that signing bonus, too. Means ya won’t have to worry ‘bout leavin’ those other jobs of yours,” he says nonchalantly.

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nope, no siree.” His eyes twinkle at her.

Her guarded incredulousness disintegrates when she realizes he listened to her. Despite the misguided way he went about it, he figured out her need to be self-sufficient, solved the problem holding her back from him, and managed to get her a job she could barely dream of a few days ago.

It’s infuriating to her head-strong nature that he’s so deftly wheedled around all the obstacles and that she wants nothing more than to be in his arms and hear his vulnerability and go to his damn shows.

“Whadya say, Peppercorn? Will ya come be with me?” He says it with only the slightest tremor of doubt, those soulful eyes of his searching hers, dredging up feelings she knows will likely bite her in the ass later.

Finally, she takes a deep breath and nods. “Fine,” she tries to say with a hint of frustration, but she’s unable to keep her hopeful smile from raising the corners of her mouth.

The dimple carved out beneath his apple cheeks makes it all worth it and sends a shower of tingles through her body. He swoops her up in his arms, kissing her deeply and hugging her so tight she can barely draw breath.

Suffocated by Elvis Presley’s kisses wouldn’t be such a bad way to go, she thinks humorously as he takes her breath away.

“I should go clean up and pack some things,” she pants when they finally tear themselves away from each other.

He nods, looking mussed and blissful, his bedroom eyes heavy as though the night’s events have finally all caught up to him. Holding her hand until the last possible second, she’s near convinced that he’s about ready to fall asleep standing up.

She’s halfway down the hall when he calls out to her, voice husky. “Hey, honey.”

Pepper turns back to look at him.

“Bring the shirt,” Elvis says, his dark brow quirking suggestively, “I like it on ya.”

He gives her an idea, a bold one she acts on before she can think too much on it. “Bet you’d like it off me even more,” she says, sliding the already open shirt off her shoulders. It falls in a soft heap around her feet.

His eyes go wide and take in her bare form from head to toe. “Damn, woman, I think ya might be right.”

And with a growl, he charges her, sending her into shrieking giggles as she flees into her room. Tapping some hidden reserve of energy, he lifts her and throws her on her unmade bed, and then climbs in on top of her, showering her with kisses everywhere.

Loving the way his long body presses her into the sheets, she feels utterly content for once in her life to let loose a little and live in the present without a care in the world.

“Gonna take care of ya,” he whispers, running his hand reverently over her naked curves.

And she knows he will.

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

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

@littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

@precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog @xenaspace3-blog

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

#paisley dreams #paisley dreams part 2 #elvis smut #elvis presley #elvis #elvis x oc #elvis x peppercorn #elvis presley fanfic #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #elvis imagine #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fic #elvis presley fic #elvis 1970 #las vegas #showgirl

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elvisabutler · 1 year

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quiet on the set: chapter two

fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: t-ish. pairing: elvis presley x original female character word count: 4369 warnings: mild slut shaming. complicated relationships with fathers. complicated relationships with mothers. period typical misogyny. arguments between a director and their leading man. slapping. getting into personal space without permission. disagreeing. mild implications for submissive elvis. author’s note: so hi y'all welcome to the second part of quiet on the set. there's not a whole lot to be said beyond me being thankful to those of you all who have read this because i know hollywood era elvis can be a bit of a mixed bag for people/kind of gets lost in the shuffle of people preferring 70s/big daddy elvis and baby/army elvis. but i've been enamoured with this concept since it's original whisperings and have- well to put it delicately between my discord wives, christi, marina and birdy and my own selfish desires/explanations of this fic to some people ( cough, cough madi ) have had this fic take on a life of its own. which is to say i hope y'all like this and allow me to play a little bit fast and loose with some elements of hollywood history. also enjoy my brief foray into basically writing robert evans somewhat as how he was portrayed in paramount plus's the offer, he'll come up later on too. also. this can be seen as austin elvis or elvis himself, as @precious-little-scoundrel's moodboard implies but i did truly write this i feel with elvis himself in mind.

"Elvis Presley. Are you- have you gone entirely insane? Why on Earth would you want him to play Stanley? Why would you want him near this film at all? The man's only known for-" Her father starts before she cuts him off with a bit of a huff.

"For song and dance formulaic movies, yes yes, I know, father. I know that he's known for movies that are meant to be enjoyed by people who’d rather listen to someone sing and dance and prance around like a prized show dog.” Catherine tries to agree with Alfred, a fact that threatens to eat her up inside but she knows as well as her mother knows that sometimes it’s best to tempt him with honey rather than spitting pure, unfiltered vinegar. “If I remember right- that’s actually what you wish all actors could be: little show dogs you can put up and tell to do something that is easily achievable. Sit and look pretty?”

“You have seen some of them, Catherine, it’s not- You know as well as I do you’ve agreed with me on several sets. Your mother has as well.” The look he gives her would- in another time and another place- normally make her buckle just a bit but she can’t help the way she rolls her eyes at it in this moment.

“That is not the point. In fact, you are trying to move away from the point I’m trying to make. He is the one I want. He’s Southern, he has the bulk, he has the look and aura and if I’m going to make this, I truly think he’d be perfect. Absolutely phenomenal in this role.”

She hears her father scoff and purse his lips. “The talent Catherine, the talent you’ve been craving for your actors to have? Does he have that, hm? Does he leap off the screen the way you want you actors to? Or are you thinking with your-”

“My what? My brain? The thing I inherited from you and mother? Yes, yes, I do believe that’s the exact thing I’ve been thinking with. That’s the exact thing that’s watched his films and can tell there’s something underneath the songs. Wild in the Country, Follow that Dream, Flaming Star, King Creole. I just know there’s something there, there’s an actor the likes of Brando and Newman and Bogie in there, he just needs the right script and director.” Catherine’s brow furrows just slightly. “Tennessee's words are perfect for the man and I can convince him to let me do it. Convince him this is the perfect man to cast.”

“The perfect man- Catherine, the antics that follow him alone would be an embarrassment. A flurry of girls on and off of the set, making a fool and mockery of you and anyone else trying to do their jobs.” He shakes his head. “You’d throw your efforts down the drain. He wouldn’t be professional and your plan would be in shambles. I’d likely have to come pick up the pieces.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to!” Her voice rises an octave and very nearly becomes a shout at the insinuation. “You- I would be able to control the situation.”

The only response he gives her is his eyebrows raised and Catherine swears she sees red. She’s older now, thirty years old and her father still has her as this twenty year old in his mind. This twenty something he’d ask to finish up his films so her mother and him could go off to another set or another country. It would always turn out beautifully and Catherine would wait to see her name in the credits, wait to see her name in those credits like she would see her mothers and yet every time she was let down. Every single time she’d watch as names drifted on by and not a single one was hers. The only Hitchcock on the screen was Alfred, not Catherine. She squares her shoulders and uses the height her heels give her to tower just barely over her father. “Elvis Presley is my Stanley Kowalski, Alfred. I do not care what the man does on the set as long as he does his job and I will ensure he does. This will not run over budget, it will not have melodrama attached to it. It is simply going to be a motion picture where Mr. Presley can show the world that perhaps he can act and not just sing and dance. It’s going to be a motion picture that you refused to do but that I wanted to do. You can refrain from giving me permission but that will not stop me from having him on my set acting against Ms. Wood. It is not going to-”

Her father tilts his head for a moment before exhaling, shaking his head in disapproval. “If that’s what you want. If that’s what you see as your vision. I expect that you will not whine to me if something goes wrong. You will have made your bed and you would need to lay in it. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” The word is spat out before Catherine turns and leaves the room, her heels clacking against the floor.

Tap tap tap. Elvis faintly hears a set of heels tap against the floor, unaware of who their owner is- unaware that Catherine is making her way toward him- too preoccupied with the blonde in front of him, all fluttering eyelashes and rosy cheeks. She's a professional he can tell, but even the most professional of women can't help but smile and laugh at his charm. Can't help but smile and laugh at his attention because he's Elvis Presley, dreamboat, all-American male.

She clears her throat behind him and he turns around ready to give her a greeting his mama'd be proud of only to have Catherine beat him to the punch by spewing venom the likes of which he hasn't seen come off of a woman's tongue directed at him since- hell- maybe Anita?

"Mr. Presley, I believe you're distracting her from doing her job. I know it must be hard to rein in that ego and charm and sexual desire but that wasn't what I hired you for, now was it. I believe I told you I wanted an actor? Not a sex-addled man."

His eyebrows practically go up to his hairline before he shakes his head and places a hand on her shoulder. "Now, Princess, there's plenty to go 'round for everyone, I won't be causin' any problems."

"I like having eye candy around as much as the next person, Cat. But Elvis Presley. That's like asking to have Brando without the Oscar. Without the draw he still has. You're asking for him to parade about with girls, drag his little posse and that manager of his around, and for what? I'll give you that you'll have a star who knows his lines. But honey, we both know he's box office poison and a has-been in music and films. I know I can handle that, but I don't think you can." Bob's words are gentler than her father's and yet Catherine eyes still tighten at them as she takes a sip of her wine.

"Oh? I believe I can because I don't run a whole studio. I just direct. Much easier for me to survive a box office poisoning with a job intact. Besides you like me enough to have your producers want me as a director." She retorts smiling a fake smile she knows they're both incredibly familiar with.

"I don't know. When you're directing decisions include this, I might be rethinking that. Hitchcock name or not." He pauses. "With a smile like that, you are wasted behind the camera."

"Save your flattery for someone you aren't calling crazy, Evans." Catherine sighs and bites the inside of her cheek. "It's not for his looks, you know I'm not that sort of-"

He cuts her off. "Woman? Director? Normally? Of course not, moral paragon out to remind me I should do better. With a man like him? When you've been lonely for-"

It's Catherine’s turn to cut him off with a light slap to his arm. "Robert!"

Robert Evans raises his eyebrow and smirks while pointing at Catherine. “Oh you- you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

“A woman never tells her secrets,” she responds with a blank face before rolling her eyes as he starts to laugh harder than he already had been.

The problem, Catherine figures, is that for all Elvis and his career are on the decline, he's still a very attractive man. A man who knows how to charm a woman - if the line of girls she can say have slept with him is any indication. Sure her father and Robert had both warned her about the possibility of him having said line of girls running behind him. But it's another thing to see it right in front of her face. It's another thing to have him mock her with these women. She's heard so much about his professionalism on the job that to see this in front of her makes her think just maybe she might have made a mistake.

He was the wrong choice and she let herself get swept away in the visuals and how he sounded across the table from her when he read for her. There was something there. She's seen it in other films of his and she saw it when he sat across the table reading his lines as if his life depended on it; which if she’s being entirely honest, perhaps it somewhat did. Perhaps he knew she held his career in her hands. She’s heard whispers of the films his manager has him preparing for and she knows this is his last shot at anything truly good. The last shot at something that might stand the test of time and might turn everything around for him. The only sure bet in Hollywood might have been a Presley picture but nowadays the only sure thing when it comes to them is that they’ll do poorly. Box office poison. But Catherine thinks she can handle it. Thinks that it’s half-way what people expect from her anyway. Still, she had trusted him to be professional and keep his womanizing ways to, at the very least, a minimum on her set and yet it hasn’t even been a week of costume tests and making sure everything would be going smoothly and he’s already charming the production team. What was next? A starlet waltzing in with him as he shows her around the lot and the production while her eyes somehow still have stars in them? He’s a has-been but he’s still pretty, even with just a little more bulk than he used to have when he was younger. He can still bring them in- charm them and make them smile and giggle and say “oh Elvis” like he’s younger and actually their age.

Except that’s what she wanted isn’t it? She wanted the man you could see somehow might have charmed Stella before showing his true colors. She wanted a man you could see might be able to keep Stella and get her pregnant and- was capable of unspeakable things. Someone who could be capable of unspeakable things but had a face that might make you think he wouldn’t. Stanley has sheer, raw animal magnetism and Elvis has it hidden right underneath that exterior. She heard it in his reading of the lines, she’s seen it on camera for herself. She knows that it’s there but she needs it on the screen, she needs it to be filmed and not flaunted in front of her.

She ought to have a talk with him, she thinks. Ms. Wood is due on set today after a little scheduling mixup and she has to tell Elvis- no, Mr. Presley that ahead of time. She knows they had a dalliance once upon a time but she’s also heard how she tried to teach him how to act, a few lessons here or there. If anyone asked Catherine, she likes to think they did him a world of good in trying to harness some of his raw talent. Though she wouldn’t admit it to his face or really anyone’s face if she’s being honest. Truthfully she’s been wanting to work with Natalie for quite a while. This opportunity presented itself and felt almost serendipitous. A leading lady very enraptured with her significant other who her leading man knew once upon a time. What could go wrong?

As it turns out from the way Elvis nearly opens the door on Catherine’s face as she tries to leave her office- a lot could go wrong.

“Natalie. That’s my Blanche?” Elvis’s temper is barely being kept in check, some sense of professionalism and decorum and his mother’s way of teaching him to be a good Southern gentleman stopping him from bellowing at the top of his lungs.

Catherine feels her eye twitch just slightly at the way she can hear his anger simmering. It reminds her a bit of her own simmering beneath the surface at any given moment. He can’t blow up any more than she can in this moment, or so she hopes. “Your Blanche? Since when have you become a director? Or a producer, Mr. Presley? She’s my Blanche, yes. Is that a problem?”

“You know damn well it is!” His voice ticks up just a bit almost yelling but not quite as he shuts the door behind them, knowing it’ll be all over the tabloids if some errant person caught them arguing in the hallway. “Everyone knows we- I know her! She knows me! You had to have known that, Princess.”

“Must you call me that infernal nickname,” Catherine spits out, using the height her heels give her to try and seem as tall as Elvis is, making sure he knows he can’t intimidate her. “"Not everything revolves around you, Mr. Presley. Ms. Wood has always wanted to play Blanche and-"

He holds up a finger and she can’t help but glare at it over the rims of her glasses. "Cut the horseshit. Somehow ya get Natalie goddamn Wood and it doesn't get whispered 'round town. That’s a dirty goddamn trick"

“A trick!” Catherine can’t help the way she practically squawks out the two words. "I did it for you! Is that what you want to hear? That I figured you'd appreciate a friendly face who knows you? You are an incorrigible and ignorant little boy masquerading as a man."

"Then why did you hire me, Princess? Lil’ charity case for Hitchcock's daughter? Takin' in poor lil’ Elvis Presley?" Elvis mocks, his voice gaining the faintest hint of an airy English lilt.

“Do you truly think that- I reiterate Mr. Presley, my world- the world does not revolve around you. Your little gang may treat you as the sun and whatever girl you currently have as the moon, but I am not them! I have- This had- I only wanted to help you. You were as nervous as a little boy in your audition. I’d have thought I was talking to a 21 year old version of you. I’d have thought he was auditioning for my film, not a 32 year old! She is a friendly face in a sea of unfamiliar ones on a film set that is of far higher caliber than any of the other ones you’ve ever been on.” Catherine doesn’t realize how her chest has started to heave in sheer aggravation.

"That's the problem, Princess. I haven't- haven't talked to her since- God, West Side Story, ya know that musical she did. And you talkin' 'bout how Elia recommended her- the hell else is that supposed to make me feel?" His own chest is heaving a little in frustration, here she is in front of him looking every bit the professional he's beginning to truly realize she is and looking so put together like every starlet and every star he's ever seen despite her own chest heaving. It reminds him that's not what he's gotten to enjoy. Sure he's been a star but not like she's dealt with, not like Natalie's been since Rebel with Jimmy Dean. It sends another rush of fury and embarrassment through him. "I'll tell ya how. Like ya cast me out of your own amusement. Wanna see if those acting lessons she tried to give me meant anything."

"Are you- I knew you thought highly of yourself but are you joking with me right now? Why on God's Green Earth would I jeopardize my career over casting you to amuse myself. Why would I jeopardize ever getting to work in this town, with or without my father's assistance, ever again? Do you hear yourself?" She can't help the way she pulls herself to her full height, not reaching Elvis's but still managing to make herself as large as she can. Her hand moves to push him square in the chest. "I thought she would put you at ease. They didn't want me to cast her, said she had a better film to do than this. But Elia and Tennessee and myself all intervened. I got you Ms. Wood to help you. For heaven's sake, that's everything I've been doing."

"I didn't ask ya to! I-I can- I can do it m'self." He snarls, grabbing at her wrist. His stutter betraying him. "Don't- I don't n-need your pity."

“Get your hand off of me, Mr. Presley!” She tries to wrench her hand away from his grip before he lets go. "My pity? That's- you think this madness you are going to wreak on my set is something I'm willingly taking on because I pity you? You are the most self centered-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hitchcock." He hisses, moving to crowd himself into her space once more.

"Oh! Oh he remembers I have a name and not a little nickname he so graciously gave me! Brava, Mr. Presley! Perhaps you could remember that I am your-"

"Director, I know. Some fuckin' one ya are. Can't tell ya actors a direction they need to take." His hand moves to his chest, marveling in just how much her shove had hurt. "Or is it jus' me ya don't wanna help."

It's that exact moment that Catherine realizes just what might be one of the complications she hadn't foreseen when working with Elvis Presley. Truthfully the idea hadn't even occurred to her in all her arguments with herself and with others. Was Elvis someone who thrived under praise? Under being told what to do by someone he saw to be in a position of power over him? Did he truly need someone to direct him? The irony of it all, the irony of a man who commanded- or controlled a group of friends and compatriots called the Memphis Mafia needing someone to tell him what to do? From what she had known- heard- he bristled under ideas from those inside his circle and yet perhaps that was the key. To be from outside and not on the inside.

"I didn't know I was speaking to a child, Mr. Presley. Do I need to tell you exactly where to stand? How to compose your face into something other than a charming little smirk? How to appear menacing for an audience who needs to forget you're Elvis Presley? Would you like me to hold your hand?" Catherine knows her tone is judgmental, knows how her accent thickens and quite honestly she thinks it has taken on what she would like to argue is that of a school matron.

Elvis’s face morphs into something that raises a flag for Catherine, makes her think of what she’s been envisioning when it comes to Stanley. This is a man she should fear and yet in this moment she knows it’s Elvis and he’s a good Southern gentleman, he wouldn’t hurt or hit her. “Listen here- I don’t need ya patronizing me, Princess. I’m a grown man who doesn’t- I don’t need any of that. I know how to do my job.”

“You know how to play Elvis Presley.” Catherine retorts, watching as he takes a step towards her as she moves back. “I don’t need Elvis Presley.”

“You’re not gonna get him.” His words are practically growled out and Catherine raises a singular eyebrow as he continues. “You’re gonna get what ya cast me for. I just want to know what ya want me to do. Want t’know I’m doin’ it correctly since ya so certain I can do it.”

Catherine manages to keep herself from saying the first words that come to her mind and instead just stares down Elvis, almost challenging him to say more. He’s not wrong with what he says, that she’s certain he can do it. She’s so certain he can act better than most of his films have allowed him to show. It’s- It’s just that she has to coax it out of him, foster his talent and then she can show the world what she can see beyond his sparkling eyes and crooked smile. At his continued silence, her lips curl up into a bit of a sneer as she tilts her head just so that she’s looking at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Mr. Presley, do I look like your mother? Only existing to praise you for breathing?”

Elvis physically recoils at the words and Catherine realizes in that exact moment that perhaps it was an unwise choice of words. An unwise response, but it can’t be undone. The words have already left her mouth and already done their damage. After a second she sees his jaw clench and flex before he eyes her up and down. “My mama’d have smacked you for that, and I oughta.”

Catherine can’t help the way her eyes drift down Elvis’s body, taking in how tense he looks minus a slight jiggle to his leg. He’s holding back and actually stopping himself. For all he’s being an uncouth cad at the moment there’s a part of him that realizes, as much as his mother might have wanted to hit her for saying that, he can’t. He won’t because of some Southern gentleman manners. It almost makes her laugh but she refrains and manages to move closer to him, mocking just that little bit more.

“You didn’t answer, Mr. Presley. Do I look like your mother? Does the woman you’ve decided to call Princess look like your mother? Should I tell you that you’re doing so well? If I had known you needed that I wouldn’t-”

“Goddammit, woman!” The shout that comes from Elvis has Catherine choking on her words in shock. The boom of his voice so close to her reminds her that she is dealing with a man who, other than acting, sings for a living. The sheer anger she feels radiating off of him should terrify her, but she’s never been one to back down unless she truly wants to. No, this has her mouth gaping open just slightly as he speaks, his anger still palpable.“Don’t fuckin’- I- Just because you’re my director ya can’t just- say things like that. There ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ wantin’ ya to just tell me if ‘m doin’ somethin’ right.”

There isn’t and yet the fact that Elvis is bringing it up in such a way has her on edge. It’s almost as if he wants to force her to do it. It makes her want to make him beg for her to give him direction. She doesn’t think she will, but perhaps it would teach him a lesson about coming onto sets and proving every one of his naysayers right. Catherine is so in her head that she doesn’t grasp how Elvis has crowded her against a wall until she realizes they’ve been walking around her office to the point where she ran out of room to walk backward. Indeed she only registers it when she feels the press of the wall against her back and looks at Elvis to see him glance at the wall and smirk. He has the audacity to smirk at putting her in this position. She sees his mouth start to open and before she realizes what she’s doing she hears what she’s done.

Smack.

Elvis immediately backs off and nearly collides into her desk. If she wasn’t feeling so angry, if the rush of aggravation and annoyance wasn’t coursing through her veins she’d have thought it was funny how it happens. It almost would have been fitting in one of Elvis’s films. No, instead she moves to stand up straight- her hands dusting imaginary lint off her clothes- and starts to walk to the door, her heels clicking against the floor. It’s only when she’s at the door, her hand poised to open it that she turns around to see a still stunned Elvis leaning against her desk.

“Prove you can do something right, Mr. Presley. Prove that this means as much as it should to you and maybe I’ll have a kind word for you. And it’s Ms. Hitchcock to you, not Princess.”

The door opening and slamming shut as her heels clicking gets farther and farther away finally yanks Elvis out of his stupor as his hand moves to rub at his stinging cheek.It shouldn’t excite him in the slightest and yet he feels a tightness in his pants that he’s choosing not to dwell on as he stands up and jiggles his leg, adjusting the fabric as he does.

“Stuck up Princess Hitchcock,” he mutters as he opens the door, checking to see if anyone sees him leaving the room. “Actin’ like she knows- She wants me to show her, fine, I-I’ll show her. Got this part for a reason and I ain’t lettin’ her ruin it.”

It’s only as he’s about to head to the actual set that he pauses and says three simple words before opening the door, a charming smile on his face. “She slapped me.”

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted, @be-my-ally, @steph-speaks, @burninlovebutler, @headfullofpresley if you don’t want to be tagged for this series, tell me, i just copied from one of my other elvis fics/took from the last tags i kind of had for the last chapter. but also if you do, give me a heads up. i'll try to get to the tags that didn't work within the next day unless y'all find it first.

#elvis presley #elvis presley x oc #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #ken doll elvis #60s elvis #60s elvis presley #hollywood elvis #quiet on the set #elvis presley fic #ally writes #i feel like i'm missing a tag but who knows at this point.

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