isthlsfate

[isthlsfate]

just to be clear, a BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN runs this blog.

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, fluff, reader straight up gushing over elvis (real), & minimal language

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 678

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

you’ve never seen him like this.

not under this kind of light—soft, heaven-bound. the big red ELVIS sign glares behind him like some kind of prophecy, humming hot in the quiet atmosphere.

it doesn’t flash. it glows, and so does he.

he’s a storm in stillness.

the heat of the lights clings to his skin, catches the edge of his cheekbone, the slow rise of his throat. his mouth brushes the mic like a promise, voice rising from somewhere deeper than his chest—somewhere ancient and aching.

“there must be lights burning brighter somewhere…”

and he means it. every word. every note.

you’ve heard this song a hundred times; played it in the car, hummed it in the kitchen while washing dishes. but it’s different now. it’s different here.

there’s no huge crowd. no cheers.

just silence. the kind of silence that listens.

the kind that lets something big happen.

he closes his eyes and grips the mic like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth. and you feel it, deep in your gut; that thing he does, how he makes the whole world pause.

you want to cry, you want to scream, you want to run up there and shake him and kiss him and say do you know what you’re doing? do you know what you’re giving them? giving me?

your throat tightens. eyes burn. there’s no stopping it now.

you begin to cry.

it’s not loud, nor messy, but instead quiet, steady tears that slip down your cheeks like something breaking open. your heart feels as if it’s finally exhaling.

he’s standing up there turning pain into light, and you’re falling apart in the wings.

you want to tell him thank you.

you want to kneel right here and let it all come undone.

but instead, you stand rooted to your spot, hand over your heart like it might fall out of your chest.

nobody sees you. you’re not the star. you don’t need to be. you just need this—him, up there, burning, believing.

you think about every night he came home raw-throated and bone-tired. about the time he cried on your shoulder after memphis burned and whispered, i gotta do somethin’, baby. i gotta say somethin’.

and now he is.

he’s saying it loud and clear, in that voice that shakes the damn air, makes your ribs hum, and makes grown men cry.

“as long as a man has the strength to dream…”

you sob once, softly, and cover your mouth.

you’ve never felt more proud. not just because he’s yours, but because he gets it. because he feels it too—the ache, the fire, and the impossible hope.

someone shifts beside you yet you barely notice.

all you can think is god, i love you. i love you, i love you, i love you.

and it’s not the kind of love they write songs about. it’s not clean. it’s not easy. but right now, watching him carry that song like a prayer, is everything.

you think, maybe this is what safety feels like. not the absence of fear, but the presence of something louder.

you think, he’s still dreaming. and so will i.

he holds the final note longer than he ever has. his eyes are open now, fixed somewhere far away.

the silence swells again. no applause. just stillness.

a kind of reverence.

and when the last note dies, he just breathes.

you catch him backstage, trembling a little from the weight of the performance. his hands shake as he steps down, like he’s still buzzing from the sound of it all, and when his eyes meet yours, he just walks straight into you.

you bury your face in his neck, wrapping your arms tight around his waist.

“you were brilliant, baby,” you whisper, voice cracking. “you shook the whole earth.”

his breath stutters.

“you made me believe again.” you say quietly.

he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. and there it is—raw and full and quiet.

“i sang it for you,” he says.

you nod.

you know.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff @presleyhearted

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞: the edge of reality

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, some fluff, implication of elvis’s death, kinda sad, VERY light horror elements, & open ending (sorry not sorry :p)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

the morning is golden.

sunlight slips through the room curtains and lands across the foot of the bed, warming your ankles, your wrist, and the tips of your fingers where they’re tangled with elvis’s.

he’s still asleep beside you—bare chest rising and falling beneath the sheets, his mouth slightly open, hair a dark halo on the pillow. there’s a faint scratch of stubble on his jaw and a crease between his brows like he’s already halfway into dreaming.

you’ve been watching him for an hour.

you can’t stop.

you’re memorizing him, the room, the small decorative changes he’s made for you, piece by piece, because you have less than twelve hours left.

you finally move when you feel him stir.

he blinks awake slowly, lashes fluttering before his blue eyes find yours. he smiles, sleepy and crooked.

“mornin’, time traveler.”

you let out a quiet laugh, throat tight.

“morning, legend.”

he stretches, long arms reaching out like he could lasso the sky, then pulls you back against him, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“we got a whole day,” he murmurs. “let’s make it count.”

you decide to spend your last day within the comforting walls of graceland, cut off from the rest of the world.

the whole house hums around you like it’s alive.

first, elvis lets you pick the record, even though he pretends to grumble when you reach for sam cooke. you dance barefoot in the den, swaying slowly in his arms while he hums along behind your ear.

he smells like sandalwood and fresh linen.

you tell him he smells like home.

after a while of dancing, you sit on the kitchen counter in his t-shirt, legs swinging while he makes pancakes in the shape of hearts, dogs, and one that’s supposed to be a guitar but ends up looking like a kidney.

you still kiss his cheek and call him a genius.

once your brunch has settled, you lie on the floor of the living room, fingers laced together, watching the ceiling fan spin and talking about everything and nothing.

he tells you the names he’s always liked for kids, to which you embarrassingly tell him the names you gave your dolls growing up.

elvis takes your hand and kisses your ring finger like a promise. your heart and stomach flutter.

when the room falls into a comfortable silence and the sun begins to set, he leads you out to the garden. you water the flowers together, elvis telling you which ones he planted with his mama as you pass them.

you listen, really listen, and he looks at you like he’s never been heard before.

the evening settles and the two of you sit in the grass, your body resting comfortably between his legs, elvis’s guitar on your lap, his warmth engulfing you.

he plays you a song on his guitar—a sweet, simple tune he says he wrote when he was seventeen.

you close your eyes and let it soak in.

as the stars become more prominent in the night sky, the weight starts to settle.

every smile becomes tinged with sadness and every laugh feels like it might be the last.

“i’m not ready for this part,” you say softly, turning to face him.

“i ain’t either, darlin’.”

you reach into your back pocket and pull out a photo you hadn’t known you’d brought from the future—a tiny, grainy image of the 1973 aloha concert, elvis in that famous white jumpsuit, arms raised to a crowd of thousands.

he takes it gently.

“goddamn,” he murmurs. “i really wore that?”

“like a king.” you tease, hinting at his words from the day you first met.

he studies it in silence.

“you said i pass at forty-two.” he finally speaks, voice low.

you nod, eyes brimming with tears.

“don’t be sad,” he says.

“you didn’t get to grow old.”

he looks at you, a ferocity in his eyes that makes your heart all but stop.

“no, but i got to love you. even if it was just for a blink.”

you choke on a laugh-sob and cover your mouth.

“you’re not making this easier.”

he pulls you close, his hand in your hair, his heart pounding against your cheek.

“i ain’t meant to,” he murmurs. “i want you to miss me somethin’ awful.”

you inhale a shuddering breath, trying to keep the tears from falling, but to no avail.

elvis’s own eyes sparkle with unshed tears, lips molding into yours when you grab his face and kiss him.

*

11 o’clock hits sooner than either of you want, and the true countdown begins.

your grandmother waits with her journal in hand, standing beside the old mirror in the attic of her own mother’s house. the glass is glowing faintly now. the air around it has changed.

“this is it,” she says. “you have to go through at midnight. not a minute before, not a minute after.”

you nod.

elvis stands behind you, silent, his head hung low.

“you okay?” you ask him gently.

“m’not,” he says. “don’t know if i ever will be.”

you reach for his hand.

“i’m scared.”

“don’t be. you were brave enough to fall in love with me when you already knew how it ended. that’s somethin’.” he pauses, searching your eyes like he’s trying to find a different way out of this, one where you can stay, be his wife, have his kids, and grow old with him. he sighs, “kiss me one more time.”

you do.

it’s deep, slow, and trembling. you kiss him like you’re breathing for the last time. his fingers press into your back like he could hold you here. like he could rewrite time by sheer will.

“i love you,” you whisper against his lips.

“i love you more,” he murmurs.

11:58.

it’s time.

the mirror is humming now. a wind picks up from nowhere, rustling the paper in your grandmother’s journal. the surface of the glass has gone milky, like there’s fog behind it.

you give your grandmother a grateful hug, knowing she’ll be there when you make it back to your own time.

“i’ll give you two this moment,” she says, stepping out.

you and elvis face each other once again.

“come with me,” you whisper, an empty shot.

he smiles, sad and sure.

“even if i could… this is my story. yours is still bein’ written.”

you’re crying, salty tears cascading down your cheeks. you don’t wipe them.

elvis leans in, your foreheads touching.

“tell the world i wasn’t just glitter and noise,” he says. “tell ’em i loved deep.”

“i will.”

“don’t forget me, darlin’. i surely won’t forget you. i don’ regret it for a second.”

you close your eyes and take one step back.

then another.

you turn to face the mirror.

the light is blinding now. your hair whips around your face. your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack open.

11:59.

“go,” he shouts over the rising wind.

you look back to see him standing there shining like every song he ever sang.

are you really going to let this—let him go?

“run!”

you sprint, your shoes slapping hard against the wooden floorboards. the mirror glows white-hot.

you close your eyes, and leap.

___

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: first long(ish) series! i hope you all enjoyed, i really appreciate you taking the time to read. the boyf wanted me to make sure i made it known that he helped with this one, so this is me doing that😭 y’all can thank him for the open ending because i’m too soft and was trying so hard to think of a way to give them a happy ending :’)

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫: the borderline of doom i’m facing

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, implication of elvis’s death, VERY light horror elements, & sexual content - p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral (m! receiving) - mdni

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.75k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

at first, the red on your hand doesn’t register.

you wake to dizziness, to the shrill wail of tinnitus in one ear and the pounding of your heartbeat like someone is knocking from the inside. everything spins. your head aches so badly it feels like the floor is rising to meet it, but you manage to make it off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom with a heaviness in your limbs that shouldn’t exist.

you just need to make it to the sink.

the light burns your eyes.

when you finally reach the vanity, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—and that’s when you see it. blood.

a slow, steady trickle from your nostril, painting your upper lip.

you swipe at it and stare at your hand, dazed. the room tilts. a low moan escapes your throat as your legs give out, and you slump against the cool tile of the bathtub, vision narrowing to a pinprick of light.

“elvis,” you whisper, or try to, before the world goes black.

you come to with someone shaking you gently. the floor beneath you is hard, cold. your cheek is wet.

“(y/n). sweetheart. baby, hey. stay with me.”

elvis.

your eyes flutter open to see him crouched beside you, shirt wrinkled, eyes frantic, cupping your face with shaking hands. his hair’s a mess, sleep still clinging to the edges of him.

“oh god,” he breathes. “you’re bleedin’. i—i gotta get you to a hospital.”

“no.” you try to sit up. pain shoots through your skull. “no hospital. call… call my grandmother.”

“what? no, baby, you need a doctor.”

you grab his wrist, weakly.

“please. just trust me. call her.”

he stares at you, chest heaving, then finally nods.

you wake up again on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a damp cloth pressed to your head.

“elvis?” you croak.

“i’m right here.” his voice is hoarse, tender. “your grandma’s on her way. i gave her the address. she sounded…young.”

you nod faintly, then rest your head against the pillow. you can feel the end of all this coming like a dam about to break.

he’s going to know everything.

“i’m sorry.” you say quietly. elvis shakes his head, grabbing your hand.

“no, m’sorry, darlin’. i shouldn’t’ve said what i said. when i saw you on the floor like that… all i could think was, god, what if the last thing you heard from me was me doubting you?”

you can’t find it in you to answer, so you just squeeze his hand.

twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings.

elvis answers it.

you hear her before you see her.

“oh, sweet girl,” she breathes, then pushes past him and rushes to your side.

elvis just stands there, staring.

“she’s your grandmother?” he says slowly. “she don’t look a day over twenty.”

“twenty-nine, actually,” she chirps with a wink.

“i… i’m sorry, ma’am, but what the everloving hell is goin’ on?”

you sit up.

it’s time.

“sit.” you pat the cushion beside you.

he does—on the edge, like the truth might be sharp enough to cut him.

you take a breath. your grandmother reassuringly squeezes your hand.

then you speak.

“i’m not from here. not from 1960.” your eyes meet his, searching for an inkling of understanding. he just stares back. “i’m from 1996.”

still nothing. you push forward, quietly.

“i found a mirror in my grandmother’s attic. a family heirloom. it… brought me here. by accident.”

his eyes move between you and her, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

she clears her throat, smoothing her curls.

“it’s true. the mirror’s been in our family for generations. i never really knew what it was. but when she showed up… i remembered the stories.”

“you’re tellin’ me,” he finally speaks up, voice cracking, “that you came here. through time. and she’s…” he gestures at your grandmother. “she really don’t look a day older than us.”

“because she isn’t,” you say softly. “not yet.”

something shifts in his eyes. a quiet dread. he stands up, running a hand through his neat hair.

“how far into the future did you say?”

“…1996.”

his lips part and he takes a step back.

“i… i don’t make it to that, do i?”

“elvis—”

“don’t lie to me,” he says sternly. “do i make it?”

your eyes well up as you take in a shuddering breath.

“you pass in 1977 at forty-two.”

his breath hitches. his whole body slumps.

“forty-two,” he whispers. “that’s only seventeen years from now.”

“i’m sorry.” you say, tears slipping free.

he turns away, gripping the edge of the couch like it might anchor him.

“i knew i wasn’t gonna last forever,” he mutters. “but damn. i thought maybe i had more time to… to figure things out. to be someone.”

you cross to him slowly and gently lay a hand on his cheek.

“you are someone. you changed the world, elvis. you’re still changing it. even in 1996, people love you. kids know your name. your music still plays. you didn’t disappear.”

he leans forward, scrubbing his face with both hands. you back away begrudgingly, giving him some space.

“this—this is insane,” he says. “you expect me to believe that you just… popped in from the future?”

“you already knew something was off,” you remind him gently. “you felt it. you said i talked like i’d already mourned you. and i have. you were on my grandma’s kitchen radio, in old movies, and history books. i knew of you before i ever touched you.”

your grandmother steps in, her voice kind.

“elvis presley, you are a legend in our time.”

he stares, and stares.

“you were a stone-cold fox in your prime, by the way. lord have mercy.” she chuckles, trying to lighten up the moment.

he makes a strangled sound between a cough and a laugh.

“not the time, grandma,” you cringe, but your lips twitch despite yourself.

elvis collapses into the armchair across from you.

“i don’t know what to think,” he says. “i don’t even believe in astrology.”

“you don’t have to understand it,” you say. “just trust that i didn’t mean for this to happen. and that it’s real.”

he looks at you for a long time.

“you said i’m a legend.”

you nod.

“then why does it feel like i ain’t worth a damn thing right now?”

“because people didn’t always see you clearly. but that doesn’t mean you’re not worth everything.”

after a moment, he stands.

“i—i need some air,” he says. “i just need to think.”

and then he’s gone.

*

you stay at the motel with your grandmother that night. it smells like mildew and cigarette ash, but you don’t care.

elvis deserves his space, no matter how badly you miss him.

your grandmother stays up with you, talking in a low voice about everything—what she found in the mirror’s frame, the cycle, the backstory.

“there’s a date,” she says. “a return window. it closes in less than a week. i’m still figuring out how many days exactly.”

you stare at the ceiling, your mind elsewhere. you don’t care what happens to you anymore.

you just care that elvis forgives you.

“do you think he’ll come back?” you ask softly.

“he loves you, hon. even if it scares him.”

you fall asleep with her humming beside you, drifting through the dark.

the next morning, there’s a knock on the door.

you open it, squinting at the sunlight that peers in.

it’s elvis. his eyes are tired, but clear.

“hey.”

“hey.”

he rubs the back of his neck.

“can i come in?”

you nod a little too eagerly, stepping aside.

your grandmother notices elvis’s presence and grabs her purse.

“i’ll give y’all some time. just don’t get too frisky. time travel babies might break the space-time continuum.”

“grandma,” you groan.

she winks and slips out.

now it’s just you, him, and the hush between.

“i’ve been thinkin’,” he says. “’bout everything you said. everything i felt.”

you wait despite how badly you want to plead for his forgiveness.

“it don’t make sense. none of it. and it scares the hell outta me.”

“me too.” you nod.

“but it also feels like… fate. like maybe i was meant to know you. even if it’s just for a little while.”

your throat tightens. elvis steps closer.

“you look at me like i’m whole,” he says. “like i’m not a paycheck or a punchline.”

you reach up and brush your fingers along his jaw.

“you are whole,” you whisper. “you always were.”

he leans in, lips meeting yours, and kisses you like you’re the only real thing left in the world.

you let him guide you toward the bed, but stop him just as he’s about to lie you down, switching places and sinking to your knees instead.

he bites his lip at the realization, hands reaching out to cradle your face.

you undo his jeans, tugging them down along with his underwear until they pool at his ankles.

“i love you, elvis presley,” you whisper, hand wrapped around him as you press a kiss to the tip.

he groans, head lulling to the side as your lips slowly wrap around him.

“i love you more, my golden girl.”

you take your time, affording him the luxury he’s given you so many times. you keep up your pace even as your jaw starts to ache.

elvis mutters obscenities now and then, his grip on your face never wavering.

as his hips start to stutter and he thrusts into your mouth, you feel your own wetness pooling beneath you.

he catches sight of the way you’re fidgeting, fighting your own release just from pleasing him, and that’s all it takes to send him over the edge.

you swallow, barely having time to register before he’s pulling you up, lifting your nightgown to your hips, and dragging your panties to the side.

he sits down on the edge of the bed, positioning you on top of him like it’s second nature.

you don’t waste any time sinking down onto him, lips pressed to his neck, sucking softly to keep quiet.

and for a little while, time doesn’t matter.

later, your grandmother returns, a folder in her hands. her eyes glint knowingly at the sight of you two curled up in bed, fully clothed but flushed.

she says nothing, choosing mercy over teasing.

“i figured it out,” she says. “the return cycle ends in three days. you need to be near the mirror by midnight on the third night. otherwise…”

“otherwise what?” elvis asks.

“it won’t open again until 2032.”

silence.

three days.

you reach for his hand, gripping it tightly.

the countdown has begun.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: here’s where life’s dreams lies disillusioned

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, the colonel, mild language, time travel, filler chapter, angst, implication of elvis’s death, & VERY light horror elements

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 930

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

you’re sitting on the front steps when you hear the crunch of gravel.

a car pulls up the driveway—long, black and heavy-looking, like a really fancy hearse. the late sun gleams off the hood. you squint, shielding your eyes.

the car door opens, and out steps a man who looks like he belongs in a smoke-filled poker room, not the calming green sprawl of graceland.

he’s tall, round in the middle, with a face like an old leather suitcase. his coat is too stiff for the southern heat, and his eyes scan the estate like he owns the damn place.

colonel tom parker.

you’ve seen the documentaries and heard the stories.

now he’s walking toward you like a storm in a suit.

“you must be the girl,” he says without offering a hand. his voice is thick, cloying, like syrup gone bad.

you rise, awkwardly.

“hi, i’m—”

“i know who you are,” he cuts in. “or rather, i know who you aren’t. you just showed up, didn’t you? out of thin air. like a magician’s trick.”

you freeze. his eyes narrow.

“people don’t just fall into elvis presley’s life without me hearing about it first. and yet, here you are. living in his house. wearing his shirts. playing girlfriend.”

“i’m not playing anything.”

“no?” he tilts his head, mocking. “where are your people? family? past? what’s your story, sweetheart?”

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“exactly,” he says, stepping closer. “whatever act you’re running, end it. now. before it ruins everything.”

you glare.

“elvis is a grown man. he can decide who he wants in his life.”

“he’s vulnerable,” parker snaps. “he’s tired, distracted, and losing ground with every movie flop and gossip rag. he doesn’t need another leech clinging to him while he slips.”

your breath stings in your chest.

“i see the way he looks at you,” he says lowly. “and it irks me. because when elvis falls, he falls hard. and it never ends well.”

he tips his hat like a threat.

“pack your bags, little girl. before you break something you can’t fix.”

*

that night, the house is quiet. too quiet.

elvis isn’t singing and the halls feel emptier than usual. even the chandeliers seem dimmer.

you find him in the music room, sitting at the piano, plunking out chords that don’t go anywhere.

“hey,” you say softly, easing in.

he doesn’t look up.

“colonel was here.”

“i know.” you nod, heart sinking.

“he told me you’re no good for me.”

you don’t answer.

“i’ve been thinkin’,” he says, voice hoarse. “maybe he’s right.”

“elvis…”

“i don’t know where you came from,” he says quietly. “one day i’m gettin’ through the usual crap, and the next day, there you are. in my life. in my bed.”

you cross the room and kneel beside the bench.

he finally looks at you—and god, he looks tired. the light in his eyes is dimmed by something heavier than fame.

“i’ve been losing pieces of myself for years,” he whispers. “they all take something. the fans. the colonel. the movies. and now…”

you reach for his hand, shaking your head harshly.

“i’m not here to take anything.”

he doesn’t pull away.

“i wish i could explain,” you murmur. “i wish i could tell you everything. but even if i could… i think you’d still doubt yourself. not me.”

he blinks.

“you are so loved, elvis,” you say. “even when the world makes you feel like a commodity. a joke. you’re not. you’re somebody’s whole world.”

his throat works around a soundless breath.

“i know you don’t always feel it,” you continue. “but you are more than the headlines. you are music. you’re the kind of soul that doesn’t come around more than once in a generation.”

“why do you talk like you’ve already mourned me?”

you freeze. he pulls his hand back, studying you.

“you say things like you’ve seen it all,” he mutters. “like you know what’s comin’.”

“elvis—”

“where did you come from, really?”

the question hangs there, dense with suspicion. before you can answer, the phone rings.

he stands, slowly.

“i’ll get it,” you stop him, voice shaking.

you pick up the receiver in the hallway.

“hello?”

“baby girl?” your grandmother’s voice says, breathless. “i think i found something. a letter. hidden in the mirror’s frame.”

you press the receiver tighter to your ear.

“what does it say?”

“it talks about the mirror being a passage, but not a stable one. there’s a cycle—once opened, it closes again. for decades.”

“decades?” your blood runs cold.

“there’s more,” she whispers. “it says the traveler must be near the mirror when the cycle resets. or they’re trapped.”

“when?”

“i’m still working that out, but we don’t have long.”

a pause.

“are you okay?” she asks softly.

you glance over your shoulder. elvis is standing in the hallway, half in the shadow, watching you with stormy eyes.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

*

that night, you lie beside elvis in silence. he’s distant. his body is warm, but his mind is far away.

you trace slow circles on his chest.

“elvis?”

“hmm?”

“promise me something.”

“what’s that?”

“promise you’ll never forget how much you matter.”

“to who?” he chuckles, bitterly.

“to me.”

a long pause fills the room. finally, he turns to you.

“i want to believe you,” he says. “but i feel like i’m reachin’ for someone i can’t fully see.”

you press your forehead to his.

“then hold on tighter.”

he kisses you once, soft and sad, and pulls you close.

you stare into the dark, knowing deep down you both feel it.

the shift. the slip. the unraveling thread.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨: dark shadows follow me

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, some fluff, & VERY light horror elements

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

the blood dries on your lip like a warning.

you scrub it off in a daze, your heart thudding loudly in your ears. the mirror is back to normal—just glass and your reflection staring back, confused and afraid.

you tiptoe back into the bedroom, wincing when elvis stirs in the sheets, his bare chest rising and falling beneath the tangle of covers.

even half-asleep, he looks like something painted in warm oil and gold.

you climb into bed and curl beside him, letting his body heat calm your panic. his arm drapes over you instinctively.

you bury your face into his shoulder, press a small kiss there, and will yourself to just take things one day at a time.

you wake up a couple of hours later to the smell of bacon.

sunlight spills through the curtains, soft and golden.

somewhere downstairs, there’s a clatter—metal against metal, the shuffle of feet.

you sit up slowly and stretch, your limbs sore in the best way. then, you pad barefoot toward the kitchen, each step a little steadier.

as you get closer, you hear him.

his voice is low, a little hoarse, humming “blue moon”.

he’s in a white t-shirt and pajama pants, spatula in hand, flipping eggs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“mornin’, honey,” he drawls, glancing over his shoulder. “you sleep like a lil’ angel.”

you smile, heart skipping.

“you cook?”

“can’t always be makin’ music. gotta feed the body sometimes, too.” he shrugs.

you perch on a stool, watching him move. he sets a plate in front of you shortly after.

you take a bite, eyes widening immediately.

“this is amazing, e.”

“i am a man of many talents,” he says, biting into toast with a grin. “you stick with me and you’ll be livin’ like a queen.”

you swallow thickly, your heart falling at the words.

if only.

*

by noon, elvis is out for a studio session. you’re left alone in graceland, pacing restlessly through its seemingly endless halls.

you need answers.

you find a phone book in elvis’s office and start flipping through it like a madwoman.

after some time, you find her: marian (l/n).

your grandmother. or… the woman who would become your grandmother.

you dial the number before you can overthink it.

a young voice answers after the third ring.

“hello?”

“hi… is this marian?”

there’s a pause.

“who’s asking?”

“it’s—uh—it’s complicated. i’m kind of… i think i’m your granddaughter,” you stutter, chewing your nails at the lack of her response. “okay, i know that sounds insane. but please, don’t hang up.”

“…where are you?”

“memphis.”

another beat of silence.

“i’ll come,” she finally says. “i’ll be there in an hour.”

you wait at a small coffee shop off union avenue, picking at a slice of lemon pie.

you’re half sure she won’t come, but then the door swings open and there she is.

young, beautiful, and around your age, maybe a few years older. she has the same eyes. same sharp chin.

she freezes when she sees you.

“oh my god,” she whispers. “you look like your mother.”

you smile, teary eyed.

“hi, grandma.”

“okay. tell me everything.”

so you do.

you talk for two hours straight.

you tell her about the mirror, the attic, the flash. the blood. the way the reflection wasn’t quite yours.

you tell her you woke up in 1960 and ran into elvis presley—the real elvis presley.

she listens without interrupting.

when you finish, she nods slowly, like she is trying very hard to process everything.

“i believe you.”

“wait. what?”

she leans in, beckoning you closer.

“that mirror? it’s been in our family for generations. it always gave me the creeps. felt like it was… watching.”

you stare, your heart pounding.

“there’s a tale,” she says. “my mama once told me it belonged to a woman who disappeared. said she stepped through it and never came back. i always thought she said that so i wouldn’t go near it and break it.”

“why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“who would believe it?” she says, sipping her coffee. “and now here you are. my granddaughter. lord.”

“you’re so young.” you can't help but say.

she smiles sadly.

“and you’re from the future. guess we’re both outta place.”

you laugh, and it feels like home.

“i don’t know how to get back,” you admit after the air falls silent again.

“we’ll figure it out,” she says firmly. “but you can’t stay here too long, i know that much. time… it’s delicate. being in the wrong era too long can do things to you. change you. hurt you.”

you nod slowly. she then grins, changing the subject.

“so, you’re sleepin’ with elvis presley?”

you choke on your coffee, sputtering into a napkin.

“i—i mean—we just—”

“sugar, if i looked like you and met him, i’d do the same damn thing.”

“you kind of do look like me,” you tease.

you both dissolve into laughter, heads pressed together over the table, the jukebox humming behind you.

when you get back to graceland, you find elvis on the back porch, wrapped in one of his more casual jackets.

“thought you ran off on me,” he murmurs, as you slide beside him on the steps.

you smile, leaning into him.

“had to meet someone.”

“oh yeah?” he teases. “you two-timin’ me already?”

“just a friend,” you lie, gently.

“good, ‘cause i’d hate to get jealous so soon.” he wraps an arm around you and tugs you closer.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“nah,” he says, brushing hair from your face. “i’m serious ‘bout you.”

your breath catches in your throat, eyes searching his for the truth.

“i don’t know what it is, darlin’. you show up like a dream and i just… i can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. you got me all turned ‘round.”

your chest tightens.

“me too.”

elvis leans in and kisses you, sweet and slow.

the real world and its troubles feel and far away.

*

you spend the next week tangled up in him.

over the span of 5 days, he takes you to the studio and lets you sit cross-legged in the booth while he sings, writes your name on napkins and draws little hearts beside it, brings you flowers, makes you grilled cheese at 2 a.m., and teaches you how to jitterbug in the living room.

“you’re a natural,” he says, holding your waist.

“you’re a good teacher,” you say, cheeks warm.

one night, he picks up his guitar and hums something new.

“wrote this thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

he plays the first verse—soft, unpolished. a love song without a name. every note burns under your skin.

you crawl into his lap and cup his face.

“it’s not everyday a girl gets to say elvis wrote a song for her. it’s enough to have me falling for you.”

“good,” he says, beaming. “’cause i’m already gone for you.”

but every night, the mirror haunts you.

the blood. the crackle. the distorted version of you staring back.

and every morning, you check.

on your eighth night at graceland, you lie in bed, elvis’s head on your stomach, his fingers strumming lazy chords on his guitar.

“i was thinkin’,” he says, “we should go to the fair. tomorrow. i could win you a teddy bear, get you some cotton candy. the whole thing.”

you lift your head. was that allowed? could it cause problems? not just with his career, but with the future.

“in public?”

“no, in private—yes, in public.” sarcasm drips from his tone as he grins.

“you really know how to romance a girl.”

“you like that sorta thing?”

“i like you.”

he sets the guitar aside and climbs up your body, eyes locked on yours.

“then you got nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

you kiss him like he’s your lifeline.

later, after he’s asleep, you tiptoe to the bathroom.

just to check.

you lean into the mirror, eyeing your reflection. still nothing.

you exhale, relief flooding your senses.

you blink, about to walk away when you see it.

a trickle from your nose.

to your horror, there’s more blood.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞: i walk a thin line, darling

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, VERY light horror elements, & sexual content - p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral (fem! receiving) - mdni

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.69k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

you don’t know what happens first—the flash, the sound, or the sudden yank behind your navel like a hook dragging you out of your own body.

one minute you’re standing in your grandmother’s attic, brushing dust off a cracked mirror framed in gold filigree, and the next, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

the world spins, warps, and folds in on itself.

then—light.

blinding, searing light, followed by the neon buzz of signs flickering to life. heat radiates off the pavement as you hit the ground hard, knees scraping against sun-warmed concrete.

for a moment, there’s only static.

your breath. your heartbeat.

then music.

a familiar tune, faint but clear, drifting from the open doors of a nearby diner. “stuck on you,” by elvis presley.

your pulse kicks up, heart slamming against your ribs.

because when you lift your head, the world you once knew is gone.

gone are the suvs and the starbucks cups. gone is the 90s rap from someone’s boombox. in its place: a cadillac cruising past, women in shift dresses laughing, a gas station sign advertising 24 cents a gallon.

this isn’t 1996 anymore.

you scramble to your feet, your legs shaky, blood already drying on your shins. your eyes scan the street, suddenly hyper aware of the stares from passing strangers.

some of them are whispering, taking in your outfit: a crop top, platform sandals, and a mini backpack. like you were dropped straight out of a magazine no one’s printed yet.

you take off running, ducking into the first alley you can find.

panic tightens your throat.

you press your back against the wall, your hands shaking as you yank your walkman from your bag. you flip it open only to find it fried.

the cassette’s melted, warped beyond recognition.

you fumble for your id, your pager, your lip gloss, anything you can get your hands on, but they’re useless here.

you’re still trying to steady yourself when a voice cuts through the noise—low, rich, and unmistakable.

“you alright, darlin’?”

your head snaps up.

and there he is.

elvis presley, real and breathing.

he’s taller than you imagined, hair slicked just so, pitch black, and curled perfectly above his stormy eyes. he wears a black shirt that’s open at the chest, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. his hips are cocked in a lazy lean.

his eyes, dark and curious, soften with concern as they land on you.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, stepping closer.

you choke on your breath, nodding too quickly.

“i—uh—yeah. yes, i’m fine.”

his brow lifts, amused.

“you sure? it ain’t every day a girl like you stumbles outta thin air.” he smiles.

you blink. did he see it?

elvis just chuckles and pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket, offering it to you like a gentleman.

“you’re bleedin’, honey. knees got roughed up, huh?”

you glance down, barely registering the sting until now.

“th-thank you,” you stammer, taking the cloth with trembling fingers.

“where you from?” he asks, folding his arms. “not ‘round here, are ya?”

you panic.

“uh… california.”

“figure. you got that golden girl glow.” he grins, sticking out his hand. “name’s elvs.”

“i know.” you try to play cool. he lifts a brow, amused. his smile spreads, full of teeth and charm and something you can already feel pulling at your ribs.

“do ya now?”

you nod, trying not to collapse inward. you clutch the handkerchief like a lifeline.

“who doesn’t?”

he laughs, deep and warm.

“well, ain’t you somethin’. how ‘bout a soda, golden girl? you look like you seen a ghost.”

you hesitate, a broken laugh falling past your lips. he notices, but doesn’t press.

“i ain’t gonna bite,” he adds gently. “promise.”

you swallow, then nod.

*

the diner is a time capsule.

vinyl booths, checkered floors, and a jukebox crooning some lovesick melody. everyone greets elvis like royalty. he nods, waves, smiles back—but his eyes don’t leave you.

you sit across from him, fingers curling around a cold glass bottle of coca-cola.

“can’t say i’ve ever seen a girl dressed like you,” he muses, gaze flicking over your outfit. “it’s somethin’ else. pretty wild.”

“guess i like to stand out.” you laugh nervously.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.” he winks. “i stand out plenty myself.”

you sip your drink to hide your smile.

“so,” he says after a beat. “what brings you to memphis?”

you pause.

“honestly? i don’t know.” your voice dips. “just got turned around, i guess.”

he tilts his head, watching you like he’s trying to read a secret you don’t know how to tell.

“well, you’re in luck. you just so happened to run into the king.” he raises his bottle. “best tour guide there is.”

you laugh—really laugh, this time.

“is that what you call yourself? the king?”

“not me. the fans.” the singer says coyly, shrugging, “but i ain’t complainin’.”

you finish up at the diner shortly after.

elvis shows you around the city like it’s something sacred. you see the river, the neon lights, and beale street humming with blues. all sights you’d only ever seen in old pictures.

you fall into step beside him like you’ve always belonged there, his laughter warming the summer night. his hand brushes yours once, then twice. the second time, he doesn’t pull away.

and when he stops beside his car, a dreamy pink cadillac that sparkles under streetlights, he looks at you like he’s trying to be careful.

“you got a place to stay, darlin’?”

you falter.

he raises a hand quickly, noticing the discomfort on your face.

“it ain’t like that. i swear. just don’t sit right with me lettin’ a lady wander round memphis all alone.”

you bite your lip.

“look,” he says, softer, “i got a guest room at my place. graceland. it’s safe. big enough for ten of you.”

“elvis—” your heart stutters.

“call me crazy, honey, but i feel like we were meant to meet.”

that makes your breath catch.

before you can stop yourself, you nod.

*

graceland glows like something out of a movie. it’s even more breathtaking when you step inside, with its marble floors and velvet drapes.

elvis walks you through each of the rooms.

you barely hear his words—something about the chandelier, the piano, the jungle room—because your eyes keep drifting to him. the way his collar loosens. the rasp in his voice when he says your name. the way he looks at you like you’re already a song he’s trying to memorize.

you linger in the doorway to the guest room.

so does he.

“i had a good night,” he says, voice low, thumb brushing your wrist.

“me too.”

he doesn’t lean in.

so you do.

the kiss is soft at first. hesitant. his hands find your waist, and yours slide into his hair, body melting against his like wax under heat. he kisses you like he means it—slow, deep, unhurried.

like he’s got all the time in the world.

when it breaks, you’re breathless.

“you sure ‘bout this?” he whispers.

“yes,” you breathe.

elvis doesn’t waste a second, pulling you up the stairs to his room, laying you gently on the large bed.

his lips ghost over your face as he hovers above you, lustful eyes locking with yours.

for a second, it’s too real.

this—you—are probably just another one of his many girls.

you hate how easily it comes to him, how practiced it feels.

your brows furrow, a sudden, unjustified pool of jealousy twisting in your stomach.

that quickly fades when he begins to slip your jeans down your legs, his lips following suit.

you gasp when he presses a chaste kiss over the thin fabric between you, then slides your panties down and leaves you bare.

you clamp your eyes shut, a soft moan escaping when his mouth finally meets where you need him most.

you can’t believe this is real life.

elvis takes his time with you, has his way with you, his heavy sighs and tender praises being spoken into the crook of your neck.

your heart feels like it might leap out of your chest at how intense it all is—how selfless he’s being, how he makes sure you feel just as good as he does.

he turns you onto your stomach, an arm sliding beneath you to lift you just enough.

he pushes into you with an agonizingly slow rhythm, hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

your climax hits you hard, stars blinding your vision, fingers twisting in the sheets as a cry slips from your lips.

“atta girl.” he teases, a pleased chuckle rumbling in his chest.

elvis follows soon after, pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder as he pulls out.

you wake in his bed hours later, tangled in warm sheets and a satisfied tingle you can still feel echoing through your bones. elvis sleeps beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his breathing slow and even.

for a moment, you just lie there. memorizing the weight of him beside you. the way the moonlight hits the curve of his jaw. the stillness.

then—

something shifts.

a whisper under your skin. a pressure in your skull.

you slip from the bed quietly, the way you’ve done a dozen times in dreams. you pad barefoot to the bathroom, shivering a little in his shirt.

the bathroom is dim, moonlight silvering the tile.

you glance at yourself in the mirror, and that’s when you see it.

the blood.

a trail, dark and sticky, running from your nostril down to your lip.

your hand flies to your face. it’s not like normal blood, no. it’s darker. viscous. wrong.

a buzzing starts in your ears. the edges of your vision waver.

you grip the sink, the porcelain cold under your palms.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you peek around the corner—elvis is still asleep. peaceful. unaware.

you turn back to your reflection and the mirror flickers.

for just a split second, you see yourself not here. see the attic. the cracked gold filigree.

and behind you—something shifting.

something watching.

the mirror suddenly clears.

___

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: long story short, this series was supposed to be uploaded in october as a halloween treat. finally got to finishing it, pls don’t let it flop :’)

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

Me core:

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐞’𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 ⌝

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨: maybe we’ll work it out

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: pushy!rafe x black!pogue!reader, pining, some angst, rafe being kind of obsessive/possessive, no use of (y/n), best friend’s brother trope

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

tanneyhill’s kitchen is always colder in the mornings—sterile, echoing marble with too many windows and not enough warmth.

but right now, there’s coffee brewing, and that soft hush of ocean wind slipping in through the cracked patio door.

it’s early.

too early for anyone but you and wheezie, usually.

when you pad in, hair still damp from your quick shower, you see rafe.

he’s leaning against the counter in a hoodie you’ve seen too many times, sleeves pushed to his elbows, eyes heavy-lidded and quiet.

like he hasn’t slept.

or like he’s been waiting.

you freeze, fingers wrapped around your mug.

“morning.”

he doesn’t say anything right away.

just watches as you move to the cabinet, standing on your toes to reach a mug.

“thought you left,” he says finally.

you glance over.

“didn’t know you cared.”

“i do.”

your hand stills against the handle. just for a second.

he walks over, steps slow and deliberate.

“you disappeared after our little chat last night.”

“because it was a party,” you murmur, pouring coffee, keeping your back to him.

“you disappeared from me. was it too much?”

your heart skips.

“sarah—”

“sarah’s still asleep.”

“i’m not,” says a voice behind you, raspy with sleep and suspicion.

you nearly spill your drink.

sarah’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.

“i—” you start, turning around too quickly.

rafe just lifts his mug to his lips like he’s unbothered.

sarah’s eyes flick between you.

the silence is suddenly too loud.

“since when do you both drink coffee this early?” she asks slowly, like she’s testing the water for cracks.

“jet lag,” you blurt, then blink. “i mean, not actual jet lag, but the emotional kind. gala hangover.”

“right.”

she narrows her eyes.

“and you?”

rafe smirks, leaning back against the island.

“couldn’t sleep.”

“you never wake up early,” she says, tone bordering on accusing now.

rafe shrugs.

you pretend to sip your coffee and pray she doesn’t hear the way your heart is thumping in your chest.

“okay…” she says slowly, her gaze lingering on you, then drifting—just barely—to rafe.

it doesn’t say i know, but it says i see something.

you force a smile.

“i was just gonna head out, jj and john b wanted help with the boat.”

that makes her perk up, just a bit too much.

“jj again, huh?”

you glance at rafe before you can stop yourself.

he’s stone-faced now.

the mask back on.

that same unreadable quiet you’ve seen before storms.

but his grip tightens ever so slightly around the ceramic mug.

“what, is something going on with you two?” sarah grins.

“no,” you say a little too quickly. “i mean—i don’t think so. he’s just… jj.”

rafe sets his cup down harder than necessary.

you flinch.

sarah notices.

her grin fades.

“okay, weird tension central. what is going on?”

“nothing,” you and rafe say at the same time.

too quickly.

too in sync.

she narrows her eyes again.

but you’re already slipping past her, mug abandoned, heat crawling up the back of your neck.

as you cross the living room, you hear rafe’s voice—low and sharp, directed at sarah.

“maybe if you stopped asking so many damn questions—”

and her cutting reply:

“maybe if you weren’t such a weirdo around her all the time.”

you don’t stay to hear more.

because if you do, you might turn back.

you might admit what you really want.

and neither of you are ready for that just yet.

*

it’s late afternoon when you end up at the wreck, legs curled into a chair on the patio, sunglasses perched on your head, skin still sun-warmed from the walk over.

the air smells like salt and fryer oil—familiar and comfortable.

sarah sits across from you, digging through a basket of fries, feet propped up on the empty chair between you.

and then comes jj.

he slides into the seat next to you with that signature crooked smile, golden hair wind-tossed, a mischievous glint in his eye that dares the world not to fall in love with him.

“you’re looking awfully fancy for a pogue,” he teases, eyes flicking to your earrings, the light makeup still clinging to your cheeks from last night.

“leftover gala magic,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “try not to be too dazzled.”

“oh, i’m dazzled, alright,” he grins. “can’t believe you didn’t invite me. we could’ve made a dramatic scene, snuck off to the balcony, kissed under the stars, ruined your reputation…”

you laugh, shaking your head.

“you’d spill wine on someone’s tux in the first five minutes.”

“exactly. memorable.”

he winks. and okay, you do feel the corner of your mouth tug upward, even as your stomach coils—not from jj, but from the weight of something unspoken in the air.

because jj is charming.

sweet.

chaotic.

but he isn’t him.

you feel it before you see him—the prickle at the nape of your neck.

that instinctive awareness you’ve tried to spend years ignoring.

you glance toward the entrance just as rafe steps out of his truck across the street, tossing his keys in his hand, jaw set.

your breath catches.

he doesn’t head inside right away.

just leans against the car door, watching. and it’s not subtle.

his eyes are locked on you and jj.

sarah doesn’t notice. she’s too busy texting john b.

but jj follows your gaze.

“oh,” he mutters, grinning. “looks like your favorite kook’s arrived.”

“don’t start.” you nudge his arm, pretending to roll your eyes.

“i’m not starting,” he says innocently, then leans in a little closer. “but tell me this, if you had to choose between a night with me or rafe cameron…”

you arch a brow.

“this is a dangerous game, maybank.”

“come on,” he grins. “jus say it’s me. stroke my fragile ego.”

but before you can respond, a voice cuts in behind you—low, smooth, and anything but casual.

“she’d never choose you.”

you whip around.

rafe is suddenly there, standing a little too close, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes burning.

jj leans back in his chair, clearly amused.

“well, hey there, buddy,” he says. “didn’t hear you creep up.”

rafe ignores him.

his gaze is on you.

only you.

“didn’t realize you were slumming it today,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. just bitterness, laced in sugar. “thought you guys were just working on the boat.”

you stand, suddenly very aware of how close jj had been.

“i was just catching up.”

“with maybank?” he asks, like it physically hurts.

“yeah. is that a problem?”

his jaw ticks.

“guess not. you seem to be having fun.”

“rafe—” sarah’s voice finally cuts in, suspicious now. “why are you being weird?”

“i’m not,” he says smoothly. “just saying hey to my sister’s best friend.”

the title lands heavy. like a threat and a reminder.

and then, before anyone else can speak, he turns and heads inside.

jj whistles low.

“dude’s got it bad.”

sarah gives him a look.

“what do you mean by that?”

he shrugs, but looks directly at you.

“ask her.”

and you?

you don’t say a word.

because your heart is still pounding.

and your skin’s still tingling.

and rafe cameron just saw you smile at someone else—and you’re not sure if it was jealousy in his eyes or something far more dangerous.

*

the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, turning the sky into molten gold.

the two of you sit side by side on the sand, shoes tossed behind you, toes buried in the cool grit.

sarah hugs her knees to her chest, her hair catching the light like the edge of a flame.

you both watch the waves roll in, rhythmic and endless, like the questions she hasn’t had the guts to ask until now.

she breaks the quiet gently.

“do you… want to talk about what happened at the wreck?”

you glance sideways at her, but her face is unreadable. calm. kind. too understanding.

you don’t deserve her.

“what do you mean?” you ask, though your voice is soft. small.

she lets out a steady breath.

“you and rafe.”

the words hang between you, delicate as sea foam and just as fleeting.

you look back at the ocean, unable to meet her eyes.

“you saw it,” you say quietly.

“i’ve always seen it,” she admits. “i think i just didn’t want to believe it was real.”

you laugh, bitter and broken at the edges.

“neither did i.”

a silence passes. then, gently, she reaches over and takes your hand, squeezing it once.

“i’m not mad,” she says. “i just… wish you’d told me.”

“i didn’t know how.”

you finally meet her gaze, and your skin warms, not from embarrassment, but grief.

“i didn’t mean for it to happen. and i never wanted to keep it from you. but it’s rafe, sarah. rafe.”

she nods, slowly.

“i know.”

your voice breaks before the next words come out.

“he scares me.”

she doesn’t flinch.

“he scares me too.”

you feel the sting at the corner of your eyes and blink fast, pressing your forehead to your knees.

“but when he looks at me… i don’t know. it’s like he sees straight through every version of me i’ve ever been. and i hate that i like it.”

she doesn’t try to talk you out of it. doesn’t give you any tidy advice or easy answers.

just threads her fingers through yours and holds on.

“i’m here,” she says. “no matter what happens. i’m not going anywhere.”

*

the house is dark, save for the soft glow of a lamp left on in the upstairs hallway.

you tiptoe out of sarah’s room, careful not to wake her, your limbs quiet and heavy from the ocean air and whispered truths.

you just want water.

you pad silently down the hall, turning the corner, and stop short.

rafe is there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

you freeze.

his eyes flick up to meet yours, hungry and storm-dark, a storm that’s been gathering for years.

“couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, rough.

you shake your head.

“just… thirsty.”

he doesn’t move.

you try to sidestep him, but his hand comes up gently—not grabbing, just halting. his fingers hover near your wrist.

“you like jj?” he asks.

the words are so soft, they almost disappear in the space between you.

you swallow hard.

“i think… i was trying to see if i could.”

“and?” his jaw tightens.

“i couldn’t.”

his hand brushes your wrist, fingertips trailing fire.

“why not?”

“because he’s not you.” you meet his eyes, and this time you don’t look away.

something snaps.

he steps closer, closing the space between you with a tension so thick it pulses.

his hand cradles your head, palm warm and trembling at the nape of your neck.

“i can’t keep pretending,” he whispers, breath brushing your cheek. “i see you in every room. i think about you all the time. and when i saw you with him today…”

you angle yourself to face him fully, heart hammering.

“rafe…”

“you’re in my blood,” he says. “you always have been.”

you don’t remember leaning in.

you don’t remember who moved first.

all you know is the moment his lips touch yours, it’s like lightning strikes the length of your spine.

it’s not gentle.

it’s not careful.

it’s years of holding back crashing forward like the sea.

he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat. like this is the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.

and this time—you don’t pull away.

___

꩜ taglist:

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞: meet me in the hallway

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: pushy!rafe x black!pogue!reader, pining, some angst, rafe being kind of obsessive/possessive, no use of (y/n), best friend’s brother trope

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

you’re tucked under sarah’s arm as she guides you into the grand foyer, her perfume sweet with summer and champagne.

the party at the boneyard still thrums in your chest, remnants of sand in your shoes, and sea salt on your skin.

you’ve known this house since you were ten.

you know where the floorboards creak and where rose hides the good wine. you know the way ward’s portrait looms at the end of the staircase, always watching, and you know that rafe’s door sticks unless you lift the handle just right.

you know rafe. too well.

but tonight, you’re avoiding him.

sarah doesn’t notice. she’s already pulling you into her room, shedding her jewelry like sea glass and tossing her heels into the corner with a sigh.

“god, did you see sofia all over rafe tonight?” she says, settling onto her bed and tugging you with her. “she’s like a moth to a flame. gross.”

you force a laugh and turn toward her vanity, grabbing one of the glass jars of face masks before beginning to apply it to her face.

if only she knew.

you’d watched him tonight through the haze of bonfire smoke—his hand on sofia’s back, that smile he does when he knows he’s being watched. you told sarah you had a headache.

you didn’t tell her the truth: that it bothered you. that your stomach churned at the sight in a way it had no right to.

you didn’t tell her that her own brother has been a slow ache under your skin since the moment you understood what desire was.

you settle beside her on the bed, avocado paste smeared across your cheeks. she’s already giggling about something else, some drama between pope and cleo that you’re only half-listening to. the world is quiet here, within sarah’s laughter, within the floral-printed walls of her room, with her voice lulling you into a pretend peace.

you’re safe. you’re fine. you don’t care about rafe.

*

it’s past 2 a.m. when you hear the front door open.

you know the sound of his shoes on the tile. the deliberate pause as he shrugs off his jacket. the moment he stops at the top of the stairs. you feel it before you see it, that instinct.

that shift in the air.

rafe stands outside sarah’s cracked door, the hallway light slanting across the floor, catching on the curve of your calf.

he doesn’t mean to listen. but he does.

and he hears your voice, soft with sleep and unguarded.

“i don’t know,” you say, words muffled by your arm. “maybe jj. he’s cute in a reckless kind of way.”

sarah hums.

“oh my god, i can totally see it. you guys would be like, chaotic but hot.”

you laugh. a real one. and rafe walks away.

he doesn’t slam his door, doesn’t punch a wall, doesn’t shout. he just… sinks.

into silence. into himself.

because he knows you. he’s known you since you were thirteen and called him a menace in front of rose for flipping your floaty. he’s known you since you started showing up at his house like you belonged there.

and now you want jj.

you leave sarah’s room an hour later, tiptoeing barefoot into the hall, her soft snores behind you.

you’re in one of her oversized t-shirts, hair piled atop your head, the remnants of a sleepover smeared on your cheeks. you don’t expect to see anyone.

but he’s there.

rafe leans against the hallway wall, arms crossed, shadows swallowing half his face.

he doesn’t speak at first, just watches you. the silence is so thick you nearly turn back.

then, softly, “jj maybank?”

you freeze.

his voice is rough from sleep or anger or something in between.

“what?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

“you said he was cute.” he steps forward, and you feel it like thunder beneath your feet. “that your type is reckless now?”

“it was a joke.”

“no, it wasn’t.”

there’s no malice in his tone. just quiet devastation. just years of you slipping through his fingers.

you wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.

“why does it matter to you?”

“don’t ask me that.” his eyes find yours. he takes a breath and closes the distance. “you’ve been playing this game with me since high school. you know it. i know it. you’re all over me when we’re alone but won’t even look at me around sarah. you dance with boys at parties and then glare at me when i flirt with girls. so what is it, really?”

you take a step back, your spine brushing the wall, breath caught in your throat.

“tell me,” he murmurs, lowering his head until your foreheads almost touch. “tell me you feel nothing and i’ll walk away. for good.”

your heart hammers. you don’t know what to say. you don’t know how to stop looking at his plump, pink lips.

“i…” you whisper, but words fail you.

he lifts a hand, cradling your head with reverence, thumb brushing your cheek.

“i see the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching.”

you close your eyes, your resolve unraveling.

“you were with sofia tonight.”

“i was trying to forget you.” he exhales, his breath warm against your lips.

your skin warms, breath catching as you angle yourself closer without meaning to.

he doesn’t move, just watches you with a quiet ache in his eyes. waiting.

there’s something in his gaze that you can’t look away from. something wounded and demanding. like he’s been holding onto a rope for too long and his fingers are starting to fray.

you should say something.

push him away, maybe.

laugh it off like you always do, call him a flirt, tell him he’s annoying when he’s serious.

but you don’t. you can’t.

the truth sits heavy on your tongue, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to lie.

“i don’t know what i want,” you finally whisper. his eyes flutter closed. “but i know it’s not him.”

that gets his attention.

his eyes open, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in this entire world that has ever made sense and ever will again. it’s too much, and not enough, and maybe you’re both standing on the edge of something irreversible.

his voice, when it comes, is a little hoarse.

“then what are we doing?”

you don’t answer. because the truth is, you don’t know.

you’ve been dancing around each other for years, half a step too far, a glance too long, a touch that lingered but never long enough.

and now it’s all caught up with you, here in this dim hallway with your t-shirt slipping off one shoulder and his face still inches from yours like it wants to close the distance.

“nothing,” you manage. “we’re doing nothing. we can’t.”

“why not?”

“because,” you say, barely breathing. “because sarah.”

“sarah doesn’t know,” he says, but there’s no fire in the protest, only quiet heartbreak.

“she doesn’t need to. ever. that’s the point, rafe.”

a beat of silence.

then his forehead dips, rests gently against yours. you don’t pull away. you don’t lean in.

you just… breathe.

the silence crackles.

rafe’s eyes rake over your face as if trying to remember every detail before he finally lowers his arm.

and like the tide that never fully touches the shore, you both step back—just enough.

he nods once, barely perceptible.

you nod back.

there’s still so much unsaid. still so much wanting.

but for now, you return to sarah’s room without looking over your shoulder. for now, he doesn’t follow.

*

the next night, the estate glitters, soaked in gold and dripping in laughter. strings of lights twine around white columns like ivy, casting soft halos over everyone in attendance.

somewhere beneath them, you drift through the swell of tailored tuxedos and champagne flutes, your hand loosely hooked through sarah’s arm as you both giggle over someone’s dress being a little too inspired by a met gala theme.

it’s the annual cameron foundation gala, and you’ve been coming since you were thirteen.

at first as sarah’s guest, then as her shadow, now as someone the staff know by name and strangers assume is somehow part of the family.

rose greets you with a polite kiss on the cheek.

“god,” sarah huffs beside you, already nudging you toward the bar. “if i hear one more old man say the word networking, i’m going to swan dive into the pool.”

you snort.

“do it. i’ll distract them with a toast to generational wealth.”

you’re halfway through a shared, wicked grin when you catch movement near the staircase—slow, easy, coiled. like the room moves around him.

rafe.

your heart betrays you with a flicker, a pause.

he looks dangerous tonight, not for the gunmetal suit or the way his collar’s unbuttoned just enough, but because he’s scanning the crowd like he’s hunting something he lost.

and then his gaze lands on you.

he doesn’t smirk. doesn’t look away.

you feel it like a tide pulling against your spine. still, you school your features and raise your glass to your lips, ignoring the way your skin warmed from the center outward.

sarah tugs your hand, muttering something about finding john b. you follow, obedient and smiling, but it’s not her you’re looking back for.

much later, after toasts are made and the champagne kisses your bloodstream, after sarah’s stolen your heels and is slow dancing with wheezie to some awful frank sinatra cover, you’re barefoot in the hallway just outside the ballroom.

the walls are humming with music, but out here, it’s quieter.

still.

you lean against the window seat and let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. just for a second.

“you always disappear.”

the voice coils down your spine like smoke.

you open your eyes.

rafe stands a few feet away, loosened tie and dark gaze, one hand braced on the wall beside you.

“maybe i like the quiet.” you raise a brow.

he hums, stepping forward once.

“you’re not quiet, though. not really.”

you don’t answer.

rafe angles his head.

“you looked good tonight.”

“thanks.” your voice is lighter than you expect it to be. “sofia didn’t come?”

he chuckles, a sharp exhale.

“she’s gone.”

“gone?”

“as in, done. over.” his tone softens. “i told you. she was never—” he pauses. “she wasn’t you.”

your breath stutters, barely.

he steps closer, close enough that you catch the scent of him, salt and cedar and the ghost of his expensive cologne.

“you know, i was watching you,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “all night. couldn’t help it.”

you don’t look at him.

“sarah—”

“she doesn’t know.” he cuts in, sharp and true. “but she’s not stupid. one day, she will.”

“then what?” you whisper. “this has to stop.”

rafe’s hand lifts, hesitates—then cradles your head.

“or maybe we stop pretending we don’t want more from each other.”

“you’re supposed to be the bad guy.” you exhale shakily, eyes fluttering closed.

he leans in, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“you never really bought that.”

once again, despite being able to taste each other’s breath, you don’t kiss. not yet. not now.

but the electricity thrums between you, alive and crackling, a fuse burning slow and bright.

outside, the party rages on.

inside, you stay in the hallway, neither of you moving, afraid that the moment you do—the spell will break.

___

꩜ taglist:

[isthlsfate]

what makes y’all love elvis?

for me, it’s not even just him as the man, it’s the idea of elvis, it’s the legacy and what he represents and the culture he’s built.

for me, elvis is the embodiment of everything that we see today in popular culture, celebrity, the themes that lana del rey sings about, the coquette style, the easy 70s style, elvis has influenced EVERYTHING. and that adds to the attraction, for a single man to have that much power on culture, over half a century after the peak of his fame.

when i think of elvis, i think of shining las vegas lights, 50s diners, frank sinatra and the rat pack, heart shaped sunglasses, the daddy dynamic, power, flamboyance, masculinity.

no man in recent history has shifted popular culture and still has such a grip on it than elvis presley. he’s in everything, and just imagine being the doll on his arm. everyone wants his attention but you’ve got all of it. UGH.

[isthlsfate]

💿 main.

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 - ✮, 𝐞.𝐩/𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧!𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐬 - ❀, 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 - ⏾

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

series

₁ ✮ can’t fight this feeling pt. i & ii

₂ ❀ i want you, i need you, i love you pt. i, ii, & iii*

₃ ❀ you don’t always get second chances pt. i & ii*

₄ ⏾ meet me in the hallway pt. i & ii

₅ ❀ the edge of reality pt. i*, ii, iii, iv*, & v

blurbs

₁ ❀ only human

₂ ❀ afterthought

₃ ❀ let me down slowly

₄ ❀ confessions

₅ ❀ reverie

₆ ❀ dulcet* (coming soon!)

one shots

₁ ❀ that’s all right*

₂ ❀ the girl who spit flowers

₃ ❀ bridge over troubled water*

₄ ❀ the other woman

₅ ⏾ hate to be lame

₆ ⏾ the weight of what we buried (coming soon!)

₇ ❀ return to sender (coming soon!)

8 ⏾ i only threw this party 4 u (coming soon!)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

© isthlsfate. please do not copy, translate, or repost my content on other platforms. blog is designed for mobile—may look wonky on web. all posts feature a black!reader, but everyone is welcome. 18+, minors do not interact.

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 ⌝

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: rafe cameron x black!pogue!reader, rafe pining over reader, fluff, some angst, descriptive words (reader has locs),

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

the air in the outer banks carries a familiar heat, heavy and wet with salt. the kind of warmth that clings to your skin, seeping into every pore.

it’s midday, and the sun burns overhead, casting long shadows of the oak trees lining the dirt paths that divide figure eight from the rest of the island.

rafe cameron stands at the edge of a dock, his sunglasses perched low on his nose, watching you.

the girl who doesn’t belong here, not in his world.

not in the way kooks like him are bred to believe in the natural order of things.

you’re a pogue.

a figure born from the crashing waves, the sandy streets, the smell of motor oil. the lines between the kooks and pogues have always been cleanly drawn, solid, and unshakable.

but then there’s you, and suddenly, everything rafe thought he knew seems as fragile as the shifting tide.

you sit cross-legged on the edge of a rickety boat dock, your head tilted back toward the sky as you laugh. it’s a sound that carries, light and musical, stirring something restless in his chest.

the sunlight pours over your melanated skin, golden and gleaming, catching on the high points of your cheekbones and the curve of your shoulders.

you’re radiant, effortless, and completely unaware of the way you’ve unraveled him from the inside out.

“you good, man?” topper’s voice cuts through his friend’s trance, startling him.

rafe doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze locked on you. you’re talking to a friend—someone he doesn’t recognize—a pogue like you. the way your hands move as you speak, the way your lips curve around your words, it’s all hypnotic.

“rafe.”

“what?” he snaps, finally tearing his eyes away to look at topper, who’s giving him a knowing smirk.

“never seen you this focused on something that doesn’t involve money or your dad’s approval,” topper teases.

rafe glares, but the heat rising in his chest isn’t just from irritation.

it’s shame.

he shouldn’t be looking at you like this, shouldn’t be thinking about the way your legs look folded beneath you, or how your locs catch the wind, or how your laugh makes the edges of his world feel less sharp.

“she’s not my type,” he mutters, more to himself than to topper.

the latter snickers.

“could’ve fooled me.”

rafe doesn’t respond. instead, he adjusts his sunglasses and walks away, his heart beating faster than it should.

the next time he sees you, it’s by chance.

you’re sitting outside the wreck, your hands wrapped around a glass of sweet tea, your legs stretched out in front of you. the sun has started to dip below the horizon, casting everything in hues of orange and pink.

rafe had only stopped by to grab a bite after dropping sarah off at the dock, but now he’s rooted to the spot, watching you through the window like a thief staking out something precious.

your focus is on the book in your lap, your brows drawn together in concentration.

the world moves around you, people chatting and laughing, but you’re still, completely absorbed in whatever story you’re reading.

before he can think better of it, he walks inside, his footsteps muffled by the hum of conversation and the creak of the wooden floorboards.

he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, only that he needs to be closer to you.

as he approaches your table, you glance up, your eyes meeting his blue ones. for a moment, there’s silence. you blink, surprised, and then your lips curl into a polite smile.

“hey,” you say, your voice soft but steady.

rafe clears his throat, shifting on his feet.

“hey, you.”

you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something else, but his mind has gone completely blank. all he can think about is how the fading sunlight catches on your skin, making it look impossibly warm and inviting.

“do you need something?” you ask, raising an amused eyebrow.

“uh, no, no. just…wanted to say hi,” he stammers, cursing himself internally.

you tilt your head, studying him.

“hi.” there’s a pause, and then you laugh—a soft, breathy sound that makes his chest ache. “you’re rafe, right? sarah’s brother?”

“yeah,” he says quickly, relieved to have something to latch onto. “that’s me.”

you nod, your smile widening just a fraction.

“she talks about you sometimes.”

“hopefully not all bad,” he jokes, trying to keep his tone light.

you chuckle, shaking your head.

he feels the breath leave his lungs as your locs sway around your face.

“no, not all bad.”

for a moment, there’s a flicker of something between you—a connection, faint but undeniable. rafe feels it like a jolt to his system, a reminder that there’s more to life than the expectations that have been suffocating him for as long as he can remember.

but then you glance back at your book, breaking the spell.

“well, it was nice meeting you, rafe.”

“yeah,” he says, hesitating before taking a step back. “nice meeting you too.”

as he walks away, he can’t help but glance over his shoulder. you’re already back to reading, oblivious to the way his world has tilted on its axis.

𓇼

days pass, and rafe tries to keep his distance, but the effort is futile.

it’s as though you’ve rooted yourself in his mind, unshakable, a quiet hum in the background of his thoughts. he finds excuses to visit the parts of the island he knows you frequent—the wreck, the docks, even the thrift shop near the cut where you sometimes work weekends.

it’s reckless, borderline obsessive, but he can’t stop himself. you’ve become a fixation, a gravitational pull he can’t resist.

the second time he sees you outside of chance is by his own design.

he lingers at the docks one evening, pretending to check on his boat while scanning the horizon. when you finally appear, carrying a tote bag over your shoulder and a half-smile tugging at your lips, his heart leaps.

“cameron?” your voice pulls him from his daze, and he straightens, feigning nonchalance.

“hey,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

you glance at him curiously.

“you’re here…again?”

“yeah, just, uh…figured i’d get out on the water for a bit.” it’s a weak lie, but you don’t question it.

instead, you give him a small smile, one that reaches your eyes.

“well, enjoy. it’s beautiful out tonight.”

you start to walk away, but something in him snaps.

“wait,” he calls out.

you stop, turning back. the setting sun paints the sky in shades of orange and pink, the light catching on your skin, making it glow as it always does.

he feels like he’s staring at a painting, something too beautiful and fleeting to be real.

“do you wanna…hang out? for a bit?” the words tumble out before he can stop them.

your brow arches in surprise, but after a moment, you nod.

“sure. why not?”

you step onto the dock and take the hand he offers as you climb aboard. his palm is warm and calloused, his grip firm but careful, and for a split second, you both linger, your skin touching longer than necessary.

when you finally pull away, the air feels heavier, charged.

“nice boat,” you say, looking around.

he shrugs, trying to play it cool.

“it’s just a boat.”

“sure,” you tease, smirking. “a really nice boat.”

he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“want a tour?”

you nod, and he shows you around, pointing out the small cabin below deck and the cooler stocked with beer and snacks. when you settle in at the bow, your legs dangling over the side, he sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush.

for a while, you both sit in silence, the gentle rocking of the boat and the sound of the waves filling the space between you.

“you come out here often?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

“yeah,” he says, his voice softer now. “it’s…peaceful. gets me away from everything, you know?”

you glance at him, studying his profile.

there’s something vulnerable about the way he’s looking out at the water, his usual bravado stripped away.

“yeah,” you say quietly. “i get that.”

he turns to you then, his blue eyes catching yours. for a moment, neither of you speak.

the tension hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable.

“you don’t…you don’t strike me as a boat kind of girl,” he says, his lips twitching into a half-smile.

“and what kind of girl do i strike you as?” you challenge, your voice light but your gaze unwavering.

his smile falters, his expression growing serious.

“the kind i can’t figure out,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

your breath catches, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. his eyes are on you, steady and searching, as though he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing,” you manage, your voice softer now.

“it’s not,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “it’s not bad. it’s just…different.”

“different how?”

he hesitates, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze falling to where your knees are still brushing.

“you make me think about things i don’t usually think about,” he says finally. “like what it would be like to—” he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut.

“to what?” you press, your voice tinged with curiosity.

he shakes his head, standing abruptly.

“forget it.”

you frown, watching as he paces the small deck.

“rafe, what’s going on?”

“nothing,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “just…nothing.”

“it doesn’t feel like nothing.” you stand too, stepping closer to him.

he looks at you then, his expression conflicted, like he’s fighting some internal battle.

“you should probably go,” he says finally, his voice strained.

your stomach sinks, but you nod, biting back the questions swirling in your mind.

“okay,” you say softly, stepping off the boat and onto the dock.

as you walk away, you glance back over your shoulder. he’s still standing there, his hands clenched at his sides, watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher.

and as much as you try to push the moment away, it lingers, an unspoken truth hanging between you, heavy and unrelenting.

𓇼

from then on, the encounters become more frequent, more intentional. he learns little things about you—the way your laugh always starts with a soft hum before spilling out into something louder, the way your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on surfaces when you’re lost in thought, the way you light up when talking about your favorite books or places on the island.

you’re nothing like the girls he’s used to. you’re grounded, genuine, unapologetically yourself.

and it terrifies him.

one night, the two of you sit on the edge of the docks, your legs dangling over the water.

the moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over everything.

“why do you keep doing this?” you ask suddenly, your voice soft but steady.

“doing what?”

“hanging around me. i mean, let’s be real, rafe. you’re a kook. i’m not. people are gonna talk.”

he hesitates, his jaw tightening.

“i don’t care what people think.”

“why, though? why me?” you look at him, your eyes searching his.

the question lingers in the air, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer. how does he explain the way you’ve turned his world upside down, the way you make him feel like there’s more to life than money and status and expectation?

“because you’re…you,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

your skin warms, satisfied with his answer. you try to suppress the smile tugging on your lips, but it wins as you gently lean your head on his shoulder.

𓇼

it’s at a party at the boneyard that everything comes crashing down.

you arrive together, a fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the crowd. heads turn, whispers ripple through the air, but as promised, rafe doesn’t care.

he’s too focused on you, anyway, the way your sundress clings to your curves, the way your hair frames your face.

the party is chaotic, and at some point, the two of you get separated. rafe weaves through the crowd, scanning for you, his chest tightening with every passing minute.

when he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

you’re standing with pope, his hand resting lightly on your arm as the two of you talk.

rafe knows pope, knows he’s harmless, that he’s more likely to be studying than flirting, but that doesn’t stop the jealousy from flaring hot and vicious in his chest.

he watches as you laugh at something pope says, the sound sending a jolt of anger through him.

his hands clench into fists at his sides, and before he can think better of it, he’s striding toward you.

“having fun?” he asks, his voice sharp, his gaze fixed on you.

you turn to him, surprised.

“rafe—”

“we should go,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

pope steps back, his eyes narrowing.

“is there a problem?”

“no,” the dirty-blonde snaps, his eyes never leaving yours. “let’s go.”

the argument erupts as soon as you’re alone, the two of you standing in the shadow of the dunes, the sound of the party muffled in the distance.

“what the hell was that?” you demand, your eyes blazing.

“what was that?” he fires back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “you tell me, hanging all over pope like that.”

“hanging all over—are you serious? we were talking, rafe!”

“yeah, sure looked like it.”

you glare at him, your chest heaving.

“why do you even care? you’re the one who keeps pushing me away like this doesn’t mean anything.”

the words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, he’s speechless.

“i never said that,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

“you didn’t have to.” your voice cracks, and you hate how vulnerable it sounds. “you act like this is just some game, like you’re keeping me around because you’re bored, and it’s killing me, rafe. i can’t keep doing this.”

his hands shake as he runs them through his hair, his frustration boiling over.

“you think this is easy for me? do you have any idea what it’s like, wanting you and knowing i shouldn’t? knowing i’ll never be good enough for you?”

you freeze, his words sinking in.

for a moment, the anger dissolves, replaced by something heavier, deeper.

“rafe…”

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” he admits, his voice raw, broken. “all i know is that i can’t stop thinking about you. about the way you smile, the way you look at me like i’m something more than i am. you’re everything i’m not, and it scares the hell out of me.”

your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice, the way his eyes shine with unshed tears.

he closes the distance between you, his hand hesitating before brushing against your cheek.

“i don’t want to be scared anymore,” he whispers.

your body hums with anticipation, the world around you fading.

all you see is him.

the kiss that follows is slow, deliberate, a culmination of every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every quiet moment that’s led to this. it’s not perfect—it’s messy, desperate, and full of emotion—but it feels like coming home.

when you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest against each other, your breaths mingling in the cool night air.

the night stretches on, the stars above witnessing the fragile, tentative beginning of something neither of you fully understand, but are finally ready to embrace.

___

꩜ taglist:

[isthlsfate]

💿 nav.

© isthlsfate. please do not copy, translate, or repost my content on other platforms. blog is designed for mobile—may look wonky on web. all posts feature a black!reader, but everyone is welcome. 18+, minors do not interact.

[isthlsfate]

OFF LIMITS – rafe cameron masterlist ¡

social media & irl AU !

“we shouldn't be doing this, rafe.”

“i was barely holding myself back, it's your fault for tempting me.”

pairing brother's best friend!rafe cameron x brat!reader

summary you slide into a random boy's dms on instagram, anything but expecting him to end up being your brother's best friend, let alone the person you'll be spending your summer vacation with. while resisting Rafe and his lingering gazes was an option, you found yourself in the constant loop of crossing the line; said line being your brother.

content forbidden love, slow burn (sort of), fluff, sneaking around, family friends, beach (lots of it!!), unresolved tension, slight angst, nsfw

a/n hiii!! wooo so excited for this honestly aahhh i hope you guys give it a chance i have so much plans for it ahaha!! let me know if you want to be tagged or if i should make a taglist in the first place (sigh idk how this works 😣)

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three – coming soon !

[isthlsfate]

feeling grief over someone who shaped part of your childhood / teenage years ≠ excusing his actions.

you can grieve someone and still not like them or agree with their actions. a reminder that two things can be true at once.

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, angst, cheating, slightly toxic!elvis

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

the moment elvis walks through the door, it feels like the ground shakes beneath you, but not in the way you once dreamed it would.

he’s back from deployment, tall and broad-shouldered as ever, his presence commanding the room like it always does.

but there’s something, someone, by his side, a blonde woman with a sparkling smile and a grip on his arm that makes your stomach turn.

her. it’s her.

you stand there, frozen, as your mother, nancy, greets them at the door.

“welcome back, mr. presley,” she says, trying to hide her surprise at the sight of the woman clinging to him.

your heart races, pounding in your ears so loud you barely hear the small talk.

“elvis,” you manage, your voice coming out weaker than you want. he looks over at you, his eyes flicking over your face, and for a moment, you think you see a flicker of recognition, of something, anything, that could explain this.

but he says nothing.

instead, the woman pipes up, beaming.

“you must be nancy’s daughter! elvis has told me so much about you.” her voice is sweet, dripping with condescension, as if she’s already staking her claim in the space you once thought was yours.

“elvis,” you repeat, louder this time, your eyes locked on him, willing him to acknowledge the unspoken truth that’s hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

he clears his throat.

“yeah, uh, this is stacey,” he says awkwardly, avoiding your eyes. “we met while i was away.”

“met?” you echo, the word like ash on your tongue. your pulse quickens. “met?”

the betrayal is sharp, slicing through your chest.

“yeah,” stacey chimes in, still clinging to him. “we hit it off right away, didn’t we, satnin?”

she looks up at him adoringly, and you want to scream.

the word hits you like a slap. satnin. that’s what you used to call him, in the quiet of the night when he would sneak into your room, pulling you close and whispering promises he never intended to keep.

the world blurs around you, and all you can focus on is the way she says it—like she owns him, like that name was never yours.

your blood runs cold.

your mother hurries out of the room, sensing the tension, leaving you alone with them. it’s just the three of you now, the air thick and suffocating.

“elvis, what is this?” you ask, stepping forward. “you promised…”

the words choke in your throat, but you won’t let them fall away. not now. not when you’ve kept this secret, this relationship, buried deep for so long.

his jaw tightens.

“i didn’t… i ain’t promise nothin’,” he says, the lie bitter on his lips.

“really?” your voice rises, the anger bubbling to the surface. “that’s what you’re going with? after all the nights you spent sneaking into my room? after everything we—”

“don’t,” he snaps, his eyes finally meeting yours, hard and unyielding. “that was… it ain’t like that.”

“not like that?” you repeat, incredulous. “then what was it, elvis? because you made me believe it was real. you made me believe we had something.”

stacey’s eyes narrow, and she looks between the two of you, sensing the shift.

“wait a minute,” she says, her voice cold now. “what’s going on here? what the hell is she talking about, elvis?”

you glare at her, the heat of your rage burning in your chest.

“i’m talking about the fact that i’ve been with him. that we were together.”

elvis groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“this ain’t the time for this.”

“no, it’s exactly the time!” you shout, your voice shaking. “you come back here with her like i don’t even exist? after everything we went through?”

stacey crosses her arms, stepping in front of elvis like she’s marking her territory.

“you’re seriously trying to tell me you and elvis were… what? a thing? i don’t believe it. not for a second.”

your chest tightens, the disbelief twisting into something ugly.

“you don’t have to believe it. but it’s the truth.”

elvis stays silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, and the silence feels like a slap in the face. he’s not denying it, but he’s not fighting for you either.

it’s like you’re watching him slip away, out of reach, into the arms of someone who has no idea what the two of you shared.

stacey’s face twists with anger.

“you’re lying. he would’ve told me if you meant anything. he wouldn’t hide something like that from me.”

you laugh, bitter and cold.

“wouldn’t he? that’s all we ever did. hide. sneak around. because he didn’t want anyone to know.”

“that’s enough,” elvis cuts in, his voice harsh. but you’re past the point of caring, past the point of holding back.

“it is not!” the words explode from you, raw and jagged, and the room falls deadly silent.

elvis looks up, his blue eyes wide, startled, and for a brief, flickering moment, you catch a glimpse of the man you thought you knew—the warmth, the softness that once made you feel safe.

just as quickly, it vanishes.

his gaze hardens, turning cold and distant, like a door slamming shut between you, leaving nothing but an icy void where there used to be something real.

stacey’s face twists in confusion and fury.

“is it true, elvis?” she demands, her voice tight. “you were with her? what, was she some side piece to you? the other woman?”

you freeze at the words. other woman. that’s what you are, isn’t it? the secret. the hidden affair that no one talks about. the girl in the shadows while he’s out there, with her.

the realization burns, and you feel the weight of it crushing you from the inside out.

he doesn’t answer, and the silence is all the confirmation she needs.

“unbelievable,” she hisses, turning on him. “you lied to me. about her? about this?”

“it wasn’t like that, honey,” he mutters, but she’s already backing away from him, her face contorted with betrayal.

“wasn’t like that?” you interrupt, your voice shaking with anger and hurt. “you lied to both of us. you made me believe i meant something to you, and now you bring her here? acting like i’m nothing?”

stacey rounds on you, her eyes flashing.

“you think you’re the victim here? you’re nothing but the other woman. he’s with me now, so whatever little fling you had—”

“i am not the other woman!” you scream, the words ripping out of you, raw and jagged. “i was here first!” your voice cracks, and your eyes blur with unshed tears as you stare through elvis like he’s a stranger. “you were mine first!”

the room falls silent at your outburst, the weight of your confession hanging in the air.

elvis stares at you, stunned, his face shadowed with regret and shame and for a brief moment, you see the truth in his eyes. he knows it too. you were his before anyone else. before stacey.

the blonde haired woman doesn’t care. she’s already storming out of the room, her heels clicking angrily against the floor as she mutters curses under her breath.

“elvis!” she snaps as she reaches the door. “you’re a coward. a liar. don’t bother calling me.”

the door slams shut behind her, leaving you and elvis alone, the silence deafening.

you stand there, chest heaving, staring at the man you thought you knew. the man you loved.

but now, you see him for what he is.

“you didn’t even fight for me,” you whisper, your voice trembling as a lone tear slips down your cheek. the weight of the words hangs in the air, heavy and broken. you choke on the emotion clawing at your throat, staring at him through the haze of your tears. “i was yours first, and you didn’t even fight.”

___

꩜ taglist: @dhimpson @ab4eva @crash-and-cure @elvisslut @iloveelvis2 @elvis-presleys-stuff