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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years

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Pink Scarf - PART 18.2 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Sex. SO MUCH ANGST. Medication/drug use/overdose. Dub con (sort of?). References to medical trauma, miscarriage, infertility. Blood. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 16.3k (LOLOLOLOLOL)

A/N: Y'ALL, I'M SO SORRY, it's a monstrosity. I couldn't help it. There was just so much to be said while still in E's POV, so that's how we ended up here, over 16k. But we finally learn Elvis' BIG SECRET and experience the mighty fallout from that in his eyes, so hopefully it's worth it. This is my Thanksgiving gift to all of you, but you may want to pace yourselves. I feel like I had to rip my heart out a little bit to really get in E's headspace. Prepare yourselves emotionally. That's all I will say.

A quick note about the pictures...the first is actually from when he bought Graceland in March 1957 and it just works PERFECTLY for the beginning. I couldn't resist the pics from Red West's wedding in 1961, even though I know the timeline and the people don't match but the VIBES, the VIBES my friends, are oh so Jack and Reader's wedding so I just had to include them. The one for 1960 was taken the night of the Rollerdome. *sob*

If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Some of you have been asking about this, and of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY which is always evident but especially so when someone tried to steal PS last week and y'all went 'ride or die' for me instantly, without question, getting it taken down in record time. I didn't in a million years expect this kind of support and response for Pink Scarf, and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my AO3 account, as well as my NEW Wattpad account. so if you are so inclined, you can check it out/support me over there with kudos and votes and whatnot!)

(Elvis in March 1957, Graceland)

March 1957

Elvis parks in front of your house, his mind whirling with noise. He’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, but as soon as he’d gotten off that train, he knew he needed something that he couldn’t get from any of the guys or even his mama. So, he finds himself unexpectedly here.

Turning off the car, he seeks any sort of relief from the heartache he feels. He’s been holding it all in since the train stop in New Orleans, the one that sent the world crumbling under his feet, destroying the pretty picture he’d had for the future. But all that is gone now and here he sits, hands tapping on the steering wheel with nervous energy.

He nods to himself, finally leaping out of the car, and then he saunters down the walkway to the front door. The chime of the doorbell can be heard through the door, and he listens carefully, grateful to hear light footsteps from beyond.

When you open the door, it’s like he can breathe again for the first time since the train pulled away in New Orleans. You look surprised to see him, those big eyes of yours widening the slightest before you speak.

“Elvis, you’re home?” you ask with a hint of confusion, but overall, you seem pleased at finding him on your doorstep.

“Just got in, baby,” he says, that boyish smile curving up. He gathers you up into a big bear hug and instantly feels better as he breathes in the unique scent of your shampoo and lingering perfume. A scent that feels like home.

“And you came right here?” you ask, brow furrowing when he pulls away. He notices that you look a bit worn around the edges, darker circles rimming your eyes as if you haven’t been sleeping well.

You’re right to be confused. Of course, he hadn’t planned to see you right away. He’d planned to sweep June off her feet in New Orleans, wanting to show her Graceland immediately, the home he’d thought they’d share together for the rest of their lives. But all that had been dashed as soon as she’d blurted out that she was engaged to another man. Engaged. His June.

“I want to show ya something,” he blurts out instead of saying any of this. “It’s a surprise! Will ya come?” Oh, god, you have to come, he thinks. His heart might shatter if you don’t, though he’s not exactly sure why. You’re not his—you and Jack have been dating for nearly a year—so it’s not as though if you don’t come that it really means anything. Yet, still he hopes. He needs this. He needs to share this moment with someone he cares about.

Despite the fatigue in your eyes, you nod quickly, and then as if you can’t leave the house fast enough, you grab your purse and coat and shut the door behind you without a word.

He smiles gratefully, and relieved, he grabs your hand and practically skips to the car. Once he has you tucked in safely, he runs around the front of the Cadillac, jumps in, and peels away. It’s not too far of a drive, and he yammers on about the last few months he’s been away, the words flying out of him. You nod and ask all the right questions, but he notices that you are pensive, quieter than usual.

His verbal diarrhea halts for long enough for his brain to take into account that you don’t seem your usual self, and he asks, “Are you okay?”

You look down at your hands and then out the window, as if contemplating if and how much to share, which makes him a little nervous. Your fingers twist in your lap.

“Honestly? It’s been a hard few weeks, E,” you finally say, still unable to meet his eyes. “My nana passed last Tuesday.”

He’s mortified that he’d just been going on and on about himself and here you were dealing with such a loss. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know. I know how close you two were,” he says remorsefully, reaching his hand over to clasp one of yours.

You shake your head, sniffling back tears. “It’s okay, you’ve been away. There was no way for you to know. And I keep telling myself that she’s in a better place now, but that doesn’t really help all that much. I guess it still doesn’t seem real.”

He nods, because he can’t seem to think of anything to say that will make any of this better for you. “We can do this another time, baby, if you’re not feeling up to it,” he finally gets out.

“No, no. I need something to do instead of moping around the house. I’m worn from being sad and worrying about the rest of it. No, I’m glad you showed up, E. I can’t wait to see your surprise,” you add quickly, trying for a smile.

“The rest of it? What’re you so worried about, baby?” It’s obvious you don’t expect him to pick up on that because he sees the quick look of panic that flashes over your face at the question, so he’s quick to add, “I mean, you don’t hafta talk ‘bout it if ya don’t wanna, but I can tell somethin’ else is weighin’ on ya.”

“You could say that,” you sigh, raising your eyes to the roof and back down again. The twisting fingers are back. “God knows I haven’t been sleeping, and it’s giving me these terrible headaches.” You pinch the bridge of your nose for respite. “I…well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell you, Elvis, because it’s about Jack, and I really don’t want him to think I’m running around telling everyone our business.”

A warning rush rolls over him at this because he suddenly and very desperately wants to know what has happened with Jack, and that is a dangerous game for all kinds of reasons, many of which he’s not ready to admit to himself.

“I swear and cross my heart I won’t say a word, if you wanna tell me,” he says instead, a little too eagerly, so he quickly adds, “If it’ll help ya feel better and all.”

He forces himself to watch the road and not you, but he can practically hear your mind whirring.

“Oh, fine, but not a word out of you to anyone, Elvis Presley, I mean it. I know how bad you are with secrets,” you glare at him.

“I promise, I promise!” he concedes, crossing his heart. “I swear on my mama!”

“Well, in the midst of all this with Nana, I found out that Jack was dating other women a while back while we were going together. Apparently, I thought we were exclusive, but he didn’t, and well…” you trail off bitterly.

Elvis has to bite his tongue and bite it hard because somehow this wasn’t what he expected, and oh, lord, he knows too much for comfort.

Thankfully, you take this as him listening intently, because you continue, “I know I shouldn’t be too mad at him. I suppose it’s an honest mistake, seeing as maybe we didn’t communicate clearly enough about where we stood with each other. But it was so obvious to me, and I don’t understand how it wasn’t obvious to him. It’s not like I was going around with other guys all the time! I know it was months ago, but damn if it doesn’t really sting. Part of me feels like such an idiot, you know? What else don’t I know about him and what he’s doing? It just makes it hard to trust him, even though he was truthful about it when I asked.” He can sense the conflict in you, as your voice fills and shakes with the emotion of your held-back tears.

His heart is beating fast now, and all he is seemingly able to do is nod furiously, as if agreeing vehemently with all you are saying. The problem is that Elvis is complicit in all this and you have no idea. You have no idea that he was the one who pushed the showgirls onto Jack when he came to visit him in Vegas in November. You have no idea that “dating” didn’t have much to do with it at all. And now he feels altogether shitty for being the one to put Jack in that position in the first place. He’d managed to spread his own unfaithfulness and debauchery right on over to Jack, and now you are the one paying for it.

Shit.

Although, knowing Jack, it’s also possible that there was other dating happening, too. Either way, Elvis knows he’s got to tread real careful here and needs to keep his trap shut.

But Elvis can’t stand that hurt look in your eyes when he dares to take his eyes off the road to glance at you. He hates how angry and sad you look, the blue-black circles under your eyes conveying your distress.

And his emotions feel complicated, too complicated for comfort. He suddenly wonders if he didn’t present Jack with those temptations on purpose because there is a very deep and selfish part of him that desperately wants you to kick Jack to the curb for this, and that terrible, selfish part of him wants you to finally see Elvis in the same way he sees you.

Maybe there’s a reason that things didn’t work out with June, that voice pokes at him hopefully.

Stop that shit right now.

All this is playing through his head and leaving him outwardly silent. He realizes he has to say something, anything, because you are waiting for him to do so.

“I-I’m sorry that happened, ‘specially finding out at the same time as all this with your Nana. W-What are you gonna do about Jack?” he says, trying not to gulp.

He watches your eyes narrow and then he quickly looks back at the road. He can feel you shift in your seat.

“I…well, right now, I wanna pummel his brains out, so I told him I need some space to figure out what I want to do. I just—I thought we…” you trail off dismally. “I don’t want to go through this again,” you add quietly.

Elvis knows you are talking about Ted. Stupid Teddy who stepped out and got Judy Cole knocked up and then left you brokenhearted in his wake. It still pisses him off, even though he knows he’s got no right to judge Ted, not now, not after all the foolin’ around he’s done.

But when it comes to you, he can’t help but be protective. It’s in his bones, the way he wants to take care of you. In fact, he wouldn’t mind punching Jack in the face right about now for hurting you like this. And he’s even more pissed at himself for his part in it all.

Elvis just wants you to be happy and to be with a man who deserves you, and deep down, he doesn’t know if that man is Jack, even though he loves Jack like a brother. But the real problem is he’s not sure if he thinks any man will ever be good enough for you.

But his brain is wary to dwell on the meaning of that, wanting to avoid anything else that feels uncomfortable, so instead, he lets the excitement of showing you his new home overshadow any other unwanted feelings he might be experiencing.

“Okay, baby, we’re almost there, so close your eyes,” he says excitedly, changing the subject abruptly, before pulling up the long drive.

“Alright, Elvis, this better be a big surprise with how hyped up you are,” you chuckle, letting the mood turn by doing as you are told.

“The biggest,” he breathes, sliding to a stop in front of the Colonial mansion. “Don’t open your eyes yet! I’ll come around!”

You wait until you hear the car door open and feel his hand take yours. He gently brings you out of the car to standing, an excited energy vibrating through him.

“Okay, darlin’, open!” he drawls dramatically.

You do, blinking out the early Spring sunlight. He watches your face light up as you take in the architecture.

“Oh my god, Elvis, it’s beautiful,” you say in awe. “Is it yours?”

“Yes, baby, it’ll be all mine very soon. And for Mama and Daddy, of course,” he adds hastily, as if you’d thought he’d abandon his parents.

“Of course,” you smile, looking at him with those pretty, though tired, eyes of yours. “Can we go inside?” you ask.

All he can do is nod excitedly. Elvis takes your hand, pulling you up the steps and past the huge white columns on either side. He can’t unlock the door fast enough, the keys rattling and shaking in his hands. Once inside, he pulls you through the house, mouth running a mile a minute about what he wants to do in each room, how he wants it to look.

Finally, you make it to the top level, the last room. “This is gonna be my bedroom,” he rambles on. “I’m gonna get the biggest bed you’ve ever seen in your life, made special.”

You gently pull your hand out of his, and he watches as you take a small pill bottle out of your purse and pop two of the pills before downing them dry. Aspirin, probably, for the headache you were talking about in the car.

“E, stop a minute,” you say. “This is all amazingly wonderful and beautiful, and I am so excited for you, but…well, what exactly am I doing here?” You look at him with curious and concerned eyes.

“I…uh…I…,” he stammers, unsure of what to say or how to say it, as it’s all been spinning inside for hours and hours. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes. He certainly doesn’t want to put any of his stuff onto you, not now, not after what you told him earlier. His hands fall to his sides, and he shakes them, wiggling his fingers like he does to come down after a show. It doesn’t help. There’s just too much emotion rolling through him all the sudden.

You step to him, first putting your hands on his shoulders, then you run them gently down his arms before grabbing his flailing hands, absorbing some of that wild energy. The feeling still manages to send little electric shocks through him, even after all this time. Only then does he finally still and dare to look at you.

“E, what’s wrong? You let me talk earlier, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” you ask, your eyes searching his, open and concerned. He should’ve known you’d see right through him. Maybe that’s why you’re here, because he knew you’d understand, that you’d be able to tell he wasn’t okay when no one else cared to.

It takes a moment for him to gather his words as his emotions get in the way. Emotions he stoically hid from the guys the rest of the way to Memphis. Emotions he pushed down when he saw his mama because he just couldn’t bear to break her heart yet with the news. God, he’s spent so much time recently learning how to hide everything real about himself in order to become the man everyone wants him to be. But here, now, with you, it all begins to overflow.

“I-I-I told June to meet me in New Orleans. I-I w-w-was gonna bring her back here, to show her w-what I-I wanted to buy…for us,” he says, bouncing on his toes, tears welling and clouding his vision. He hates how it’s tearing him in two to say this.

You squeeze his hands, urging him to continue, and for you, he does.

“But when I-I got there, she was acting so strange. There w-wasn’t much time and, uh, she told me she’s engaged to someone else.” He blinks and the tears run over, finally spilling down his cheeks. Saying it out loud suddenly makes it feel all too real. His chest aches with betrayal, with loss.

You look at him with such care, though you do not look shocked at this news.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, E. I know you how much you loved her,” you say, squeezing his hands again gently.

‘Loved.’ As in past tense.

“Did you know?” he asks suddenly, stepping back, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You take a conscious deep breath. “No, I didn’t. But she did call me a few times wondering where you were, if you were okay. She said she hadn’t heard from you in months…” you say awkwardly, petering off.

“Aw, shit,” he curses, running a hand through his greased hair. A wave of anger rolls through him, burning him from the inside, but as much as he wants to put it on June and her spiteful engagement, he knows the anger is mostly towards himself. He fucked up. He fucked around. And he’d expected June to just sit back and wait for him while he did it. He didn’t even make the time to call her.

And you know what he’s done. He can see it on your face. He looks down, unable to meet your eyes.

You don’t speak. You don’t lay into him or tell him he’s an asshole, although it might be better if you did. God knows he’s already thinking it. You just look at him with sadness and understanding and forgiveness, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

With that ache in his heart, he finally realizes that he couldn’t have loved June the way he said he did and then leave her hanging like that. But he did love her…at least, he had. They’d had such a beautiful summer together and he was sure he wanted to marry her, once his fame was settled. Three years, he’d told her.

Shit, I didn’t even make it six months, he thinks absently.

And then everything changed almost overnight. His fame exploded. There was Hollywood, then Vegas. And the girls, good god, there were so many beautiful girls who wanted him, needed him, who threw themselves at him. He’d been weak. He hated being alone. He couldn’t help it. It was just sex, he’d told himself, just a way to blow off steam as his world became smaller and smaller and nearly suffocated him. A thousand excuses run through his head, but in the end, it was his choice not to pick up the phone. It was his choice to screw around, to live this life.

It’s no wonder that June moved on, he thinks. I’m a first-rate asshole.

“Y/n, I messed it all up,” Elvis finally chokes out. The sob fully breaks the dam holding him together, the pressures of his fame and the realization hitting him like a truck: he is never going to be able to have that normal life with a wife and kids he’d once dreamed of. His knees buckle under the weight of all of it—his decisions, both good and bad, the fame he doesn’t know what to do with, the unexpected consequences of this privileged but isolating life he’s chosen.

He sinks to his knees, defeated, on the carpet of his future bedroom, the one he’ll probably never share with someone who loves him for who he truly is. Because he isn’t just Elvis Aron Presley anymore—he is “Elvis Presley,” the celebrity, the commodity, the fantasy.

While he relishes in the luxuries of it all, in being able to provide the life his family deserves, a small part of him cannot help but feel like he’s made a deal with the devil. That this talent he has been blessed with will also be the thing that damns him. He is overcome by the feeling that he’ll never know ever again if he is loved for who he really is, or if it is his fame and his image they love. And there is something about that that crushes his soul.

But he can’t say all this to you because it sounds dramatic and indulgent, and he knows there are very few people in this world who’d actually understand. This is his cross to bear.

And yet you still comfort him. You are still here. “Oh, hon, I know. It’s okay, I know,” you say, kneeling down with him.

In the midst of all he’s achieved and gained these past few years, June is the representation of all that he stands to lose, all that he’s already lost. “She was my last chance, y/n. I’m never gonna be able to trust that a woman loves me for me and not for my fame after this. And I screwed it all up,” he says quietly, tears running freely. “I just feel so fucking alone.”

“Oh, that’s not true, Elvis, it’s not,” you say, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll find her, I know you will. And you have so many people who love you for just being you, not for the fancy cars or the mansion or the fame. You’ve got your family, you’ve got Jack and your true friends. And you’ve got me.”

The way you say it, so softly, yet so matter-of-fact hits him hard, so hard that his heart stops beating for a moment. If he wasn’t already kneeling, the honest way your tired yet beautiful eyes search his face might knock him right off his feet.

It’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you, he thinks suddenly. This is the feeling he was avoiding in the car. The feeling he’s been avoiding since he watched Jack kiss your cheek in the diner a year ago.

It takes his breath away. You take his breath away, you always have. He’s been enamored with you since you plowed into him all those years ago in the hallway at Humes High.

Suddenly, June is all but forgotten because you reach up, cupping his face in your cold little hands and wipe a tear off his cheek. He cannot help the way his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation of the pad of your thumb dragging softly across his face. His breathing, rapid from his cries is now labored for another reason entirely.

Opening his eyes slowly, he shouldn’t be shocked to see tears in yours, your grief and sorrow, not only for yourself, but for him, too, welling there, as if you are connected to him. In fact, Elvis feels like his brain is short-circuiting because you are too damn close and the tension in the room is suddenly so thick, he feels like he might suffocate.

Every cell in his body feels on fire as you lean in closer and closer until your lips press against his forehead. You’ve never kissed him, not once in all these years, and this alone sends heat rushing through his young body. Then when you kiss his nose, and then one tear-stained cheek, he holds his breath, feeling like he might die from this chaste sensation.

Warning bells explode in his brain because suddenly he wants you more than anything in this world, always has. And now you are so close. This is Jack’s girl, he thinks, and she’s my dear friend. Don’t be an idiot.

But when you lean in to kiss his other cheek, you place your lips alarmingly close to his, his tears wet underneath your soft lips, and his body is on high alert as only a twenty-two-year-old’s could be. His heart flutters as you pull back just enough to look deeply into his eyes, tears shining in your own, and then you lean in once more.

This can’t be happening. This should not be happening, his mind screams, but then your lips are grazing his and all rational thought ceases to exist.

You taste so sweet.

Heat blooms through the ache in his chest, and in his disbelief, he freezes. Part of him wants to devour you whole, but he is terrified that if he moves, he might spook you and he cannot bear that.

His confusion is overridden when your hands, shaking but demanding, pull him closer. Your lips are soft and sure, and he cannot help but be swept away by them. He’s kissed so many girls, too many to count, all over the country, but not one has ever made him feel like this, like his heart is going to leap out of his damn chest.

But this is a betrayal of a monumental kind, for both of you. While he is no stranger to betrayal, he does not want this for you. As much as he wants you with every fiber of his being, he does not want to be the source of your regret or heartache. He’s already done enough in that regard already, though you don’t know it. Mustering up every ounce of his self-control, Elvis pulls out of your kiss.

“Y/n, baby, you don’t want this. I’m no good for you this way,” Elvis says in a hushed tone, his forehead resting against yours. “I-I can’t have you regretting me, I-I-I couldn’t bear it.”

You lean back the slightest bit, and he thinks you might be listening, reconsidering, making him feel mostly dismay but also a little relief. What he does not expect is for you to press your little pointer finger up against his lips, hushing him, as you stare into his eyes. It’s as though your soul is as weary and needy as his and it feels as though you see him, truly see him, which is a new feeling for him. This sends a welcoming shiver down his spine, and he knows that despite every scrap of logic and propriety he is trying to lean on, with you he is powerless.

When your finger drags down his lips, catching on the bottom one, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his groin. Yet still he resists (even though he wants more than anything to see where this is going), thinking you might realize your mistake, and this will all be over in an embarrassed, yet still salvageable, flash.

Instead, you very deliberately scoot closer, your knees bumping his on the carpet. You lean in again, your lips grazing his again with a yearning he cannot help but return in kind. It’s barely a kiss, but the intent is there and when you pull up, effectively opening your mouth to him, the way he can feel your warm breath mingling with his own has him struggling to control himself.

You are testing him, testing the waters, hesitant but somehow insistent at the same time. His long lashes flutter closed when your fingers brush his jaw then rake into his perfectly styled hair. But it’s when the tip of your tongue touches his, sending a hot shockwave through him, that he can stand it no longer and closes the gap between your mouths with a longing sigh.

Pressing his pliant lips to your yielding ones, he rolls his tongue softly but firmly against yours, earning him a quiet moan from you. This is like fuel on the fire, finally spurring him into action, and his hands fly to the back of your head, pulling you closer.

If there is one thing besides music that Elvis excels at and loves to do, it’s kissing. He plays with it the same way he plays a crowd, listening to you and adjusting his performance as necessary. The buzzy way it makes him feel, like every nerve is magnetic, is one of the only things in this world that is anything like how it feels for him to perform for an audience. He loves the way it makes him feel.

But kissing you is unlike anything Elvis has experienced before. It’s as though you are tuned to the exact same frequency, finding his rhythm immediately, adapting easily. The usual fumbling of people getting acquainted in this way does not seem to apply to the two of you, the ebb and flow so natural it’s as though you had done this with each other many times before.

But the passion of it stokes a fire that has been denied a long time. Intense heat crashes over him, sending tendrils of warmth through his limbs and deep into his belly. He drinks you in as deep as he can without being desperate, and oh how close he is to being desperate for you. His grief over June melts away the more he tastes you, and he wonders how he ever lived before having the taste of your lips on his.

It's all very dramatic and romantic, which he is both at heart. From just a few kisses, he suddenly knows that if he could kiss you and only you for the rest of his life, he would be a happy man indeed. This surprises him.

But what truly shocks him is when you lean so far into him that it pushes him over, his knees screaming a little, and he falls back into the wall with a thump. He scrambles backwards, maneuvering his long legs into a more comfortable seated position while you don’t even miss a beat or attempt to come up for air. And when you crawl into his lap, hoisting the flowing fabric of your dress up just enough so your warm, bare thighs are straddling his, his heart actually flies right out of his goddamned chest.

Speaking of which, you are currently running your hands down his, pulling his silky shirt up enough to dance your fingertips over his stomach. His breath hitches then hisses at that, his arms involuntarily encompassing you, large hands splaying across your back to draw you ever nearer.

And you go willingly, inching up his lap until you are straddling his hips. When you grind down into his lap, he thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven, his blue eyes rolling back into his head with a low moan.

He'll admit he’s dreamed of this, fantasized about this, but nothing could truly prepare him for the reality of the way you are making him feel. A trickle of attraction that began six years ago is now a roaring river, and is so, so much more than anything he’s felt before with anyone else.

He doesn’t understand it. He loves women. He always falls in love too fast, enjoying the rapid descent into the madness of it all. There have only been a few that he feels were true, though every girl he’s with, he loves in his own way.

But you are not like any of them, not at all. With you, it has been slow, so gradual sometimes that he didn’t even realize it. A teenage crush turned into friendship, and within that has blossomed a love that he didn’t know he was capable of. It is not until this very instant that he realizes it truly for what it has become. He doesn’t just care for you. He loves you.

He is in love with you.

Fuck.

Realizing this as your hips begin to rock steadily over his crotch is not the best timing. He’s as hard as a rock, fighting both the swell of his physical need for you while wrestling with the emotional needs he’s quickly realizing at the same time.

If he didn’t love you, he might not care if this is just a quick fuck between friends, but he does care. And he’s worried about where this is coming from, likely your overall grief and your anger at Jack. No, he doesn’t like the messiness of that at all.

But another grind of your pelvis into his, coupled with your tongue down his throat has the physical quickly taking over any and all rational thought. He wants you, more than he’s ever wanted anyone. And he desperately wants to give you what you need, which based on the mewls escaping your lips, is a physical release, a connection.

God, he can feel the wet heat of your cunt now through your panties and his pants as you slide over his length, back and forth, again and again. He clings to you as your hands wind through his hair, burying his head in your neck, his lips taking in as much of your skin as he can. He revels in the scent of you, your perfume and your irresistible musk that is permeating the room. He is positively dizzy with it.

You are frantic in his lap now, chasing something he’s not entirely sure you’ve ever had. He knows about Ted, but he highly doubts Ted knew what to do with you. And with Jack, well, he’s not sure how far the two of you have gone, but he can only guess based on Jack’s recent actions and your desperation for no one to know that Ted had popped your cherry that you’ve been trying to be good and pure and wait.

But as you reach for his belt, pawing at him, for the first time in this whole event, he gets the distinct impression that you’re not sure what to do next, only that you are needy for something. And goddamn him, he is willing to give you what you need, but only if you really understand what it is you’re asking for.

“Wait, baby, just…wait,” Elvis pants, stilling your hips with one hand while grabbing the hand at his belt with the other. You whimper a little at the interruption, rolling your hips for emphasis, but despite the groan he can’t help, he’s having none of that.

“Baby, I need to know that you really want this,” he says, brushing your hair off your deliciously pink cheeks, your lips swollen from his kisses. He looks into your eyes, almost getting lost in them and forgetting what he set out to do. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and then add, “Elvis, please,” in a begging tone that sets him completely aflame.

“Oh, damn, okay, baby, okay,” he breathes, barely able to contain himself with that. He’s only human, after all. He races to help you with his pants, pulling them over his hips and down his legs in record time, his erection springing free, precum already glistening the tip. You lift up on your knees, you move your panties aside, and touching the silky soft skin of his cock, you help him line up with your entrance. He can’t help but gasp at the feeling of your cool little fingers circling his shaft, losing it a little more when he feels how incredibly soaked you already are.

He can’t believe this is happening. It shouldn’t be happening. But all logic is gone from him, replaced by the sweetness of your mouth and the wetness of your pussy and his desperate need for whatever love you have to give him.

He watches as you bite your lip in concentration, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you try to take him in. You are incredibly tight around the sensitive tip of his cock, and he moans a little at the constriction. That’s when he knows for sure that no one else has touched you like this for a long time. You aren’t ready for him, not yet.

Reaching under your skirt, he deftly finds the delicate little bundle of nerves there and begins to work it ever so gently. He shifts his hips down, his cock regretfully released from your hold on it. Sliding his fingers through your folds (oh, god), he gently slips one finger into your tight heat, then two, allowing you to adjust around him before pumping them in and out. Your eyes go wide and you gasp with the intrusion, but then they flutter closed with a sigh, and then another, and another before your hips begin to rock again.

He watches you in your ecstasy, taking in every delectable reaction he can and committing it to memory. The way your brow scrunches and your mouth falls open into a little O. The feel of your thighs clenching around his hand as he massages and fingers your dripping pussy. Those alluring little breathy moans escaping your lips. Every part of you has him completely mesmerized and he knows it. He knows his mouth is agape and he is moaning softly right along with you. He is so aroused just by watching you, he feels like he could come without you even touching him.

“E, I need more…I need you,” you breathe with your eyes closed and brow concentrated, and oh sweet lord, those might be the best words in the English language with the way they come out of your mouth.

He is utterly unable to deny you this. He can’t even speak, he just pulls his fingers out of you, lifts your hips, and maneuvers his cock back to the place it wants to be most. And you are more ready for him now, your tightness yielding much more easily around the sensitive tip of him.

It’s in that moment, as you sink down ever-so-slowly onto him and he is enveloped by your wet heat, that Elvis realizes he is utterly ruined for any other woman, ever. They cannot and will not ever hold a candle to you. He should’ve known before. He should’ve stopped this while he still could. But as you finally settle in his lap, taking him in completely, your fingers relaxing and your eyes bright and glassy, he knows he is well and truly fucked in every way.

He kisses you deeply again and again, memorizing your mouth, as you begin to raise and lower yourself on his cock. You feel so good, so completely perfect, it’s as if you were made just for him. He is drunk on you, hands wandering your body, finding what makes you keen, and he’s unable to get enough of you.

But you are so needy and ready that unfortunately it doesn’t take very long of you riding him and him playing with your clit for you to begin falling apart at the seams. Based on your surprised gasps, he’s not sure you’ve ever come before, so he does his best to help you get there while holding on to his own release for dear life. You begin to shudder around him, clenching his length, and with a strangled moan you hit your peak. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the way you are coming undone on top of him, around him, your eyelashes fluttering closed and then popping open, all wild-eyed and rosy cheeked as the hushed sound of his name falls out of your perfect mouth.

He's so fucking enraptured that his orgasm hits harder and faster than expected, chasing yours almost immediately, not giving him time to pull out like he should have. But he can’t bring himself to care because it’s all you. All he’s ever wanted or needed—it’s you.

Oh, sweet Christ, I love you, I love you, I love you, he chants in his mind as he follows you over the edge.

He clings to you, head pressed into your breasts as he pulses hard into your warmth with a grunt, then stays there as he comes down from the high. And then you are both gasping in the silence, and there is an air of disbelief that fills the room that the two of you just did that, together.

This is making love, he realizes suddenly. It must be, considering the incredibly overwhelming feelings he has for you that are pouring through him in unreasonable amounts. He never wants to let you go, not ever.

He pulls back enough to kiss you tenderly, lingering a little too long. There is a sinking, nearly unbearable feeling that this may never happen again, and it threatens to break him, so he pushes it as far away as it will go.

You press your forehead to his, silent, you still enveloping him as he eventually begins to soften inside you. Neither of you rushes to move. He cannot read what you are thinking and that makes him nervous.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You nod but say nothing.

“Okay, baby.”

You both sit there a while, simmering in what you have done, and he wishes you would say something, say anything at all to let him know what is going on in that head of yours. But you are quiet, unreadable.

Finally, you remove yourself from his lap and stumble your way into the ensuite bathroom to clean up.

Elvis runs a hand down his face, wiping away the mixture of salty tears and sweat that has collected there. He uses his handkerchief to wipe himself off and then puts himself back together. Blissed out in his refraction, he is so full of love for you that he almost can’t stand it. He thought he’d known love before, and perhaps he did, but this realization of love for you is so big that he doesn’t know what to do with it. God, he feels like with you by his side, he could conquer the damn world.

But you’re not his girl.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.

His head falls back onto the wall with a thump.

Somehow, he’s both on top of the world and completely buried by it at the same time. You interrupt his thoughts, coming back in quietly and falling, exhausted, into his arms. He takes off his coat and puts it on top of you both. He can’t help but pull you closer, up into his lap, so your head rests against his chest. This is where you are supposed to be, he can’t help but think.

He knows the two of you need to talk about this. While he has been having his epiphany, he has absolutely no idea what you are thinking. He has no clue if you feel anything even close to what he feels for you. It is possible that all of this was just some sort of revenge on Jack, and that breaks his heart a little. And even if you did do it for that reason, you chose him. You felt safe enough with him to choose him.

But something deep inside him tells him it isn’t just that, not with the way you kissed him, not with the way he felt like his damn soul was connecting with yours. That deep connection he’s always felt to you, it can’t possibly be one-way.

But what if it is? a worried little voice creeps in.

He wants to ask you, but he looks down and sees you passed out on his chest. Fatigue begins to hit him, as he hasn’t slept in over a day.

It’s not long before he, too, falls into an exhausted slumber.

He’s not sure how long you sleep, but when he wakes, the sun has moved and the room is nearly dark. Disoriented, it takes a moment for him to realize that it’s you in his arms, and when he remembers why, his cheeks flame with heat.

Oh. Oh.

Drowsy, he rubs his eyes with one hand, trying to wake up. As the memories of your lovemaking resurface, his heart beats faster, and he knows the moment you wake you will both have to face what you’ve done. You’ll have to decide what comes next. And more than anything, the hopeful little voice inside him realizes that he wants to share this all with you—that’s why it is you he brought to Graceland today, and why it was so important to him that you like it.

“Y/n, honey, wake up,” he says quietly, not wanting to shock you awake, but you don’t even stir. He shifts under you, hoping that might get you moving, but you just lie there.

“Hey, baby, it’s time to wake up,” he says at full voice now, but you remain still, too still, and silent.

His heart starts to pound. Something isn’t right.

“Y/n! Honey, I need you to wake up!” He is getting frantic now, his hand gently tapping your face, which feels too cold. But still, you do not wake.

“Fuck. Fuck! Y/n, wake up!” He shakes you. Panic and confusion roll over him as he tries to figure out why you are knocked out. His sleep-addled brain runs through what happened before you both fell asleep, before you made love.

Her headache, he thinks. She took pills for her headache.

He had thought they were aspirin, but as he frantically rummages through her purse, pulling out the little prescription bottle, he reads “Percodan, one tablet every 6 hours for pain and sleep relief” on the label.

Elvis swears you took two tablets, not one, way too much for a girl your size. You hadn’t read the bottle.

Shit.

Having been in Hollywood, he knows that this happens. People overdose from taking these narcotics, usually to get high, but he knows that you did it on accident. Based on how full the bottle is, he’s guessing that you maybe hadn’t even taken the meds before today.

Regardless, he’s not taking any chances with you. There’s no phone hooked up at the house, so with his adrenaline now working overtime, he lifts your unconscious form and quickly carries you to the car. He peals out, driving to Baptist Memorial Hospital as fast as he possibly can.

The those few hours are some of the most terrifying of his life.

He bites every nail down to the quick in that waiting room, pacing there as your family sits, equally worried. He can’t help but feel that they are judging him for letting this happen, even though it was an accident.

He can’t bring himself to call Jack.

Guilt eats away at him, even though he knows he had no idea about the pills, but if he hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe he would’ve realized sooner that something was wrong. Part of him feels like this is punishment for his sins, for what he let happen in the house. He prays and prays to God, harder than he’s ever prayed before.

Please, God, I love her. I can’t lose her. Do what you want to me, just let her be okay.

His prayers work.

You wake up. The doctors say you are going to make a full recovery. His heart nearly explodes with relief.

He offers to stay while your family goes home to get some rest. It is past visiting hours, but being Memphis’ own superstar, the nurses take pity on him and let him stay, as long as he doesn’t keep you awake.

When you finally stir, it’s the middle of the night.

“E—Elvis?” you croak. “What happened? Where am I?”

He sits up straight and leans forward to take your cold little hand in his. “Y/n! Oh, baby, you took too many of your headache pills and I couldn’t wake you up. You scared the hell outta me. You’re in the hospital, but you’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.

“Wake me up? Why—why was I asleep?” your brow furrows in confusion.

His heart drops into his stomach, dread like ice in his veins. He doesn’t want to ask, but he knows he must:

“What’s the last thing you remember, honey?”

Obviously still groggy, you close your eyes for a moment to think. “Um, I remember you picked me up and took me to…to your new house,” you say, then your eyes pop open, “You were showing me your beautiful new house, and then my headache got really bad, so I took some of my pills, and then…” You stop, looking at him blankly. “And after that, I don’t remember. You said I fell asleep?”

Oh, God, no. No, no, no. He feels like he’s going to vomit.

The force of his dread hits him like a tsunami as he runs through what happened in his head again. You took the pills first and then he told you about June and then you kissed him.

But you don’t remember. You don’t remember because you were accidentally fucking high.

“Elvis, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you say.

“Sorry, baby, I-I-I was just really worried about you, is all. I-I guess it’s all kinda hittin’ me at o-once, now that you’re o-o-okay,” he says, unable to keep his voice from shaking, unable to keep from stuttering through the half-truth.

“Please, go get some rest, E. I’ll be fine. I’m so tired, I feel like I could sleep for days…” you say, drowsily, eyes fluttering closed.

“Okay, okay, baby, I will…Get some rest,” he says, kissing you on the top of your head as you drift back into slumber.

In a panicked daze, he manages to make it down the hallway and to the men’s room before his stomach rolls and he is violently sick into the toilet.

Oh, sweet Lord, he took advantage of you. You were drugged and didn’t know what you were doing, and he had sex with you.

He vomits again, tears running down his face.

I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have ever let it happen if I’d known! I would never hurt her! the reasonable part of his brain cries out.

Shame eats at him from deep inside, cutting him. He deserves it.

How could he do this? How could he let this happen?

I should’ve known. I should’ve known the moment she kissed me that she wasn’t in her right mind.

But he didn’t, and what the hell does that say about him? He’s fucking selfish and he took something from you that you weren’t in your right mind to give.

He dry heaves, wanting desperately to expel his regret but knowing that he never will, not until the day he dies.

And what’s even worse is that he is still left with the fact that he is desperately in love with you. You don’t remember what, up until a few minutes ago, was one of the most amazing moments of his young life. You can’t share that with him. And that makes him feel even more selfish because the last thing he should be thinking of is his own damn feelings.

Sitting there on the cold floor, he tries to convince himself it’s for the best. It’s much less complicated for you this way. For you, there was no betrayal. For you, making love with him can never be a mistake you once made in a moment of anger and desperation. For you, there is only the love of friendship between you two.

Yes, it’s better this way, he thinks. He can carry the burden for both of you. He deserves to.

Because he knows he cannot give you what you need. He cannot be there for you, day in and day out, holding you tight and keeping you safe. Especially not now. Not after what he’s done.

He has to lock this away. You can never know, not ever. He must protect you from this and from his guilt. He knows you wouldn’t be able to look at him if you knew.

Oh, God. Please forgive me.

He can’t stop crying. He has to stop crying because he has to go out there and he has to look fine. He has to be fine, for your sake. You’re alive and going to be okay, and it’s that which he latches onto as a mantra in order to slide into the persona that has made his name.

He manages to make it to the car without losing it again, as the dawn starts to break on another day. He can’t bring himself to go home; he can’t look his mother in the eye right now. So, he drives aimlessly, for hours, his sins eating away at him until he finds himself at the church.

He waits for Reverend Hamill in a pew, his thoughts dark and churning. This is just the straw that broke him, for he knows that since his fame began two years ago, he has fallen so very far. He has been self-centered and vain. He has fornicated and broken hearts and caused pain to those he claimed to love, all in the name of this new life of his. And he’s pushed his friends to do the same. His stupid, selfish actions have had a ripple effect that has completely ruined lives.

Not only had he driven June away and into the arms of another man, he’d played with your life and Jack’s as well. If he hadn’t pushed Jack to cheat, you would never have needed those pills in the first place. You almost died because he didn’t want to be alone in his debauchery, and he knows that some sick part of him pushed Jack to it because he wanted to sabotage your relationship.

Then he realizes that, on top of all that, he did another incredibly selfish and stupid thing. He came inside you, which means that you could be pregnant. And that would ruin you completely, and you wouldn’t even know why, you wouldn’t understand. He would do the right thing, of course, and maybe, someday, you would learn to forgive him, but it would ruin you all in the process.

Oh, Lord. Oh, Jesus.

He thinks he might vomit again.

When the Reverend emerges, he looks surprised to find Elvis sitting there.

“Pastor, I am the most miserable man you’ve ever seen. I am doing the things you taught me not to, and I’m not doing the things you said I should,” he sobs, “Please, please pray for me.”

“Oh, son…come in,” Reverend Hamill says.

Deflated, consumed, and heavy with his guilt and the repercussions of his actions, he follows the pastor into his office. He can’t bring himself to admit what he’s done, to admit how horrible he is. He just cannot get the words out. Instead, he weeps and prays, over and over, the Reverend praying with him.

All he can whimper out is, “Please, please forgive me for my sins. Please.” He’s not sure if he’s asking the minister or God or both. He only knows he cannot live with himself for hurting you, even if you don’t know it.

After over an hour of this, by the grace of God, he finally calms some. His entire body and soul aches.

But he knows what he has to do now. He understands the deal he has made.

It doesn’t matter what he wants or needs. You being okay is all that matters. He has to make sure you’re taken care of. He has to make sure that you are happy.

In the days and weeks and months that follow, Elvis pretends he is having the time of his life, becoming every bit the budding superstar that the country insists that he is now. Sometimes, he even believes it; sometimes, he even forgets. Though every time he sees you, his heart breaks a little more, his love for you permeating him to the core.

But he knows he can’t have you. He knows he doesn’t deserve you.

Instead, he plants seeds in Jack’s ear. “You love her, don’t ya, Jacky Boy? When are ya gonna make an honest woman of her?” He pushes Jack to fully commit to you. He even goes with Jack to buy the ring, though he stops himself from paying for it. Jack has his pride, after all.

Instead, he throws himself into work, grateful for the grueling cycle of touring and recording and appearances and acting. He throws himself into fixing up Graceland for his family, building a life of extravagance that he never could’ve dreamed of.

And, God help him, he starts seeing other girls. He leans into the image of the playboy they all want him to be. He dates and he fucks, thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of these girls will make him forget the perfect way you fit into him, forget the way your face looked when you came undone around him. That maybe one of them will come close to the wonder that is you. That they will help him forget his past sins by cutting new ones. He cannot seem to help but do the sinful things he swore he wouldn’t do, lest he drown in his sorrows, but the girls help keep him from the one thing that is off limits: You.

When Jack finally pops the question in the summer, and you accept immediately, he can barely keep himself together. He convinces himself this is the right thing, that he is happy for the both of you as he stares into the night sky knowing deep in his soul that it should be him. He reminds himself that this is the deal, this is what he wanted, to see you happy and taken care of.

And he will damn himself for your salvation every time.

December 28th, 1957, Graceland

Oh, God, what have I done?

The moment you appear down the aisle, looking ever the most beautiful, blushing bride, every part of him aches with love for you. He’d thought that by giving you the life you dreamed of, the life you needed, that it would be enough to let you go. But as Elvis stands by Jack’s side at the altar, he realizes that no matter what has happened, no matter what he has done, he is always going to love you and it’s never not going to hurt, especially not after this.

Not after the quick look you shoot him as you step up to meet Jack, your pretty, wide eyes full of excitement and emotion. Not after seeing you all in white and wishing to God that it was him marrying you right now. Not after he keeps his peace after the minister asks if there’s a reason these two should not be married.

He somehow manages to keep himself from openly weeping during the ceremony by biting the inside of his cheek repeatedly but still finds himself caught in your radiance more than once and must force himself to look away. During the wedding pictures, he cannot help but maneuver himself close to you to press a lingering kiss to your cheek, to be memorialized for all time on film. The press of his soft lips into your warm cheek sends that tell-tale shiver through him, one that drives in the fact that he still loves you. He gives himself this tiny thing, and no one questions it because they all know you are close friends, and a congratulatory cheek kiss on your wedding day is not strange.

Discretely, he makes sure to let the photographer know he wants copies of the pictures, with the excuse that he is paying for them and wants to make sure they are perfect. This, too, is not questioned, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

To torture himself even more, he offers Graceland up for the reception. These are his two best friends, after all, now cleaved together in holy matrimony for the rest of their lives. No expense should be spared because they deserve all the happiness in the world.

And they do, he reminds himself throughout the day. They do deserve all the happiness in the world.

At least if you are with Jack, he thinks, he still has you in his life. He can still see those beautiful, wide eyes whenever he wants without question or suspicion.

He clings to this.

Even so, he feels as though he is being sucked into a riptide. It seems fated that his life is going in a much different direction than the newlyweds. The draft notice he received a week ago confirms this, weighing heavy on his heart and feeing like a nail in the coffin of his hopes and dreams.

God is testing him, he thinks. It is all a very clear and stark reminder that where he goes, you cannot follow. He cannot help but feel that God is punishing him for his sins by taking him away from the fame he has just settled into to, taking him from the people he loves and the things he loves to do. He wants to lament that it isn’t fair, but part of him knows that he deserves this, too, for what he’s done and for what he’s done to you.

And perhaps God works in mysterious ways, as while he is loathe to leave his parents and his career and his fans, he cannot help the small part of him that is relieved he doesn’t have to watch you and Jack in your newlywedded bliss for the next two years. It’s the only upshot to this entire disaster.

But he won’t let his sorrow overshadow your big day. With a smile plastered on his face, he gives a charming and loving speech of how wonderful it is to see his two best friends find such happiness with each other. He only stutters once or twice, which comes across as endearing rather than damning. But the thing is, even though he is miserable, he is still happy for you two. He wants more than anything for you to have everything you’ve ever wanted and more, and if that is with Jack, then so be it.

The only time he truly falters is during the dance.

Your little sister (who at 18 is not so little anymore), Rosie, as the Maid of Honor, dances with Jack, while he, the Best Man, dances with you. The moment he touches you, sparks fly through him and down his spine, and he cannot help but pull you in a little too close, even though everyone is looking. His large hand wraps around your smaller one and the other clings to your waist.

The thing is, you do not react to this at all, not outwardly, anyway. You let him hold you and press his cheek against your temple. You let him breathe in your scent and lean into you, as if memorizing everything about you. You let his hands contract, pulling you in closer. You let him lead because it’s like somehow you know, in your soul, that he needs this, even if you’re not exactly sure why.

And for that he is grateful. He is grateful as he takes in every bit of you, committing you to memory, knowing that soon that is all he will have of you. All you will be is a memory, imprinted on his heart, for the rest of time.

When the song comes to an end, he leans back slowly, his eyes searching your face for any recognition, any understanding of his plight, any feelings of your own that might linger in your subconscious. You stare back at him openly for a moment, and for a second he thinks he sees a glimmer of something in your eyes, but then Jack is pulling you away and the moment is gone.

As the party continues into the night, he feels like he is suffocating and escapes upstairs to his room. And as people know not to enter his bedroom without express permission, he feels safe to let out the shaking sob he’s been holding back for hours.

He’s not sure how long he cries before a tap at the door startles him into motion, frantically wiping at his face.

“Bewbie, sweet boy, can I come in? It’s just me,” his mama’s voice echoes through the door.

“Yeah, Mama, come in,” he croaks out, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. While he is relieved that it’s her and not one of the guys, or God forbid, you, he still doesn’t know how he’s going to explain the state he’s in.

His mama comes in quietly, shutting the door quickly behind her. She looks him over and in one fell swoop seems to understand, even though he’s said nothing, even though he’s spent months perfecting his nonchalantness for the world, what is going on.

But a mother knows.

His mama sits next to him on the edge of the bed, putting her arm comfortingly around his broad shoulders. “Oh, my wittle baby, it’s her, isn’t it? Our beautiful y/n. You love her,” she says, less of a question and more stating a fact.

That does him in, the way his secret is exposed so easily by his mama. It terrifies him that she knows him so well, and terrifies him that if she knows this, what else does she know? There’s no point in denying anything, so he curls into her like a child and lets go of it all, the tears streaming once again down his cheeks as his body shakes with quiet sobs.

His mama has always loved you, taking quickly to your genial ways and how you always made time to spend with her. Maybe she suspected something from the start, he doesn’t know, but she doesn’t judge or scold him now.

“H-hurts so bad, Satnin,” he hiccups out. And it does, now that he’s letting it. It feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest.

“I know, baby, I know,” she coos, rubbing his back. He can sense all the questions she wants to ask but doesn’t.

“I-I-I couldn’t…I-I ain’t w-w-what she needs or wants, Mama,” he stutters out. It’s as close as he’s willing to get to telling her the truth.

“It takes a brave man to let the girl he loves marry another, when he knows that’s what she wants, though I can’t say I wish it didn’t work out the other way,” his mama tuts.

“Y-you knew?”

“Course I knew, Bewbie. A mother always knows. To be fair, I been watchin’ the way ya look at that girl for the past few years and it didn’t take much t’put it all together, baby,” she says. “But the question is, does she know?”

He stills and stays silent for a moment, before answering truthfully, “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” she tuts, “I’m gonna trust you had good reason for lettin’ that wonderful girl go without tellin’ her how ya feel?”

His heart constricts, causing him to doubt his choices, but he can’t explain how he nearly killed you with his terrible decisions. He certainly can’t tell his mama that he made love to you when you weren’t yourself, no matter that it was you came on to him. And he knows his mama would balk if he told her how much he doesn’t deserve your love because of his sins.

“It’s better this way, Mama,” he says quietly, sitting up and staring at his hands. “And she’s happy, both she and Jack.”

His mama nods, resigned. “Alright, my sweet baby, puttin’ your friends’ happiness before your own…I know ya made the choice ya thought was best,” she says, wiping his face and pinching his cheeks, “but ya get yourself cleaned up now ‘n go be at least a ‘lil happy for your friends, okay?” She leaves the obvious unsaid—that he’s leaving to film in a few days and straight from there, it’ll be into the Army, so this will be one of the last times he can spend with them.

He nods. “O-okay, Satnin.”

And with that, he does as he’s told.

And then, in a blink of an eye, she’s gone. His mama is gone and his world fully collapses and it’s all his fault.

You are the only one who saves him from being completely swallowed in the blackness of his despair, and he’s not in his right mind to think or care how that looks. All he knows is you’re there when he needs you the most. You’re there to get him through the absolute worst of it before they send him a world away, and then, he loses you, too.

He loses everything that means anything to him—his mama, you, his career—and he wonders how long God will continue to punish him for his misdeeds, until he can’t bring himself to care much anymore about anything at all.

Germany feels like a cold fog that clouds his brain, even when he brings his Daddy and Dodger and Red over to live with him off base. In his haze, he writes Anita promises he wishes he could keep but deep down knows he won’t. Then, he turns around and does all the things he shouldn’t do because he can and what does it even matter if it’s all lost anyway? He takes the pills they give him to keep him awake in the field, and those make him feel pretty good, for a time anyway, and then he starts taking other pills they give him to bring him down after. In his off time, he screws and tries to forget the life he used to know.

And in those horrible quiet hours when he lies awake, trying to sleep when even the pills won’t let him, trying to escape and can’t, he thinks of you. He thinks of his love for you and your hold over him even now, a world away, and when he’s extra lonely, he imagines you on top of him, writhing and beautiful. And when he comes undone, there’s nothing left but a gaping hole in his heart and a mess in his hand.

March 1960

Elvis bites his nails to the quick on the long journey home. It’s not just because of the planes and the exhaustion and not knowing if he’ll ever get back to being “Elvis Presley,” but he knows he’ll be seeing you in a matter of hours. Not years or months or weeks, but hours.

And he thinks that maybe he is finally over you, that maybe he’s healed enough from everything and that he’s on his way to start something new, something fresh.

But, God, somehow you are more beautiful now than before, but you act so strange around him, and his heart wants to leap and implode all at once. Somehow everything has changed…but you, you still own his heart.

Once he discovers your pregnancy, he is over the moon for you because he can sense how badly you want this. He doesn’t care that the baby is Jack’s—he loves it more than anything because he loves you and seeing you so happy brings him true joy for the first time in a long, long time.

His career is taking off again, his new image impressing those who denounced him a few years ago, and he already has appearances and recordings and films lined up to go. Life feels…almost good, like maybe he’s finally paid his karmic debt.

Then you almost bleed to death in his arms.

His terrified confession of love is spoken in an act of desperation, a singular hope that if you know he loves you, you won’t be able to go, that the string of fate that draws you both together cannot be broken, that he can somehow will you back to life with the power of his love.

He begs God, begs as he’s never begged before, an inner wail of blood-soaked prayer that does not cease as he rides with your near-lifeless form to the hospital, nor when he calls Jack and your parents, nor as paces the waiting room.

Singularly focused on his pleas to God, he doesn’t even realize he’s covered in your blood until Charlie and Jerry arrive shortly after the ambulance and look at him in shock.

“Jesus, EP,” Charlie gasps quietly, taking in the macabre scene, “We need to get you changed and cleaned up before Jack gets here.”

That’s when he looks down and sees your life’s blood staining his pants, his shirt, his arms, his hands. God, it’s even under my nails, he thinks as he watches his hands shake, feeling utterly disconnected from his body.

He’s frozen, unable to move, repeating his prayers again and again, until Charlie whisks him away and has to physically help him strip down and wash the blood from his body in the bathroom. As he watches the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, he cannot bear the thought that maybe it’s the last thing he has of you, these stains, and that maybe he’s truly lost you.

He just got you back. He can’t lose you. He won’t.

No, his inner mantra of prayer doesn’t cease until he is absolutely sure you are going to be okay.

Though “okay” is relative, he learns quickly. You have a long recovery ahead of you, the surgeons say, wiping their sweating brows, and the next few days will be crucial. The baby is gone, and the doctors say that more tests need to be done once you are well to see if that is even an option in the future.

He is heartbroken for you, and for Jack. But you are alive. You are alive.

Lamar and Red have to physically drag him from the hospital in the morning to get him ready and put him on the train to Florida for Frank Sinatra’s special, which is the very last thing he wants to do. But it is absolutely pivotal in his career comeback, so he tells Rosie in no uncertain terms that she is to keep him posted about her sister and any developments.

As he showers and packs, exhaustion seeping into his bones, it suddenly hits him that he told you he loved you, and it’s likely there will be fallout from that. It makes him incredibly worried, and he is even more loathe to leave until he knows where he stands with you. It’s possible you won’t even want to see him again.

Or it’s possible she loves you, too, a little voice hopes. But he knows better than to feed that monster. You don’t love him, not like that, and it’s selfish of him to even consider at a time like this.

“It’ll take your mind off things, EP,” Jerry tries to convince him, seeing his trepidation, prodding him along to get on the train. “And it’ll give y/n and Jack and her family time to get situated.”

The message is clear. Elvis is not in the inner circle of your life, not anymore, not as he wants to be. This fact is both sobering and cutting at the same time. It reminds him yet again that where he goes, you cannot follow, and where you go, he is not always welcome or needed.

He nods solemnly, thinking he finally understands, yet again, the terms of his deal with God. You live and he keeps his distance, he keeps his sins from tainting you. You live and he lets you go.

He pops a couple of pills, brought over from Germany, to wake him up, to get him in the performing mindset, to rev him up to being THE Elvis Presley. “Anything she needs, anything at all, comes to me,” he tells Jerry, “Hospital bills, recovery costs…and I want the best doctors helping her figure out her pregnancy issues. Oh, and send flowers, every day.”

Jerry nods, eyes observant and keen. “Of course, EP. Anything for y/n and Jack.”

Yes, anything for you.

You don’t remember a thing from that night, he learns from Rosie, and most of him thinks it’s for the best. But a small, egotistical part of him thinks bitterly that you certainly have a knack for forgetting anything monumental that happens between the two of you.

But he is busy. So busy, in fact, that he barely has time to think of you at all after that.

Except half the songs he chooses for his comeback album have something to do with you, which he only consciously realizes when he steps up to the mic to sing. And just as he thought of you the night of the talent show, he thinks of you now, singing about the girl of his best friend and how it feels so right being with you. He pours his hopes and dreams and frustrations and sorrows right into that album.

Perhaps it will cleanse him of needing you. Perhaps it’ll help him let you go.

When you find out that children are likely not in the cards for you and Jack, he sends more flowers, every day for a week. Jack is devastated and practically begs to come out to Hollywood to escape the sadness, so he agrees.

Anything for his friend, right?

He takes care of you from afar. He takes care of everything. Anything you could possibly want or need is yours. But he keeps his distance.

That is the bargain.

He falters at Christmas, almost letting his grief and yours ruin everything. He swears that you feel something for him, that maybe your impulse to be with him was not entirely driven by the drugs all those years ago. That maybe you do somehow remember his confession. Part of him swears if he had let it happen, you would’ve been his once again.

But you are not his, you never really were.

And while he knows this on a logical level, the more he is away, the more he fills his days with mindless movie making and wooing his costars and taking pills that bring him up and more that pull him down, the more he lets himself imagine you are his. From a distance, he can take care of you. From a distance and in the deep recesses of his mind, you belong to him and him alone.

“Elvis Presley” becomes a household name, now with a clean-cut image, alluring to both housewives and teenagers alike. His fame and wealth grow, and so does his isolation and loneliness. So does the need for the pills and to bring the rest of the guys into it all with him. Even Jack.

Especially Jack.

But he doesn’t like to think about why that is.

He manages to destroy his relationship with Anita along the way. He loved her, in his way, he really did. But she was not you. Neither is Ann, though he thinks for a moment that she may be the answer to his prayers, but in the end, he screws that up, too.

As the years drag on, he thinks he finally understands why he sabotages every relationship he’s ever had—it’s you—none of them are YOU. So he flits from fling to fling without ever truly landing because all he really wants is your love. But he doesn’t deserve it, he never has.

He knows this as he watches Jack descend into alcohol and drugs and women, and a small, horrible part of him wants Jack to self-destruct, and even though he knows this hurts you, he is too selfish to stop it. And the guilt of this, coupled with the downturn in his career, pushes him to self-destruct, too.

Still, he keeps his distance. When he’s home, he tries not to shoot you too many lingering glances. He reins himself in, most of the time, but in moments of weakness, he allows himself to get too close. He catches you alone, he makes a pass. But because you are you, you always rebuke him with a laugh. Silly Elvis, ever the jokester.

But sometimes, in the dark of night, in your beautiful, wide eyes, he sees something else. That deeper connection that drew you together in the first place, mixed with a heat he has only seen once or twice. And it is that which keeps his hope alive.

In an attempt to bury it and fill the hole in his heart, he almost marries, but in the end, he can’t go through with it. He’s wildly unhappy and dissatisfied, and it’s not until he finally gains some control over his career again that things take a turn for the better. He finally starts to clean up his act. He seeks knowledge and spiritual clarity. He finally finds his passion for music and performing again after nearly a decade.

But it’s too late for Jack. He managed to drag Jack to hell and while he made it back, Jack has not. And you are miserable because of it. This breaks his heart.

He tried to give you everything you wanted and needed by stepping back to let Jack do so. He kept his distance. He did what he’d promised God, and yet life still destroyed your dreams.

Jack no longer makes you happy. Jack is no longer the man who can give you what you need.

And suddenly Elvis wonders if he was wrong all along. That perhaps he wasn’t the man you needed then, but he is now. Perhaps his sins have been forgiven. Perhaps the more he pushes you away, the worse things become for both of you because you are indeed supposed to be together.

You are his. You’ve always been his.

So, riding high from his first Vegas performance, he finally allows himself to pursue you. He pushes away a decade and a half of guilt and shame and lets his charm and confidence entice you. He lets the sparks fly between you, finally free after all this time, and more intense than ever. To his gleeful surprise, you accept him willingly, if not a bit hesitantly.

Maybe it is just sex, he thinks at first, this carnal need he has for you, but he knows better. As soon as he tastes you after all these years, he knows he can never let you go again. As soon as he coaxes, then watches you come undone again and again, he realizes that still, after all this time, this is it for him. You are it. You always have been. And he will do anything to keep you, to make sure you know that you are his.

He thinks you might remember it all after that first night, but you don’t, not right away. He senses your fear to let go, to let yourself have him, to have this affair. He knows you want this to be only sex. And maybe it is for you, at first.

But he will have you. He doesn’t care how many mountains he must move or what he has to do to convince you to stay, but he loves you more than anything in the world and he’s not willing to part with you, not anymore.

It’s true that his fame, wealth, and influence have spoiled him into always getting what he desires. Of course, what he truly desires always has been you. Now unlocked, his love and want and need for you is insatiable, and he will do anything to keep it that way.

Anything for you. Anything but letting you go.

As the blackout of his rage starts to dissipate and he comes to, he assumes that his friends are holding him back from quite literally killing the disheveled and beaten man who used to be his best friend, and he watches with deep satisfaction as you slap the shit out of your husband.

He also feels the immense guilt of letting it get this far, of not knowing just how bad Jack was to you, and his part in all of it.

But when you vomit and promptly fall to an unconscious heap on the ground, his fear is what overshadows his rage and guilt. Something is wrong, he knows it.

Not again, not again, not again.

Triggered by your history, Elvis, with untold strength, wrenches himself from the four men holding him down and clamors to your side, everyone else forgotten.

Pulling your limp body into his lap, he screams for someone to call the doctor. His heart pounds so hard he thinks he might need one, too.

Please God, please God, please God. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.

That deep-seeded, old shame creeps back in as he rocks you: This is your fault. Your selfishness did this. You destroyed Jack, he took it out on her, and you’ve put her at risk, yet again. You are a scourge on this woman you claim to love so much. A pestilence.

He’s getting lost in this fearful despair, and then Jerry’s voice in his ear snaps him back: “EP. EP! You have to let her go, man. The doctor is here.” Jerry pulls his arms off her as the doctor examines her.

Elvis’ fingers go straight to his mouth, his obsessive habit of biting his nails taking over as he watches the doctor carefully.

The doctor looks up, taking in the scene. He looks at Elvis, then at Jack bleeding against the wall, and purses his lips. “Will somebody tell me what happened to this young lady?”

“There was an incident…” Jerry begins diplomatically.

“Her husband slammed his fist into her face!” Sandy yells over him, furious, earning scathing looks from the entourage. They knew better than to give details, knowing to keep things close to the chest and avoid any legal issues, to protect him at all costs.

“Sandy!” Jerry admonishes her.

“No, it’s okay, Jer,” Elvis says firmly, waving him off. “I’m sure the doctor knows to be discreet.”

The doctor looks up at his hovering, intimidating form, and says nothing for a moment. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I need to get her to a hospital and stabilized as soon as possible. She needs x-rays. It’s likely she has a serious concussion, Mr. Presley.”

The men start to argue, knowing that as soon as she leaves this room, a whole host of problems could fall down on them, but that’s the last thing he cares about right now. All that matters is you.

Elvis holds up his hand and everyone goes silent. “Do what you need to do, Doc. Anything she needs.”

The doctor nods and asks that someone phone for an ambulance.

Elvis looks up and sees that the men cleared the room at some point, leaving only the major players. Jack still sits, leaning on the wall next to Red, his face battered and bloody, watching the doctor. Elvis can’t tell if Jack is sorry or not. Elvis walks towards Jack, his anger tempered only by his concern for you.

“EP!” Jerry says in a warning tone, signaling for the men to flank him.

“I’m fine,” he commands, crouching at Jack’s side.

Jack flinches.

“Are you proud of yourself, Jacky Boy? Are you satisfied, seeing her laid out on the ground like that? Is this what you wanted?” he hisses.

Jack says nothing. He sees the tears in Jack’s eyes, the regret through the pain, and for a second, Elvis almost sees the man he used to know in there.

“Hmm,” he tuts, looking over his friend with disgust, shaking his head. “I’ll deal with you later. And you, too,” he says, with a low, deadly calm, pointedly to Red. Then he rises easily from the floor, his attention on the men with the stretcher who just entered the suite.

“It’s never enough with you, EP, you selfish motherfucker. The man who gets everything he wants, no matter how many lives he has to destroy to get it. The rules never apply to you, do they? Dammit, you coulda had anyone, anyone! Why did it have to be y/n?” Jack spits out mournfully from behind him.

Shame snakes through him, through the anger that continues to boil under just the surface, covering the sorrow that flows under that. There is truth in Jack’s words, he knows that, even though he wants to deny it.

“How long, Elvis?”

He supposes he owes Jack that much, though he doesn’t even turn his head.

“Opening night.”

“No, you bastard. How long have you been in love with my wife?”

The room goes silent yet again.

Elvis turns around, but he cannot bring himself to look Jack in the eyes for a moment. A lifetime of memories flashes through his head, of times much better than this, of times when they had each other’s backs. Ultimately, he knows what Jack has become is partially his fault. Ultimately, he knows it was wrong of him to want you when you weren’t his, wrong to have sex with you, even before the debacle of you and the pills. It was wrong of him to manipulate Jack into marrying you.

As much as he hates Jack right now, he once loved him, and still, he betrayed him.

Jack chuckles darkly, “That fucking long, huh?”

Elvis finally looks Jack in the eyes but says nothing. Nothing he can say will make any of this less of a fiasco. Nothing he can say with make it right, no matter how much he wants to jump in to defend himself, to tell Jack he saw you first, to tell him he wanted you first, to fucking explain that you’re his goddamn soulmate and he’s had to watch you be with someone else for almost two fucking decades.

“Ahhh, and she didn’t even know, did she?” A hint of a smile plays on Jack’s bloodied lips. “Didn’t even give the King the time of day! Well, at least I got that goin’ for me,” he laughs.

His brow furrows as he fumes, and he steps towards Jack again. Lamar puts himself between the two men.

“It’s fine, Lamar, let him at me. What do I have to lose now anyways?” Jack laughs, which turn suddenly to sobs, “You were my brother. I gave up my life for you! I loved you, man!”

The words cut Elvis to the bone, flooding his fury with more guilt.

“And I love her,” Jack sobs.

“You don’t fucking love her,” Elvis says, infuriated, pushing past Lamar to grab Jack’s chin, wrenching his head to look at you being put on the stretcher. “You hurt her. You been hurtin’ her. And Jack, if she dies, I don’t care what brotherly love was between you and me—I will fucking kill you,” he says, low and vehement in Jack’s ear, for only him to hear.

He pulls back to stare Jack in the eye, to let him know just how serious he is, to make sure he understands that through the pain and the alcohol and whatever pills he might be on.

Jack blinks through his tears and nods his head once, shakily.

Elvis releases him.

Then he steps in behind you, still unconscious, on the stretcher as they take you out of the penthouse and to the elevator.

“EP, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to…” Charlie starts, hustling behind him.

He turns, seeing the stares of the men who have given him their lives to stand by his side. Some of them are befuddled, some understanding and resigned, some even a little suspicious after tonight’s events.

“I don’t give two shits if it’s a good idea or not, I’m goin’ with her. Anyone wanna argue with me about it?” he says impatiently, shooting up an eyebrow.

No one does.

It’s good it’s the middle of the night, otherwise he would’ve caused a huge scene at the hospital. But the nurses and doctors seem to gather by his demeanor that now is not the time for autographs. Instead of putting them in the waiting room, they set up an empty room at the end of the hall for the lot of them, a gruff old nurse warning them they best be quiet and not wake any of the patients before she closes the door on them.

And for the third time in his life, he waits to know your fate.

He waits for you, just as he’s been waiting for you for the last 18 years.

He waits and he prays, though this time, he makes no bargains with God.

He stills when the doctor finally comes to tell him that, yes, you do have a concussion and though you will likely experience symptoms as you recover, you should recover fully. He feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

When the doctor leads him and him alone back to your room, the doctor mentions the other symptoms you’ll likely experience and that you might have issues with your memory leading up to the event. Elvis cannot help but chuckle at that.

“Oh, I’m betting she will,” he says under his breath, though this time, he thinks it might be best after what you went through tonight.

He sits by your side in the quiet, dimmed room, and is taken aback by the angry bruising already spreading over your beautiful face. His fury at Jack swells through him once more, followed immediately by sadness. You look so innocent and fragile lying there. Suddenly, he feels afraid to touch you, as though you might break.

So, he waits. He waits for you to wake and he prays. He thinks of the lifetime he’s had without you and the life he wants with you going forward. And this time, he knows he won’t be leaving your side for anyone or anything.

But his secrets still lay heavy and dark on his heart. There are those things he cannot tell you of that day at Graceland so long ago, and the things he still cannot bring himself to admit to, like his confession of love as you almost died in his arms and his meddling in your life. He doesn’t want to tell you how all of it has led to you lying here in this hospital, hurt and fragile but somehow still his, he hopes.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about it yet, so for now he just waits for you to come back to him.

He’s been too rough with you, he thinks, in his quest to show you how you are his. Pushing you too hard to keep up with his rockstar lifestyle and his insatiable need for you sexually has not been good for you. You’re exhausted, not eating, and have been on an emotional rollercoaster for days, and he was too consumed by his own selfishness to listen, so much so that he almost drove you away. The hurt, the feeling of pure panic that shot through him when you said you were leaving was enough to bring him to his knees, but of course, he could not tell you that. He couldn’t show you that weakness. Instead, he’d covered it with anger and passion, fucking you into submission.

He realizes his dominance, while fun in the bedroom, is perhaps masking his true feelings. He has told you in so many words how desperate he is for you, how he wants you to be with him, to let him take care of you, how he is yours, that he needs you. But in truth, he is afraid. Afraid that you don’t and never will feel the same towards him as he does towards you. That it is only his coercion, manipulation, and his sexual prowess that keeps you here with him. No matter how much you say you are his and that you will stay as he fucks it out of you, he’s not convinced that you’ll feel the same in the light of day, of your own accord.

Lord, the way you said you needed him tonight flashed him right back to that first time with you at Graceland. The time you don’t remember. He is putty in your hands now, just as he was then. But that need of yours was only sexual. If it is truly just sex for you and you are only staying for that…well, that scares him and makes him want to hold onto you so tightly that you can’t leave even if you wanted to.

If you don’t ever feel that same pull inside your heart, in your soul, that he has for you, he’s not sure what he will do.

Gone is the bravado and confidence gleaned from years of being Elvis Presley. Instead, he sits here at your bedside feeling stripped to his core: a nervous, stuttering boy with a funny name who loves you more than life itself. He is that boy who picked your books up off the ground, the one who you calmed backstage with your sweetness and wit. For you and you alone, he is just Elvis. And he’s worried he won’t recover if you don’t ever grow to love him.

Anxiety courses through him, a throbbing pulse that serves to remind him that for all he has and is in this world, he is still only a man. And you are the girl who has comforted him through some of his worst moments, yet now after all this time he’s still terrified to let you truly see him. If he lets you in, you will see him for all that he is and all the terrible parts of himself he’s ashamed of: his selfishness and possessiveness, his overindulgence, his obsessive tendencies, his goddamned vanity and ego. His secrets. If you know the things he’s kept from you, he’s not sure you’ll ever forgive him. Certainly, you could not love him.

His heart aches at that thought, flooding him with despair. He needs you so badly that he cannot bear to risk showing you everything; however, a deep part of him wants to flay himself bare to you, to expose himself in a way that he has never done before, not with anyone.

Elvis puts his head on the bed near your hand. He is going to be gentler with you, especially after tonight. He will prove to you that he is worthy of your love, that this is so much more than just sex. He’s going to take care of you and give you the life you’ve always deserved.

God has humbled him once again tonight, and he knows he must do better.

He loves you so deeply he can hardly breathe.

So, he waits. He prays.

And he hopes that one day, you will love him, too.

Taglist:

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211 @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy @amiets2 @saintmagx

@kvcssghbjbcd @butlersluvbot @babydollie43 @vainbimbo @meladollsims @wstelandbaby @dre6ming @normatural @ash-omalley @xcallmetaniax @galvz-42 @thejezebel @fullmetal-falcon @robinismywife @dre6ming @seaweedbrain00 @amiets2 @mslizziesblog @heisatroubleinapinksuit @calusussss @dont-feel-so-good-peter @rainydayz101 @pizzaisrelationshipgoals

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@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 @ab4eva

@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis

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shurisneakers · 5 months

Text

a writing challenge? in 2024? you bet

Hi! Hello! Hey!

I've been going through A Time and have chosen to cope by going back to the specific vibes of 2016 to 2018. That happens to include an incredible resurgence in my love for MCU fanfic, the community around it and all the love that goes into them. I've felt a bit distant from here for a while, but I still see so many of my old friends writing, ones who want to get back into it, and a whole lot of new writers I am dying to meet.

I've floated this idea vaguely on my blog and people seem to be interested so I figured it was worth a shot!

So yeah, welcome to Ari's Old School, Nostalgia Jam, Why-The-Hell-Not MCU Fic Writing Challenge 2024!

Prompts, rules and whatnot under the cut:

Requests:

If you could reblog this post to reach someone who might want to participate, I'd really appreciate it! No need to be following me, it's open for anyone.

Reader-inserts, OCs, solo character fics, character x character-- absolutely no limitations

Any and all MCU characters are allowed

Anything above 500 words should have a read-more/keep-reading tab. Series, multi-chapters, one-shots, drabbles, etc etc. The sky's the limit.

Please tag me in your fics (@shurisneakers) so I'm notified of them, and post them with the tag #arisoldschoolwritingchallenge . It may take me a while to get back to you due to the circumstances I find myself in currently, but I absolutely will. Please send me a DM if I haven't responded within 10 days.

Send me an ask with the prompt you would like. Feel free to pick up to 2 prompts

The only thing I request of you: no RPF and no dark fics. Smut is welcome, but non-con/dub-con/incest or anything along those veins is something I'd ask you not to submit for this challenge. Thank you for your understanding!

I know I've called it an MCU fic challenge as it's the community I've grown with, but if you feel like any of these prompts resonates with a character from another fandom, please go ahead and write it. This challenge really is just about the fun of writing fanfic and love for Your Little Guys

No submission cut-off date. Take all the time you need.

Prompts

I've tried to have a mix of classics and uncommon tropes/dynamics, so I hope everyone finds something they connect with!

Relationship Prompts

1. Enemies (taken by @theysaywhatasadsight)

2. Best friends/childhood friends

3. Coworkers (taken by @jaaneymann)

4. Internet friends

5. Neighbours/roommates (taken by @angrythingstarlight)

6. Fake dating (taken by @hungryforpowernotfood)

7. Commuters

Alternate Universe Prompts

1. Florist AU (taken by @hungryforpowernotfood)

2. Showmance AU (taken by @bombsonboard)

3. Social media/streaming/gaming AU (taken by @splintered-emotions)

4. Thieves/Heist Group AU

5. Time travel AU

6. Pirates AU

7. College AU (taken by @lovelybarnes)

8. Apocalypses/dystopia AU (taken by @targaryenvampireslayer)

9. Chef AU

10. Roadtrips AU

Some rarer miscellaneous ones for those who are so inclined!

1. Shipwrecked together on an island

2. Meet Ugly (opposite of Meet Cutes) (taken by @barnesandco

3. Both of you are ghosts but don't know the other is

4. Treasure hunters AU

5. Faking death

6. Professional cuddlers AU

7. Time loops/Groundhog Day (taken by @sxrensxngwrites)

8. Orpheus and Eurydice

9. Villain x hero

10. Hitchhiking

11. Carnival of Horrors

12. Robin Hood

13. Matchmakers AU

14. Insomniac x narcoleptic

15. Intergalactic Coffee Shop AU

16. Doomed By The Narrative

17. Enemies to Lovers to Enemies

18. Subversion of Classic Hallmark Movie Tropes

Dialogue prompts

You can tweak them as per requirements, but be sure to keep the underlying message!

Angst

1. "I should have trusted myself. I should have stayed far away from you." (taken by @waywardcrow)

2. "Has it occurred to you that how I feel matters too?" (taken by @jaaneymann)

3. "We failed. I would do it again."

4. "You do not deserve my forgiveness."

5. "You make me feel so alone." (taken by @reidishh)

6. "I'm not giving up on us." "I did. You should too." (taken by @targaryenvampireslayer)

Crack

1. "Ohhh, you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid." (taken by @pinkthick)

2. "I think you and I make the worst choices together." "Yeah, but it's always entertaining."

3. "I trusted you." "Terrible decision, really."

4. "I know I'm smiling but I want to push you off a very big cliff." (taken by @pepperonijem)

5. "I'm hilarious." "You're traumatised."

Fluff

1. "This is the only thing I look forward to everyday." (Taken by @bombsonboard)

2. "I think we should do that again. For the sake of the world and my sanity."

3. "You're all I think about." (taken by @waywardcrow)

4. "Don't go anywhere I can't follow." (taken by @iguess-theyre-mymess)

5. "Don't smile at me like that." "Like what?" "Like that." (Taken by @lovelybarnes)

Word Prompts:

Flesh

Strawberry

Bruised (taken by @juvenilearson)

Groovy

Jump

Sunflower (taken by @barnesandco)

Alchemist

Wayward

Offerings

Mischief (taken by @supraveng)

I hope you'll join in! Please do tag anyone you think would be interested, I'd love for this to have as wide an audience as possible.

Lots of love <3

-Ari

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my-naughty-writings-and-musings · 1 year

Note

Thank you for writing my Tarantulas request!!! It was amazing and I loved how it turned out. If I can do another request I'd love to see more Earthspark Megatron x human Reader, the last one you did of them in the supply closet was so good! I'd love to see more of their relationship and how they avoid getting caught when they get intimate in public/semi-pubic areas. Thank you! Cant wait to see more of your writings!

No problem, I had an absolute blast writing it!! The spider needs some serious love!

Also I can do that! Fair warning I went a WEE bit overboard but I think you'll enjoy Medic!Reader and Megs getting it on in the medical bay at GHOST! I cannot express how much I love it when bots and their humans sneak off for some fun, especially when the size of the bot in question forces the two to get creative.

For those who don't know: if you like my writing style, you can always commission me, and please reblog to help spread my work! Thank you!

From behind the cover of your welding mask, you allowed your face to pinch tightly in concentration, eyes focused entirely on your work as you carefully closed up what had once been a sizable metal gash. Thankful that the wound had been a clean one you'd been able to treat independently, you moved as quickly as you could without sacrificing control, wanting to minimize the lingering discomfort for your patient. Megatron had the highest pain tolerance you'd ever encountered, but even after applying a localized anesthetic you could feel his uncomfortable tension beneath you, just as you didn't fail to notice the small sigh that passed his lips when you finished and disengaged the flame.

Careful not to lose your balance, you crawled back along the big bots sizable torso before removing the mask for a clear look as well as a breath of fresh air. The injury looked a great deal better than when he'd first limped into the medical bay about twenty minutes prior, and you were confident it would improve further after your patch had some time to settle, but the mech had made you work for that sense of assurance. You could still clearly recall how your heart had absolutely flipped at the sight of him cradling his bleeding middle, even if he'd still had the capacity to crack a joke before laying back on the medical slab while you gathered your tools in a rush…

"That should do it." you said with a sigh, a little spent from the ordeal but pleased with the outcome. Megatron, with his upper half supported by the inclined berth, looked down the length of his frame to meet your gaze.

"Excellent work as always, Doctor." he said in a mix of praise and a tease, emphasizing your title to mock the formality the two of you had to fake when others were present. Granted, you were currently alone and the doors had been locked for privacy, but that had never stopped him before. A small shift of his middle and a noticeable lack of pain did, however, bring more genuine appreciation to his voice. "That does feel a great deal better, thank you, my spark."

You smiled at the term of endearment before giving his wound a final once over, ensuring it was as good as it could get before his self-repair protocols took care of the rest. "I'll need you to stay here for about another hour while it sets, just to be safe." you instructed when satisfied, confident that this would be nothing more than a faded scar in a few weeks time, so long as it was given the chance to heal. Areas of considerable "flexibility" were tricky on bots, compelling you to give another reminder as you packed your tools and prepared to climb down. "The last thing I want is for it to tear, and that'll be a lot less likely if you relax for now."

Megatron scoffed at the suggestion, a reaction that neither surprised or phased you. "An entire hour? Am I really so delicate?"

"You will be if you don't listen to me." you replied with a roll of your eyes. It was predictable that Megatron would object to you "fussing" over him, even if all you required was for him to take it easy. He complained about such things every time they were prescribed, but with you the big bot tended to comply… more often than not. You were hopeful this would be one of your successes as you slid off his side and walked to the lift that ferried you up and down the bot sized berths. Your departure quickly got his full attention.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to file the supplies I used for the repair." you explained with clear distaste for the fact, leaning back on the lift railing so you could face him as you shrugged your shoulders. The displeasure and sarcasm were overt even without the added roll of your eyes. "GHOST protocol."

The towering warrior put on what you dared to call a pout. "Am I simply supposed to sit here in the meantime?"

"We've got data pads and there's a bot sized tablet on the charger. I could set you up with whichever you prefer, but I do need to submit that report sooner rather than later." you said as you prepared to hit the button to descend, hesitating because you really would have preferred doing anything over the drudgery of typing reports. Getting some time to chill with your partner would have been a welcome change of pace, but GHOST didn't allow much leeway when it came to its tyrannical bureaucracy.

"Fine." Megatron huffed dramatically, giving you reason to pause as you fixed him with a raised brow. Though he wasn't in any position to actually contest, and he thankfully remained quite still on the berth as you'd ordered, the big bot was almost making a show of how unhappy he was. As he seemed to be marginally more theatrical than usual, you found yourself willing to take the time to try and figure out what he was playing at as he continued to whine. "If you are truly comfortable leaving me to languish in utter boredom…"

"As your doctor, I'm confident you'll survive." you replied, playfulness tinged by a hint of curiosity. Tilting your head and narrowing his eyes, you made it clear you knew there was some kind of game being played, and wanted to be let in on it. "What are you getting at, Megs?"

His pout shifted to include a hint of a smile, confirming for you that he was indeed playing at something.

"If only there was someone to keep me company while I recovered…" he mused with obviously mock melancholy, reaching out to cup your tiny body and gently pulling you towards him and away from the lift. "Perhaps those reports could wait a little longer, yes?"

You rolled your eyes, now confident this was all just a plot to make you stick around for his sake and nothing more. For all of his gruffness with others, the big bot hung on you like a needy cat, making it quite unsurprising he'd be gunning for some personal time even after getting stitched up. Ordinarily you were happy to indulge his desire for your presence, but keeping your job unfortunately took precedence over keeping him company. "If I don't get it in before the next half hour, the system will send out an alert when it does its automatic supply check. Is entertaining you for twice that amount of time more important than stopping a false alarm?"

Something small shifted in his entire demeanor, but being over thirty feet tall made the change abundantly clear to you even if you hadn't a clue what it meant. Thankfully, he didn't keep you waiting, his faint smile shifting into a full smirk as he spoke.

"I can get all the entertainment I need in… five minutes. Ten, if I'm thorough." he purred, scarlet optics intensifying their gaze as he went from merely watching to drinking you in, servo at your back pulling you closer. A reflexive flush rose up in your cheeks. You knew that look well, it had preceded countless rushed dives into closets or warehouses and on one especially spontaneous occasion the cargo hold of an unmanned carrier plane… but you never would have expected to see it now. Suddenly it was all too clear what he had been playing at.

The disbelief and total exasperation was as apparent in your voice as it was the hand you threw up into the air. "Seriously? You're horny now?"

"Can you really blame me?" he replied with a laugh, amused by your reaction but hardly disheartened. He lowered his voice and allowed it to rumble through your tiny body, and in spite of everything it was just as effective on you as it always was. Having his careful digits at your back only helped his case. "I did have a very attractive human practically seated on my lap."

"A human with a welder!" you replied with a wild gesture to your pack, where the tools capable of slicing a bot were arranged with care. Considering he still had the fresh wound on his stomach, you couldn't imagine how he had it in him to be frisky, but judging by the intensifying lust in his optics the pain was doing little to dissuade him.

"What would you say if I told you that made it all the more appealing?" he said after a moment of silence.

He was just fucking with you now. He had to be. There was no way he seriously wanted to bang after having his organs sewn back in, you refused to believe it, it was too much even for him.

"You… you're utterly ridiculous." you said in a bit of a daze, tempted to pinch yourself to test if this was all some crazy dream. You halfway wondered if he was recording this for some kind of inevitable gotcha that would come at any moment, and felt so silly you couldn't keep the laughter from tinging your voice as you continued."I'm saying you're utterly ridiculous."

Megatron somewhat carefully clapped a spare hand to his chassis as if he'd just been dealt a devastating blow. "Oh no, you wound me further…" he teased, making you wonder if you were dating a warrior or the planet's biggest dork. Trying not to give him the satisfaction of a smile, you had to admit to yourself that it was much harder than it should have been to remember why you'd needed to leave in the first place. Fixing you with a smirk, he once more tugged you closer, and this time your body failed to resist in the slightest. "I fear I may need medical attention all over again."

"I'm going to repeat myself; you're utterly ridiculous." you said simply, medical training swooping in where your professionalism failed. "Plus, if you push it and that patch breaks, I'll have to redo all my welding, and I don't think either one of us wants that."

"No…" he conceded in a not at all serious tone. Allowing the silence to hang until you raised a brow in anticipation, the mech went from smirking to grinning with devilish delight, his sharp canid dentae peeking out as he purred low enough for you to feel the rumble of his voice through your tiny organic body.

"But that merely means I need to be careful, or more accurately, creative."

The servo at your back scooped up your tiny frame without effort, compelling you to grab on for stability as he hefted you clear off the berth, raising you to his helm so quickly your ears popped from the change in altitude.

"Whoa!" you cried out in surprise, clinging to him as you suddenly found yourself a good twenty or more feet from the nearest surface below. You had ample practice being handled by bots, but this one had caught you off guard, as Megatron was always the type to practice caution when maneuvering you in his massive servos. Less than gracefully wiggling yourself into a more dignified position, you met his gaze with a pout, preparing to give him a piece of your mind before demanding to be put back down. No matter how little you wanted to complete your task, it had to be done, and no amount of his antics could change your mind…

Except when your optics met his up close, you found that to be patently untrue. The desire in their depths was like fire, burning so bright it seemed to see straight through your token resistance and to the molten need burning just below your skin.

"Come now, love…" he purred, lifting you to his helm and setting you down to straddle his chin. The touch between your parted legs was like an electric prod, melting away all the stress of your position and speaking to the frustration even you hadn't been able to see. Biting your lip to keep yourself quiet, you recalled the discipline that would follow late reports but found the threat hadn't the slightest hold over you anymore. All that seemed real was the warmth of his frame against your tense body, and the hum of his voice as he continued, making quite a point to let you feel every syllable. "Let me show my doctor some much deserved appreciation. The reports can wait."

Just able to keep from moaning, you sighed and waged one final war in your head between lust and responsibility, finding it obvious who the victor would be but giving it a go regardless. When your body made the decision you knew it would, you picked your words carefully to avoid giving him too much satisfaction.

"I'm giving you five minutes." you said in a blatant lie, setting the stage so you could claim to have simply lost track of time once you were finished. The answer pleased him greatly, and he pulled you a little ways up his helm, resting your crotch just above his lips so you could feel each and every word humming up through the fabric and into your waiting pussy.

"Not a problem. I work swiftly…" he purred. The vibrations were enough to pull a tiny gasp past your parted lips as he hummed in delight, fully aware of what the stimulation did to you from past experience. Not wanting to give him absolute satisfaction, you kept yourself quiet save for your own smirk and a sarcastic retort.

"Is that why I have to patch you up so often?"

The open taunt drove him wild. You'd always been one of the few humans, the few beings, to not only speak to him openly but fearlessly, and he expressed his appreciation with a request so rushed it came out as a pleading demand. "Take off your pants."

"Give me a second, kind of hard to undress without a proper spot to sit…" you replied as you slipped out of your protective lab coat to reveal your scrubs. Though kicking off your shoes was easy, straddling his chin left you without much of a foothold or a way to wiggle free of your pants, forcing you to awkwardly grab them and your underwear as you tried to shimmy out of both. Megatron was hypnotized by the sight for a moment, his optics locked on your increasing exposure before he decided it wasn't happening swiftly enough. You let out a single sound when you were unceremoniously lifted up to hover over his lips. "Oop!"

Dexterous digits took hold of the fabric you'd already pulled down and gave a swift, decisive tug to yank them down your legs, leaving you bare from the waist down. Yipping in surprise, you regained your wits quickly enough to balance yourself when he set you back down, your exposed pussy coming just inches shy of his lips before you found footing on your hands and knees.

"Is this proper enough?" he asked, fully aware of how his heated breath teased you.

"Yes!" you gasped, unable and unwilling to keep yourself from reacting to his encouragement. The fact he was right there had to be as torturous for him as it was for you, and looking into his optics confirmed as much, their fiery depths drinking in your nakedness in the same way a starving bot would drink in a cup of cool energon. Not wanting to be entirely at his mercy, you hovered above his lips, palms splayed against his cheeks as you took a deep breath and met his gaze without flinching. "So get to work, you're on a tight schedule."

His glossa was out the instant you finished the last syllable, allowing a cry to slip out of your open mouth as he swirled the tip over your lips to ease them open, delighting your folds with the hot, wet, hungry touch. Sharp dentae were bared beneath you as he spread you just the way you liked. Moaning and setting your hips heavily on his face, you were thankful for the locked door as you allowed yourself to get loud, letting him know just how good he was with your voice. The wetness that made you all the easier to open up was another clue he read and tasted quite eagerly.

You moaned his name as he used his massive size to his full advantage, pumping the length of his glossa up and down your soft folds to please you from clit to entrance, compelling you to ride him with your full weight to get more of the stimulation. More than strong enough to support you, he happily welcomed your efforts, looking more lost in his own ecstasy by the second. An approving purr rumbled all the way up your legs to make your world spin around you.

He shifted, and you caught his servo moving downwards in the corner of your eye. Following the movement, you watched in a fog of ecstasy as he opened his modesty plating to allow his spike to swing forth, smirking at how quickly it rose to its full size and throbbed with need. You'd clearly gotten him just as riled up as he'd gotten you…

A hot glossa sliding inside of you knocked the smugness off your face and replaced it with a helpless open mouthed cry of euphoria, your hips thrusting against him to help his reach go as deep as he pumped in and out of you at the perfect pace. Using his free servo to cup your back and press you down against him, his other pumped his spike rapidly enough to make you briefly concerned before a heavenly prodding of your sweet spot evaporated everything beyond obtaining release.

Weeks of being underappreciated and overworked had left you with plenty of tension for him to clear away, and you could almost feel it melting out of you as your orgasm began to build, hot ecstasy filling your body and compelling you to grab at his digits to keep yourself upright. Megatron tightened his grip around you in response, letting out a moan of his own at your lack of inhibitions. Sharing the pleasure only made it that much better for the both of you.

An aggressive swirling and sucking of your clit gave you everything you needed for an explosive orgasm, one you announced by throwing back your head with an admittedly theatrical cry. The response from the mech beneath you was as immediate as it was satisfying.

Watching you writhe in the euphoria he'd caused proved too much for the warrior, and he overloaded seconds after you, deep moans of satisfaction rumbling through you in perfect time to the throbs of your pussy. Between the vibrations and his glossa you saw stars and had to let him fully support your weight, shaking hands clinging to his digits as the both of you rode out your shared pleasure loudly enough to shake the berth below.

Thankfully Megatron had just enough sense and strength to adjust you when he finished painting his own chassis with his release, inching you back to his chin so he could get the greedy gulps of air necessary to cool his internals. Dizzy but satisfied, you had just enough clarity to giggle at the situation, pushing back some of the hair that had stuck to your sweat soaked forehead as you looked down to see if he was faring any better. Judging by his expression of nearly unconscious bliss, you considered the two of you to be doing equally well.

"Megs?" you pressed, leaning forward to pat his cheek. "You okay?"

"More than okay." he responded with a tiny chuckle, cracking open his optics to grin at your half naked form. Using his digits to haul yourself up on shaking legs, you settled for sitting back on your heels when they proved too weak to hold you upright, a very common occurrence after such sessions. Helping you sit more comfortably, he smiled with more softness than satisfaction. "I believe we both needed that."

"I still need to file my report, but I won't pretend I don't feel a lot better about it." you acknowledged with a stretch, far more limber than you'd been just a few minutes prior. Though you still needed to get your work done, this had proven an excellent use of your time, and you were about to say as much when a glance about turned up empty of a few critical items.

"Where are my pants?"

His exhaustion halved in an instant, devious sparkle returning to his optics as he used the most obviously mock voice of concern you'd ever heard. "I haven't the slightest idea." he purred with delight, making you pout at what an impossible pain in the ass he chose to be. He'd give them up eventually, you knew that from experience, but in the meantime you were going to have to deal with even more of him being impossible. You made your mild annoyance known with a raised brow and two hands on your hips, a reaction that only delighted him further. "I suppose you'll have to remain here with me after all."

"I still have my welder, you know." you said as you leaned forward on his face, trying not to crack a smile at his antics. You failed when he grinned and pulled you in, the adoration in his optics equal only to the amusement.

"That still makes it all the more appealing."

Rolling your eyes, you sighed, knowing but no longer caring that the reports would indeed be late. It wasn't like GHOST could screw you half as hard as he could.

#valveplug #transformers #lemon #maccadam #robot x human relations #tf #self insert #megatron #megatron x reader #human s/o #human reader #x reader #tf earthspark #transformers earthspark #earthspark #tfe #tfes #nsfw////#medic reader

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mazeinthemiroh · 1 year

Text

stray kids in high school

genre: headcanons; general, highschool! au

word count: 1.7k

warnings: cursing

a/n: heyy everyone. i wanted to try out some high school headcanons to see what you guys thought. i find i enjoy writing high school aus and there have been a few requests for these so i thought i'd give it a go! please like and reblog if you enjoy, and feel free to send a request in for more highschool aus when the askbox is open <3

bangchan

the class president

chan is extremely popular. he's friends with literally everyone due to his approachable personality. he doesn't want people to feel left out and is very attentive

the oldest in the class, so people naturally respect him

you would think being class president would make him unpopular due to the responsibility coming with that role. but in reality, he was voted as class president by the rest of his peers because he's so well-liked. everyone trusts him and his personality exudes natural leadership qualities

has a rapport with everyone, including the teachers. so if he doesn't hand in his homework on time or forgot to do an essay, his powerful persuasive skills come in handy

which makes him very good at debating. he tends to lead the debates but finds it interesting to sit back and watch the chaos unfold. he's a good devil's advocate

best subjects are physical education, music and mathematics. but he doesn't really do particularly badly in any subject. his grades are both decent and consistent

he or changbin are the team captain of the majority of the sports teams

he's also very good at keeping himself organised. always on schedule and does the homework as soon as it's given to him so that he has more time to do what he wants, much like seungmin

lee know

the class clown

bet you thought i was going to put hannie as this

but nope.

please don't fight me in the comments i beg just hear me out

i see minho as the class clown because he is naturally gifted in wit and intelligence

he's not the typical class clown. they usually are stereotyped to be the most extroverted and outgoing person in the class, which is not the case with our dear minho

rather, he's just the funniest person there. mostly everybody appreciates his humour

what's better is he's able to piss around during class and still have the charisma to get away with it

also fairly level-headed so he exceeds in academically inclined subjects

also strong in the arts. he's damn good at drama, that's for sure. he has the confidence to play any character

and it will come as no surprise that his core subject, the one he actually cares about, is dance

he comes across as cynical, satirical and a humourous genius, so it comes as a surprise to most teachers that he favours dance above all subjects. seeing him express himself in that way is truly amazing

because of this, he definitely has a lot of secret admirers

changbin

the jock

i mean, what did you expect

probably the most popular person in the school, let alone the class

everybody knows him and respects him

he, in turn, knows everybody. which means he knows all the gossip. and knows who to spill the tea to

has many circles of friends, it's hard to keep up really

involved in a lot the sports teams and is usually their main player

despite being smaller in height, he's the best at basketball. knows how to bounce around people and uses his speed and energy to get to where he wants

all the ladies love him, obviously

he's super flirty and highkey likes the attention. and it's hard not to give him it

but he never really comes across as obnoxious

he's just there for a good time, really

probably one of the loudest in all his classes. put him in a class with wooyoung and yeonjun and no one is getting any work done

main focus is sports, so his grades in other subjects are average or lacking a bit

he knows if he puts his mind to it he'll probably be much better in academic subjects. but that just doesn't appeal to him. he'd prefer to focus on the teams he's part of and the bonds he shares with people, which does unfortunately take a toll on his grades

hyunjin

the artist

he's a very stereotypical art kid who sits in the back of the class sketching detailed drawings he rarely shows off

but he's not necessarily all shy and quiet

his group of friends definitely brought him out of his independent shell

best friends with felix, who is essentially a louder version of himself. if these two sit anywhere near each other in a class and there's no way to get any work done from the amount of talking they do

obviously exceeding in the arts, particularly art and english. he has to have a creature outlet, and his talent in art comes so naturally to him. his art teacher absolutely adores him and uses his work as an example to all the other classes

as for english, hyunjin seems to find it very easy to understand the writer's thoughts and intentions. but his favourite lessons have to be when the teacher is discussing poetry, a hobby he has been working on recently

hyunjin laughs at everything, which can often get him into trouble. whether it's changbin making an inappropriate joke or seungmin being his witty, awesome self, hyunjin giggles at them all

overall, hyunjin keeps to himself, only coming out with his opinions if needed

han

the all-rounder

he's the annoying guy who doesn't revise or study on any test but will get some of the top grades in the class

liked by many people, but also disliked by the same amount

they're just jealous, what can i say?

gets a LOT of attention from all genders who can blame them

people are sometimes baffled by han because he, being his hilariously amazing self, may appear to set low expectations. he's loud and talks a lot and cracks jokes in every other sentence

but then he's the only one to work out this weird ass equation on the board. or he's the first to understand complex concepts in philosophy class

he's very bright, to say the least

however, he'd say music and drama are his forte. or, at least the subjects he likes the most

he and minho are a match made in hell heaven and the cause of many teachers' joys (and anxieties). on the one hand, they work well together and you should see them in debate class, oh lord-

however, they can be very unpredictable

you can't help but indulge in their ludicrous behaviour, purely to see them try and outwit each other

they're outrageously flirty about it too

they're just the main characters at this point, idk

felix

the sunshine

there's no other way to describe felix other than being wholesome

he has no beef with anyone. he minds his own business and just does his own thing

focuses on improving himself

wants to create a productive and positive learning atmosphere

takes regular mental health breaks his attendance is low and encourages other people to do the same

he's like the class therapist. he inspires comfort in all his fellow classmates. he may not be the stereotypical popular guy but he is the most well-liked because of his kindness

having a gracious heart and a soft, welcoming smile on his face make him absolutely irresistible to all. his natural, gentle charms are no match for mean-ass bullies

besides if anyone laid a finger on him they would be severely beaten by chan and changbin but we move

always fun to work with in group projects because he has a lot of creative ideas. thinking outside of the box is his speciality and he has quite a lot to offer to the group

makes brownies for everyone in the class during wintertime <3 he never leaves anyone out, even people he hasn't gotten a chance to get to know yet

he just balances the group out and acts like a glue that holds the class together

seungmin

the teacher's pet

seungmin is extremely organised. he's got his folders colour-coded and containing all of his notes. he has one for all subjects so he can compartmentalise his thoughts for each one

you can always rely on him for any sort of stationery. forgot your pen? he's your guy. you need a highlighter? he's got both a neon and pastel collection to choose from

teachers love him. he hands in work on time, contributes regularly to lessons, and is overall the perfect, model student

will probably remind the teacher that they set homework much to everyone's annoyance

will scold the others if they don't have theirs

he, like bangchan, usually does the homework as soon as it's set, just so he can get ahead

he made an unlikely friend in jeongin, who is quite different to him in terms of personality

they can't quite figure each other out but their differences push them closer together. it's cute. and both of them are good influences on each other so being paired up in class is usually a safe option

they joke that they're the most normal people in the class

overall, seungmin is a hard-working student and his grades are a good reflection of that

he's more worried about burning out, which has happened in the past

jeongin

the new kid

at first, jeongin was very quiet and didn't talk to anyone

being the new guy in class was already daunting enough. but seeing all these big and impactful personalities - like the class president who seems to have a charming and commanding presence, or the extremely handsome humour expert who twists everything into his own little joke - it's hard not to be intimidated

would he fit in? would he make friends?

of course it's natural to worry about this sort of thing, especially coming into a new class

but in reality he has nothing to worry about

the class president, bangchan, immediately takes him under his wing, allowing him to hang out with his group and get to know the others

which is very daunting, considering they all have unique personalities and different ways they interact with one another. jeongin finds that initially intimidating

but he's able to play it cool. and soon he finds no problem settling into the class and making new friends

seungmin is the person he sticks with the most and ends up having a close bond with

jeongin gets average grades. he had good days and bad; one day he's contributing the most in class and the next and the next day he doesn't say a word

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chthonic-cassandra · 10 months

Text

My friends! It's going to be my birthday in a few days (on Jonathan & Mina's wedding anniversary!), and I am feeling pretty weird about it (age I didn't think I'd survive to & so forth). I'm having a tea party over the weekend to which I dearly wish I could invite all of you, but alas.

What I do think I would like for this occasion, if anyone feels so inclined (and absolutely no pressure if not), is to hear if there are positive ways you can share that I have made an impact on you. This could be very small - like if I recommended a book or movie that you loved, or if some aspects of something I wrote stayed with you. I think that hearing those things reflected back would feel meaningful to me right now.

I'll probably reblog this a couple of times over the next few days, but again, no pressure if you don't feel comfortable sharing. I appreciate knowing all of you and having you be a part of my life, as surreal as it is to have one.

#personal #friendship

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eliounora · 15 days

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Good grief, I don't know how someone could have read your last post and responded with the amount of dismissiveness that last reply did. Apart from the whole thing smacking of Calvinist bull****... that's just not how humans work. We're not meant to function in total isolation, and I've never met a creatively-inclined person who *didn't* hope to see their work connect with people. Part of the joy of making things is sharing them with other people, and even if nobody owes you their time or attention or validation, it *is* disheartening to feel like the things you share in hopes of people connecting with them aren't acknowledged for whatever reason. Please do whatever you need to for your own mental health, but I hope you won't delete your blog here; I'm someone who's generally too shy to interact, but I've adored your art for years, and was beyond thrilled when you opened your quick comms a little while back (I now have an Eliounora original and it makes me so happy every time I look at it <3). Your latest Thranduil piece is gorgeous (and immediately became my favorite visual interpretation of the character I've seen so far) - I saw the Bilibin references in the frame right away and was delighted to see someone marrying it to Middle Earth! It gives the whole thing a perfect old fairytale feel. I hope it helps a little to know that your work has at least one quiet but sincere admirer here.

CALVINIST BULL is the perfect way to describe that mindset hahaha! you're so right, like even when you draw or write or create anything as a kid you often run to a caretaker or a sibling or whoever to show your work! and even when I was a kid, if my scribble did not get the reaction from my mom I was hoping for, I'd be super sad, and I think that speaks to our need to have our work appreciated!

of course you should primarily create for yourself, like writing, knitting, drawing, painting, singing, playing an instrument, all that should be first and foremost fun for you, but I think it's also important to remember that it takes guts to share your work, and when you put yourself out there like that and don't get the reaction you hoped for, of course that feels disheartening. we are bound to believe that the more work we put into something, the more recognition we get!

I know many other people feel like this too (I mean look at artists on this website begging for reblogs), and I think it speaks for the content creator.....isation? of artists and the change in fandom culture which has resulted in lack of community. while disappointment is bound to happen from time to time, like maybe your fic did not get as many comments as you wished for or your art got less notes than you expected, for me it feels like disappoinment is the norm.

I really hope this does not come across as whining about how I don't get the recognition I think I deserve (although that's what it is I'm not going to lie), because I do appreciate every shy and quiet person out there who loves my art, like you💗 and of course nobody has to interact any more than they are willing, but I think the general trend that interaction with people's works is lessening will dishearten many artists, especially those who don't have a large following. and oftentimes even a few excited words about your work will take you a long way! like yours right now, I FEEL SO SEEN!!! my thranduil, your favourite? FUCK YEAH!!!

#also. hot take: sometimes you do create because you think people will like something. like ohhh boy will the X and Y shippers enjoy this #AND you can still have fun with the process #but when they don't like it. that sucks. and once again my point is that this happens A LOT nowadays

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freyahazel · 1 year

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Musicians of tumblr!

I'd like to make FREE album art for you! (Yes, really!)

(reblogs and mentions appreciated)

If you are a musician or have a friend who is, please send me your albums. I'd like to listen to it and make art based on what I hear. If you like it, you can have it and use it. I only ask that you credit me for the work, and if you produce physical copies, please send me 2 copies (preferably one of the copies signed by you and your band if applicable).

I'll be doing as many albums as I can between now and my Birthday January 21st on a first come first serve basis.

"Why are you doing art for free?"

While I would normally recommend artists not work for free, I personally want to in this instance for the following reasons:

1) I am doing everything I can to make art fun for me again and this seems like fun to me!

When you do design as your day job, you can start to lose yourself a bit as an artist and you start to forget what it's like to create your own ideas rather than creating something someone else specifically wanted. This is a way for me to create pieces I enjoy again

2) I love music. Music motivates me when nothing else can.

According to my Spotify wrapped, I listened to 94 different genres, 106,855 minutes, 9,241 songs, and 4,016 different artists. Now that's just spotify. We're not even counting Youtube, physical records, radio, things I downloaded from artist io or other sources, etc... point is, I spend most of my waking hours powered by music

3) I want to diversify my design portfolio.

When you're a working artist, work breeds more work, however people have a hard time envisioning what they haven't already seen you do, so when people see the logos, packaging design, and other graphics I made they think those pieces are all I do. I want to show the world what else I'm capable of. This month will be album art but who knows what I'll do next. Maybe book covers, clothing, illustration who knows!

So, please, send me albums you'd like me to make art for, even if it already has album art made, let me just make something for you!

Again, I only ask that in return, you credit me for the work, send me copies if you make physical versions, and if you feel so inclined as to send me a tip or a share of peofits later, just let me know and I'll get you a way to send that securely later.

Have a happy new year!

(and yes I'll post my work as it's completed hope you all enjoy)

#album art #new music #indie #electronic #dance & edm #experimental #music #free art #limited time only #tag every musician you know

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antirepurp · 1 year

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My thesis project is now live over at @mallardmonster ! It will be running for the next couple of weeks, any interaction in the form of likes/rbs/follows is greatly appreciated so I can have some of those Sweet Statistics, you can also send asks if you feel so inclined.

To summarize I've written a small unfiction story, and though it doesn't involve mystery solving or codes or other ARG things it's very much meant to be an interactive experience. I've put a lot of effort into this so any support is appreciated!

Feel free to rb this if you wanna promo, but I'd prefer reblogs of Mallard's posts first and foremost!

#mallardmonster #<- somewhat official name of this project #i also encourage exploring mallard's blog in general! i've been building up a small archive over the spring

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probablynotsamantha · 14 days

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There is an increasing prevalence of incredibly beautiful people in various stages of nakedness on my dash that I want to reblog but am not really sure about so uhh poll time ig

If yall vote and feel so inclined I'd appreciate knowing how strongly you feel about your pick, I don't want to chase away irls but I am kinda liking posting some horny shit to main because it is part of me and maintaining a whole nother blog is kinda a pain. Not going to be posting my nudes on here or more explicit sexting or hornyposting about hard kinks but yknow wanna get feedback

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zeroducks-2 · 11 months

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i understand that you didn’t have any harmful intentions when it came to your reblog about the mature filter, but that post was specifically about the mistreatment of trans women and how they are the ones most heavily impacted by the staff, whether they post actual mature stuff or not. you probably didn’t mean to, but your addition seemed to minimise the harm that transfemmes are put through and it most likely would have been better if you had made your own post instead of derailing another.

If you're the same anon who sent hate before, I'd appreciate you started out with an apology and I am not really inclined to talk to you, but since I care about the subject I will give it a proper response.

I respectfully disagree about how my reblog minimizes the harm that trans women are put through. Trans women are included in the queer community, and tumblr censors (or anyway attempts to) posts about the queer community in general - point which I think is worth considering while we talk about how posts about trans women get censored. We can have both the conversations at the same time.

It's like with the current politics in the US, UK and in many other countries: the main focus is on trans folks at the present moment, but truly what these people hate (these people: bigots, fascists, neo-nazis, right-wingers in general) is queer folks. Scratch the surface and everything comes out: the groups pushing for the erasure and criminalization of transness are against abortion, divorce, gay marriage, drag, otherness of any kind, and this is an important conversation to be had not because it's about taking the focus away from trans folks, but because it's about reminding everyone that we either stand together or we fall.

Tumblr's bigot tendencies reek of this. Posts that mention trans women get labelled mature, posts that show two men kissing get labelled mature, pictures of men in tasteful lingerie get labelled mature, and posts mentioning mlm or wlw love get labelled mature. These are all the same thing: queerphobia, so while we have a conversation about how tumblr censors posts about trans women, it's worth mentioning (mentioning, not overriding the original topic) that tumblr also censors other types of queer content, which demonstrates further how it isn't a bug (as staff tried to claim), it isn't any kind of fluke and it instead it's something embedded in the website's policies and in how they handle certain kinds of content in general.

That being said, I also don't think the post got derailed in any meaningful way. My followers (which aren't by any means a significant number by the way) know my stance in regard to trans issues and know that I myself am part of the trans community, and they're aware of the fact that I care personally about the topic. I have gotten a few likes on that post, maybe one or two reblogs, and the focus kept being on trans women's posts as it was meant to be, as in fact my addition meant to only be a reminder that yes, staff does this, they do target queer content, this is not a coincidence or a one time thing.

I might understand the contempt if I had said something like "actually it's not trans women, they're fiiine - the point is everyone else". But I haven't. What I'm saying is that yes they indeed do this to trans femmes, they do this all the time with queer content, we are not misplaced in our feelings of outrage. There is LITERAL PROOF that they do this, so we should recognize and be aware that when we engage with this site we also engage with a bigoted, transphobic & queerphobic staff.

There was no need to send me hate over it, either.

This is the post with my reblog, for reference.

#my asks

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years

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Pink Scarf - PART 17 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

TW: SEXXX. Verbal Abuse. Assault, both sexual and physical. Blood. Violence. ANGST. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 10k

A/N: PREPARE YOURSELVES, cuz this is an INTENSE roller coaster ride, y'all. Also, PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. I'm not gonna say much else, other than this is a beast and I cannot wait to hear the unhinged responses after. And thank you for your patience!

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there!)

“You need me?” you question him, honestly taken aback by the sentiment, even though he has said it before. It’s just still so hard for you to believe that a man like this needs a woman like you. Running your fingers through the soft, damp hair at the nape of his neck, you look at him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, baby, I do. I really do,” Elvis says, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you close. His head buries in your neck, in your hair, breathing you in.

“Show me,” you whisper in his ear, surprised by your own boldness. But his declarations have you some kind of way and that coil is still like hot coals smoldering in your belly. You feel his body stiffen against you, knowing that he is even more stubborn than you and doesn’t want to give in to you just yet.

You run your hands over his exposed chest and under the deep V of the fabric, grazing over his nipple with your fingernails. He twitches and jumps under your touch, despite his efforts to stay neutral.

“I need you,” you breathe, pitching your voice up the slightest bit as you look into his eyes. And you do. You desperately need him, in every way. If you could crawl inside of him, you would. You need to believe his promises are true, that he will take care of you and be everything you need. You need him to show you.

This must read on your face, because he cannot seem to mask his response this time, his azure eyes widening and pupils dilating.

“Take care of me,” you say, your voice nearly a whine.

That’s the ticket. “Fuck, okay…yeah, let me take care of ya,” Elvis breathes in your mouth as his lips find yours, your sins forgotten for the moment, if not forgiven completely. His lips devour yours and your hands can’t get enough of him, starved from before when he had you tied up. They roam over his chest, wind around his neck and into his hair before scraping down his back and clawing at his waist.

Elvis pulls back for a moment and surveys the space in the room. You can see his wheels turning, then how his lips curve up in a smile as he figures out how he wants you. He leaves you hanging for a moment as he pulls a chair right in front of a huge, floor length mirror. Sitting in the chair, his legs spread wide, he beckons you to him.

“Come sit on my lap, baby,” he purrs at you, and you immediately obey, settling on one of his strong thighs and burying your head into that deliciously long neck of his. The salt of his sweat stains your lips. His strong scent surrounds you, magnifying your need for him. You suddenly feel very small in his arms in addition to that need. He seems to sense this, letting you first cuddle into him a bit before winding his large hand below your jaw and peppering kisses down your neck.

“Gonna be a good girl and do as I tell ya?” Elvis asks, his voice low and gravely as he grabs your chin.

You nod. He truly fucked the fight right out of you before, over there against the wall.

“That’s my girl. Now turn and face the mirror for me,” he says, guiding your hips to swivel in his lap. He pulls your dress up and over your waist, leaving you in your lacy panties. You feel a little self-conscious looking at yourself perched on his lap like this, your cheeks a flaming shade of red. You are very close to the mirror, too close. But you watch as your eyes go wide when he grabs your inner thighs, spreading them open with his large hands while sliding his strong thighs in between to keep yours apart.

The lacy fabric of your already-soaked underwear strains as he massages your legs from your knees to your hips. The groping shoots fire through you and you press back into his lap, encouraging him to continue. When he ghosts over your core, it steals your breath away, and you are so incredibly ready for whatever he has to give you.

“Let get these off,” he says, tapping your clit over your panties and causing you to jump with the sensation. Nearly frantic, you shuck them down and off with lightning speed, along with your heels. Elvis chuckles, spreading you open even further when you sit back in his lap. Your muscles strain with the stretch, but you don’t care.

“Be a good girl and put your feet up on the mirror for me,” he instructs, and albeit confused, you do as you’re told. “Nice and wide for me, honey. Yeah, just like that.” He scoots your hips down a bit as you adjust and cradles your upper body with his, his head resting over your shoulder, looking at you both in the mirror. You are completely exposed and utterly vulnerable before him once again.

“Now look at that,” he breathes almost reverently, “You’re stunning, in every way.” You both watch in the mirror as he runs his fingers down your face, your jaw, then over your body. You shiver in his lap, earning his famous lopsided smile in return.

Elvis gets more serious as his fingers reach your core. “But ain’t this the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in your ear, running his pointer finger ever-so-lightly over your folds as you watch. The combination of sensation and the visual you are not used to seeing has you squirming in his lap, aching. He locks his other arm around your pelvis, pressing you against him and immobilizing you.

“Be good, baby. You promised,” he says in your ear, and you watch yourself nod furiously, stilling. He commences his lecture. “I wantcha to see what I see, baby. Look at how pretty and red you are for me like this, all slick and swollen and needy,” he says, watching intently, hungrily, as his finger grazes your lower lips, up one side and down the other. You whine and grip his arm for purchase, feeling like he is calling all the blood in your body to gather in your cunt. It feels heavy and pulsing, burning with need for him.

Elvis brushes up to your clit. “Hmm, one of my favorite little spots,” he hums, circling it softly, making you keen as you lean back into him. Then, obscenely, he uses his first two fingers to spread your lips apart. “Christ, baby, look at that,” he says, voice filled with lust and awe, “You’re fuckin’ weeping for me.”

Your eyes travel down to your exposed hole, and sure enough, you are literally dripping with arousal, both yours and his. It glistens as it gathers, a slow, eager little drop sliding out. You cannot stifle the low moan that escapes your lips at the erotic nature of this little show, your pussy buzzing with heat and want, on display for all to see.

Elvis senses you need more, and he lets your folds wrap around his long middle finger, dragging it up and down through your slick as you watch.

“Oh, god,” you sigh, thankful for the friction, your hips automatically rolling for him.

“Touch yourself, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” he says, moving your hand over your mound and guiding your fingers in slow circles over your clit before he returns to rubbing in between your slick lower lips. The wonderful combination makes your eyes flutter closed and your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Nuh uh! Eyes open!” Elvis nudges you, and your eyes pop open. “I want you to watch yourself come, baby. I need you to see what I see.” He smiles, and it’s almost boyish in its mischievousness.

It’s not going to take much, considering how primed that coil was before you even sat down, and how strangely erotic this whole scene is. How it’s making you feel lightheaded and buzzy and hot all over. You begin to work your clit furiously, watching as Elvis runs his fingers over then through your sopping, swollen folds. When he dips one long finger, then another into your weeping hole while you watch, the string of curses that leaves your lips is utterly filthy.

Your senses are overloading, which you imagine was his intention. The sight of you swallowing his fingers so needily, so readily, your arousal shining, the wet suckling sound coming from your cunt as he expertly works his fingers in and out of you pushes you headlong to the edge. Coupled with this and your barrage on your clit, you hit your climax hard with a loud cry, pressing your heels into the mirror with such force, you’re afraid you might crack it.

“Look, look, look, baby,” he pants, forcing your focus back to him, back to what he’s doing to you. “Look at how you flutter around me!” He’s right; you watch, mesmerized as your hole clenches at his fingers through your orgasm, and fuck if that isn’t amazingly hot.

You whimper at the sight, shuddering and panting at the exertion. He chooses that moment to curl his fingers, pressing that special spot inside you that is only his, and another wave of pleasure shoots through you so strongly that you lose your breath. You crest the hill again, stars shooting through you, forgetting that you ever came here to break this off, to run away from him.

There is a wild, desperate look in your eyes that you’ve never seen before as you writhe against him in your ecstasy, keeping you fucking down onto his fingers even though you are sore from before. You can’t stop the waves that keep crashing over you, engulfing every inch of you as you watch it happen before your eyes.

And Elvis looks gorgeous, those blue eyes flashing with his magnetic sexual energy, his pouty lips open and pink and panting right along with you. He is hard again, his length pressing into your spine through his suit as you furiously roll on his fingers, and you can feel him begin to shudder underneath you. You know he gets off on watching and this is quite the show. You rock your hips more deliberately now, feeling the length of him slide between your ass cheeks, and he groans.

“Am I gonna make you come in your pants, E? Gonna make a mess for me?” you mewl seductively, wanting to push him over the edge, too. “You like watching me get off on your fingers, don’t you?”

“Jesus, baby, yes,” he moans, “but I need to watch you come again. Come with me, honey.”

You’re not sure you can. You are overstimulated and over stretched and near hysterical with pleasure. Your heart is thrumming so fast you can barely breathe.

“You can do it. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you, baby. Watch me take care of you,” he pants heavy in your ear, his eyes glassy, unable to take his eyes off your pussy. He moves his hips in tandem with yours now, then without warning, slides a third finger inside you.

Your eyes are glued to the mirror, seeing just how well you take him. You automatically adjust to him, and he works you as only he knows how. You work your clit and grit your teeth as you feel that coil poised to spring again.

“E-El-El-vis…F-f-fuckkk!” you cry breathlessly, coming completely undone around him again.

“Oh, fuck, honey…GodDAMN!” he groans into you simultaneously as he slams his hips up with a violent shudder that matches your own. You can feel the heat pulse under you, dampening the fabric of his suit.

But you continue to shake and shiver on top of him, your orgasm ripping through you, stealing everything you have left, draining every ounce of energy from your reserves, which isn’t much considering the insanity of the last 24 hours. You sense much too late that your body cannot keep up. Your heart is too fast, your breathing too labored, and your muscles too weak.

You shouldn’t be surprised, then, when your body goes limp, the blood drains from your head with a cold rush, and the world goes dim and then black.

“Y/n! Y/n! Jesus, Satnin, c-come on baby, w-w-wake up!” you hear Elvis’ panicked voice from far away, but you are so very tired and just want to sleep, thinking maybe it’s a dream.

…no, no! Oh, God, don’t—please don’t go. I-I lo…The faraway echo of long-ago words in this too familiar panicked voice fades away like a dream. You slip back into darkness.

It’s the piercing fear in his voice when he calls your name again that has you finally coming back into yourself. You blink a few times, willing the world to come back into focus, confused.

“O-oh, shit. Oh, t-thank God,” Elvis breathes. He is right above you, his eyes bright and flooded with fear, near tears.

“Wh—what happened?” you murmur, feeling buzzy and strange, and like things aren’t moving fast enough.

“You scared the shit outta me is w-what happened!” he looks down at you, now placed on the couch, his eyes quickly shifting from fear to anger. “You—you just fuckin’ collapsed!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember what happened. You’d come here to break up with him, to tell him you were leaving…then you argued. Then you fucked. The mirror.

Oh, god, had you passed out from coming too hard?

You start to giggle at that, uncontrollably.

“Baby, what the fuck? It’s not fuckin’ funny!” Elvis fumes, leaning over you.

That just makes you laugh more. “I came…s-so h-hard I p-passed out!” you hiccup out.

“That’s not normal!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air.

Another peal of laughter at the absurdity of it rolls through you. He’s not wrong, but whatever is happening to you seems to be overpowering your sense of self-control.

“Are you on something?” he asks suddenly, grabbing your jaw to get you to focus. He looks over you carefully and then a flash of horror comes over him at what you assume is the thought that he’s somehow taken advantage of you.

“N-no, of course not,” you finally manage to get out. You are shivering now though, and suddenly freezing. “S-something’s not r-right,” you finally chatter out.

“No shit,” Elvis mumbles, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. “Baby, when was the last time you ate?” he asks.

You blink at that, trying to run through the last day in your mind, but all the days have been running together. You honestly don’t know.

“I-It’s been at least a day, I think,” you finally eek out. “Maybe l-longer?”

“’Maybe longer?’ Goddammit, y/n, you can’t just go without fuckin’ eating!” he yells, getting up from the couch and storming over to the phone at the other end of the room. You hear him ordering someone to bring food immediately as you attempt to sit up, but your dizziness has you lying back down quickly.

Yeah, well, maybe if I wasn’t in a constant swarm of emotional and physical upheaval for the last week, I would remember to eat, but who’s fault is that?

Elvis slams down the phone and paces back over to you. “When was the last time you slept, y/n?” he angrily asks now, his eyes a churning gray-blue, as he pulls your dress down modestly and throws one of his plush robes over you.

“Um, on the r-roof,” you get out.

“Christ, that was barely sleep,” he mumbles, obviously frustrated as he continues to pace the room. “You have to take better care of yourself, y/n!” he erupts.

You recoil a bit but are touched by his anger, knowing it is fueled by concern. But you are also annoyed because it isn’t all your fault.

“Well, I’ve been a b-bit busy,” you manage.

“Not that fuckin’ busy!”

He’s not getting it. You shake your head, tears coming to your eyes.

“Th-this is part of the problem, E. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, I’ve been so s-stressed, I don’t know which way is up…” you shiver out.

He halts. Your words must be sinking in because the blood drains from his face and you’re suddenly afraid he might pass out.

“This is because of me,” he finally says. The way he phrases it, you’re not sure if it’s a question or statement.

“It’s not—” you start, not wanting him to spiral more than he already is.

“Goddammit, you’ve been tellin’ me you’re strugglin’, and I been yammerin’ at you to trust me to take care of you and then I did the opposite. Shit,” he curses. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Elvis deflates onto the couch next to you and pulls you into his arms, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids.

You are too tired to respond other than to brush the errant tear that runs down his cheek with your thumb. You wish you could see this sensitive side of him more often.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m gonna get some food in ya, then I’m sending Jerry with you upstairs so you can rest—”

You open your mouth to argue.

“There’ll be none of that,” he hushes you. “There’s no way you’re doin’ the show tonight. And Jerry’ll get you woken up before we come up after the show, and everybody’ll be none the wiser.” He gives you a stern look.

There’s no point in fighting him or telling him how his plan could go wrong. You’re still confused exactly how things with Jack are going to be handled or if anything Elvis said while fucking your brains out earlier was going to come to fruition, but you’re not in the frame of mind to try and solve that this minute. So instead you just nod.

The food comes, somehow all of your favorites. He knows my favorite foods? runs through your mind, but you are too hungry to dwell on it. Then, as he instructed, you head upstairs with Jerry, who without judgement, sends you into Elvis’ suite to rest. You think your mind won’t possibly let you sleep, but between the food and your exhaustion, you drift off before your head hits the pillow.

Circle G Ranch, February 1967

You wake up early, your eyes blinking out the dull winter morning light streaming through the window. Well, it’s not early for normal standards, but in Elvis’ world, most haven’t even gone to bed yet, you think, looking at the clock. You being awake now is likely due to the fact you couldn’t keep up with the partying last night and had excused yourself much sooner than usual to go to bed.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are. Being at Elvis’ newly acquired ranch in Mississippi has been a welcome change of scenery yet is still a little disorienting. You are used to Memphis, and even occasionally California, but this place is new for you all.

Completely dissatisfied and not having any semblance of control with his career, Elvis recently decided that he wanted a place in the country, a place where they could all come to relax and ride the horses he’d bought for all the men and their wives. A place where they could work the land and have a little fun. And you wonder if he just wanted to feel a little normal for once, thinking that a ranch would do that for him, that it could give him the control he so desperately craved. That maybe it might bring him some of that happiness and zest for life that had been bled out of him for all these years, turning him into someone you barely recognized.

So, Circle G Ranch was purchased, and you’d all arrived to take in its splendor and fresh air. And it was working. Elvis seemed happier here than he’d been in a very long time, the sparkle beginning to return in those expressive eyes of his. And when Elvis was happy, everyone else was allowed to be happy too, theoretically.

You think maybe all that horseback riding and fresh air is part of the reason you were so tired last night. Turning over, you notice that Jack hasn’t come to bed. Your heart sinks, though out here in the middle of the country, it’s not like he can get in too much trouble. It’s just likely the guys are still awake.

Either way, there is an emptiness in your chest that misses your husband. Each time he leaves with Elvis, less of the man you knew returns. You are hoping that some leisure time on the ranch will help him, too. There is less temptation out here, and more opportunities for you two to spend time together.

Unfortunately, he has not been very receptive to that so far, opting to hang with the guys more than you. But considering that he has been drinking more, part of you is glad for it. If the last couple of years have shown you anything, it’s that Jack is a mean drunk, just like his father.

With that thought, you decide to get up instead of dwelling on things you cannot change. As you get dressed, you hear the door of the trailer slam.

“Jack? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” he replies belligerently. The tone of his voice tells you immediately all you need to know. Your heart speeds up as a warning discomfort blooms in your chest. You steel yourself before walking out into the living area.

“Morning, sweetie. Want me to make you some breakfast?” you ask in a light and easy voice. If nothing else, food might help sober him some.

Jack’s response is a grunt in the affirmative, and then he shoots you a glare, his brown eyes dull but cutting all the same. You have no idea what you may have done to upset him, but he is obviously not happy with you. The tightness in your chest increases and you force a smile, not wanting to set him off. If you act like everything is fine, he might forget what is bothering him. It happens that way sometimes and is generally the best-case scenario when he’s like this.

“Okay, I’ll get that started,” you smile, and he settles with a huff on the couch. Scurrying off to the kitchen, your smile falls and you get to cooking as quickly as possible. Steak and eggs, you think. That’s his favorite and will help clear his head.

Your mind races as you cook, trying to find a reason for his ire. You dissect every moment from the day and night before but cannot pinpoint anything in particular that you might have done to make him upset. This has you feeling uneasy, on eggshells. If you knew what you’d done, you could apologize and make up for it before things get out of hand, but it occurs to you that he might be too far gone for that anyway.

Lost in your thoughts, it takes until you smell the meat smoking to realize you may have cooked it too long. You are hoping he is too drunk to notice. With renewed focus, you plate your breakfasts and walk to the tiny table.

“Soup’s on, babe!” you say in a cheerful sing-song voice. Part of you cringes inside to hear yourself like this.

He grunts off the sofa and stumbles to the table, plopping down with a screech of the chair. You keep yourself from wincing at the sound, wanting to stay as sunny as possible as you begin to cut into the meat. You’re unable to keep from looking up at him to check his body language, his affect, as he begins shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth without so much as a word to you.

You pick at your own breakfast, your appetite low because you feel so on edge. You can sense the tension in the room and know better than to speak at this point.

“What the fuck is this?” Jack grumbles, throwing his knife and fork clattering onto the plate.

You look up quickly, your heartbeat skipping. He’s fuming now, his eyes bloodshot and narrowed at you, his scar an angry red with the flush on his cheeks. You don’t have time to piece together whatever has happened before he continues, his voice shaking low with anger.

“First, you embarrass me by taking off in the middle of everyone having a good time last night. Everybody asking, ‘What’s wrong with her, is she okay?’ blah, blah, blah,” he says with a mocking venom that sends a chill right down your spine. “And now you can’t even make me a decent breakfast. Can’t even get that right,” he growls, pounding on the table.

The table rattles and you start to shake a little, frozen to the spot. You realize that maybe Jack is more than just drunk, that maybe he took something on top of it that has him worse than usual.

“I…I’m sorry, I was just tired from all the activity yesterday, and I can make you a new—” you sputter out quickly, but still unable to move, trapped in his furious gaze.

“I don’t wanna hear your fuckin’ excuses, you stupid bitch!” he screams, exploding out of his seat, the chair toppling over behind him with a clatter. “What I want is a fuckin’ steak that’s not cooked to death!” he roars, then picks up his plate and hurls it over the table near your head. You barely have time to register what’s happening, leaning out of the way at the last second on pure instinct, and the plate careens into the wall behind you with a crash, sending food and ceramic flying everywhere.

Your brain misfires and your heart leaps to your throat, the terror in your veins pulsing through you so intensely that all you can do is turn and run. You have to escape because you don’t know what he’s gonna do, he’s never thrown anything at you before, and he’s yelled, yes, but not done anything to hurt you, and oh, god, you have to get out, get out, GET OUT.

You fly past Jack, his rage too consuming and his senses too dull to catch you as you go, and you are out the door of the trailer in a flash, not stopping to see if he’s following you. No, all you can think is you have to get away, you have to escape, and you fly through the rows of trailers housing the other men and their wives. Your heart slams against your ribcage, fueling your body forward as you sprint down the dirt road towards the barn in the distance. Your socks stick to the cold ground as you run but you don’t care—all you need is to get to the horses. You’re not sure why, but you just know that if you can get to the horses, you’ll be safe.

You run and run, only hearing the crash of the plate in your ear, feeling the splatter as it shatters behind you. Only hearing Jack’s screams, “You stupid bitch! You stupid bitch!” You don’t even register the tears burning down your cheeks as you finally reach the barn, flinging open the door with what little strength you have left and frantically looking in the stalls for the horse that Elvis gave you.

Moonbeam. You finally see her near the other end of the barn, her gray and white coloring standing out in the sea of darker equines. You skid to a stop in front of her. Knowingly, as if she can sense your distress and your need for her large, calming presence, she turns and pokes her head out of the stall, nuzzling your tear-stained face.

“Oh. Oh,” you gasp, completely out of breath from the exertion. You cling onto Moonbeam’s strong neck, her coat soft and warm under your shaking arms. Your chest heaves, desperately trying to take in air. If you could, you would jump right on Moonbeam’s back and ride as fast and as far as you can, but she is not saddled, and you have no idea how to get her ready.

The light tap on your shoulder sends you flailing into the stall door with a shriek.

He’s found me he’s found me he’s found me, is all that runs through your head, though if you were anywhere near logical, you’d know that Jack was in no state to chase you all the way to the barn.

“Hey! Hey, y/n, it’s okay! Honey, it’s just me!” You turn toward the warm, familiar voice and are met with concerned deep blue eyes, a far cry from Jack’s bloodshot and brown glaring ones.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to huff out as you look at Elvis, your muscles starting to burn and shake. Your heart is still beating too fast.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” Elvis says worriedly but gently, looking over you, seeming to sense how on edge you are. He goes to touch your shoulder, but you reflexively shirk backwards, knocking your elbow into the door with a thud. He quickly backs away a step, putting his hands up in a non-threatening way.

You suddenly slam into the present moment, realizing that you must look insane. Your hair is windblown, you are makeup-less with tears streaking down your face. It’s the dead of winter and you are without a coat or shoes, your socks dirty and torn and bloody from your sprint. You have food splattered down your left side, and you are gasping for air like you’re drowning.

“Y/n, I need you to tell me if you’re okay,” Elvis says, quiet and calm, as if talking to a spooked horse.

You glance over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Jack could stumble through the barn door at any moment. Wide-eyed and frantic, you look back at Elvis. You realize he’s between you and the door and that gives you some comfort. Jack would have to get through Elvis to get to you, and while you know you’re not in your right mind, you are completely certain that Elvis wouldn’t let Jack hurt you.

With this relieving thought and your adrenaline beginning to wane, you suddenly feel extraordinarily tired as well as embarrassed that Elvis is seeing you like this. You realize he’s waiting for an answer, but you cannot speak. You don’t want to bother Elvis with any of this, so you nod your head, bobbing it up and down quickly.

Elvis tilts his head and looks at you perceptively. Of course you’re not okay, and Elvis reads it all over your face and appearance. You finally give up under his watchful gaze, shaking your head. It falls back against the door behind you, and you choke back a sob. Your exhausted body shakes with cold and the remnants of your fear, and you slide down the door, unable to support yourself any longer.

“Oh, shit, okay. Honey, it’s okay,” Elvis coos at you, stepping quickly to your side but not wanting to touch you and invade your space, lest you freak out again. Instead, he slides down the door with you, letting you lean into him for support. And you do. As you reach the cold, straw-covered ground, you lean your head onto his shoulder, his warmth radiating comfortingly into your side. You begin to shiver.

“Here, baby,” he says, taking off his thick coat and wrapping it around your shoulders. Immediately, you feel calmer, as the heat and his distinctly Elvis scent of musk and Old Spice, coupled with the woodsmoke from last night’s campfire surrounds you like a blanket.

You both sit in silence for a while as your body comes back down from the fear of Jack’s outburst. He’s yelled at you before, even called you names, but he’d never gotten so close to actually physically hurting you.

He must’ve been on something, you think. Jack would never hurt me.

I should’ve been more careful with the breakfast. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve stayed up last night with him. The thoughts run through your head, as though if you examine them enough, you can possibly avoid setting him off in the future.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elvis asks quietly, sensing the wheels turning in your head as only he can.

Humiliated, you shake your head vehemently. Elvis does not need to know the specifics of your marriage. He does not need to know of your failures.

But part of you wants to tell him he’s created a monster.

Without Elvis, Jack might never have gone into the bottle. Without Elvis, he wouldn’t be taking other shit that makes him fly off the handle at any moment. Without Elvis, without Elvis, without Elvis…

You are too exhausted for blame and anger right now, though, so you bury it instead. It is what it is.

Elvis doesn’t push you, though you can tell he wants to know everything. You can practically feel that he’s quelling some deep instinct to protect you, his muscles tensing and releasing, his jaw working. But maybe he begins to piece it all together himself because he remains quiet. You are safe now, and that’s what matters, right?

And perhaps it is your heightened emotions, but you suddenly crave the nearness of the man who used to be your best friend. The man that, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, time and circumstance somehow stole from you when you weren’t looking.

So you lean into him, into his strength and sensitivity and his unique power to draw you to him, even when part of you wants to blame him for everything. Even after all these years of confusing behavior and emotional distance, you can’t begin to imagine your world without Elvis Presley in it.

And now you sit here on the cold floor of a horse barn in the middle of the Mississippi countryside in the dead of winter, wondering how in the hell your life became this.

Jerry wakes you gently with a whisper and a poke on your shoulder but you startle anyway, pulled out of the dream violently with a gasp.

“Sorry, y/n, but everyone is on their way up soon. EP told me to wake you,” he says apologetically.

The room is dark, and you are still exhausted, but you are somewhat grateful to be pulled out of that dream-memory. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and a sick feeling in your stomach. You can’t help but chastise yourself for letting Jack grovel the way he did after he’d sobered up that day, for how you forgave him so easily because it certainly was not the last time he went crazy like that on you.

“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll be right out,” you say blearily. You blink the sleep from your eyes and stagger into the bathroom to make yourself presentable.

Anger at Jack festers like an open wound, but the dream has also reminded you of your anger towards Elvis about all of it. That makes you feel uneasy, especially coupled with that nagging feeling that he is hiding something from you. You don’t want to feel angry at Elvis, but some of his actions over the years have contributed to your overall dissatisfaction with your life.

You didn’t fully realize until now how upset it had made you that he just stopped being your best friend one day. You still don’t understand all of it, though you feel like these unearthed memories are trying to get you there. But it doesn’t change the fact that both he and Jack abandoned you in different ways. And this pisses you off.

Fucking men, you think, touching up your makeup and straightening your dress. Your unease deepens when you realize you are going to face the group very soon and you have absolutely no idea what Elvis is going to do or even if he will do anything. Is he just going to pull you to his side and tell Jack to go fuck himself? Is he going to act like it never happened at all? You’re not sure which is worse.

Your stomach churns and you desperately need to talk to Elvis before he does something stupid. Panic rises, but you slam it back down, willing yourself to just be normal for the time being.

Be normal. What a laugh. As if any of this is remotely normal.

Steeling yourself, you head out to the living room just as people start walking through the door. Sandy finds you immediately, giving you a concerned and questioning look. You can’t tell if she’s surprised to see you or not, but you turn from her, still annoyed that she ratted you out (even if it was in an attempt to help you).

As the room fills and bustles, something is itching at you, poking at the corners of your mind. You think maybe it is paranoia. It feels as though Red keeps shooting knowing, snide looks your way. You can’t help but examine everyone around you, searching for signs that they know. You squirm in your skin, unable to get comfortable.

It doesn’t help that Jack slides in behind you when you aren’t looking, wrapping his arms around you a little too tight. He reeks of whiskey and cigar smoke so badly you choke. “Where you been, treasure?” Jack asks a little too pointedly, suspiciously, as if he knows something is up. Your heart plummets and you resist the urge to push him away but can’t help but try to worm your way out of his clutches as Elvis strolls in the room.

Elvis’ intense eyes find you immediately, and you watch his jaw clench as he keeps himself in check. You manage to slip out of Jack’s grasp and Elvis relaxes a bit, distracted by one of the guys. It seems like he doesn’t want to make a scene over the two of you in front of the group, which has you breathing a sigh of relief.

What doesn’t have you relieved is that Jack is once again all over you as everyone finds a seat. You feel trapped as the conversation begins to flow, wanting nothing more than to go hide in Elvis’ room, far away from the fumbling hands of your husband. His hands are heavy on you, creeping up your thigh, drawing circles on your shoulder with his fingertips. It used to be a comforting gesture, but now it feels possessive.

He knows. Maybe Red already told him, you panic. Your heart gallops in your chest and you try not to lose it.

No, don’t be an idiot. He wouldn’t be this quiet if he knew, right? Jack is a few drinks in at this point, and the more he drinks, the louder he generally gets. Though based on his hands, you think that he is feeling something else altogether.

You can feel Elvis’ jealous eyes bore on you as Jack touches you, but you are caught between a rock and a hard place. If you shirk your husband’s advances to obviously, it will seem strange and garner attention, but if you don’t, you fear Elvis will give you both away. And you aren’t ready for that, not before the two of you come up with a cohesive plan.

If you are going to leave Jack (no, when you leave Jack, you remind yourself), you certainly don’t want to do it in the middle of an afterparty with the whole gang listening in.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” you finally whisper, excusing yourself with a forced smile, needing to escape Jack’s clutches. “You need anything?” you ask.

“Oh, I need something alright,” Jack breathes sloppily in your ear, attempting to be seductive and failing. But it has an edge to it that worries you.

“You’re hilarious, babe,” you say as sweet as you can while standing to make your escape. Jack takes the moment to grope your ass and you can almost feel the wave of irritation coming off Elvis from across the room. “I’ll get you a drink,” you sputter out, sliding out of Jack’s grasp, shooting Elvis a quick, warning glance to not do anything stupid. Then you scurry away as fast as you can without seeming strange.

Instead of heading to the kitchen, you make a beeline for the bathroom, desperately needing a moment away from all the eyes you feel are on you tonight, wanting things from you that you cannot give.

Fucking men, you think again, closing the door behind you.

To your shock, it doesn’t close. Jack pushes in and your heart drops into your stomach. The look in his dark and muddled eyes bodes nothing good.

“Hey, treasure,” he slurs with that disturbing edge to his voice, grabbing your waist and pulling you in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss. You try rather unsuccessfully to not cringe at the feel of his lips on yours.

Maybe he’s too drunk to notice, you hope.

“I thought you were going to get drinks,” Jack says suspiciously. He locks the door behind you, warning bells exploding in your brain for a multitude of reasons, one being Elvis breaking the door down, another being whatever Jack expects of you.

“I had to pee first, babe,” you say as evenly as possible, “Now get so I can!” You playfully swat him on the shoulder, as you’ve done a million times before in your life together, but this time is different. This time, Jack’s chocolate eyes blacken as he grabs your wrist.

Your breath catches, and your heart starts to speed up as Jack’s hand tightens. “Honey, you’re hurting me. Let go,” you whisper.

His dark eyes rake over your body with what you think is lust, but it is tainted with something frightening. “Oh, I think you came in here because you wanted something else,” he says, backing you into the vanity. “You know, some of the guys are saying that you’re stepping out on me. Can you believe that?” His head buries in your neck, his lips dragging roughly against your skin.

Fucking Red.

“W-What? That’s ridiculous,” you manage to eek out, trying to lean away from his touch, but there is nowhere for you to go. Your heart is in your throat, but before you can say anything else in your defense, he’s changing the subject.

“You’re wearing this scarf again?” Jack questions because it impedes his barrage of his mouth on your neck. He unties it and you watch the pink and black silk flutter to the floor.

“It goes with my outfit,” you reply. You attempt to push him away but get nowhere, his broad chest stubbornly immobile. “Seriously, Jack, I need to pee,” you whine now, hoping that will do the trick. Every nerve in your body is on alert as he kisses your skin, as he presses into you. You can feel the bulge in his pants growing, poking into your pelvis.

Every fiber of your being wants out of this enclosed space, a space that only a moment ago felt like a refuge but now feels like a prison. You don’t want this, and if Elvis finds out, there will be hell to pay. But Jack is too far gone to listen and too strong for you to move.

Jack picks you up easily and places you on the counter, his hands pushing the unyielding fabric of your dress up your thighs so he can spread them open and step between them. It feels cold—nothing like the warmth and passion you felt when Elvis did the same thing earlier.

“I told ‘em, ‘Not my treasure. She knows her place. Besides, who else would want her anyway?’” he laughs cruelly, grinding into you. The words cut, as he intended, and you become fully aware that you are in trouble. Your stomach rolls, nausea consuming you.

“Jack, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to do this right now. You’re too drunk,” you protest, pushing your palms into his chest to try and put space between you.

But he seems to take your protests as being coy, or perhaps he just doesn’t care, and chuckles darkly into your neck. “Didn’t stop you from sucking my dick the other night.” He lathes his tongue against your collarbone, causing an icy shiver down your spine that he interprets as positive, smiling on your skin. His hands roam to your back and unzip your dress.

You squirm, but it only serves to assist in his attempt to undress you, his hands roughly pulling down your sleeves and bra straps.

He stops abruptly, to your relief. “What are those?” Jack asks, suddenly on edge, his tone changing completely. He pulls back from you and for that you are grateful but confused.

“What’s what?” you reply as he stares at your chest, his eyes narrowing, the lust being replaced fully by anger.

Jack is on you in a flash, too fast for you to register what’s happening and then he’s yanking down the front of your dress, your bra, exposing your breast.

“Jesus Jack! What are you doing?!” you shriek, trying to pull away as he manhandles you, but you have nowhere to go.

“What the fuck are those?” He pulls you roughly off the counter and spins you around to the mirror, pointing to the series of purple welts on your breasts.

Oh, fuck.

“I…uh…I…,” you sputter incoherently. Your brain misfires, too panicked to think of anything clever or even anything at all. There’s no logical explanation for the dark bruises other than them being what they are. Your mind flashes back to the other night, how Elvis had claimed you, his pouty mouth suckling your skin roughly as he’d fucked you into oblivion on the couch.

You hadn’t even thought to cover them with makeup, since Jack hadn’t seen you naked in eons.

“You stupid fucking slut! Who are you screwing?!” Jack screams, ballistic, swinging you back around to face him.

You’ve never seen him this angry, his face and scar turning beet red, his eyes like daggers. But this reaction is rich coming from him, which triggers your own anger as much as your fear.

“Really, Jack? You barely come home and when you do you smell of cheap perfume, but me, I’m the slut?!” you yell back at him, your body shaking all over, as you pull up your bra and dress. You certainly hadn’t planned to do this here, now, but you’d known in your heart for days that this was coming.

The vein in his forehead pulses dangerously, and he looks like he truly wants to hurt you. He grabs your wrists painfully as you try and zip up your dress. You’ve never seen him look at you this way, even in his worst moments, and it send a shudder of fear through you. “You’re my goddamn wife! Nobody touches my wife!” he yells, his spit flying in your face, ignoring your reasoning completely, too far gone.

Then, he unlocks the door and yanks it open so hard it slams into the wall with a crash, and then pulls you into the hallway, dragging you behind him.

“Jack, stop. You’re hurting me!” you say, trying to wrench out of his iron grasp. “What’re you doing? This isn’t the place for this,” you hiss frantically, scared of what he might do or say next.

Jack manhandles you into the living area where people are conversing and laughing at someone’s jokes, and roughly pushes you into the middle of the room.

The laughter dies out quickly as all eyes turn towards you.

Your heart pounds in your chest and heat burns your cheeks. You are furious and scared and now embarrassed, the back of your dress undone in front of everyone. You watch as Sandy’s eyes widen, immediately gleaning what’s happening, and she starts to stand, but Jerry grabs her arm to stop her.

You rub at your raw wrists, but you don’t turn to look at Elvis, who is behind you. That would give it all away, and for now you at least have control over that.

“Who is it, huh? Who are you fucking? All of them?” Jack shouts at you in front of the group, pointing aimlessly at the men. There are confused and alarmed glances on most faces, though Sandy, Jerry, and Red all attempt to cover their knowledge with surprise. Some are better than others at concealing it, but Jack is too busy looking at you to see them.

“Hey, man, cool it,” Elvis says from behind you, trying to be nonchalant and deescalate the situation, but you can hear in his voice the effort it’s taking him to be calm.

Jack whirls you around roughly by the arm to face Elvis, as though he’s trying to shame you at court in front of the king. Elvis looks at you, unable to hide his concern and budding fury completely, and you shake your head the smallest amount, for only him to see, telling him to lay low and not give himself away. You may be fucked, but this can still be contained, at least until Jack has calmed down and not everyone is watching.

“This ain’t your problem, EP!” Jack yells. It’s as though the most obvious has escaped Jack’s rage-addled mind, since he’s not even considering Elvis when he’s the biggest threat of all.

But one doesn’t yell at Elvis. Not without repercussions.

“The hell it isn’t, not when you come in here drunk and hot like this, fixin’ to ruin everyone’s mood,” Elvis warns, standing slowly. He’s not yelling yet, but his eyes are starting to turn hard and dark. Elvis can be incredibly patient, but if his temper turns, it won’t be pretty. And he was already done with Jack before this wretched display. The tension in the room thickens to a heightened degree, leaving everyone on edge.

So hot with fear and embarrassment and anger, you think you might burst into flames right here. Your heart is thundering against your ribcage and you can barely breathe. Your legs itch to run, but you are surrounded by prying eyes, trapped between the two most important men in your life.

Jack is incensed, fuming, and not backing down. He’s gearing up for a fight, which is bad. His grip on your arm tightens and you can’t help but wince. You watch as Elvis takes a step towards you both and you shoot him a look to stay put.

“Jack, stop this,” you say as calmly as you can. “Let’s just take a breath and talk somewhere else and let the party go on.”

Jack’s chest heaves and he turns on you. “Shut the fuck up, you whore!” he snarls.

Then his fist brutally collides with your face.

Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion after that. The pain is instant, radiating through your cheek and your jaw, up into your eye socket. The metal of his rings snag at the corner of your mouth and scrape your face. Shock and disbelief course through you as the air rushes out of your lungs and hot tears spring to your eyes. The momentum of his strike sends you careening to the floor, and you manage to throw your hands out to catch yourself just before you hit the carpet.

A stunned silence falls over the group.

He hit me. He fucking hit me, you think in disbelief, through the pain, through the ringing in your ears.Jack had never, ever laid a hand on you before. You reach your hand up to your face, and it comes away bright red, bloody, your lip split. You can’t hold back the choked, shaking sob that escapes your lips.

Everything explodes at once.

The roar that comes from Elvis is like nothing you’ve heard before. The anger he’d shown you is but a fraction of what you see now as he crosses the room, a menacing bull after a matador. He strides so quickly and fiercely with those long legs of his that Jack barely has time to register what is happening before Elvis punches him square in the jaw, then rapidly again right in the nose. You can hear the sickening break of it which turns your stomach. Or maybe it’s your own pain doing that, you’re not sure at this point.

Elvis doesn’t even say anything, so blacked out with rage that he can’t even speak. You watch from the floor as Jack stumbles back and his eyes widen in shock, then confusion.

“EP? What the—?” Jack starts to say, holding his nose as it starts to bleed down his face, but before he can get it out, Elvis has him by the throat. Those long fingers wrap around and begin to squeeze as Elvis walks Jack back into the wall. Shocked, you watch from the floor as Jack’s face begins to turn red and he begins to sputter, clawing at Elvis’ hand and arm. True fear begins to play over Jack’s features.

Suddenly, the guys are all yelling and rushing around you. Sandy’s hands yank you up and back out of the fray, and you feel dizzy, swaying on your feet. You’re not sure how, but she manages to get you on the couch, zipping up your dress in a flash, and then examines your injuries.

“Are you okay? Y/n, are you okay?” she asks frantically, but with the commotion in the room and the fuzzy white noise in your head, she feels a million miles away. Your eyes are locked on the insane sight in front of you, freezing you with shock.

The guys are desperately trying to pull Elvis off Jack, but his hand is like a vise around Jack’s throat. He’s strangling him, truly choking him because you can see Jack’s face start to go purple and his eyes begin to roll back.

Three of the guys are on Elvis’ back now while Red chops at his arms, trying to break his hold on Jack’s throat unsuccessfully.

Oh my god, if Elvis kills him, I’ll lose them both and it’ll be all my fault, you realize.

You rise to your feet, ignoring Sandy’s protests, ignoring the dizziness and throbbing in your head, and you somehow, through pure will, push yourself through the throng of men to Elvis’ side.

“Elvis! Elvis, you have to stop this,” you say firmly, staring into his beautiful, terrifying face. His eyes are black and unyielding, almost unrecognizable. His jaw is so clenched in his murderous fury that you think he’ll crack his teeth. You’re not even sure if he can hear you because he doesn’t give any indication that he can, but you have to get him to stop.

“Baby, you can’t do this. You’re killing him. You can’t kill him. Satnin, I can’t lose you and if you do this, we’ll both be lost,” you murmur, pleading in his ear for only him to hear, hoping against hope it gets through to him.

You watch Elvis blink a few times, as if waking briefly from his trance, his shoulders relaxing just enough that when Red slams down on his arms again, they give way. Jerry pulls you backwards with a yelp, as Jack coughs, sucking in deep, rattling breaths as he slumps down the wall.

You do not go to him.

Elvis’ lapse in rage is short lived, for he sees Red and turns on him quickly with another roar, throwing brutal punches. You see on Red’s face that he knows exactly why Elvis is coming for him. A few punches land hard, and you hear more of the crack of flesh on flesh. You can’t help but smile a little inside at Red getting what’s coming to him, but horrified at yourself, you push that thought right out of your brain.

But there is a reason Red is Elvis’ bodyguard. He’s tough and scrappy and much more prepared for a fight than Jack was. You can see he doesn’t want to hurt Elvis but blocks and dodges some of his punches more readily. Four of the Mafia surround Elvis now, grabbing his arms, his waist, holding him back from Red, holding him down.

Elvis struggles against them and lets out one last terrifying primal cry before they get him subdued, pushing him to his knees. His chest heaves as they continue to hold his arms, his chin lowered, those lethal blue eyes peering out from under the black hair falling in his face. They still home in on Jack and Red, who are licking their wounds at the other end of the living room.

Adrenaline courses through you, your heart threatening to pound through your ribs, the blood rushing in your ears, as you watch four men have to hold down the man you love to keep him from killing the men that hurt you. And you aren’t entirely sure how to feel about that. A small part of you is frightened by this side of Elvis, how he is gone so deep into his rage that the man you know is barely there at all. And you can’t help but feel responsible for this turn in him.

But another part of you feels vindicated and relieved and almost proud of his defense of you. Part of you swells with so much love for him that you want to fall to your knees and kiss him as if your life depended on it.

“You sonofabitch. You fucking wife-stealing asshole,” Jack rasps out bitterly at Elvis, cowering on the floor with Red and a couple of the other men surrounding him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” some of the guys cry, having to hold Elvis back from going ballistic again. His glare at Jack is so fierce, you think the look alone might kill him from across the room.

But you don’t stop to find out because you wrench out of Jerry’s grasp and somehow make it over to Jack before your brain catches up with your body. You don’t even have time to think twice before your hand pulls back and slaps open-handed across Jack’s cheek, the smack reverberating in your ears and stinging through your hand and up your arm.

But you don’t care.

Silence falls over the room once more. Jack stares up at you wide-eyed, with shocked indignation.

“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” you seethe, now fully infuriated that the man you once loved had hurt you so badly, in so many ways. “You lost me a long time ago, and Elvis had nothing to do with it, you cheating, lying, drunken bastard!” You lean over into his face, your voice low and biting, “And don’t you ever, ever, lay your hands on me again, or next time I won’t stop him from tearing you apart.”

You watch the mixture of surprise and contempt and fear play over Jack’s features for a moment before stepping back. You look back at Elvis and see his lip curl into a sly grin.

And then it all hits you at once. All your mistakes. Everyone staring at you in shock. Your dirty laundry aired out for all to see. The blood and pain bruising on your face, your head pounding, your vision hazy. The mortifying violence that has occurred in your name. Your lover almost murdering your husband.

Oh, god.

Suddenly, vertigo hits you hard and you are so dizzy that the room swims and sways in front of you. The bile rises so quickly that you don’t even have time to process what is happening before you are hurling your dinner onto the shag carpet.

Something is quite wrong, you realize. All your anger and doubts and regrets and love drain from you with a tingling coolness, and everything and everyone feels very far away, their cries muffled by the pain in your head. Then you fall into a dark oblivion, leaving the pain and consequences of your actions far, far behind, and you wonder fleetingly if it was all worth it.

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