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#PLEASE continue these prompts if you feel so inclined
moonstruckme · 3 months
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Can I request whimsical!reader and Sirius Black?? Or maybe poly!marauders but I just feel like Sirius would be so whipped for his quirky girl and join in on whatever shenanigans she starts 🫶
Sooo right babe, thanks for requesting :)
poly!marauders x whimsical!reader ♡ 878 words
“Darling,” Sirius keeps his voice quiet as he slinks down into the armchair. “What are you doing?” 
You look up from where you’re knelt beside the couch, bent ominously over James’ sleeping form. He’s out cold, his glasses discarded and placed carefully on the coffee table by Remus. James is a hard sleeper on a good day, but when he’s sick even the apocalypse couldn’t wake him. His breath wheezes noisily in and out through clogged nostrils. 
“I’m cleansing him,” you whisper. 
“With rocks.” 
You send your boyfriend a smile, well used to his ragging. “With crystals,” you correct him softly, placing another on James’ sternum. 
Sirius sits forward curiously. “What do they do?” he asks.
“Different things.” 
When you don’t seem inclined to go on, he reaches forward to poke at your shoulder. You sway placidly like a ship on calm waters. “Like?” he prompts. 
You hum, taking a smooth, green rock from your pouch. “Well,” you say, “this one is jade. It helps with headaches.” You place it gingerly on James’ forehead. 
“I see.” Sirius nods thoughtfully. “And what’s that blue one?” 
“It’s to help support his immune system.” 
“Uh huh. So you’re trying to heal him, is that it?” 
You consider this for a moment. “Sort of,” you say. “More like help his body heal itself.” 
Sirius grins at your breezy kindheartedness and slides down onto his knees beside you. “That’s sweet, baby.” He kisses your cheek, delighting when it dimples. “Can I help?” 
“Sure,” you say, looking pleased, “if you want to.” 
You move your little pouch so it sits between the two of you. Sirius brushes a piece of hair behind his ear, considering the stones inside. He picks up a cool-looking black and red one. 
“What’s this?” 
You glance over from where you’re setting another crystal on James’ chest. “Garnet,” you tell him. 
“And what’s it help with?” 
“Calcium deficiency.” 
Sirius guffaws. He covers his mouth with his hand when Remus pokes his head out of the kitchen, looking suspicious. 
“You think our boy’s fallen ill because he’s low in calcium?” he whispers. 
You shrug, scrunching your nose in that silly way you do when you don’t get why he’s laughing. “I guess I thought it couldn’t hurt.” 
“What are you two doing?” Remus asks, coming over with his arms crossed to lean against the wall. His voice is cautiously quiet. 
Sirius leaves you in charge of fielding questions while he dedicates himself to carefully balancing the garnet crystal on the point of James’ nose. His knuckles brush his boyfriend’s overwarm cheek as he retracts his hand, grinning at his work. He wonders if he can get one in his mouth without waking him. 
“We’re using crystals to help Jamie get better,” you explain, voice light as thistledown. “Siri, love, you can’t put it there. It’ll fall.” 
To his disappointment, you take the stone from James’ nose and place it between his collarbones. When Sirius pouts, you dig in the pouch to hand him another. 
“Here, try again.” 
“No.” Remus recognizes the glint in Sirius’ eyes and steps forward to snatch the stone from him. “Don’t enable him, sweetheart,” he tells you. “He’s just playing around.” 
You seem unconcerned, leaving Remus to deal with Sirius as he sees fit while you continue your healing rituals. 
“Excuse me for trying to help our sick boyfriend,” Sirius protests. 
“She’s trying to help,” Remus says sternly. “You’re just going to wake him.” 
“He could sleep through a tornado.” 
“He’s ill, Pads. Leave him be.” 
“Sorry, Jamie,” your voice comes, soft and sympathetic. Remus and Sirius both turn. “How are you feeling?” 
“Wha…” James clears his throat, then sniffles thickly. “What’s on me?” 
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say. Your hand comes up to stroke at the damp curls lying across his forehead. “Do you feel calcium sufficient?” 
“What?” 
“The answer is yes,” Sirius helps him out. “Yes, you do feel calcium sufficient.” 
“I suppose so.” Crystals fall from James’ face as he sits up on his elbows, rubbing at his cheek. 
“I’m sorry we woke you,” Remus murmurs, crouching by James face and beginning to take crystals off his chest. You look slightly put out, but you don’t protest. Sirius kisses the side of your head consolingly. “How are you feeling, love?” 
“Properly stuffed up.” He inhales sharply through his nose, and Sirius feels his mouth twist at the ugly snuffling sound. “A bit better than when I fell asleep, though.” 
Remus and Sirius both look at you. Your smile spreads like a slow sunrise, the tops of your cheeks turning a pleased pink. Sirius’ heart does an embarrassing little dance. He takes your hand, stamping a kiss on the back of your palm. 
“Do you feel like some tea?” Remus asks James, his own lips curved slightly. 
“That sounds fantastic,” James admits. 
Remus smiles over at you. “Want to help me make it?” 
You hop up eagerly. “I can go get some thyme from the garden,” you say, headed for the back door. “It’s good for respiratory issues.” 
James makes a face and Remus takes you by the shoulders, gently redirecting you towards the kitchen. “Maybe just a regular tea for now, sweetheart,” he says. “But we can definitely try that later.”
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the-modern-typewriter · 4 months
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Could you please do a villianxhero prompt?
They were on the same side. Sort of. Temporarily. Admittedly, it had been a temporary that had stretched on far longer than either of them had expected.
It had been nearly a year.
"I wouldn't," the hero said, as one of the villain's circle stood up to go find his absent leader in the study upstairs.
The villain's left-hand simply sneered at the hero before continuing on their way.
The hero sighed. They could feel a headache forming, but they moved to rise either way, with the celestial tug of everything they were.
"I wouldn't."
The hero glanced over at the villain's right-hand.
The right-hand smiled at them. "It serves him right. And it wouldn't do him bad to remember how much of a buffer you are when you're around."
"He'll get hurt."
"Then he should have listened to you, shouldn't he?"
Well, the hero didn't exactly have a good argument for that. While they'd learned to get on well with the villain's right hand, they still clashed frequently with the obnoxious and entirely too sycophantic left.
"Seriously," the right-hand said, softer. "It's not like you're planning to stop absorbing the worst of them any time soon, is it? Pick your battles."
"They're not that bad with me."
"You know how to handle them - better than anyone."
"Don't let them hear you say that."
The right-hand snorted.
They both looked up, towards the ceiling, towards the villain seething with setbacks out of view.
Something crashed.
"I'm not going to say 'I told you so,'" the hero said. "That feels mean."
"Don't worry." The right-hand sounded positively cheery. "I will."
The left-hand slunk back downstairs before they could respond, pale and shaken. It was, admittedly, a little satisfying. The villain was definitely a bad influence.
But, also, really. The villain telegraphed their moods fairly obviously and they'd got better at retreating when they felt inclined to be vicious. It wasn't a spoken boundary but it was a boundary to anyone paying attention.
It was possible that the hero paid too much attention. They just couldn't quite seem to stop.
"They told me to send you up," the left-hand muttered, with great resentment.
"Bold of them to assume you can send me anywhere."
"Please," the left-hand spat.
The hero grinned at them, before standing.
The right-hand's eyes gleamed, like they knew something that no one else had cottoned onto yet.
The hero shot them a two fingered salute, before they made their way upstairs. They rapped their knuckles against the door before entering.
"I've been summoned," the hero said, leaning against the door. "And you look like hell."
The villain scowled, dragged their hands through their hair.
The hero winked back at them.
The villain's glare intensified, but the tension slipped from their shoulders. "My head is killing me," the villain said. "I'm going to slaughter the next person who interrupts me."
The hero hummed, moving over to the sofa in the corner of the room. They flopped down, all casual like. The villain didn't even make a show of being casual or pretending to work for a minute more before they beelined over, all but shoving their face into the hero's neck.
The hero raised their eyebrows, surprised, then softened. The cupped the back of the villain's head, stroking through the dark locks. The villain melted against them. The hero felt something inside them ease too; a jungle cat finally settled and purring.
"It's disgusting that you're one of the few tolerable people left in the world," the villain said.
"Woe betide the minions. They try so hard."
"Don't take their side. You're mine."
The hero huffed, but didn't correct it, far too busy stifling a smile. Mine. It shouldn't have got to them like it did; there was a time when the word would have made them snarl with fury. They tucked their chin atop the villain's head. The connection between the two of them buzzed pleasantly.
They didn't ask if the villain wanted to talk about it. Inevitably, though, they did.
When the two of them wandered downstairs three hours later, the villain was themselves again.
"So," the right-hand asked, when the two of them were alone. "When's the wedding?"
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softest-punk · 8 months
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Is accidental kissing on that prompt list? 😊 Would love some sweet and silly dreamling but dealer’s choice if you’re so inclined!
It's not but it CAN be, we can make up our own prompts :D
---
One of the great delights of the universe, Hob is discovering, is a tipsy, giggling Dream leaning heavily on him as he tries—with variable success—to get him up the stairs and into his flat. He's in no state to go home like this, even if he can just will himself there. Hob's not convinced he wouldn't accidentally will himself to the far side of Betelgeuse or something. And then it'd be a bit of a trek back. And he'd be all alone.
Hob isn't exactly clear on what they're celebrating. That is to say, Dream explained, he understood perhaps two words and they hadn't been sequential. Dream was obviously happy, though. Happy enough to agree to a proper celebration, which Hob felt was his duty as best-only friend to encourage when Dream had obviously had a win for once in his very long existence.
He's glad he did. The chance to see Dream getting loose and relaxed and flushed is absolutely worth trying to get all twenty-seven of his gangly limbs, none of them cooperative, up the stairs.
"Hob," Dream pronounces, draping himself over Hob's back as he fumbles with his keys. Hob is, by his own standards, perfectly sober, but he doesn't usually have to get his keys out in the dark with anywhere between three and two hundred pounds, depending on the moment, of drunken eldritch horror leaning on him. Or hooking his pointy little chin over his shoulder to watch.
"Mm?" Hob answers, making a sound of triumph as he gets key into lock. Sherlock Holmes would have something to say about all the new scratch marks, probably.
"Mm?"
"Hob...?"
"Hmm," Dream murmurs. "Forgot."
Hob chuckles, and pushes the door open.
Which is about where everything goes wrong.
Dream, who had been leaning more heavily on him than he realised, tips forward as Hob pushes the door open and turns to let him in first, like a good host.
He tips forward directly against Hob's face. His mouth, in fact. Makes contact, with Hob's mouth.
Hob catches him by the waist, because he's got to catch him somewhere and it's where his hands land. There were only so many options, after all.
Dream, still tipsy and loose and giggly, instead of backing away out of any feeling between horror and courtesy, makes a curious sound, and parts his lips.
And then they're definitely. Unquestionably. Unavoidably. Kissing.
Hob really does mean to push Dream gently away, laugh it off, even as his heart clenches to the point of pain in his chest. He does mean to.
But then Dream makes the softest little pleased sound, and his hands come up to frame Hob's face, and it's actually out of his power, then, because Dream's backing him up against the wall and licking his way into his mouth.
Hob grasps at his t-shirt, a token protest. He doesn't actually want to stop, but he wants Dream to deliberately and consciously want to continue, with full knowledge of what he's doing.
Dream does back off an inch. His nose is still touching Hob's. He's got such a lovely nose.
He's got such a lovely everything, and his eyes are glittering in the dark, and his hands are cool and gentle on Hob's overheated face.
"This is not pleasing to you?" Dream asks. Hob can't really see him, in the few scant handfuls of lumens spilling in from the city outside. But he can hear the little line between his brows in his voice.
"You're drunk," Hob says softly.
Dream grunts. Shivers. Runs his thumbs along the ridges of Hob's cheekbones in a way that feels a little possessive.
Hob shivers, too.
"Not anymore," Dream rumbles, and Hob's sure of that, too. It's in his voice. He's shaken it off, because of course he can do that. "May we continue?"
Hob laughs, and darts forward to catch Dream's lips himself this time, nipping at the gorgeous lower one he's wanted to bite longer than he can remember.
"I think we could."
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nincompoopydoo · 1 month
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Hi! Happy Valentines Day, and may you have a great day! May I request from this prompt ‘ I couldn’t sleep. ’ with Bobby Floyd and shy!reader please? They'd be so cute together. Thank you so much!❤️❤️
OUR TINY APARTMENT
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PAIRING: Bob Floyd x Shy!Reader WORD COUNT: 1.3k [i know i said < 1k words but i got carried away] SUMMARY: You're in love with your roommate and after accidentally finding out that he may share your feelings, all you can will yourself do is make an omelette. even if it's 3am. A/N: so damn happy to finally write for my other baby, Mr. bob floyd! thank you for your request and happy valentines! WARNINGS: swearing. TENSION. Natasha snitching. military inaccuracies idk. no beta we die like men. PROMPT: "I couldn't sleep." [from a this prompt list] MASTERLIST
Your apartment is tiny — a two-bedroom and two-bathroom apartment.
Well, it used to be huge when you first moved to gleaming San Diego. So huge that the empty void space made you feel small. From cold, dim, and rustic urban forests, your new job took you across the country to warm, bright, shining beaches. Quickly, the sounds of car honks were replaced with the cries of seagulls.
Alone in a postcard landscape with orange skies for sunsets.
Every creak and every shuffle echoed a little too loudly within these four walls; your home began to feel cold and dim.
Your apartment needed company.
You needed company.
Entered Robert “Bob” Floyd: Weapon System Officer, bespectacled, sandy blonde, responsible, intelligent, and devastatingly cute.
Bob, a naval pilot, resisted moving in with the other pilots because extroverted naval soldiers never understood the privacy inclinations and dwelled in silence for more than five minutes.
He was someone of little words, and so were you. As two introverts, you immediately clicked. Between tight smiles and awkward small talk, you saw yourselves in each other. 
So, your huge apartment became tiny.
Your apartment, drenched with salt air from the sea and bathed in orange from sunset skies, remained silent – a comfortable silence. The kind of silence that lingered between two people who have normalised each other’s presence in a tiny space with an understanding that conversations don’t come as naturally and as often.
Bob understands. He always does.
It’s hard not to love him, and it has become harder to see him as only a friend when your waking days are spent contemplating on how much you want to be more than just friends with Bob.
Your chest aches at that thought.
In the kitchen is where you find yourself rummaging through the cabinets for eggs. The analogue clock ticks at a quarter to three in the morning, and the refrigerator light floods through the darkness as you whisk two eggs in a blue ceramic bowl Bob had gifted you as a peace offering when he first moved in.
Hours before, you bumped into Natasha, Bob’s colleague, at the entrance of the local grocery store. With a wide grin, she excitedly approached as you returned a bashful wave.
“Hey, you.” Natasha chirps with a growing sly smirk.  “So, how did the date go?”
You blink.
“...Date?”
Natasha continues to smile with bright eyes.
“Yeah, the date with Bob?”
Your eyes widen, and your breath hitches.
“What?” is all you manage to say, and you watch her grin immediately vanish at your words.
“Oh, um…” Natasha’s expression reflects yours as her eyes dart around the area. Anywhere but you. 
You’re still trying to process her words. Why would she think you went on a date with Bob?
Unless…
Oh.
“Woah, look at the time!” Natasha croaks while glancing at her watch. A nervous chuckle escapes her lips, and her panicked eyes return to you once more as she promptly waves you goodbye.
“You have a nice day ahead!”
You watched her scurry back to her car, throwing a quick wave at you again, and you’re left at the store doorstep with your heart thrumming against your chest.
And now, you’re in the kitchen, whisking your anxiety away.
With a huff, you reach for the pan hanging by the stove when the handle slips from your grasp and lands on the floor with a loud clang, followed by a flurry of pots and pans that, too, made its way to the ground, crashing.
“Fuck,” you silently curse, gasping at the sight of your sudden accident of massacred utensils on the kitchen floor. While you scramble to clear the mess, you hear the doorknob of Bob’s room rattle, and the door creaks open, revealing an exhausted Bob. Wrinkled shirt and tousled hair, he squints through tired eyes and takes in the scene before him, although, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
With a nonstick pan in one hand and the other a fork, you stare at him with wide eyes, brows shooting up like a deer caught in the headlights. He glimpses the blue ceramic bowl on the counter behind you.
He knows it, and you don’t have to elaborate: you were making an omelette.
“I couldn’t sleep.” are the words that leave your lips, uttered with a bashful tone of embarrassment.
You press your lips into a thin line and continue, “I’m sorry for waking you.”
Bob flashes you a gentle smile and waves his hand as if to dismiss your worries silently. He immediately bends down to collect the scattered saucepans and the casserole pot you never use without a second thought. You join him, knees on the floor.
“No, it’s fine. I couldn’t sleep either.” 
Your heartbeat quickens at the sound of his voice, soft and merely a whisper. His drawl is a tad deeper than usual, sending your stomach a flutter. Immediately, your meeting with Natasha returns to prominence in your mind, rewinding her words. At the thought, a sense of sheepishness trails up the hairs of your neck.
A glimpse at Bob, you catch the steady furrow of his brows and the dark circles that line his eyes – a conspicuous facade to his mild distraught that you figured had kept him awake. You wondered if he had been pondering about whatever Natasha had accidentally slipped earlier.
When you find yourself back on your feet, you are immediately faced with Bob already staring at you in all his ragged charming glory, glasses catching the reflection of the refrigerator light. You spot a glimmer in his eye as he takes a step towards you so careful. You watch the way his lashes touch the expanse of his cheeks, blinking whilst attempting to hide his growing anxiety.
The tension in the room shifts as he says your name so softly, as if whatever he’s about to say next is so sacred and so secret, they’re for your ears alone.
You don’t dare say anything.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he pauses, gaze darting every corner of your face. He’s trying to get a read on your reaction. “I’m not sure how things will turn out once I say it because, well, I… like what we have right now.”
Bob nervously fiddles with the hem of his shirt, and you cannot breathe.
“This,” Bob vaguely gestures to the close space between you. “This has been the best thing that has happened to me ever since I arrived here. I would hate to ruin it.”
A twitch right at the corner of his lip. Your heart melts.
Bob huffs loudly.
“I guess all I’m asking is –”
“Yes.”
Bob blinks, dumbfounded.
You breathe.
“Yes, I’ll go on a date. With you.”
It’s simple, short, straightforward.
You watch him blink again, mouth agape. Still very much silent.
Then, a terrible feeling of dread settles in your stomach. You start to panic.
“I mean, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t mean to assume –”
Before you could even further delve into your self-created exaggeration of the consequences of your words, you were brought back to the reality of your apartment kitchen when Bob brings his lips to the corner of your mouth, chapped lips against your flushed cheeks.
Minutes ago, you were about to make an omelette. Now, Bob just kissed you.
You carefully watch Bob pull away from you, his palm still on your right cheek, expression reflecting a sense of an equal astonishment to your own of his actions. You feel the tremble of his exhale against your skin.
His touch lingers, his expression soft, and you finally find the courage to do the right thing.
Your hands find the sides of his face, and you kiss him, nose bumping the lens of his glasses. You feel him smile against your lips, a hand grasping the curve of your waist.  
In this tiny apartment, this tiny space you share, your heart feels so incredibly huge for the first time.
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namelessghoulette626 · 10 months
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prompt 5: "i will always find my way back to you, no matter what."
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5. “ I’ll always find my way back to you, no matter what.”
Author’s Note: this one is also angsty, with mentions of death and grief! here’s a tip: if you wanna get into a perfect mood to write angst, listen to taylor swift while writing :) also, if you feel so inclined, provide some feedback for me! I’m always trying to improve my writing, so any constructive criticisms you may have feel free to tell me! (just don’t be a dick, please. i’m sensitive)
2 years, 5 months, and 13 days. 
That’s how long it's been since you last saw Miguel. Not because of any breakup or disagreement; the two of you departed on great terms. The last day you saw him was your three-year anniversary of dating, practically pushing him out as he tried to stay home, wanting to spend the entire day with you on this major date. You had just sighed, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. You remember saying, “Unfortunately, bad guys don’t take a day off, so neither can Spider-Man.”
If you could go back, you would’ve begged him to stay home, to let the universe take care of itself for once, instead of depending on Miguel. It was selfish of you, yes, but you were allowed to feel that way. The universe had been selfish in taking the love of your life out of your existence. 
You had gone about your day as normal, working without a single issue arising. After arriving back home, you spent the rest of the day doing small chores around the house, waiting for Miguel to return so you could celebrate.
When the time that he usually came home passed, it didn’t cause you to worry. There were nights when Miguel didn’t come back until early in the morning, sliding into your bed, murmuring apologies if he woke you. 
Sitting on the couch, you mindlessly scrolled on your phone, just waiting. 
And waiting.
You started to feel tired, your eyes burning as you tried your best to stay up. You checked the time on your phone. 12:29.
Sighing, you got off the couch, ready to turn in for the night. You were disappointed, but not at Miguel. He couldn’t help the times he was coming home at. Traveling across different worlds on a daily bases tended to do that. You were disappointed at the world, a feeling that would continue to repeat itself for the next couple of years. 
A knock at the door halted you.
You thought it was weird. A, because Miguel would normally just walk in without announcing himself (a habit you had tried, and failed, to change), and B, it was midnight. Who the hell would be knocking on someone’s door at this time?
“Maybe Miguel forgot his key?” you had thought, trying to rationalize the situation instead of immediately spiraling down a rabbit hole of worst-case scenarios. In your gut, you knew nothing good lie behind that door. But it felt good to hope, right? 
When you saw Jessica Drew, Miguel’s right-hand-woman, that little flicker of hope in your heart was stomped by the ugly boot of reality. Time moved in slow motion as you opened your door.
You didn’t speak, hoping that this was some fucked up dream and that you would wake up and Miguel would be in bed next to you, holding you in his arms. When Jessica spoke, it cemented in your brain that this was happening. 
“I’m sorry,” was all she said before your ears started ringing, your vision spinning. You only heard bits and pieces as she explained, something about the device on his wrist malfunctioning, and that he was sent to one of the billions of possible worlds in existence, and they didn’t know which one. 
She didn’t need to spell it out for you. The likelihood of Miguel coming back was close to impossible. 
He was gone. 
Nodding along as she spoke, you tried not to break. Not in front of her. Miguel held so much respect for her, and she honestly intimidated you a bit. She was so strong and brave, and you didn’t want to seem weak in front of her. 
When you felt her arms wrap around you, you broke down. She caught you as your legs gave out, overwhelming sadness quite literally shutting down your body. Using her strength, she kept you upright, bringing you to the couch where moments prior you had sat waiting for Miguel’s return. 
She held you as you sobbed, screamed, pleaded, and eventually passed out, your body too exhausted to continue working. Laying you down on the couch, she covered you in a blanket, and before she left she slipped two pieces of paper under your hand. 
When you woke up, you rubbed at your eyes; they were irritated and swollen from crying. When you moved your hand, the two pieces of paper fell out, floating to the ground. Confused, you sat up and reached down to grab them, and you let out a strangled gasp when you saw the first item, grief overwhelming you once again. 
One of the pieces of paper was a picture of you and Miguel, a selfie that you had taken about a year into your relationship. You were looking at the camera, smiling brightly. Miguel’s focus was on you, a love-struck expression on his face as he looked at you. Tears welled in your eyes as you set the photo in your lap, covering your mouth with your hand to muffle your sobs.
When you felt collected enough, you reached for the second piece of paper. It was a note addressed to you. The sides of the paper crumbled in your grip as you read it.
Found this photo in Miguel’s office. Thought you’d like to have it. He really did love you, you know. You made him a better man. When you’re ready, I’d like to talk to you. Take your time. Jessica Drew. (xxx) xxx -xxxx
For the next week, you didn’t leave the house. You hardly moved, except to use the bathroom and maybe eat. The rest of the day would be spent crying or sleeping. Your phone would ding from time to time with people offering their condolences. To the rest of the world, Miguel O’Hara was dead, killed in some freak accident. Weirdly enough, it was easier to accept his death than accept the reality that he was in an unknown world alone with no way home. 
After the first week passed, you started moving more and taking care of your body again. Grief, you would find, is not linear. It’s jagged and unpredictable. Some days you would be alright, able to rejoin the world, even laughing and enjoying others' company. Then there were other days, where the grief was as debilitating as the first week, and you would shut down again. But you were living again, which is what Miguel would want. 
Eventually, you messaged Jessica, and the two of you became close over the following years. She became your rock, essentially. About a year since Miguel’s “death”, she was pregnant, and you essentially became an honorary aunt. You helped her and her husband build the nursery, took Jessica shopping for baby clothes, and helped plan her baby shower. When she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, you were there in the hospital waiting room.
There wasn’t a day that passed that you didn’t think about Miguel. The photo that Jessica gave you sat on your nightstand, greeting you every morning and night. Wherever he was in the universe, you wished that he was alright, and wished that one day he might come back to you. 
So here you were, 2 years, 5 months, and 13 days later, still persevering. You were laying in bed, reading some cheesy romance book that one of your colleagues recommended (you didn’t have the heart to tell her no). The sound of electricity took you out of the book, and the lights in your room flickered. 
Believing it to be just a power surge, you resumed reading. When a loud thud came from the living room and the lights cut out, you finally set your book down, and trepidly you got out of bed, trying to make the least amount of sound possible so you could hear better. When you heard the thud start swearing, your blood ran cold. 
Perfect. Just what you needed. An intruder.  
Grabbing the baseball bat beside your bed (you had gotten it as a gag gift one year, and you kept it beside your bed for instances like this), you pressed your back up against the wall, praying that the intruder would not go to your bedroom, instead just steal some things from the living room and then leave. 
The world loved to screw you over, and now was no exception. Footsteps started getting louder as the intruder beelined straight to your room, confident in his strides. 
You felt like you were going to be sick, anxiety making your heart pound and head spin. Your hands were clammy as you readjusted your grip on the baseball bat, a chill running up your spine as you heard the bedroom door creak open. 
As the large figure stepped through the threshold, you raised the bat above your head, ready to swing down with all your might. When the figure turned his head to face you, you swung. 
Before you made contact, the bat stopped, and you felt the shock reverberate through your body. This person had caught your bat as it swung down.
Fuck.  You were so done for. 
Weirdly enough, the intruder loosed his grip on the bat, so you yanked it back so it was only in your grip. When the figure took a step towards you, you raised the bat again, even if you knew your efforts to take him down would be in vain. You weren’t going down without a fight. 
Despite the pure fear you were currently operating on, you managed to speak. “Valuables are in the living room. Just, leave me be.”
Before he could respond, there was the sound of something powering up, and the lights came back on. You flinched, your eyes closing at the sudden change in light. 
When you opened your eyes, you nearly dropped the bat. 
Miguel stood in front of you, his hands up to indicate he meant no harm.
“Hello, mi amor.”
Fighting against every fiber of your body wanting to rush forward and embrace him, you eyed him cautiously. This had to be some sort of cruel joke. This had to be someone else. Maybe someone was using Miguel’s face to hurt you.
You raised the bat again. “No. Leave. You’re not him. You can’t be. You-” Your voice wavered at the end, sadness starting to replace the fear driving you. 
Again, he tried to step closer to you, but you quickly cocked the bat up more. “It’s alright. It’s me. I’m here now. I made it back to you.”
You were fully crying now. You shook your head vehemently. “No. That’s impossible. You’re not him. You may look like him, but you’re not my Miguel.”
“Let me prove it to you. Please. Ask me something, anything, that only your Miguel would know.”
There were so many things running through your mind right now that you could barely think straight. What would be something that only he would know? You couldn’t ask him what your favorite something was, that would be too easy. So what else would work? After a moment of thinking, you came to your answer. 
“Where did you ask me to be yours?” Your heart was still hammering in your chest as you awaited his answer. 
A large smile crossed Miguel’s face as he recalled the memory. “I took you to the aquarium. You were laughing the whole time, and you were so passionate telling me all about the fish we saw. And when you saw the otter, you started crying, and-”
That was all you needed to hear. Dropping the bat, you ran to him, cutting off his sentence when you hurtled into him, hugging him so tightly, afraid that if you let go he would disappear again. He returned the gesture, almost lifting you off your feet. You shook as you sobbed into his chest.
There you two stood, two lovers finally reconnecting. The flicker of hope that had been destroyed a couple of years ago began to rebuild itself. You felt hope for the future, for you, for Miguel. 
You’re not quite sure how long the two of you stood there, just holding each other, but eventually, you broke away, moving to hold his face in your hands, bringing him down closer to your level. His face was still the same as it was, and you felt so happy to finally see his face move instead of being in a frozen frame of time in a picture. 
One of his hands ran through your hair with care, looking at you with that same love-sick expression in said photo. “Your hair. It’s different.”
Sniffling, you responded, “Well, two and a half years tends to do that to someone.”
“God, has it really been that long?” He muttered, partially to himself, and you saw a tear run down his cheek. You brushed it away with your thumb. 
“Unfortunately, yes. But you’re here now. You came back to me.”  “‘I’ll always find my way back to you, no matter what.” He promised, before finally kissing you. Two and a half years of longing and sadness practically vanished when his lips met yours.
fluff prompt masterlist
907 notes · View notes
cowboylor · 1 year
Text
louder
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matty needs you to be louder.
warnings: (18+) smut, oral (f. receiving), afab reader (use of she pronoun at one point), praise kink, light degradation, overstimulation
wc: 1k
[*edit: this is a work of fiction. matty healy gets NO pussy.]
It wasn’t enough.
He had your underwear stuffed into the front pocket of his pants and your thighs locked around his head but it just wasn’t enough. It didn’t matter what Matty did; how he curled his fingers, or how much carefully calculated pressure he applied to your core, you still wouldn’t give him more than a quiet, lady-like moan.
“Who makes you feel this good?” He prompts, pushing two fingers into you.
He pumps them in a ‘come here’ motion that has you hiding your gasp beneath the palm of your hand. You clench around his fingers, squirming as he tightens his grip around your thighs.
Who makes you feel this good?
The question hangs over your head as Matty gouges you for an verbal answer. But your mind is blank and you can only focus on the heat rushing to your face (and lower stomach). Your cheeks heat and you resist the urge to call out his name.
“Mhmm!”
He sighs, stilling the motion altogether.
This makes you freeze and wonder if this entire thing is completely unbearable for him. You thought you were doing everything right. You kept your volume low. Your moans were quiet and regulated. You’ve learned from past partners that minimal loudness from a girl is most ideal. And while you feel more inclined to scream into the mattress whenever Matty so much as touches you–you want to please him. And the worst-case scenario is him finding you too loud.
You continue to hide in the base of your hand as his fingertips trail up your inner thigh. You’re about to stutter out an apology when he plants a kiss where his fingers are planted, his teeth grazing your skin lightly. He removes his fingers and before you could quietly mewl out, he presses the pad of his thumb harshly against your clit, eliciting a whine past your closed lips.
“Come on, love,” He murmurs into your thigh. “Let me hear it.”
His rough circling makes you let out a hushed string of ‘oh god, oh god, oh god’, but he shoots you an unimpressed look: “Pathetic.”
Your breath hitches when his teeth dig into your thigh again. He litters kisses up to your center.
You glance down at him; watching his left hand, which has a firm grasp on your leg, flex as he grips you. You admire his hand veins that pop out when he’s wrapped up in you and the way his right hand is pressed against your core, his thumb circling in sloppy motions. It takes one look at his furrowed brow and watchful eyes that you get what he wants–
It’s an ego thing. He wants to hear all of you.
You whine out, “Baby–”
“She speaks,” He tuts.
A familiar coil begins to unravel as you search for the right words. You make an effort to prop up on your elbows as his fingers nudge against your core, parting you in two. Your breath is ragged: “Baby, I need you.”
He removes his hand and you hiss at the abrupt stop. You start to mutter out a complaint but then his hand shoots out to push you back into the mattress, putting an end to your propped-up position. You squirm into the bedspread again and gasp sharply when his head dips down between your thighs. The tip of his nose nudges against your bud when he tugs you close.
His breath fawns against you.
“I need you,” Matty prods at your lips, “to be louder.”
His tongue sears through you and you’re quickly tugging his hair with a shriek and the only words you can think of for him are mean mean mean.
“Matty–” You plead, “Matty, please.”
He laps at your core, and you arch against the bed with a cry that would have neighbors knocking on your door. The sheets fall victim to your brazen fingertips as you pull and tug at whatever is available to you.
He grins at the reaction, his thumb reaching to play with your swollen clit, “Having fun?”
When he presses his tongue flat against you, you’re jerking away from him and chanting his name like you’re reciting an old hymn. And as soon as do, he’s straining against the line of his pants, mumbling something along the lines of ‘fucking you later.’ He curses under his breath as he fondles the curve of your hip. His fingers dig into your skin as he tugs you closer to him–closer to his mouth.
“You’re good,” You say, hands reaching for his hair again. “You’re so good.”
You can sense his smirk and you almost regret the admission.
“Uh-huh.” As if to say I know.
His name is the only thing left your lips as he continues to fuck you with his tongue. The growing heat in your stomach is building to a breaking point and you buck your hips against the tight hold he has on your thighs.
You’re not sure what to do with your hands, other than to thread your fingertips through his curls and pull on them for good measure. When he lifts his head and you notice his blown-out pupils and the saliva running down his chin for the first time.
“Gonna ride me after,” It’s not phrased as a question but you nod vigorously, moaning when he dips back down between your thighs. His movements grow more erratic, eager to watch you finish on his tongue. “Think this pretty cunt can handle that?”
“Yes, yes,” You fist the sheets in your hand, making the corners of the bedding begin to give way. “However you want it.”
He groans into your core, the noise vibrating throughout your body. His hips shift and he’s leaning over to look you in the eyes: “Tell me how you want it.”
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maharlika · 4 months
Text
flight
a short halstarion ficlet i wrote for @kingthunder for the prompt: "halsin teaches astarion how to wildshape into a bat"
uhhh that's not quite what happens here, but i hope you enjoy this ramble anyway! this is pre-relationship also so kajdlakjsd
--
Astarion stops short right outside of Halsin’s tent, and clears his throat.
“Druid, I’d like to speak with you.”
There’s shuffling from inside the tent, and then the door flap parts and Halsin steps out. Astarion fights the reflex to take a step back––he always forgets just how much larger the other elf is. 
“Astarion,” Halsin says, inclining his head in greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Astarion looks askance at the rest of the camp. Everyone seems occupied, but in such a small space, and with such insatiable gossips as Gale, Karlach and Withers, there’s no telling who might be listening in.
“Perhaps we could speak in private,” Halsin says, clearly reading Astarion’s worry. 
“Perhaps,” Astarion replies. Halsin lifts the entrance to his tent and gestures as Astarion blinks in surprise.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Oh, I––all right.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, Astarion hunches down and enters Halsin’s tent. Contrary to what he’d expected, the tent isn’t a bear’s den. Inside, it is sparse but clean, and it smells like rich soil and herbs. There’s a bedroll tucked into one corner, and green moss covers the floor like a soft blanket. 
Astarion takes a ginger cross-legged seat while Halsin rummages around in one of his packs.
“I’m sure you’d prefer something more––sanguine, but all I have is tea,” Halsin says, his back to Astarion. He’s a hulking thing in the enclosed space, and Astarion feels a zip of something that’s not-quite-apprehension slithering down his spine to be so close to something that he knows could maul him in a blink of an eye.
“I can’t remember the last time I drank tea. I don’t know if I can,” Astarion says.
“Even if you can’t, it’s a cold night out––maybe you’d like to keep your hands warm.”
With that, Halsin pours them both tea in wooden cups. Astarion rubs his thumb across the smooth grain and watches Halsin from the rim of the cup as he takes a careful sip.
“I didn’t come here for tea, you know,” Astarion says as a pocket of warmth settles somewhere in his chest. 
“I know,” Halsin says serenely, looking at Astarion with an unnervingly frank gaze. “What is it that you need?”
“I don’t know if it’s polite to ask.”
Halsin raises an eyebrow. 
“I don’t know the first thing about druids,” Astarion continues, before he can stop himself or think better of it. “Well––I do know some things. But I’d like to ask…when you’re––when you become a bear, are you still in there? Inside of––the animal?”
Halsin listens to Astarion intently, with no sign of derision or amusement. 
“You’re not the first to ask the question, and you’ll not be the last,” Halsin says, after a moment and another sip of tea. “Many druids have philosophized long and hard on this, but I shall not subject you to my people’s ramblings. It is different for every druid, but suffice it to say: yes, we are still ‘in there’. I am the beast, and the beast is me. It is only my form that changes, not my personhood. When I am in Wild Shape, though, it is true that the affairs of people seem much less…important. Other things are magnified instead. Emotions, desires, senses. It is easy to get lost in them.
And there have been…accounts, of course. Live as a beast for long enough, content yourself with the thoughts of a beast and the actions of a beast, and you may lose yourself. But for a regular druid spending short spans of time in Wild Shape, it is of no consequence.”
Astarion drinks Halsin’s words like parched ground drinking the rain. 
“Would you teach me?” he asks. “Is it possible for someone like me to learn?”
If Halsin is surprised by the question, he does not show it. He brings his tea to his mouth and takes a long swallow, closing his eyes as he ponders. 
“It is a skill like any other,” Halsin says. “I have seen you use magic, and our kind is naturally attuned to the natural world. I don’t see why not.”
“And you’re not going to ask me why?” Astarion says warily.
“Would you tell me?”
“Well, not if you don’t ask,” Astarion says, fighting and failing not to pout. “You’re ruining my aura of mystery, you know.”
“Apologies,” Halsin says with a huff of laughter. “Astarion, why would you like to learn Wild Shape?”
“I think I would make a very fetching bat,” Astarion says flippantly. “And I do tire of walking all day. Tav takes us up all these mountains and hills––it’s wretched. Why walk if I could fly? And why fly if someone could carry me?”
Halsin hums in agreement, but Astarion can see he’s not so easily fooled. Those keen eyes are upon him again, gaze unrelenting.
“It’s all right, you know,” Halsin says, “to not want to be a person sometimes.”
Astarion stiffens. 
“Rest easy,” Halsin says, “I’ll not subject you to a lecture. As for your request, I’m sure I can fulfill it. When would you like to start?”
“It’s that easy?” Astarion says, squinting in suspicion. 
“Oh, learning will not be easy. But this conversation? Yes, I’d like to think so. More tea?”
“I––” for a moment, Astarion flounders. He should go, he thinks. He’s got what he came here for, and there’s no more to discuss unless Halsin means to teach him how to Wild Shape right at this moment. 
“Do you know what it feels like?” Astarion asks, eventually. “To want everything to just stop?”
“Better than you might think,” Halsin says. 
“Oh?”
“A story for another time, perhaps.”
“Well, aren’t you full of secrets.”
“I like to cultivate an aura of mystery.”
Astarion barks out a laugh at that, which makes Halsin smile.
As Halsin pours them more tea, Astarion allows himself to imagine it: the wind beneath dark wings, his body light enough to soar. It would be so nice, he thinks, to be free for once.
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000marie198 · 1 month
Text
Beats till the song disappears
......
Classic era, Sonic 2's bad ending timeline but I made it better. Or worse. Leaving for you to decide. Enjoy :)
...........
He trudged through the dark zone, silent and windless akin to a closed, lifeless chamber.
The place was littered with systematically arranged crystal blocks that would've looked aesthetically pleasing if it were daytime. For now, they just made the place more eerie as he waited for Robotnik to show up.
After what felt like an eternity of worried pacing to the speedy hedgehog but in reality was barely a couple of minutes, two of the structures nearby split apart, revealing a camouflaged panel sliding in the ground.
Sonic stopped, facing the opening to see the Eggmobile rise from the underground, hovering a meter or so above the inclined floor leading into the depth.
The doctor looked composed, unworried, his spectacles glinting with a previously absent touch of confidence, of victory.
"Did you bring them?" He asked, addressing the frustrated hedgehog.
Sonic revealed four emeralds without a word, pulling them away as the other tried to grab for them.
"Tails?"
"Hand them over first."
Sonic was about to retaliate but paused at seeing the other hover a finger over the mobile's control panel, staring straight at him with the unspoken threat clear in his body language. He could kill the kit if Sonic wasn't careful.
His thoughts conflicting with one another and the concern for his little brother chiming in, he finally relented, holding out the gems for the mobile's claws to grab.
"Now tell me where he is."
"Careful, hedgehog, you don't get to make demands here. I believe we had an agreement that he'll be spared only if you brought all five Chaos Emeralds, hmm?"
Silence fell over the terrain, the hero shooting a venomous glare at Robotnik. It would be too much of a gamble to attack him when he had a link open to wherever he was keeping Tails. His lack of acknowledgement to the earlier question was answer enough. He hadn't been able to collect the required number of emeralds on time.
"I see," the scientist murmured.
Sonic gritted his teeth, high strung, on edge. He was aware he had failed but he needed to know...
"Just tell me if my brother is alright."
"He is," the other sighed in an exaggerated display of disappointment, "I would've gotten rid of him by now provided your ineptitude-"
"You know I can't locate them all this fast!" Sonic snarled, looking seconds away from jumping at his throat.
"But I am feeling rather... merciful today," the man continued on without even reacting to the interruption, his demeanor betraying he held all the cards. "I propose another deal, hedgehog. If you agree, I promise that no harm will come to Tails."
Sonic shouldn't trust him. Didn't trust him. But if it meant Tails would be safe...
He nodded, signalling to Robotnik that he was listening. Said scientist smirked under his mustache.
"Become part of my legion. Surrender yourself to me, and your little friend will go unharmed."
His legion. The hero had fought against him enough times, had seen enough horrors and rescued enough critters being used as test subjects to read between the lines, to know what Robotnik meant. The mere mention of that thing still makes him sick. Robotnik wasn't asking him to just give up his freedom. He was demanding for Sonic to give up his mind and body, his free will, in the worst way possible.
Sonic's life or Tails' safety?
It took him less than a second to choose.
"Well?" Robotnik's voice prompted, already knowing his nemesis' decision.
"If you hurt Tails-"
"Oh don't be so leery. I gave you my word. Your fox friend will not be harmed. Now, do we have a deal or do I signal my bots to neutralize that menace?"
Sonic squeezed his eyes shut, shaking with a plethora of emotions he couldn't bring himself to grasp and process as they came and went in waves. He gasped in a breath and stilled, before coiled tension leaked away from his body and he sighed. Surrendered.
"Deal."
"Excellent!" He could hear the victorious grin in Robotnik's voice but he didn't react, unable to bring himself to look up, gaze fixed on his red and white sneakers as he willingly sealed his fate. His iconic shoes held his focus, shoes that allowed him his freedom to run as fast as his heart desired. The same freedom which he was now volunterily giving up for his brother.
It felt like just yesterday when he had met the little guy, his shoes very smilar to Sonic's own, a matching color scheme. Something he had never paid attention to before but was now a glaring memory. He hadn't even told Tails how much he cared for him, how much proud he was, had he?
If he were to be given a chance to speak with Tails, he'd never remain silent again.
His feet moved without his consent, following the rotound man into the underground base until he blinked out of his thoughts and found himelf in a lab, facing a tall glass cylinder strung up in the center of the circular space.
It stood empty, it's front open, waiting to be occupied. Sonic stared on, unable to look away.
"Now don't be shy, step into the capsule. Chop chop!"
A hair's breath pause and he stepped forward, inside the glass confinement and upon the platform inside, fully resigning himself to what he had agreed on. His breath shuddered with anguish and dread as Robotnik moved around it to the front and pressed a switch.
The glass sealed behind him with a decisive click.
Adrenaline shot through his veins as the machine hummed to life, lights glowing awake below the platform he stood on and the welded hatch above him.
His heartbeat began to thunder in his ears, quills pricking up but he held still, letting the titanium clamps reaching for him seal around his ankles and wrists.
He saw Robotnik clicking away at a nearby screen and then he felt a subtle jerk, the machine's hum increasing in volume and intensity, the platform under him rising up.
With one final click at the keyboard, sleek contraptions that looked suspiciously like a sci-fi mixture of scanner and blaster surrounded him and pulsing rays shot out from their openings.
Sonic grunted as he felt the energy strike him, the clamps keeping him still.
2%
It started from below, at the legs. Of course it fucking did. Sonic wanted to scream, wanted to yell and kick and bang his fists against the glass, feeling cold numbness slowly spreading up his most powerful weapons, his legs, his speed, stripped from him painstakingly slowly as flesh turned to metal.
All he did was clench his fists and grit his teeth in anguish, his whole being screaming at him to move but he held still. He couldn't move, not if it placed his first friend, his best friend, at risk.
28%
The titanium bands securing his ankles and wrists seemed to tighten, restricting the little bit of movement he had as the rays slowly climbed up to his torso, inches below his heart.
He didn't let the tears show.
For Tails for Tails for Tails for Tails
His thoughts chanted like a mantra, placing all his being into not moving, letting himself be turned into a machine, until his ears swivelled at the swoosh of a panelled door sliding open, urging him to look up.
His breath caught in his throat, each cell freezing up in a mixture of shock, rage and despair.
No. No no no no no no no no NO!
"TAILS!" The anguished wail left his chest just as his heart stopped beating, an engine's hum replacing its frantic rhythm.
He payed it no mind. It didn't matter when it was ripped to shreds anyway the moment his blurry gaze met his brother's.
Glowing red optics stared back.
He tried to move, tried to break free but it made no difference, half his body frozen on the spot, under the control of the Chaos forsaken monster who did this.
65%
The bands on his wrists burned, something warm and damp flowed down his palms and dripped from his fingers. Sonic was numb to it, struggling and shaking in the glass confine, his own screams becoming muffled to his ears.
"You promised! YOU FUCKING PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T HURT HIM!"
A screen beeped, the vitals' charts on it going haywire as the progress bar reached 78%.
The mustached scientist just stood there grinning, unconcerned and victorious.
"And I kept my promise. He is unharmed, well and alive." The words seemed to echo in his head, reverberating as if imprinting on the walls of his mind, the machine's buzz and hum drowned out by them. "Just as you asked, rodent."
He couldn't take his pained eyes off of the small yellow robot and his captor noticed that, turning to address Tails with a deceptively encouraging smile.
"Isn't that right, Metal Tails?"
The little robot finally moved, startled beeps escaping it as it's mechanical gaze shifted away from hyperfocusing on Sonic and towards what it's systems told it to be it's creator.
The familiar innocence in that small gesture, even though seeing it on a roboticized mecha, broke something in Sonic.
He tried to call out to his brother but realized he couldn't speak. He couldn't feel his muzzle or mouth anymore. Oh...
The screen read 96%.
As the metal climbed up his quills and ears and the world began to fade into static, Sonic drowned out Eggman's smug grin and droning of the roboticizer's rays, putting all that was left of his mind and strenght into focusing on Tails.
He wanted his last memory to be of his brother, even if no longer flesh and blood but mere metal and wires, he was still Tails. His Tails. That much was clear from its demeanor alone, the innocence, the curiosity, the intelligence, it was all there. Sonic would be able to tell his kid apart from a thousand other Tailses if he had to.
The tears he'd been holding back finally slipped down, the last piece of his humanity used into conveying to Tails that he was sorry, that he loved him.
99%
His eyes closed, the metal covered up the last of the organic cells and Sonic finally went still.
............
Metal Tails gazed upon the powering down capsule, his processors showing the progress bar having reached 100%.
He couldn't take his focus off of the inactive hedgehog; organic, mechanical, irrelevant, Metal Tails was drawn to him even before the roboticization was completed.
Something suspiciously illogical was recorded in his archives during the process. He had sensed what organics refer to as emotions being conveyed to him earlier by the same being. It seemed to be a combination of concern, remorse and affection.
How could he do that without any working signal and communication link to Metal Tails?
The roboticized hedgehog suddenly beeped awake, internal fans whirring as his systems rapid-fire processed the new programming and commands. He jerked within the bonds and stilled again, hanging limp for a long beat.
Metal Sonic lifted his head up, optical processors switching on to reveal glowing red optics staring straight into Metal Tails' own.
It appeared the other robot was finally awake.
Metal Tails couldn't calculate why the organic hedgehog had seemed to know about him but he had felt drawn to the blue being just the same.
Perhaps it was a satisfactory calculation on his creator's part as Metal Tails' tended to get lonely and this arrangement made him most pleased.
Another robot companion made for the perfect promised gift.
.................
No characters were killed in the making of this story, just as I promised :]
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dreamingofep · 1 month
Text
Sinned Awakening pt. 22 🩸
An AU Elvis fic
(Vampire!Elvis/Vampire Austin! Elvis × reader)
Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)
Prompt: Getting promoted to be Elvis full time housekeeper, you realize the man holds secrets beyond beliet and your undeniable attraction makes you tear the unknown. [Fem!Reader]
TW: Cussing, teasing, mentions of blood/gore!!!
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 3.6k
A/N: Hello everyone happy Sunday! I’m having a lot of fun writing about not one, but two vampires now🤭 Reader is a really challenging vampire so Elvis has his hands full with you🤭 Hope you like this little part. More to come shortly! Please comment, message, and reblog if you feel so inclined
A reminder, this is Vampire!Elvis so there is going to be mentions of blood/gore from here on out. If that's not your thing, sorry but it's needed for the story.
If you'd like to start from the beginning, start here or Ao3 I hope you enjoy and message and comment what you think.
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One.
We’re one.
That word left you breathless and never thought it would be completely true. He made you his and you did the same. You feel like you’re on a cloud, floating aimlessly around him and this new world you had to discover. You continue to study every detail of him, some that you’ve never realized he had before. Like the way his sideburns curl at the ends by his ears. Or how his eyebrows had this fluffiness to them and perfectly framed his eyes. And the way his neck has this perfectly carved musculature to it that makes you want to lick all the way up to the part of his neck you bit before.
The feeling of his touch zaps you back to reality and you look back into his eyes. You’re still taken aback by the beautiful golden sparkling eyes that look back into yours. 
“How do you feel baby?” He coos. 
You had to pause and think about it. You weren’t accustomed to any of this and weren’t exactly sure what you should be feeling. 
“I think I’m okay, everything feels a little different but I feel perfectly fine so far,” you smile. 
“I know honey, you’ll need some getting used to it all but it’s okay. I’ll help you through it all,” he assures. 
Your thumb rubs against his smooth, flawless face. “How long was I….sleeping? I don’t know exactly what the right word is,” You ask. 
“Eight days. I-I-I don’t know why…I’ve never been so scared. I thought I did something wrong.” His voice trembles, pulling you tighter in his arms. 
You could feel this impending dread and anxiety in the pit of your stomach and consumed every ounce of your energy. But it wasn’t coming from you, you weren’t feeling like that at all. It was like being fed to you and amplified by a loudspeaker. 
You take a step back and look at him bewildered.
“What the hell was that?” You ask in shock.
“What was what?” He looks at you concerned.
“That feeling of impending doom, but I wasn’t the one creating that feeling. It was almost like it was being shown to me or something,” you stutter.
He puts his hands on your arms to calm you and he gives a small smirk at you.
“I think that’s just our bond. Our senses are heightened and attuned to one another more than ever now that we’re bonded. Remember how I told you I could feel your pain when Raphael took you? In some way, that was a small preview of what would happen to us after we were one. I didn’t know it would feel that intense to you I’m sorry about that,” he says sheepishly.
“No it’s okay, you don’t need to be sorry. It was just unexpected to feel an emotion that isn’t my own, you know?” You try to articulate.
“I get it, honey. I honestly am still trying to find more answers about what our new abilities hold,” he explains.
This was a world that even Elvis wasn’t accustomed to and that was a bit frightening. There was so much to discover.
“So you have no idea why I didn’t change right away?” You ask, rubbing circles with your thumb on his forearm, his skin feeling obsessional. The way it’s so soft and melted into yours without trying. You wanted to feel so much more of it. Starting with his back under this silk shirt he had on or feel those soft little hairs on his chest you loved so much. 
Jesus focus.
“No, I haven’t yet. None of the legends go into the details of what Chosen mates go through because they are so rare. God, I was so scared, I had no idea what had gone wrong or if this was completely normal.”
“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that alone honey. I can’t believe I changed like this.”
“I know, you changed very slowly. First, with your heart slowing to an immortal pace. It was strange, it didn’t have that normal symphonic sound that I was used to hearing so much. Then your scars on your body healed and started to be covered by this beautiful glowing skin,” he says dreamily, dragging his finger ever so slowly down your neck and along the top of your breast. Your body can’t help but arch into that touch that leaves your skin aflame. He takes a deep breath and recomposes himself.
“Then you were very still, with no signs that you’d be waking up from this hibernation any time soon. I was like a caged animal, pacing the room all day and night worried sick I somehow did something terribly wrong to you. I called some friends, vampires, if they had heard about anything like this happening when the change was occurring and every answer I got was the same. They’d never heard anything like this and didn’t know a bonded mate existed anymore. ”
“On the fourth day, I looked at myself in the mirror, ready to be faced by the monster who ruined his Chosen mate and isn’t waking up for whatever reason. For the last fourteen years, I have been used to staring at the red, glowing, soulless eyes that I have been cursed with for quite some time now. I was shocked by every fiber of my being when I saw these glowing youthful eyes stare back at me instead. I was in shock and didn’t know what was happening to me.”
“Sometimes, I tried to wake you, calling your name and have you open your eyes for me, but to my disappointment, you never did. But I could hear your heart flutter at the sound of my voice so I’d talk to you, coaxing you through this all hoping you’d wake up faster. It gave me hope that you were still in there and just needed the time to change. I’d caress your face, feeling how perfect your face felt in my hand.”
As he’s explaining this all, you feel the worry come off of him and it hits you like a tornado. You try to brace yourself for such emotions coming your way but it's almost impossible.
“And the strangest thing happened a few days after that…” he mumbles.
“What do you mean?” You prod.
You chuckle a bit before starting to speak again, “Well, I was changing, physically. I don’t know why but, I was changing into my twenty-four-year-old self without me even thinking about it. It just came so naturally to me because well, that is what I look like under all this in reality. But I’ve always controlled how I look, it doesn’t just get out of hand and I hardly need to think about staying that physical appearance.”
“So I was walking around here worried sick about you, trying to alter my appearance again so you wouldn’t be so startled when you woke up and not be able to recognize me from the last time you saw me,” he chuckles.
“Oh honey, that’s so strange… I really wonder why that is. But I wouldn’t have minded waking up to you like that. Nevertheless handsome, I could never forget this perfect face,” you quip.
He slyly smirks, “thanks little darlin’,” he says low, his eyes staring at your pink lips. He makes a small grumble in his chest as wraps his arms around you once more. “We’ll get some answers soon, let me just hold you.”
His warmth engulfs you and this sense of comfort and longing fills the pit of your stomach. You sigh into him, savoring every last feeling he’s giving you. 
“You’re so warm,” you sigh into his chest. He hums delighted, squeezing you tighter before looking down at you.
“We’re the same body temperature now,” he murmurs.
“Oh… I didn’t even think of that,” you say embarrassed. “How do I feel? Any different than the last?” You ask cheekily.
“Hmm… I haven’t gotten to touch ya, let me see,” he coos.
He carefully unties the robe and slips his hands along the curve of your back. You let out a stifled breath and look up at him longingly. His hands travel down further til he fills his hands with your ass and squeezes it firmly. You claw at his biceps and you can’t help but want more from his talented hands. You feel all this desire come flowing out of him and barreling toward you. You feel like it's suffocating you and yet you can’t get enough of it. His hands move back up your back and squeeze at your hips, pulling you closer to him.
“You feel more perfect than ever,” he says as he stares at your breasts. He drags one of his hands up your torso til he can cup your breast and roll your nipple in between his fingers. A spark of electricity runs through you and you moan. You press your face into the crook of his neck and groan in agony. That delicious-smelling scent fills your head once again and makes you feel intoxicated. You groan heavily as you look at him, “what’s that smell?” You ask.
He places his hand back on your hip and throws you a confused look.
“Your senses are overwhelmed right now honey, it could be a number of things. What does it smell like to you baby?” He asks.
“It’s warm and sweet, almost like honey. But savory and delectable, like I can just take a bite out of it and be pleased beyond my wildest dreams,” you try to explain. He tries to hide his pompous smirk but you catch it anyway.
“What? What is that look for?” You press.
“Umm well darlin’, I think that’s me you’re smelling. That’s how you smell to me at least, all sweet and decadent. Like I could feed from that heavenly nectar and feel alive again,” he says low and sultry. 
God yes, he makes you feel just like that without even trying. He runs a finger down your neck again and you see how much he wants you.
It’s not only him you’re attracted to, it’s the scent of his blood drawing you to him, this invisible bond attached to the lust for blood coursing through your veins. It all makes you feel for Elvis when you two first met. How he explained to you he thought you were beautiful and the scent of you only put him over the edge of wanting you. That’s how you felt at this moment. You already loved this man so much but now, what you would give for a taste of him. In a flash, this immense wave of hunger consumed you and you looked up at him frightened, unsure of what to do. Your throat started to burn and your mouth watered by just the mere idea of blood.
Especially Elvis’.
Your memory was very murky when you tried to remember how he tasted when you bit him to complete the change. You remember it not tasting very good at first, then it turned into something delicious. 
“Oh baby, it’s okay, calm down. Let's get you something to drink alright?” He assures you, closing your robe up again, and ties it shut. He takes your hand to lead you downstairs to the kitchen but you stop him in his tracks by pulling slightly on his arm. You were a little shocked so little force actually stopped him. It was going to take some time to realize you’re just as strong as Elvis now. He looks at you a little surprised too and tries to lure you further out of the room by taking a few steps away.
“I want yours, right now,” you command, barely recognizing your voice right now with how demanding you sound. He lets out an intrigued grumble and feel him like that idea very much.
“Not right now honey, you have zero control and I’m almost sure you’d try to suck me dry,” he quips smartly. “For the first time, I’m the one with the great control, and not you. We have blood in the kitchen, come on honey,” he coaxes.
Your blood boiled not getting your way. It was very irrational, yes, but this new lust for blood made you feel very differently than you ever have. Your throat continued to burn and you huffed at Elvis and reluctantly followed him down to the kitchen. There was no one here and you could hear the waves crash on the shore from below. The wind whirled through the palm tree leaves and you could hear people playing on the shore of the beach.
He lets go of your hand and goes to the refrigerator. The middle shelf was stacked with blood bags and Elvis grabbed one off the top. Something about the notion of drinking blood this way for the first time made you feel queasy. Maybe the human part of you was still inside of you holding on for dear life. 
You look up at Elvis with the bag in his hand and going to grab a glass out of the cabinet. 
“Okay, baby we can do this one of two ways. Either I can pour this in a glass for you or, you can learn how to use your fangs. Which one do you prefer?” He taunts. 
Your fangs. 
Oh my God, how could you have forgotten you have fangs now? You couldn’t even begin to comprehend how to use them or even get them to descend. 
“Teach me how to use my fangs,” you say promptly. 
“Hmm, good girl,” he praises, “okay come here,” he says leading you to the table. He takes a seat on one of the chairs and has you stand in front of him. 
“You need to focus on your fangs and your fangs alone. Everyone is a little different but visualize them, picture your teeth becoming sharp and strong. Let that hunger you have drive them out,” he explains. 
You swallow and feel the thirst in your throat grow greater. You huff slightly in frustration and try to focus like he’s saying. You’ve never actually seen your fangs so it’s hard for you to visualize what they might look like. But you can only assume they look like Elvis’, long and sharp. 
You look at the blood bag in his hand and try to imagine how it’ll taste when you finally taste that blood. Your mouth waters just thinking about it and you think that’s a good sign your body is responding to it in a good way. 
“Breathe in through your nose, smell it. That helps a lot,” he says. 
You do just that and take a deep breath, trying to get the scent of the blood in your nose and get your newfound senses to work. You lick your lips and take more deep breaths, trying to pick up the scent. 
Warm and rich honey swirls in your head and you know what that smell is. 
You look up at him with hunger-filled eyes, grab onto his wrist, and try to pull him in but he anticipates the move. 
“I just smell you. Baby I want you,” you plead, every breath creating more hunger inside you. 
He smirks at you amused and shakes his head at you. 
“I know you do, but you don’t get to have mine just yet. You need to learn how to focus and use your senses properly,” he says smugly. 
You groan in protest, hating you're not getting your way. 
“Please, please let me honey. I’m starving,” you continue to plead. He presses his lips together to stop the laugh about to come out. 
“Is this how I sounded to you? So needy and hungry all the time? I’m so sorry darling to put you through that when you were human, that must have been awful to hear all the time,” he winks. 
“You fucking little tease,” you grumble, swallowing back the pain in your throat. 
“Oh come now honey, I’m just trying to help you. You need to focus or you’ll never get to drink my blood,” he pesters. 
You grumble, so annoyed with him and how he’s not letting you do what you want. You try to refocus on the bag and make your entire senses focus on what’s in there. You huff and groan at your thirst and take a deep breath in, closing your eyes to try and get your mind to focus on the bag. 
A delicious little whiff hits your nose that smells completely different from Elvis and you pop your eyes back to him. 
“I smell it,” you say hurriedly. 
“Good, now keep taking deep breaths and let your fangs descend. You can do it, honey,” he coaxes. 
You hiss as the burning in your throat worsens and the smell of the blood overwhelms you. You feel no change happening in your mouth and you’re beginning to get extremely frustrated. You were so hungry and this wasn’t easy like you thought. 
“Goddamn it this is impossible. I can’t do this. Just cut open the bag,” you growl at him.
Elvis lets out a small chuckle and sees how frustrated you’ve become. 
“Okay baby, seems like I need to give you a little more motivation hmm?” He smiles and brings his other wrist to his mouth. 
You watch as he nips at his skin and the whiff of his delectable scent consumes you and makes your eyes roll back. You watch as his blood slides down his arm in a small pebble. 
“Fucking hell are you kidding me?! You fucking tease! Please honey, please let me,” you beg, about to grab his wrist but he’s much quicker than you and pulls it away from you in time. You hate his crass behavior and growl, baring your teeth at him in anger. His mouth forms into a pleased smile watching you. 
“There’s my girl,” he whispers. Your brows furrow and don’t understand what he’s saying and are about to snap at him but your tongue grazes along your teeth. There you feel your razor-sharp fangs bared and ready to bite. You can’t help but be a little surprised by the feeling of them and look back at Elvis, then back to his arm. 
“Focus,” he snaps. “Focus on the bag,” he adds. 
You groan and shoot your eyes back at the bag in his hand and try your best to avoid looking at his blood rolling down his arm. 
You grab his hand with the bag in it and bring it closer to your face and can pinpoint the smell again. 
“Gently, take a bite on the bag. Not too harsh or you’ll make the bag burst open. I don’t want you to spill a drop,” he teases.  
You glare at him before looking back down and gently biting the bag. Your fangs are so sharp it didn’t take much pressure to make holes in it and the crimson fluid hit your tongue. You swallow it quickly and feel that burning in your throat reside slowly. It tasted good, not at all the same delectable smell Elvis had, but it would do. You start to squeeze the bag to let the blood flow quicker in your mouth and fill this hunger inside you. You can feel some of it dribble out of your mouth and onto your chin.
Shit. He’s not going to like that. 
But you were too hungry to care about the mess you’d make. You suck the last few drops out of the bag and do feel much better. Your throat wasn’t on fire anymore and you didn’t have this unquenchable thirst. But lord, Elvis’ blood still called out to you menacingly. 
You carefully take your teeth off the bag and look up at Elvis to see if he’d give you some of his. 
“How do you feel baby?” He asks quietly.  
“Better,” you say breathlessly, still eyeing his wrist. He looks down at his wrist too and looks back up at you with a glint of mischief in his eye. 
“Oh, you think you can have some of this now? Well, you didn’t exactly listen to my instructions,” he quips, motioning to your mouth and your chest. 
You look down and see you spilled more than you thought you did. You see a stream of it running down your chest and in between your breasts. 
You let out a frustrated sigh, “you’re no fun to make deals with!” You snap. 
“Too bad. You’ll learn to not make a mess eventually,” he teases, “as far as this mess, I’ll clean this up,” he says slowly. 
He pulls you in by your hips and makes you stand in between his legs. You hiss at his forceful touch, on absolute edge right now with his bleeding arm. He opens your robe slightly and looks up at you with a big grin on his face. In one long swipe, he licks the dribbling blood from your breasts to your chin. His tongue ignites something dangerous inside you and you groan in agony as every part of you feels hyper-sensitive. Your heart pounded away as he did this and made it all feel more erotic than he might have intended. You thought you liked his tongue before but nothing compares to how it feels now. You want so much more of him and it makes you feel insatiable.
He reaches your mouth and puts the most delicate kiss on your lips. You want to collapse in his arms as he grabs onto your hips tighter. You softly tug at his hair, moaning into his mouth, “more,” you whimper. 
He pulls away, “Still such a bad, bad girl. I don’t know how I’m going to handle all this newfound neediness,” he taunts. 
“Oh I’m sure you have a fucking list of things of how you’ll manage it,” you say annoyed, rolling your eyes at him. 
He chuckles softly, “Mhmm, you know me so well.”
Tagging: @powerofelvis @burninlovebutler
@neptuneismysister @velvetelvis @ccab @presleyenterprise @loving-elvis @theresalwaysep
@prompted-wordsmith@sillybookmarks @dkayfixates @ellie-24 @rktismylife-blog.@myradiaz@tacozebra051
@thatbanditqueen
@18|kpeters @flwrs4aust @emma181873
@austinswhitewolf@eliseinmemphis
@everythingelvispresley @chasingwildflowers @idontwanttoputanything@ohjustpeachy
@elvisalltheway101@austinsmutler@kingdomforapony.
@generoustreemystic @claire-elvisgirl
@ashtag6887 @burnthheparaphilia @richardslady121
@jaqueline19997
@returntopresley. @iloveelvis @rjmartin11@that-hotdog @louisejoy86 @misspresley @cattcb @annapresley8
@arrolyn1114@raginginkedslut@epthedream69
@mh777ep1938@50sexyshadesfashionista
@oldhOllywOod @hooked-on-elvis @livelovedilfs
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tj-dragonblade · 1 year
Text
FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 27 & 28
Feb 27 prompts: market friend photograph Feb 28 prompts: wreck veil wind
On AO3 - 1800-ish words
'Friend', Hob has named him; has so named him for most of their acquaintance, and Dream is pleased to be thought of thus. It means companionship, shared stories, laughter and affectionate insolence, a shoulder to lean on when the weight on his own grows heavy. It means a modern temple in the waking world and a space where he is always welcome. It means someone who will meet him on equal footing, unconcerned with his function or station or what gain can be had of him, who enjoys his company for himself alone.
Still, however. There are times, growing ever more numerous, that Hob will use the word—my friend, we're friends, that's what friends do—and Dream will agree, with a faint smile, while his own mind derides him with sneering sharpness.
Liar. Liar; you are not his friend.
Because, increasingly, he has. Concerns, about his own ability to be a friend to Hob.
A friend would not seek every opportunity to touch Hob's hand, his arm, simply to know the feel of Hob's skin warm beneath his fingers. A friend would not find distraction in the shape of his mouth, the crinkling of his eyes when he laughs, the dark hair visible at the open neck of his shirt. A friend would not observe him with predatory hunger when he walks, when he stretches, when he drinks.
A friend would not. Wonder, what his kiss might taste like, nor what magnificent sight he might make unclothed. A friend would not indulge fantasies, of being tenderly disrobed in turn, held, kissed, gently handled, split upon his cock and lovingly driven to the heights of pleasure—
A friend would not entertain such thoughts again, and again, and again, of a man who has shown no inclination that he would be amenable to them.
But. Perhaps. The fidelity of continuing to wait, when the agreed-upon meeting was missed, the devotion inherent in building the New Inn, in ensuring that Dream would find him again—might these indicate some feeling greater than friendship? The bright enthusiasm with which he greets Dream, the willingness to share so much of his time, the ready comfort when Dream is vexed of some frivolous diplomacy necessitated by his function?
No; surely, such things are simply in the nature of Hob Gadling to provide to his oldest friend, who would be foolish to hope for deeper meaning.
Incessantly he dwells upon these thoughts, day after day after day by the measure of the waking world, and finds his disquietude increasing. The Dreaming, as it does, begins to betray his emotional state; at last he flees to the waking world, where the correlation of himself to his realm is slightly muted and neither his staff nor his creations can skewer him with knowing looks.
It is a grey spring morning, damp and chill with a thrill of freshness and renewal nevertheless in the air.
He has brought himself to the New Inn. Of course.
He lets himself in the back door and up the private stair, as Hob has generously allowed of him, and knocks before entering Hob's flat.
Hob is in the kitchen, phone in hand, dictating his grocery list into it as he takes stock of his cupboards. "Dream!" he greets, and his smile is a spear of sunlight lancing straight through Dream's nonexistent heart.
"Make yourself comfortable," Hob says, opening the refrigerator now and peering within. "Let me finish up my list, then we can head to the supermarket."
He does this always, adapts on an instant's notice when Dream comes to him unannounced, seamlessly integrates Dream into his plans.
Dream is entirely grateful.
It is easy, to slip into the rhythm of Hob's day, Hob's life. They walk together to the grocery store, unbothered by the mild spring wind or the overcast sky, even when it opens in a light sprinkle before they reach their destination. The shopping is accomplished with unhurried efficiency, Hob chattering on non-stop as he navigates the aisles, Dream content to listen and push the trolley. The walk back is much the same, Hob sharing stories of his students now, canvas bags swinging in either hand. Dream carries the rest, smiling faintly at Hob's animated retelling of an attempted classroom prank.
"Let me put this all away and I'll make us some lunch," Hob says when they reach home. Dream has observed enough in this kitchen that he can easily assist with both the putting away and the preparation of food. He is pleased to help despite Hob's assurance that as a guest he need not; there is peace to be had in this domestic routine, comfort in following Hob's cheerful direction.
The fare they make together is remarkably satisfying.
Hob delves into his grading after lunch, reading essays aloud, and Dream offers input and commentary that Hob gladly incorporates with his own. It is time pleasantly spent, hours passing un-noted, wrapped in the warmth of Hob's voice and Hob's function and Hob's presence.
They spend the evening in the pub, 'people-watching', to use Hob's words, a fascination he's developed over his most recent century. He guesses at people's stories as they laugh and smile and talk around him, and while Dream is not inclined to divulge every stranger's every secret in this game, he will occasionally give affirmation if Hob has guessed something correctly.
It is, again, time pleasantly spent, and Dream is loathe to let it end, no matter the duties he must attend to in the Dreaming, no matter that Hob must soon sleep.
"I know you've spent the day here already and you've got plenty to see to waiting for you in your realm, but you're welcome to come back upstairs," Hob offers, when the hour winds toward closing. "Don't want to rush you off, if you like." His head is slightly tilted, one hand absently toying with his earlobe; Dream has observed this unconscious habit in him many times, finds it inordinately charming, and just now it fills him with immeasurable fondness.
That Hob acknowledges his duties, understands that Dream must come and go, offers him the invitation to stay if he so wishes all the same; Dream is touched. Hob respects his function; Hob is nevertheless hopeful that he will yet remain. Hob appreciates time spent with him; Hob enjoys his companionship.
And Dream would not deny himself Hob's wishes, in this. "I would keep your company awhile longer, if I might."
"Of course." Hob's smile is so blindingly warm, so sincere, so pleased; Dream aches to kiss it.
A friend would not.
He follows Hob back upstairs. Hob pours them both wine; they sit; they talk. Dream gazes his fill, enamoured of the spark in Hob's eyes, the fall of his hair, his animated hands, the relaxed and easy lines of his body. These moments are a true joy, a memory that he treasures once they part, a feeling that he cradles close in the cavity of his chest until they meet again. He loves, he knows; but Hob is his friend, and Dream would not see that friendship brought to ruin by his misplaced affections.
The hour has drawn late enough to be early again, and he knows he is keeping Hob from his sleep. Reluctant as he is to go, reluctant as Hob has been to bring their evening to a close, Dream knows it is time. The wine is gone. The conversation has lulled. He stands from the sofa; Hob follows suit.
"I thank you, Hob Gadling, for sharing your day with me. It has been a pleasure."
"Likewise. I'm…I'm glad to have you. Anytime." Hob's hands are stuffed in his pockets as though to keep them contained, prevent their reaching out; he rocks up onto his toes and back, a nervous sort of fidget, endearing. Fondness swells in Dream, spills into his smile most certainly, and Hob smiles back with the same.
Except.
There is an edge of self-recrimination in it, a twist that says careful, and a tilt to his eyebrows as if resigning himself to a want he cannot fulfill. It is a mirror of the things Dream feels in himself, and suddenly, he is re-examining every assumption he has made about their friendship, like twisting a kaleidescope until an entirely new image comes into focus.
"I really enjoyed your company, today," Hob is saying, earnestly casual. "You're welcome whenever you like, you know. Course you know. My home is your home, all that."
Dream's perception shifts, a veil drawn from over his senses, and he sees.
"Your hospitality does you credit," he says, a rote response, because he cannot tear his focus from what is suddenly crystal clear and blazing before him. The dark warmth of Hob's gaze is ripe with longing. The tilt of his brow speaks of quiet hope. The softness around his eyes betrays depthless affection, fondness, love, and the bare parting of his lips begs for reciprocation.
Dream is gazing upon the story-perfect image of a man in love, pining for some hint that it may not be in vain.
"Hob," he breathes, revelation in his voice.
The quiet of the flat thickens, draws taut, waiting.
Hob swallows audibly. His eyes never leave Dream's.
Struck to the core, Dream moves forward. His feelings…need not be his alone, are not his alone. His love need not be held in check, made quiet, kept hidden. Here is Hob before him, hoping, silently asking, and all he need do—
All he need do is reply.
He lifts a hand, touches Hob's face, cradles it reverently as he tilts in.
"Dream—" Hob's voice is hushed, breathless, taut with anticipation and Dream could not hope to stop himself if he tried.
He touches his mouth to Hob's, fits them together, kisses him with careful ardor, and all the wants that clamor and shriek within him are at long last singing in the harmony of fulfillment.
Hob has clasped ahold of his wrist, is hanging on it as though he would fall if he let go, would perish if Dream removed his hand from Hob's face, and Hob is kissing him back softly, slowly, with such thorough heartfelt tenderness that Dream cannot bring himself to end it.
It is a long moment later that he finally manages, however reluctantly. He presses a final parting brush to the fullness of Hob's lower lip, draws back softly, opens eyes he does not recall closing.
He finds his resolve utterly wrecked, then, by the enraptured expression on Hob's face as he blinks out of the kiss, lips still parted, hand still clinging to Dream's at his face. His other hand lights on Dream's waist, holds, twitches as if to draw him closer, and Dream. Would gladly have them closer, as close as possible, as close as Hob would desire.
Hob draws in a shuddering breath, meets Dream's gaze, and every line and curve of his beautiful face is begging Dream to kiss him again.
Dream would like nothing better, than to kiss him again.
And so he does.
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noodleblade · 4 months
Note
soundstar 19. talking late into the night
(GOD IM FINALLY ANSWERING SOME OF THESE PROMPTS. IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER). I also gave myself the personal challenge to keep this under 1k. I'm proud of myself:3
Anyways, uhhhh I'm obsessed with the idea of Starscream being able to have full-fledged conversations with Soundwave without Soundwave saying a word so that's the premise of this fic<3333 enjoyyy!
AO3 Link xx
“Do you ever recharge?”
Soundwave did not jump. Nor did he move in any such way to signify his surprise. Not that he’d ever admit Starscream got the drop on him. 
He remained in his still, rigid stance in front of the central console, helm directed at the various screens despite no longer paying attention to them. Rather than turn and face his midnight visitor, Soundwave pulled up one of the surveillance cameras on the bridge to his internal HUD and watched Starscream posture at the doors. 
Soundwave watched as Starscream’s expression dulled from his sneer, clearly put out by Soundwave’s lack of response. Curiously enough, those sharp optics darted to the exact camera Soundwave was monitoring. 
“It’s rude to ignore your superior officer.”
Soundwave swiveled his neck enough to have his visor directed at Starscream. 
There. No longer ignored. 
“Glad you are putting in the effort to appear professional,” Starscream grumbled as he stalked forward. Without his usual audience of the vehicons, Knock Out or Megatron, Starscream approached him quietly, subdued. He knew his usual antics would not garner him any reaction from Soundwave so the effort was simply not needed. It wasn’t a sight Soundwave was granted often. Suspiciously, he kept his guard up. Something was off.
Soundwave tilted his helm to the side, his visor glinting off the dim lights. 
“I’m fine,” Starscream muttered. “I appreciate the concern.”
Soundwave gave one nod, before turning back to his work. Peripherally, he could feel Starscream saddle beside him, his wings nearly touching him as the seeker flexed and stretched. 
“Of course you’re working.” 
Soundwave didn’t bother to respond to that and continued to type away. Starscream leaned closer, optics squinting to read the code. 
“Are you rerouting earth tech surveillance to our main housing?”
It was a bit more complicated than that. But, Soundwave had no interest in explaining so Starscream’s simplified version would be suitable. He inclined his helm, a bit pleased with Starscream’s mouth ticked up in a smile. 
“Impressive as always. Maybe we should withhold recharge from you. You don’t seem to need it.” 
Despite his teasing words, Soundwave took note of the formality of his words. There was no jeer, none of his typical bravado. Quiet was the only way Soundwave could describe it. Perhaps even concerned, which Soundwave was even more perplexed by. 
It wasn’t like Starscream to be considered with others, let alone Soundwave’s recharge patterns. He cocked his helm curiously, biolights pulsing. 
“I’m not concerned,” Starscream snapped, though it was light. “I’m merely observant. Wouldn’t you consider that an admirable quality?”
Soundwave found himself amused with Starscream’s deflection. It seemed in his tiredness, his typical insults became softened. That being said, Soundwave noted it was well into Starscream’s scheduled recharge slot. It wasn’t often the seeker was roaming about at this hour. 
He brought up the hour to his visor and directed it fully at Starscream. 
“I’m aware of the hour, thank you,” Starscream sneered. “No need for you to be concerned either. I just…” Starscream let the sentence die, his gaze turned back to the central console screen. 
Despite his words to not be concerned, Soundwave could not help the matter. While it was rare for Starscream to be up at this hour, it was even more rare for him to lose his words. The quiet was now disquieting. Starscream was not one for quiet. He liked the sound of his own voice too much to not fill the gaps of peace with it. Soundwave felt on edge, waiting for the silence to end. 
Awkwardly, Soundwave shuffled slightly to his right, opening up the space at the console. For them to share. 
Starscream huffed a mildly unamused laugh but didn’t say anything still. For a few kliks, nothing happened and Soundwave felt the tricking of dread. Perhaps his gesture of kindness was rather that of foolishness. 
Slowly, Starscream leaned closer. Soundwave made no move to notice it, continuing to type away. Another klik passed before Starscream stepped closer, helm bowed to look at the screen. 
“You know,” Starscream started again, his usual cadence back, “if you are so desperate for my assistance, you could just ask.”
Soundwave turned his visor to Starscream unamused, but relieved by the smirk cropping up on the Air Commander’s face. His field was warmer as his vile grin covered his face. 
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you company.”
Unexpected words, but Soundwave found them to be not completely unpleasant.
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Note
You tired of seeing me your inbox yet? 🥲❤️ please do tell me if the third Buck/Bucky prompt in a row is too much, I’d hate to ask for something you ain’t feeling and to impose.
But, if you are so inclined I like the idea of what your writing magic could conjure up with:
12. Cloying sweetness on the back of your tongue or/and 26. The smell of Cologne/Perfume on warm skin
Thanks in advance once again, for real.
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little fix
Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairing: Gale "Buck" Cleven x John "Bucky" Egan Rating: E Word Count: 2778
Summary: Gale dabbed on extra cologne in preparation for the many, many hours he knew he'd be spending in the cockpit. Once in Algeria, the heat reinvigorates the scent, and John notices. Gale kinda likes that he does.
Algeria, and the heat rose shimmering from the dusty earth as well as radiating down from the white-hot marble of the sun. The temperature in combination with the losses they’d suffered in enemy airspace had the boys hankering to go off on their own. Limited shade had snaffled those plans, forcing them together.
Gale grabbed the dog tags hanging from his neck, tossing them aside so they flicked around and hung down his back instead, the hot chains tracing a fine, burning line across his throat. He hated waiting. Then he felt bad about that, since this baking purgatory was better than death. He knew how to manage the heat, how to move slowly, how to soak the shirt of his uniform and put it on his head so his vision wouldn’t swim in this dry desert pool. Still, he was irritable, feeling useless. What he really hated was circumstances beyond his control telling him to stop—making him stop. He felt pressed beneath the world’s sweaty palm. It was pointless to wriggle. That wouldn’t get him free.
He stood by his plane, resisting the urge to reach up and lean, as it would’ve meant placing his hand on the burning wing. To occupy his restless hands, he plucked the tank from his chest and flapped it to simulate a breeze that just wasn’t there. He was watching John amble past when his friend stopped abruptly, as if called to attention. John’s head whipped around to face his way. His dog tags glinted. His eyebrows drew together above his sunglasses.
When Gale lazily lifted his hand in greeting, John ignored it, continuing on. Well. Sound seemed muffled to Gale in the heat; he couldn’t hear what John was saying to the boys, but they shifted into halting motion, congregating a hundred yards off. John sauntered back his way.
“You givin’ orders now, Major?” Gale lobbed.
He studied John’s mouth, which twitched and pinched, fighting some smartass comeback. He wondered whether John had just contained an order for him.
“Just keepin’ ’em sharp while we wait for the twelfth,” John said, joining him by the wing. He stopped, pushed his sunglasses up his forehead, and squinted around. “You know you’re not in the shade, right?”
“I won’t feel any real relief until we’re back in the air,” Gale confessed.
He probably should’ve stepped out of the sun though; he could feel the sweat rolling down his skin. Releasing a puff of breath to ready himself for movement, Gale swiftly peeled the damp cotton tank from his skin and let it fall to the ground.
From John, there came a sound like a groan that rippled into a short cough. Gale looked at him askance.
“You smell,” John explained bluntly, before dropping the glasses back over his eyes.
Gale stared at him in numb disbelief.
“You really gonna—”
“No,” John said, cutting across Gale’s retort, “you smell good.”
“Alright,” Gale replied simply.
But he’d felt something at John’s surprising response—a kind of tingle up his back. Refreshing.
“It’s cologne,” he added, when John continued to stand next to him in silence. “I knew I’d be sittin’ in that cockpit a long time, and I didn’t want to smell like I had. Spare my boys’ noses.”
“What’d you do? Bathe in it before we left the base?” John rocked towards him, just a little. His chin tilted up and Gale knew John was inhaling. He was being breathed in.
“Too strong?”
“Nah, I’m just surprised I can still smell it. Seems like England was forever ago.”
Gale shook his head to indicate he didn’t have an answer.
“Must be the heat,” he offered, because that seemed as good as anything.
“Right.”
John stood there another minute, hands on his hips. Sunlight flared off his sunglasses and Gale couldn’t tell whether or not John was staring at him. He glanced towards the men. They were awfully far off, comparing logs, by the looks of it.
“You want help checkin’ your ship?” John proposed.
Gale shot him a quizzical look. Checking his ship? What, had Lemmons taught John some secret fix Gale didn’t know about? He doubted it. John’s hands moved, thumbs tucked into the waist of his pants as they slid towards his fly, palms settling on his hipbones. The triangle made by his index fingers drew the eye. Yeah, Gale doubted it very much.
He heaved on the hatch and offered, “After you.”
John’s mouth stretched into a thin, dangerous smile, and he hauled himself up into the plane. Gale followed.
The air inside was hot and dense, making him immediately lightheaded. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the interior, adding to his disorientation. There was John, removing his sunglasses and casting them aside at the navigator’s station. Careful, Gale wanted to caution. You’ll need those again. But not inside, not in here. He smirked as John suddenly tried to play it cool, scanning his eyes unseeingly across a chart. Gale reached up and braced his palms overhead, just to wait John out, but when John turned, he knew he’d caught the scent of the cologne again. Mostly because John went, “Oh, god,” and swept his gaze down Gale’s body.
Gale was already growing hard when he advanced on John, planting a hand on his chest and shoving him into the navigator’s seat.
“Not sure it’ll hold us both,” he muttered, but John’s hands were on the back of his thighs, and hell, it wasn’t like this wasn’t exactly what Gale’d planned to do.
He straddled John, sinking onto his lap. As soon as he was close enough, John had his nose thrust against the middle of his chest, breathing deeply. Gale prided himself on his ability to maintain his composure, but he couldn’t have denied the broken groan that left him when John’s tongue lapped a wet line up his skin. John exhaled, making the air on the licked strip feel almost cool.
“Can taste it,” John muttered against him. “Sweet, salty.”
Gale grasped John firmly by the chin and raised his face.
“Lemme see,” he said, eyelids lowering as he stared at John’s mouth.
Before he felt John’s lips, he felt his tongue, pressed flat and slick as it stroked across his own. Gale rubbed his hand along John’s unshaven jawline, fingers on its hinge as John opened his mouth wide and Gale went on the offensive. Instinctively, he shifted forward on John’s thighs. John’s hands kneaded down his back before landing on his ass and attempting to yank him even closer. Gale parted his legs a little more, feeling John’s erection, rubbing against it until John broke the kiss with a low grunt, with a hard-bitten, “Fuck, Buck.”
The sweat rolled down Gale’s spine and John wiped it back up, fingers racing to hook into the chain that still hung backwards. The slight pressure on Gale’s throat had him tipping his head back. John’s eager tongue tasted his neck, his teeth closing in a pinching bite below Gale’s jaw.
“Don’t you fuckin’ mark me,” Gale sighed out, even as his cock throbbed with a rush of blood, making him jerk against John—John, who only bit harder.
The plane was becoming a furnace as they swallowed each other’s tongues again in a probing, insistent kiss. John kept grabbing him, like somehow, he could get Gale closer. Gale was sure they were soaked in each other’s sweat, and more than sweat—John pushed a damp patch of his pants into Gale’s abdomen, his cock straining behind it to be palmed, to be sucked, to be allowed to glide over all the skin John’d licked, Gale could only assume.
Unexpectedly, John stood, bringing Gale with him, until he lowered him, huffing a breath against Gale’s cheek as his feet hit the floor and he nudged his hips into John’s. They maintained contact as they edged around each other. Finally, Gale sat, looking idly up at John. He felt a smug smile on his mouth and tapped it with his fingers.
“Get on your knees, John,” he instructed softly.
John gave him a sloppy salute and promptly followed orders.
It was a pity, Gale thought, that the navigator’s station really wasn’t made for this, that he couldn’t slump down more comfortably when John snuck his fingers behind Gale’s knees to draw his hips forward on the seat. He leaned forward, ignoring Gale’s erection, and kissed his stomach.
“Where to, Nav?” he asked.
Gale scraped his fingers into John’s hair and directed, “Due south.”
Having only been on nice dates with nice girls before the war, Gale couldn’t really wrap his head around the sight of John kneeling before him, John’s lips wrapped around the head of his cock. He groaned quietly, flexing his hand on the back of John’s head as he bobbed. John took him deep without warning; Gale felt the squeeze of his throat like a near-death experience—the pressure, the flush of heat up his already sweltering body, the darkness dancing at the edges of his vision from the intensity of the pleasure. It beat getting flakked.
Never mind the swaggering walk John’d adopted outside this plane—within it, John had one pace, and it was urgent. Gale’s hands seemed to move without his conscious thought, his fingers tightening in John’s sweat-dampened hair. He couldn’t tell whether he was demanding more or begging for a quarter John wouldn’t give. There was only his grip, John’s mouth, the vivid sound of it that hounded Gale when he shut his eyes, trying, for some reason, to last longer. The 12th could turn up at any time, but he didn’t want this to end. John had his head bowed over Gale’s lap as though in prayer and Gale liked it, liked it way too much.
When he lost himself down John’s throat, John did like they’d been trained to do with mission plans if they had to bail out: he swallowed the evidence. Gale grit his teeth together so the noise he made when he spilt couldn’t gather into a scream the boys would hear. Gradually, he went from tugging on John’s hair to stroking it, mumbling apologies that John didn’t seem to give a damn about as he stared adoringly up at Gale with a grin on his face and his cheek resting on Gale’s knee.
“Goddamn,” Gale mumbled. He rubbed a hand over his face and tucked himself back into his shorts, leaving his pants open for the moment, as though to give the heat John had fuelled a chance to escape.
Looking very proud of himself, John got to his feet. He thrust his shoulders back to stretch his back. It put his hips right in Gale’s sightline, or close enough to be no accident; visible through the khaki, his rigid length was as thick with suggestion as the unusual silence John wasn’t filling.
Languidly, Gale reached for those hips, smirking up at John as he reeled him back in. John reached behind him and took hold of the navigator’s table while Gale thwapped his belt open. Before doing more, Gale caught John’s eye. He crooked his finger beneath the hem of John’s stained tank. He dragged the material up, then leaned in and kissed him there, below his navel, the soft fuzz of hair against his lips, the heavy scent of John’s skin right under his nose.
“You’re goin’ too slow. Gonna get us busted,” John warned, but Gale heard the shimmy in his voice. It came from the tender place he wanted people to think he hadn’t been born with. Impervious all the way through, his smile the smile of a man who couldn’t be touched. And here was Gale. Touching him. He kissed him again, so light and soft, and unzipped his pants.
“It’s not your turn anymore,” Gale reminded him.
John cleared his throat as Gale took hold of his pants and shorts both, pulling them down to expose his rosy cock.
“Roger,” John acknowledged above him, like handing over control of the aircraft to the bombardier. “Your turn.”
Gale gripped his shaft, heard the panted breath.
“My turn,” he agreed.
He began with kisses that barely skimmed the skin, just to drive John wild. It gave Gale time to think, to recognize again and again that this was his best friend, that it felt right, that he’d never been so hot for anyone—nothing to do with the temperature. When he finally added his tongue to circle the head of John’s cock, John went literally weak in the knees, almost falling on Gale. To Gale, it was so incredibly attractive of John to forget how to hold himself up that he completely scrapped his tactic of leisurely, torturous attrition and opened his mouth, sucking as much of John as possible.
“God fucking—” John spat. “Son of a—”
All his curses were clipped as though punched from a machine, but when Gale hummed in enjoyment, John snarled like a big cat, low and lingering and ragged. Gale groaned with his mouth full and John slapped a hand to his naked back, drawing him close. The intimacy of the act—John’s fingers tensed between his shoulder blades, not John’s cock shuttling faster across his tongue—made Gale a little weak in the knees himself. He held John’s bared hips for strength.
“Major? Buck?”
It sounded like Douglass, shouting up to them from outside the hatch.
Gale pulled his mouth wetly from John, which left John looking like he was in no shape to deliver a rational response, even though Gale knew he’d probably try if he didn’t speak up himself.
“Sit tight, Lieutenant,” he called back. “Just got a little tinkerin’ to do on the ship.”
Sitting back, he closed his fist around John’s length and started up a smooth stroke.
“Need any help?” Douglass asked.
“Nah, just some bolts that need tightening, wheels to grease.” Gale winked at Bucky and spat into his palm before returning his grip, stroking faster.
Douglass didn’t reply and Gale felt it: the rush he associated with high-risk scenarios. Could be that Douglass would climb dutifully up through the hatch to offer a hand. He’d see John with his top pushed up, his pants dropped down, gasping and moaning as Gale disassembled him like picking the fluff from a dandelion. The both of them sweating. Gale with his feet planted wide and his hands placed for control, and yet drooling from the corner of his mouth until he picked his moment to swallow. Because John was audience enough, he did it now. There was a hiccup in the rhythm of John’s thrusting as Gale’s throat snugged around him. And then John was shoving insistently at Gale’s shoulder. Gale sat back, disgruntled, and looked up to see John’s beet-red face scrunched in concentration.
“You don’t think I can manage?” he demanded, meaning the swallowing, meaning the hot gush he’d been working himself up to feel pour down his throat. His voice sounded rough.
“I wanna see it on your chest,” John said tightly.
He took himself in hand and Gale tried his best to consume it all with his eyes: the tension in John’s features, the furious pumping of his fist, the pillowy veins that wound down John’s forearms and into the back of his hands. Gale flinched when John came—the sudden warmth of it on his skin. He could feel it sliding down, so he leaned back in the chair as much as he could to slow it. John panted above him, chest heaving, gaze fixed on the milky streaks that resembled Mustangs’ contrails, if Gale’s body were the sky.
“Satisfied?” Gale asked wryly.
John settled his stare on him, a dark, blistering blue.
“Extremely,” he said. He sighed and hung his head. “And I need water.”
Gale jerked his chin towards the hatch.
“Go. But get me somethin’ for…” He glanced from his chest to John.
“Nah, looks good.”
Gale raised his eyebrows.
“Alright,” John conceded, giving a hop as he hitched his clothes back into place. “Stay put, Buck.”
“That’s the plan.”
John patted him twice on the shoulder, then held on. He leaned down for a kiss. The prodding tip of his nose into Gale’s cheek; the enthusiastic press of his lips, full on Gale’s mouth. John straightened, collected his sunglasses, and headed for the hatch. This felt so natural to Gale already, and yet…
“I never thought we’d be here,” he admitted.
John paused, sitting at the edge of the hatch.
“Africa?” he asked facetiously.
Gale snorted. Grinning, John slid his sunglasses into place and dropped out of sight.
29 notes · View notes
imagrindylow · 9 months
Note
my first anon omg 😭 really just happy to find fellow Leander stans because it was starting to feel v lonely out here lmao I'm dying for more Leander fluff, I wish I had a creative prompt but I trust you to come up with one (if you have the time and/or inclination to do so) KTHXBYYYE
Hi!! Thank you for the request!! I always have the time and inclination to write for Leander! I'm so, so glad he's getting more content recently. Hope you like it!!
Sticky Situation
Leander Prewett / gn!Reader 4.8k Words Summary: In an attempt to save Garreth from getting into serious trouble with Professor Sharp, you and Leander cover for him and find yourself in detention together, which leads to a date the following evening. Content Warnings: Fluff and kissing.
~~~
Garreth was down to his final straw with Professor Sharp when his cauldron started to bubble up dangerously close to the rim of the large steaming pot before him. Sharp had instructed the class to brew Draught of Living Death, which of course Garreth was more than proficient at, finishing the assignment before anyone else and bottling it, setting it off to the side waiting to turn it in until the end of class as assigned, with plenty of class time left over for experimenting.
Professor Sharp was in his office when the iridescent bubbles started to finally spill over the rim, with nothing Garreth could do to stop it at this point. His hands trembled as he adjusted the temperature of his flame with his wand, but the damage was already done. He wiped the nervous sweat from his brow on the rolled up sleeve of his uniform shirt and watched as the bubbles spread and coat his station with sticky residue.
“Bloody hell, I’m done for…” He muttered, burying his face in his hands.
You and Leander were stationed on either side of Garreth, and had been deep in concentration on the difficult brew when his panicked voice drew your eyes to him. Both of you watched with mouths agape as the bubbles continued to spread over your own stations. You and Leander scrambled to move your ingredients to safety, but it was useless, the bubbles continued to rise and soon was spilling over the edges of the table and onto the ground.
“Garreth! What in Godric’s name?” Leander chided in a harsh whisper, brows furrowed.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry…. Ugh I’m going to get expelled! I’m serious. I’ll miss you both, please remember to write me when I’m transferred to reformatory school.” He was pacing back and forth, eyes darting between his mishap and Sharps office door, just waiting for the professor who was already always in a state of perpetual exasperation to come back out.
Leander scoffed, but his expression softened quickly when he recalled a conversation he had with Garreth after the last time he’d gotten into trouble in class for something that was much less destructive than this was seeming to be. Reformatory school might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but Leander didn’t doubt that Garreth would face severe consequences for this.
“Calm yourself, just act natural, if that’s possible for you.” Leander said and quickly swapped places with Garreth, now standing in front of the continuously sudsing cauldron himself. Garreth started profusely thanking Leander, rambling on about how he really owed him one for this.
You had to back away from the workstation to keep the bubbles – none of which seemed to be popping, only accumulating further – from getting onto your clothes. Your fellow classmates started to take notice, looking on with expressions equally split between amusement and disgust. Whispers and chuckles rose from the work stations surrounding yours as the bubbles continued to flow from the cauldron and onto the floor.
Leander didn’t need to put on much of an act in order to appear convincingly upset with the situation when Professor Sharp reentered the classroom from his office. Silence fell over the entire class, all eyes on Sharp as they waited for him to discover the mess.
It was almost second nature to check Garreth’s section first upon entering the room, but none of the previous potion disasters he’d witnessed in the past could have prepared him for this one. The bubbles were quickly spreading across the floor as Sharp waved his wand, casting a silent spell which halted the bubbles’ migration across the stone floor and popped them all at once, a shiny thick goo bursting from every individual sphere, coating yours, Garreth’s, and Leander’s shoes, as students from surrounding potions stations hopped out of the way.
“Mr. Weasley! I believe you were on your final warning after the last time you disrupted your classmates with your antics.” Professor Sharps voice boomed from across the room. He sounded absolutely furious as he strode towards Garreth, getting a better look at the mess surrounding your stations.
Garreth gestured, eyes wide and pleading, at Leander’s pristine cauldron in front of him. “Sir… I didn’t-” Leander cut Garreth off mid sentence, speaking very matter of factly as he explained the situation. “It was me, Professor. I must have miscalculated something, and then-”
Sharp cut Leander off, holding his hand up in an attempt to save Leander his breath as he lied through his teeth. “Do you really expect me to believe that you caused this mess, Mr. Prewett? You, who notoriously takes every available moment of class time ensuring that things are always brewed correctly?”
“I-I…” Leander stammered. He had really wanted to save Garreth from whatever consequences he’d otherwise face, but Sharp was right, Leander was a model student. Leander was at a loss for words, his usually quick wit failing him in the brooding Professor’s presence.
“It was actually me, Professor. I’m sorry.” You spoke up, seeing that Leander’s attempt at saving Garreth from a fate worse than detention was failing. You were known to get up to some mischief with Garreth and with other classmates of yours, not usually in this class, but the story was more believable than Leander being the one who caused the commotion.
Sharp eyes flickered between the three of you, his gaze lingering the longest on you, your head hung in shame, as you acted the part of the culprit. The rest of the class was silent around you as they watched you take the blame, no one daring to say anything to the contrary.
“Is that true, boys?” Sharp asked, his eyes now searching their faces for the truth.
Garreth only nodded after Leander spoke up in agreement with you. “Yes sir. I was attempting to take the blame for MC. It was them. I apologize for not being truthful initially.” Leander backed up your story, the fact that you were now covering for him sitting heavy in his mind. It was a nice feeling, he couldn’t deny. He had to restrain himself from smiling at your thoughtful gesture.
“That will be a detention for you, MC.” Sharp spoke sternly, his eyes piercing yours, his disapproval palpable.
“Yes, sir.” You nodded, accepting your fate.
“And you as well, Mr. Prewett. For lying in the first place, trying to cover for MC. You will join them in detention after dinner this evening.” Sharp said, disappointment clear in his expression as his eyes bore into Leander. “Now everyone, back to work. I expect to see a perfect bottle of Draught of Living Death from each of you by the end of class.”
Leander’s mouth fell open, he hadn’t expected to still be reprimanded after you had covered for him, but, one detention wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. And surely, it was far less severe than whatever punishment Garreth would have been dealt.
~~~
That evening after dinner you made your way to the potions classroom promptly at 7:30 and found Leander already there. Professor Sharp came out from his office and looked on each of you with a stern expression, his arms folded in front of his chest. “The two of you will be scrubbing down the work stations, as well as the entire classroom floor.”
He conjured up the necessary cleaning supplies for the two of you – buckets of hot soapy water, as well as clean water for rinsing, several scrub brushes, rags, and a pair of cleaning gloves for each of you. Of course, you’d both be required to clean the muggle way, hands and knees to the cold, rough stone floor.
Professor Sharp collected both of your wands, and set them on his desk in his office, where he informed you he’d be for the duration of the detention. He retired to his office, closing the door behind him, and you and Leander shed your robes and got to work, starting on scrubbing off the tops of the work stations.
You began with the furthest station from the office door, allowing the opportunity to engage in whispered conversation while you cleaned together. Shirt sleeves rolled to elbows, both of you donned the ugly yellow cleaning gloves and got to work removing the layers upon layers of burned on gunk from the table tops beneath the cauldron stands.
You caught Leander staring at you as you scrubbed at the old wooden surface, a rosy blush spreading on his face when you turned your attention towards him. Just watching his cheeks flush made a heat begin to rise in your own.
“Why did you cover for me?” He whispered, trying to hide the grin on his face as he spoke. “I’m sure with a bit more convincing I could have gotten Sharp to believe it was actually me who caused all that mess.”
You noticed the muscles in his forearms flex as he gripped the table edge with one hand for leverage while circling with the scrub brush in the other. You cleared your throat and brought your eyes back to his as you spoke.
“No way. He could see right through your act,” you said with a quiet chuckle. “I just… didn’t want you to get in trouble. And you seemed set on protecting Garreth, and that made me want to, as well.”
“Mhmm… He really would have been in for it. He’s been on thin ice for awhile and that would have shattered it for sure. He’s a bit of a clown occasionally but he doesn’t deserve to be suspended or expelled for it.” He said and swished his brush in the clean water, instantly darkening it, before dipping it again into the soapy water and carrying on with his scrubbing. “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for the effort, even though we’ve both landed here anyway. You didn’t have to do that.”
You nodded. You admired his friendship with Garreth and the fact that Leander was willing to put himself in the line of fire for his best friend. Him being so selfless was really what lead you to want to help… Maybe it was simply him you admired.
“I know I didn’t have to… But it’s no trouble.” You told him and moved onto the next potions station, scrubbing it and watching it lighten in color before your eyes. You wondered when the last time anyone actually cleaned the surface was.
You worked on each work station together, quietly chatting all the while. This was probably the longest time you’d spent talking with the boy alone. You always enjoyed being sat with him and Garreth in class but you mostly remained quiet while taking in their banter. Scrubbing down the tabletops was not fun, but spending the time with Leander made it a hell of a lot more bearable. Enjoyable, even. You noticed the subtle way the corners of his lips turned upwards when he’d catch you staring. Your heart raced when you noticed him staring back, his gaze lingering on you a little too long to be considered a passing glance as you concentrated on removing a particularly stubborn mark from one of the table tops.
You were onto the last potions station, the two of you saved the worst of them for last, the station the two of you shared with Garreth. The residue from the mishap earlier hardened to a thick, slightly tacky film that coated the entire surface of the table.
By the time you were done scrubbing the table tops together, your face was hot and red, breaths coming quickly, sweat gleaming on your forehead, and Leander looked to be in much the same state. You couldn’t help yourself from getting distracted by how he looked as he leaned back against a table as he wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve, then stretched his shoulders out before moving on to the next half of the punishment.
Cleaning the potions stations was the easy part. Scrubbing the floors was grueling, not to mention painful, your knees beginning to ache quickly as you started working on the furthest corner of the room. Leander started on the other side of the room and you met in the middle when finished, where you both sat to catch your breath, sweating and panting, knees and back sore from your efforts.
“You know, I’m regretting covering for you, after this.” You said between harsh breaths. The grin on your face despite your look of exhaustion let him know you were only teasing, no matter how horrid this portion of the punishment was. You pulled your gloves off and wiped your sweating palms on your trousers, Leander followed suite.
He leaned back on his hands, legs splayed out in front of him. “Merlin, I can’t thank you enough for it though. Can you imagine how long this would have taken me to do alone? It’s taken the two of us hours.”
“I think you owe me one for this,” You said, your grin spreading, your eyes locked on him, drinking in the way his hair fell after hours of manual labor. You let yourself stare shamelessly, the blush on your face from the way the mere sight of the boy in front of you made you feel was hidden by the redness that came with the exhaustion of your cleaning efforts.
“Name your price. It’s yours.” He groaned, letting his head hang back, a long and tired sigh escaping his throat before he leaned back up to look at you. He noted the mischievous look on your face as you thought of how he could repay you. He raised a brow in question while you pondered.
You couldn’t very well come out and say the first thing on your mind – a kiss. That would be much too forward. But this was an opportunity, and you didn’t want to waste it. “A butterbeer, maybe two.”
You watched as his lips parted before he gave you a smile that showed his teeth. What a rare sight from him, usually so serious looking in class.
He thought for a few moments before replying. You could almost see the gears turning. He smirked and said, “You know, that sounds wonderful. But I actually think it’s Garreth who owes both of us a few drinks. I can run it past him when I get back to my dorm later.”
Your face fell at his suggestion to involve Garreth in the outing. Leander wasn’t wrong, of course, Garreth did owe you both for coming to his defense earlier. But you wanted to spend more time with Leander. Alone.
“Something wrong?” He asked, noticing your sudden change in expression, his own demeanor getting more serious, a look of concern crossing his face.
Your face twisted in thought, you pursed your lips wondering if it was even worth mentioning to him your actual intentions when it flew over his head the first time round. You sighed and decided you may as well go for it. Your voice was nervous, and quieter than it had been. “While Garreth certainly does owe us both… I was hoping to spend a bit more time with just you.”
Leander’s eyes widened, that lovely smile of his returning, a rosy pink blush rising among the freckles on his cheeks.
“Oh.” He said.
His eyes darted to the ground and he fiddled with his hands a moment before looking back up and meeting your gaze. “That actually sounds a lot nicer. Are you free tomorrow after dinner?”
“Tomorrow?” You nodded. “I am.”
Professor Sharp must have heard the chatter, and emerged from his office, his eyes scanning the classroom, and finding the pair of you sitting on the floor near the door together, the cleaning supplies surrounding you.
“This is detention, not an excuse to fraternize after hours! Get up! Both of you!” He spat, crossing the room to inspect the potions stations. The two of you got up, Leander to his feet first, he extended you a hand to pull you to yours. You savored the warmth of his touch for the few seconds your hand was in his. The eye contact you held as he helped you to your feet and stood in front of him made your breath catch.
You moved to his side, watching Professor Sharp as he inspected your work, he took his time checking every station, then wandered the room, his eyes at the stone floor, making sure no corner was missed.
“Well done.” He nodded at the pair of you in approval of the job completed. “Grab your wands from my desk and get back to your common rooms immediately. No wandering about.”
“Yes, sir.” You said in tandem with Leander. He ducked quickly into Sharp’s office, grabbing both of your wands, he handed yours to you and the two of you left the classroom together.
“I’ll find you tomorrow after dinner then, and we’ll get those butterbeers. We’ve earned them.” Leander whispered as you headed through the corridors side by side. You nodded in confirmation.
You headed to your common rooms, each of your turning in for the night, both exhausted, bodies aching for the hours of cleaning, and both with a smile on, thinking about spending more time together the next evening.
~~~
Garreth had been fast asleep when Leander returned to the dorms from detention, so it wasn’t until the following morning that he got a chance to ask Leander how it had gone.
“What did Sharp have you up to?” He wondered, plopping himself down on the foot of Leander’s bed at the first signs of the other boy waking.
“Bloody hell Gar, can I not take some time to wake up before being subjected to this?” Leander asked groggily, gesturing at the disturbance that was Garreth’s presence.
“Nah!” He waved his friend off. “Were you cleaning and polishing the cauldrons? That’s a favorite punishment of his.” Garreth said, having done this task several times. “I wish.” Leander scoffed. “We had to scrub off all of the stations, and then scrub the entire floor, the muggle way.”
Garreth looked horrified. “That classroom is huge! It’s no wonder I was asleep when you got finished, that must have taken ages!”
“It did. You’re welcome, by the way.” Leander added, sounded a bit more irritated than he meant to. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He was a typically a morning person, but his body was sore and he had hoped to soak in the comfort of his bed a while longer.
“Oh yeah… I can’t really thank you enough can I? Wild that MC covered for you and you didn’t get stuck at it alone.”
“Yeah… it was, wasn’t it?” Leander grinned with the thought of his conversation with you the night before, remembering his plans to get drinks with you this evening.
Garreth chuckled and shoved his friends leg as he watched his expression shift. He knew that look on Leander, having been around to discuss many a crush with his friend in the past. “Got a feeling they fancy you. They covered for you, not for me.”
Leander blushed and ran his hand through his hair, getting the strands out of his face from his sleep. “I think… that I have a date with them later…” Leander muttered out sheepishly, trying to keep his composure as he explained the previous evenings conversation, including his attempt to include Garreth in the plans for drinks to his friend.
“Ohhhh, they do! Do you fancy them as well? Are you nervous, excited?” Garreth practically buzzed with excitement for his friend. Out of the two of them, it was Garreth who pulled more dates. He was excited that his friend was getting some well deserved attention.
“Uh… Nervous… But I do, yeah. They’re nice, and cute, and…” His voice trailed off and he sighed as he though of you, zoning out, still tired and easily slipping into a daydream.
Garreth shook the other boy’s leg again. “Snap out of it Lee. Focus. You’ve got this. Don’t be nervous. They like you, too. I know it.”
Leander took Garreth’s word for it, replaying every interaction he’s ever had with you while he finally got out of bed to ready himself for the day. Garreth followed him around, continuing to hype up his friend.
~~~
Just as promised, the following evening as dinner was concluding in the great hall, you spotted the tall red head making his way towards you, a little grin on his face as his eyes met yours. He carried himself a little taller when he saw how you smiled back at him.
You were finished eating and just chatting with a few of your house mates when he filled in the empty spot beside you on the bench, straddling it, not intending to remain in the dining hall much longer. He nodded politely at your friends as he joined, and waited for your conversation to wrap up and for you to turn your attention to him before he simply asked, “Ready?”
“I am.” You said and nodded. You excused yourself from your housemates. He got up from the table first and stood by waiting for you to join him. Nervous as he was, he was still a gentleman. He offered you his arm, which you accepted, earning yourself wide eyed looks from your friends as you left the great hall with him.
The walk through the castle was quiet, his nerves seemingly getting the better of him. Once outside of the castle you chatted about the weather as you crossed the grounds towards the path to Hogsmeade.
It was a chilly fall evening, or at least that would be your reasoning for walking so closely to him, your shoulder brushing him as your hands still clutched the arm he’d offered you.
The contact made your cheeks burn and your heart flutter. You only hoped he felt the same. You looked up at him and he broke out into that smile you’ve seen so much of from him these past few days. “How are you feeling today?” You asked him. “My back has been sore all day.”
“Mine as well.” He replied not knowing what else to say or what he should ask you in return to keep the conversation going.
He shook his head subtly, spiting himself. Why is talking to them so damn nerve wracking? The almost overbearing confidence he displayed around many was lost when it came to you. He didn’t want to put on an act. If he was going to win you he wanted to do it being his true self, even if that meant letting his anxiety poke through.
You were perfectly comfortable in his quiet presence, when it was coupled with the contact of your bodies. With your hands around his arm. His actions spoke louder than his words. He opened the door of the Three Broom Sticks for you, his hand resting on your upper back as you walked through the doorway, and he followed behind you.
The two of you found a small table for two near the back of the establishment near the fireplace. You slid your school robe off and folded it over the back of your chair. Leander pulled the seat out for you to sit before taking his place across from you. He was the very picture of a gentleman. This felt different than any of the times you’d gotten drinks with other friends of yours. You loved how this felt.
Sirona came around to take your order shortly after you’d gotten seated and there were two butterbeers on your table within minutes.
“Cheers.” He said, giving you a soft smile.
“Cheers!” You replied as you raised your mugs before sipping the drinks together.
The first few sips of the butterbeer coated both of you upper lips in sweet foam. You took a napkin to yours, but you appreciated the way he licked his lips quickly after each of his first couple of sips. Your stomach was doing flips. You had to calm yourself, directing your gaze to the fire burning in the fireplace instead.
Leander noticed how you looked at him before you diverted your gaze and he bounced his leg under the table. He loved having your eyes on him and he wanted to make you look at him like that again. He wasn’t sure why you stopped.
He had to swallow his nerves, his feelings while being kept inside were eating at him and he had to let them out. “What is this, MC?” He asked you. “Is this a date?”
Your eyes shot back to his, you were now feeling a fire inside unrelated to the one that you’d been staring into. Your heart wanted his. Your cheeks tinged pink and your heartbeat raced. “It… it can be. I’d like it, if it was.” You gave your honest answer, appreciating that he asked and got the awkwardness out of the way.
A sense of relief washed over him, finally knowing that you felt the same. You wanted it to be a date, you wanted to date him. He felt more comfortable already. “I would like that, too.”
“Well, it’s a date then.” You said, smiling at him and taking another sip of your drink.
His confidence was creeping back in, and it showed in how he took your hand from across the table and held it, his thumb tracing slowly over your knuckles.
Conversation came easily from that moment. You delved into topics that didn’t come up in casual conversations when you were amongst friends in classes. You learned about each other’s families, he talked about his many siblings. You each discussed your plans for after graduating, your hobbies, fears... One drink turned into two, turned into three, you drank each of them slowly, savoring each other’s company, but time flew by all the same. In the back of your mind you knew curfew was fast approaching and you detested the fact the two of you would have to wrap up your evening already. It was going so well.
Upon finishing up your last drinks of the evening, Leander stood and helped you from your chair and held your robe while you put it back on, his chivalry making you blush. He paid the bar tab and held the door for you as you started the walk back to the castle.
Rather than offering you his arm, he took your hand, lacing his fingers between yours as you strode side by side through Hogsmeade. The air had gotten cooler and the two of you kept up a brisk pace to keep warm, walking closely only doing so much in that regard.
Curfew be damned, Leander was set on walking you back to your common room once back inside the castle, and you were not going to deny him, if he so wanted to. The clock struck 10 as you were standing together outside of your common room entry, your hands still in his as he stood in front of you.
“I really enjoyed our date.” He said, leaning down and kissing your cheek softly. “I hope you have a good night.”
You kept hold of his hands, with no intention of letting him walk away before feeling his lips with yours. He smiled when you didn’t let go even after he took a half step back. Your eyes plead with him to stay, just a little longer.
“It’s just goodnight, not goodbye.” He reminded you with a little smirk.
“I know, I just…” You closed the gap between you, letting go of his hands and cradling his face instead. You stood on your tiptoes to kiss his lips.
You could feel him smile into it, before melting into you completely. He wrapped his arms around your back, holding you close and kissing you back, parting his lips and inviting your tongue to move against his. The kiss was slow and deep, quiet hums of contentedness escaping you both as the heat increased. One of his hands ran up your back and into your hair, tilting your head gently as he kissed you harder. You let out a quiet gasp feeling your bottom lip between his teeth. Kissing him was better than you ever could have imagined, and when it ended, you were left aching for more immediately.
“Goodnight.” He whispered to you once more, your face in his hands, his forehead resting on yours as you looked up at him. He kissed your forehead before leaning back, looking into your eyes, an expression of peace on his face.
“One more thing.” You said.
He nodded, grinning. He loved that you didn’t want him to walk away yet, it was a feeling he hoped to get used to from you, the feeling of being wanted. “What is it?”
“I’d like a second date.”
His eyes dilated, he was clearly thrilled at the idea. There was zero hesitation from him at all. “Oh, absolutely. It would be my pleasure.”
You hugged him close and kissed his cheek before finally telling him “goodnight” in return and parting ways to head into your common room for the night.
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Sacrilege
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TW: religious sacrilege, aggressive sex, public(ish) sex, langauge, degrading language.
SUMMARY: Habitually sinful Rafe decides to have a bit of fun at Church…
WORD COUNT: 2300
Sacrilege
The only time Rafe Cameron has ever found religion has been between your thighs, belting out the Lord’s name behind clenched teeth as if doing so would offer salvation itself. This was why when he accompanied you on this particular Sunday, to say you were caught off guard would be an understatement. But with the sight of his lean physique, perfectly muscular, hidden beneath the navy blue of his suit, your thighs were sent pressing together at the memory of his touch from the night before. Your eyes came into a gentle close at this remembrance; heavy breathing, deep penetration, the way he spoke your name while his fingers closed into a trusting grip around your throat.
“You okay baby?” He questioned into your ear as you were returned to the start of the sermon as well as the reminder to remain behaved, even if you could feel the uncomfortable dampness left between your thighs by your thoughts. You could only bring yourself to nod as a response before adjusting your positioning, setting his focus to the roll of your hips that carried his own sexual thoughts to the forefront-not that he was focusing on anything but you anyhow. 
“Good morning-” The pastor began as these would be the last words of the service that you would hear. Although you felt like somewhat of a hypocrite for attending church for the sake of appearances while thinking such immoral thoughts of your boyfriend, you usually found it rather peaceful in contrast to your busy week. But with Rafe at your side, it would prove to be anything but, as you had come to learn that the only thing more dangerous than a jealous Rafe was a bored Rafe…
“This dress…You’re making it difficult to behave…” He breathed as his fingers began that sinful incline between your thighs, making your cheeks crimson immediately. You became thankful in this moment that it was only the two of you occupying this pew, as all eyes, curious or judgemental, would be directed elsewhere, tempting you with the allowance of his efforts. 
“Rafe…” You whispered his name, half in warning, half in objection, as he moved closer against you. 
“You have no idea what you do to me when you say my name like that…” You now faced him, eyes heavy with lust slowly becoming victorious over your usual demure existence.
“But we’re in church…” You reminded him as he readjusted himself until his arm now came to rest in the stretch of wood supporting you both, as the other now teased the lace of your panties. 
“For someone acting so innocent, you’re so fucking soaked-” Your breath caught in your throat. He was always bold, this was expected. But never in a place so sacred…so…impure. 
“Please…” You whimpered as his fingers now fell over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to awaken that pleasure only he could offer you. 
“You want me to stop?” He set a soft kiss to your neck, continuing his crusade of small circles. 
“Okay…” Just as you had become comfortable at his pace, he retracted. This sent your hand to quickly apprehended his by the way of his wrist as he grinned in approval. 
“Such a dirty little whore for my fingers…” His words, degrading in every degree, held a different effect on you as you knew this was meant as lightweight banter in the same way you critiqued him to strictly get a rise out of him. 
“Soaking my fingers like this…” He ‘tsked, “Better keep quiet baby girl…” He prompted you as you began to wave your hips against his touch, your lips parting at the quickening pulse gathering within you. 
“Is this what you think about when you’re here without me? Huh?” His tone remained unchanged, but the grimace on his face was enough to bring your drip into an increase. The idea of him pleasuring you this way, the potential of being caught, sent every ounce of pleasure directly on the bundle of nerves as your eyes came to close when feeling yourself tighten. 
“Don’t cum-” He instructed as you groaned almost silently, if not for the exhale spent against him. 
“Rafe…” You gasped, ignoring the curious eyes that fell to you as he offered a polite smile that now turned their focus elsewhere. 
“You only cum around my cock, remember baby?” Your bottom lip was instantly a captive between your teeth at the thought. You were always desperate for the pressure of his cock stretching you into pleasure, guiding his way in quick succession, but something about the eroticism of this moment left you more desperate than ever. 
“I mean it…If you do, I’ll bend you over this pew and make every bible thumper in this place learn a thing or two about fucking-” He was so crass-so vulgar…and it only worsened your need for him. 
“Come here…” He instructed in compassion as he turned you into him. Your fingers wrapped around the lapels of his suit jacket as your temple fell at a rest at his shoulder. 
“Is she alright?” Ward suddenly asked upon turning towards you, your cheeks impossibly red but thankfully hidden, as Rafe explained your response away as simply being the heat. 
“Baby, people are starting to notice…”
“But I…” You composed yourself for a moment, his fingers never wavering for even a second as he spoke against the moment he allowed you. 
“But it feels so good…Please…” He smiled proudly at your words, snickering, as your hand now lowered to his thigh, wanting to share the pleasure he offered to you. 
“What are you begging me for? You want something, you know how to get it…” He reclined just enough for you to signal for his belt as you became gluttonous to feel him. Even if it wouldn’t satiate your sexual appetite, it would be enough to allow you the pleasure that came in pleasing him.
“My dirty little baby can’t wait for my cock, yeah?” You shook your head as he now looked down at his unbuckled belt and exposed bulge. 
“Look what you did to me…those moans…your tight little pussy clenching around my fingers…” His words trailed off, turning darker. 
“Making me need you…” He scoffed, your hand loosening from his jacket as you licked your lips at the sight of his swollen head meeting your gaze. Only Rafe Cameron would give you an appetite for his cock in the middle of a Sunday service. 
His hand climbed the back of your neck, taking a firm grip to gain your attention. 
“Want to choke on me while you’re being such a good girl, huh?” The chorus of religious music would cover the sloppy pulls of you lubricating his shaft, bringing a newfound confidence hidden behind your eyes, now born again with this ambitious fire. 
“Let ME show you how to be quiet…” He guided you over his lap, his fingers remaining on the back of your neck, as you set him past your eager lips. 
“Good girl…” He groaned in approval beneath a simplistic exhale as he eased to the feeling of your mouth wrapped around him. You took him slowly to only activate your gag reflex when absolutely necessary, his authorization showing in the grip now moving to your hair. The shift of his hips and aggression founded at his fingertips was enough to endorse you to continue. 
Twisting at his base, swirling your tongue to retrieve the salty precum made present by you, everything was deeply erotic-sinfully so. Then his fingers returned to you, as if in appreciation. For a moment, you struggled to maintain your tempo as he plummeted those thick fingers beyond your aching cunt. His fingers skillful beneath your dress, his cock making you breathless, it was a true miracle that nobody had turned to the sounds expressed between verses. 
Once you returned to your paces, his fingers continuing in relentless, greedy pumps, making it difficult to remain quiet, you were forced silent by his length bringing you to tears. 
“So fucking good to me…” He spoke through clenched teeth before suddenly pulling you up from him. Holding your face by your jaw, he carried his thumb across your bottom lip. 
“Always so good for me, aren’t you baby?” You nodded, eager for his praise and approval. 
“Good girls get to cum…” Before you could respond, unsure if you wanted to object or endorse, he set his fingers back into you after a temporary pause to speak, “That’s it, clench around my fingers…Just…like…that-”
“OH GOD!” Whether it was the carnality encompassed in this moment or its dividends such as his voice or fingers, you unwrapped from your silence, exclaiming pleasure loud enough for the congregation to turn and look at you. 
“Amen!” The pastor added, ignorant to how Rafe’s fingers remained in pleasure, only slowing but never ceasing.
“What would HE think if he knew I was into you up to my knuckles? Wanting to stain his precious pews with your cum? Huh, baby?” Your hand came around his wrist, keeping him set in the mix of penetration and friction. 
“You wanna cum baby?” He inquired when feeling the desperation behind your small grasp, your breath on edge against his neck as soft pleas released in your attempts to breathe somewhat normally. 
“Please…I need you…” Nodding violently, you were taken on your feet, this request being enough for him to cease his torment made against you both. But this ‘torment’ had begun for him when seeing you in this dress, intensified by looking up at him with those damned doe eyes-shit, everything you did was erection inducing. But now, he was no longer in the mood to wait. 
“Rafe-” Ward summoned, ignored by his lust-focused son, as you were pulled around the corner and taken against the cold wall acting in contrast to your feverish skin. His lips found your rather quickly, tongue encouraging yours to join in rival with his own, until you were whimpering against him. 
“I don’t want anyone else to hear you moan like you do for me…OR see you naked-only me…” He explained through sporadic breaks of his kisses, lifting your dress until it bunched in a single grasp. 
“Not so innocent are we babygirl?” His fingers entered you again, bypassing the saturated lace made damp by him for the last half hour. 
“Please-” You begged, leading him into a chortle. “I need you-” He grinned that wicked grimace that once sent chills of fear through your body in being unaware of the lengths he would push you. But now, you craved it, finding it as a trophy of your own effect on him. 
“Need my cock, baby?”
“So badly…” You expressed behind a whimper, his fingers now wrapped around your throat as his fingers quickened. 
“Then take me-” Your panties were ripped from your hip and discarded to the floor by the grace of gravity. 
“ALL. Of. ME.” He grunted, the sound of his buckle informing you of the imminent penetration. His fingers coming into a wrap on the edge of the wall supporting you while he led your second leg around his hip, bottoming out immediately to your acceptance of him. 
“Rafe- '' Your plea was silenced by his abrupt thrusts, slowed when quieting you. Setting one inch every few seconds, you were forced to endure the stretch of his cock adjusting you in thorough progression. Each time, offering you a sense of burning and pleasure that divided your lips from a moan to a whimper. 
“Always acting so innocent…But you’re dirty, aren’t you? You like being bad?” You nodded as he moved deeper within you. 
“Only for you…” Something in your confessed devotion awoke a different sense of need in him. A need to possess you completely. 
“That’s right-ONLY ME.” He grunted into you, hand now wrapped within your hair. “This cock is all yours baby. Just like this pussy is all MINE.” You nodded, eager for him to continue, toes curling as he hit that spot within your clench he knew well. 
“So fucking tight…all fucking mine…” He disposed of his harsh grip on your hair and redirected this strength to your hips, using this newfound hold to plummet into you. 
“Let me make you cum-yeah? Use my cock to make you cum-go-good-good girl baby-like that, YES!” He grunted, feeling you reach closer to that orgasm. 
“GOD!” You cried out, expression twisted in pleasure as he suddenly turned you away from him until you were pressed against the wall. Penetrating you once again, he now fondled your nipple with one hand and used the other to your folds, collecting your slick, before abusing that swollen clit with his educated touch. 
“Cum for me baby-cum right now…Right fucking now.” Your body clenched at his command, your release at the literal edge of his fingertips as you were unable to buck from his body controlling you with his own thrust. Instead, you froze and allowed him to use your body to his will. 
“Take my cock like a good girl…that’s it…YES! Always good-always tight-always for me…” He took hold of your hair, continuing to rub your clit despite your orgasm having been reached. 
“I’m not stopping baby, whether you’re screaming or shaking…you’re gonna make me cum, teasing me in this fucking dress and those fucking panties…” A slap to your ass made you blush as you were certain they must have heard that. But a larger portion of you was indifferent and desperate for that second orgasm approaching you quickly. 
“Rafe-”
“You beg so pretty, baby…” You were pulled against him, gripped harder around your neck as he felt you buckle before him. 
“You’re gonna make me cum-just-fuck! Shit!” He expressed behind tensed teeth before finding his ribbons to paint your entire interior, his fingers finally ceasing as you came down from your dual climax. 
“I think I might like coming to church from now on…” He collectd your jaw, a soft kiss pulling your winded lips to part as you agreed. If all Sunday mornings were spent this way, you would favor them beyond any other days, even looking forward to them above all others…
Taglist: @hopebaker
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luciechat · 8 months
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16. Things you said with no space between us - for rebelcaptain, please
Thanks for the prompt, anon! Here you go 😊
Written this morning in between working on Convergence and my medieval AU. I had no idea where I was going with it so it’s all over the place but enjoy!
I also . . . failed to keep it under 1k. Or rather, Cassian did. It’s his fault.
Things you said with no space between us
The silence would suffocate them long before they ran out of air.
Neither spoke and neither moved, taking long, deep breaths that disturbed the other as little as possible. Pressed together from chest to feet in an escape pod meant for one, there was no room to maneuver.  
The viewport next to their heads let in light from the nearby star as they plummeted down to the planet’s surface. He had no idea where they’d land or what they faced when they got there but he was starting to think it wouldn’t matter. 
Jyn was adept at hiding many things. But not her fury. It spilled out in the rigid lines of her body and the knot of tension in her jaw. Even her hands, trapped on his chest between them, fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
It wouldn’t be long. All the better—he had a few words for her as well. 
She wasn’t the only one whose body betrayed her anger. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t loosen his hands from her shirt. They rested at her hips, clutching the fabric in his fingers as he held on.
They had no harnesses. Only one in the escape pod and unusable with two bodies laying on top of it. 
It was going to be a rough landing.
Finally, Jyn broke. “What the fuck was that?”
Her anger never ceased to stir his own. “You nearly got caught!”
“I had it under control!”
“You absolutely did not. I saved your ass!”
“I would’ve gotten in!”
“You weren’t even in position. We had to go!”
“And this was your solution?”
“It worked.” Mostly. They still had to find a way back to base once they landed. “The data wasn’t worth your life.”
That seemed to appease her. Her bursts of anger rarely lasted past the initial flare up anyway, once she got her point across. With it out of her system, she slumped, trying to shake her legs but succeeding mostly in wiggling against him. “I can’t move,” she complained. 
Cassian tried not to stiffen but with the lack of space between them, she’d feel everything if she wasn’t careful. They’d always kept in close proximity—something he’d pondered more than once as allowing people into his space was not his natural inclination. The ability to touch her, reach out in the middle of a mission and reassure himself that she was still there had become a weakness of his in recent months. He’d grown too used to it. 
They’d never shared a space quite this small. (They came close, once, in an inn on Jeyell where they’d been stuck in a room with a single, tiny bed built arguably for a child. Which they’d taken turns with to avoid this exact circumstance.)
“Please try not to. We should land soon.”
“We’re not even in atmo. This thing’s an antique.” Then she shifted, pressing one leg between his and rolling her hips in a sweeping motion. Her fingers flexed against his chest, the light scrape of her nails through the fabric enough to send a shiver down his spine. 
He didn’t bother to stifle his groan because she had to know what she was doing. He raised his eyes to the top of the pod, studying where the panels of durasteel overlapped as if it held the key to understanding this woman.
Suddenly, she giggled. A short, sharp burst of high pitched laughter, quickly stifled as she pressed her face into his jacket. But even muffled, her continued laughing filled the previous silence.
Not once in all the months he’d known her had he heard Jyn laugh like that.
“Were you drugged?” he demanded.
That set her off on another round of snickering. The shaking of her shoulders had her brushing against him once more.
It was too cramped to raise his arm, feel the skin on her face to see if she was feverish. Before he could think better of it, he loosened his hands from their grip on her shirt and slipped under the hem, palms pressing to her sides. 
Not clammy or overheated. Just warm, soft, beckoning his fingers to trail across—
Jyn froze in his arms, the sound of her mirth cut off. 
A second too late, his mind caught up. 
“Fuck, I’m sorry!” He swept his hands up out of her shirt but there was nowhere to go, staying tucked at their sides. Even knowing he’d overstepped and wanting to give her as much space as possible, his fingers still brushed the fabric of her shirt, his hands unable—unwilling—to let her go entirely.
“Were you drugged?” she asked, tilting her head enough to peak up at him from beneath her brows. “I’ve heard the Hutts are working on some sort of sex pollen.”
He ignored that. “I was checking to make sure you weren’t feverish! I can’t get my hands up high enough for your face.”
It sounded ludicrous to his own ears. That never boded well.
“You know how I can tell when you’re being sincere?” she said after a moment. “You’re only ever smooth when you’re lying.”
“. . . I can be smooth.”
She raised a brow.
“If you want me to be. Smooth, I mean. With you.”
Her brow rose higher.
“This is not,” he told her, “indicative of anything.”
She leaned in, resting her forehead on his cheek, lips close enough to his ear for him to feel her breathing. “I like you not smooth.”
“It’s just around you, you know,” he admitted, finding the words when her eyes weren’t visible. “I can be perfectly charming when you’re not looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to strangle me. Or devour me. Or when you’re happy with me. Or—anytime you look at me, really.”
“I like looking at you,” she told him. “Haven’t wanted to strangle you in awhile but I’m pretty much always up for devouring you.” With that, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the skin beneath his ear and breathing in. Her nose traced along the underside of his jaw, causing him to dig his fingers into her hips, part of him wanting to hold her still. The much larger part of him yearned to press up against her, find out how far they could go with so little space.
“I’m not averse to the idea,” he said. But her teasing left him breathless and it came out far more desperate than he’d intended. “Fuck, Jyn, now of all times?”
Her lips, which had been trailing soft, suckling kisses down his neck, broke away with another burst of laughter. 
Assured that she probably wasn’t drugged, just amused, he basked in the sound, cataloguing the pitch and the cadence and the joy contained within. So he could call up this memory again and again.
“What made you laugh before?” he asked once she’d calmed.
He felt her grin against his jugular. “I was thinking ‘guess we’d have both fit in the bed after all.’”
Next time, he promised himself. Or as soon as they got out of this damn pod.
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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year
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Pink Scarf - Part 19 (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: References to sex. Continued ANGST. Medication/drug use/overdose mentions. Dub con mentions(sort of?). 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: 8.1k
A/N: Thank you for your patience, my beautiful lil mamas, Part 19 is finally here! We are back in Reader's headspace, and lordy, oh lordy, it's A LOT...just remember, I DID warn and promise y'all pain before a happy ending. And the end is coming soon. 😭 I know, babies, I know. 💖
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. 💜
I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY! 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!)
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Silence.
For the first time in over a week, you aren’t bombarded with images of the past or worries for the future as your subconscious desperately tries to guide you places you are not ready to go to yet. As you stir awake, you feel somewhat rested, peaceful almost. Your eyes flutter open and even though the room is dim, you still squint and hiss at the light that pierces through your eyes and seems to rocket through your head like a spear. You can’t help but groan a little at the pain behind your eyes.
The room is not familiar, however, which sets you on edge, that peacefulness of good sleep draining from you quickly. Frantically, you try to puzzle out where you are and how you got here but thinking sends a wave of nausea through you that you can’t ignore. You groan again at the feeling and crack your eyes open the slightest bit.
A man, first crouched in the uncomfortable looking chair he’s perched in, sits up ramrod straight at your movements. Despite the dark circles around his eyes, he’s a vision to behold. You know without a doubt he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on, what with his high cheekbones, lusciously pouty lips, and chiseled jaw covered in what looks to be a day’s worth of dark stubble. Raven hair frames his face, thick sideburns curling at his ears and locks haphazard on his forehead. And those eyes, dear lord, those impossibly long, dark lashes rim his eyes. His eyes, which feel as deep and dark blue as the ocean itself, cut through the fog in your head, widening and looking over you with care and concern.
You know those soulful, familiar eyes anywhere.
Elvis.
You blink and the world starts to snap into focus. Through the pain and nausea, you take in your surroundings. The uncomfortable bed you’re in. The IV in your arm. The dreary paint on the walls. The smell of antiseptic.
The hospital. You are in the hospital.
This must be why Elvis looks positively distraught, his large hand now frantically grasping at yours on the bed. You swear he is shaking, steadied only once he touches you and a wave of relief falls over his handsome yet worried features.
“Y/n. Oh thank God, y/n,” he murmurs. “Are you okay? How do you feel? What do you remember?” he barrages you with questions that you aren’t sure you have the answers to yet, especially with the way your head is pounding so distractingly. For some reason, the whole scene suddenly strikes you as silly, what with the most famous man in the world looking at you so damn seriously. You can’t help yourself.
“Who…who are you?” you croak out quietly, your unused voice cracking.
The look on his face is priceless as he rolls through shock, terror, and dismay all at once. His face falls dramatically then and there is no way you can keep up the pretense because the little boy look that comes over him is just too much.
“Gotcha,” you chuckle, cracking a smile that suddenly makes your face feel like it’s on fire and making you regret your smile instantly.
“You little minx,” he growls, a relieved grin spreading over his face before he sees the pain on your face. “You’re hurtin’. Goddammit, I should’ve killed him…” he mutters heatedly under his breath.
It takes more than a moment to process what he is saying and connect that with the burning tightness of the left side of your face. You bring your hand up slowly, gingerly touching the unfamiliar swollen, hot flesh of your cheek. You can’t help but hiss at the painful sensation that runs over you when you do so.
You close your eyes, feeling Elvis’ heavy but comforting hand squeeze yours.
What in the hell happened?
Reaching back in your memory, you attempt to piece together why you are here, why you are in so much pain. Dread fills your heart as flashes of memory come at you:
Jack accosting you in the bathroom.
Losing his mind at seeing the hickies on your breast.
Him dragging you out and humiliating you in front of everyone.
Then…then…
Oh, god.
Jack did this. He hit you.
Your head falls back, and you cover your eyes with your free hand. A wave of shock, then a wave of deep sadness overcomes you. Hot tears spring to your eyes and spill down your cheeks and you don’t attempt to stop them. The salt of them stings the abrasions on your face.
How could he? How could he?
Sobs wrack your body, each one a pulse of pain through your head, shooting red-hot through you. You knew, you knew deep down it was over, but you never expected it to come to this. You never thought Jack had it in him to truly hurt you. But you are lying in a hospital bed, living proof that the man you once loved was truly gone.
And it feels devastating, yet also strangely relieving, in a way you could’ve never imagined.
“Oh, Satnin, baby. Oh, I’m so, so sorry,” Elvis whispers at you, clutching your hand, his concern evident but unsure.
The wave of devastation crashes over you, both the physical and psychic pain nearly unbearable as it throbs in your head. You feel utterly raw. Humiliated. Gutted. Guilty. Relieved. Furious.
The sudden image of slapping Jack’s face as he knelt bloody on the floor resonates through you, the sting still evident in your palm.
Elvis had almost killed Jack, blinded by a protective rage, you now remember. You’d stopped him.
Part of you wishes you hadn’t.
It all feels quite unreal yet simultaneously overwhelming, all these flashes of memory hitting you in rapid succession. And you know there are more troubling memories waiting in the wings, ready to knock you off your feet once again. You can sense them lingering at the edges of your mind, somehow closer than they have ever been but still just out of reach.
All at once you don’t feel strong enough to bear them.
Everybody knows, you suddenly realize. Your affair with Elvis was now out there for everyone to see, for everyone to judge. You open your tear-filled eyes to look at the beautiful man before you, the one you love so much it feels as though it might destroy you, because god knows you haven’t forgotten that. You cannot bring yourself to regret being with him, no matter if it led you to be here, broken and battered in a hospital bed in Las Vegas.
But something is not right. Something besides the obvious. And it’s right there, just out of view.
Your head hurts too much to dwell on it, however.
“I’m gonna take care of you baby,” Elvis finally says after what you realize is too many moments of silence. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I won’t let him hurt you ever again.”
The way he says it so softly and with such righteous conviction strikes something within you. The clasp of his hand on yours is almost too tight, the look on his face both filled with remorse and determination. You know what he says is true—he will not leave you to face this alone.
Despite this, the uncomfortable elephant in the room lingers: you would not be here if not for Elvis, and you both know it.
But with the pain in your body and the ache in your heart, that is not a mountain you can begin to climb yet. There are too many unanswered questions that you need to figure out and this is not the time or place. So, you let Elvis hold your hand with that mournful look in his churning eyes and you try to heal.
*
“Watch your step, watch your step!” Elvis supports you gingerly, his strong arm holding you at the waist, as if just walking will shatter you into a thousand pieces.
“E, I’m okay. I promise I can walk on my own. It’s just one step,” you say, trying to keep the annoyance out of your tone. He’s been hovering as much as possible for the past two days you’ve been under observation at the hospital, only leaving when absolutely necessary to do his two shows a night. He sent the hospital staff into a tizzy with demands for your care while still managing to be charming and effusive to all the employees in a way that only he could get away with.
You’re not sure that he’s slept in the past few days, as he seems obsessed with making sure you are alright. Your pleas for him to go back to the hotel and get some rest fell on deaf ears. Hopefully, now that you’ll be in the hotel, he will relax a little.
While your face is healing, it is still covered in a nasty bruise, which you are reminded of every time Elvis looks at you because the wince that passes over his features, while nearly imperceptible to others, is quite evident to you. It serves to remind you how you got here and how he seemingly thinks him controlling everything about your recovery is going to somehow put you back together and make everything how it was before.
But it’s not like it was before.
Not with the looks that the Mafia are giving you. You can sense their pity, their judgement, their fear. Because Elvis having a known affair with you threatens them all. What if it was their wife or girlfriend? What if Elvis turns on them the way he turned on Jack? Jack was their friend, too. It’s written all over their faces. And you can tell they’ve been put on best behavior because more than usual they defer to Elvis, and they are suddenly wildly uncomfortable around you, even though you’ve been part of the group for years.
You can’t help but feel like the king’s consort. The mistress. The usurper.
The only exceptions are Jerry and Sandy, of course. And Charlie, in his usual Charlie way, has been kind and endearing. But the rest are quiet. Too quiet.
You don’t know what’s happened to Jack. You also haven’t seen Red, though you can’t say you’re upset about it. The few times you tried to ask Elvis, he brushed you off, saying you didn’t need to worry about such things while you’re trying to recover.
All of it has you unsettled. You knew there would be consequences, of course you did, but you didn’t expect it to be this strange.
Thankfully, your headaches are becoming less frequent, but when they do come, they are intense and debilitating, and weirdly, each one brings a host of images and fractured memories that you must try to make sense of. The doctor said this should hopefully get better as your brain heals from the concussion. A full recovery, he said, but it might take some time. Elvis takes this to mean you need constant care, and honestly you don’t have the energy to argue with the man about it right now, so you let him escort you into his bedroom suite as though you are frail and fragile.
“There you go, Satnin, all set,” he says, fluffing the mountain of pillows behind you, and then he gently takes off each of your shoes. You lean back with a sigh, suddenly grateful for the comfort of his huge bed in his penthouse suite because that hospital bed was truly terrible.
“Maybe you wanna to get into your pajamas?” he suggests. “I had all your things brought up, but I also went ahead and bought you some things, since I know you hadn’t planned on being here this long, and—” he rambles. The look on his face is almost childlike in his need to please you, to take care of you. It is quite the adjustment after spending a week basking in his masculine sexual dominance.  You aren’t complaining at this change in him; in fact, it reminds you of when you first met, of those early years. It’s just giving you a bit of whiplash.
“It’s okay, honey, I’m fine for now,” you interrupt, trying to keep your tone light. Bringing your hand up, you pinch the bridge of your nose as another headache threatens. Overly attuned to you, Elvis grabs one of your feet and starts rubbing, using his strong hands to knead deep into the sole of your foot.
The hurts-so-good feeling has you groaning and your head falling back onto the pillows.
“That feel good, mama?” he drawls quietly.
All you can do is nod and hum in response. You’re certain if this had happened a few days ago, that statement, this action, would be laced with a fierce sexual energy. You imagine that it would last only a minute before he pounced and worked you into a state of pleasurable bliss. That latent desire is still there—you can sense it—but with everything that has happened, it takes a backseat to your pain.
This both saddens you and makes you feel grateful. You covet your sexual relationship with him, as it is the definitive thing you know he wants and needs from you. You know this for sure, and with your ever-present uncertainty about the rest of your relationship, it makes you feel off-kilter to not be able to share that with him. However, his commitment to being by your side despite the lack of sex, has been somewhat reassuring. You desperately hope it’s not just a sense of guilt that keeps him here with you.
You sigh, your eyes falling shut, and relish in the feel of his hands on you in such a comforting way as he treats one foot, then the other, to this intimate treatment. But he is uncharacteristically quiet.
He practically has you in a stupor by the time he finishes with the second foot, managing to stave off your impending headache. Opening your eyes, you catch him looking at you, those deep blues of his taking on a darker hue in the dim lighting. You can see the wheels turning, the way his hand flexes and releases over his tailored pants, how he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.
“What is it, E?” you ask gently, almost afraid it might spook him.
“I-I-I…can I hold you?” he stutters, changing tactics midway to get the sentence out, betraying his nerves.
“Of course, baby,” you respond quietly.
“I-I just don’t want to hurt you,” he says, crawling up the comforter to lie next to you. “Are ya sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” you say, as he curls into you, his arm coming over you.
All at once, you are flooded with memory. Your teenage bedroom. Your single bed. Elvis nestling close into your side, his cheeks still salty with tears. The way your heart races at his proximity and the way his touch, though innocent, burns through you like wildfire. His breath warm on your neck, tickling your bare skin.
He shows up on your doorstep such a mess, coming to you, of all people. You don’t quite understand it. (You’re still not sure you understand it—why it’s you, of all people, at that point in his life, that he’d chosen to come to.)
You fall into caring for him so easily, like it is second nature to run your fingers through his hair and massage his back as he cries in your lap, even though you’ve never touched him like this, so intimately, before. When he asks to stay, those bedroom eyes of his begging, your heart leaps in a way you are ashamed of. Your entire body feels on fire, flustering you as you consider the implications, consider just how badly you do want him to stay, and if it’s worth it to see where this might go.
It only gets worse when you find him stripped down to his underwear, waiting for you innocently in your bedroom, a place no man has stayed before. Your heart stops in your chest at the sight of him sitting there, exhausted and emotionally spent. Before you take him into your bed, he’s so good in reassuring you he would never hurt you, that he won’t touch you like that. Of course, he wouldn’t; you know this. But your trepidation isn’t because you are afraid he’ll take advantage of you—it is because part of you wants him to.
The memory makes you blush furiously. Yet another important moment you had buried so deep that remembering it now makes it feel like it just happened.
After the initial tension of him being curled so close into you wanes, you relax and let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t go. Oh, how you relish in the softness of his skin against yours, the musky scent and heat of him surrounding you as he holds on to you through the night. You wake up multiple times, thinking you must be dreaming that Elvis is in your bed, but are pleasantly surprised to really find him there, his warm, lean, young body pressing into yours in various ways. The moonlight through the window lets you see just how innocently beautiful and vulnerable he is like this, like some kind of angel not of this world, his long lashes falling over his cheeks. You feel grateful to see him this way, tucking the moment away in your mind. Despite the rollercoaster of hormones coursing through you, you’ve never felt so safe before, not with Ted, not with any man.
Or felt so aroused. That terrified you, you think, as the wave of feeling crashes over you in the present. You want him with an intensity that shocks you to your core. But he is your friend, for god’s sake, and he’d come to you upset and trusted you to help him, and here you are, suddenly lusting after him like every other girl on the planet. Oh, yes, you are so very ashamed of yourself, for the dirty thoughts you’re thinking.
But, oh, how you imagine him waking to kiss you passionately, willing him to touch you everywhere, wanting him to run his long, calloused fingers up under your nightgown and into your panties. Thinking that, in an instant, he could easily slide between your legs, and you would let him. You’ll gladly give yourself to him right this minute if he wants you. You screw your eyes shut, trying unsuccessfully to block out the image of him slowly entering you, joining with you, rocking you into submission, into ecstasy.
Back then, those thoughts were more dangerous than anything, especially when the man in question was in your bed already, holding you close. It was a different time, and at nineteen, you were young and bound by propriety, and yet, in that moment, you hadn’t cared about that part.
But it is Elvis. Your dear friend. He doesn’t think of you that way. He’s on the brink of stardom and already has half the country fawning over him, with girlfriends in every town. You know this, logically. You know this, but for the first time, you allow yourself to think that maybe there is more to the two of you than just friendship. That maybe there is a reason he’d come to you in his hour of need.
A wave of heartache rolls through you as you recall that next morning. You blearily wake up from your fitfully aroused but somehow comforting slumber to him pulling you close, pressing the front of his body into the back of yours. The heat of him permeates through the thin cotton of your nightgown, which is quite a pleasing sensation in the cold of this late-winter morning. You sigh and wiggle back into him instinctually, before you can think too much on it, just needing to be closer to him. But then he jumps out of the bed in a flash, as if you were on fire, scurrying to clothe himself, and then he practically leaps out the window to get away from you.
He didn’t want you. Of course, he didn’t want you. He probably regrets the whole thing, with the way he leaves you lying there. He is Elvis Presley, after all. Your friend, but nothing more. You’d been foolish to think it anything more.
His abrupt absence leaves you cold, tears welling in your eyes, yearning for something you know you could never have from him (or so you’d thought, at the time). You pull the covers over your head, the scent of him on your sheets enveloping you. The grease he used in his hair left a stain on your pillow, but you don’t care in the slightest because it is something tangible, something that lets you know him holding you through the night had been real and not a dream.
Now it hits you suddenly that—oh, god—that was the day Jack had asked you out for the first time. You’d been sad all day, trying to push Elvis out of your mind and Jack had shown up at the diner, suddenly quite brazen in his attraction to you. While you weren’t entirely surprised, as the two of you had been dancing around each other for some time, the timing of it helped bring you out of your funk, reminding you that in the real world, a good man like Jack wanted you.
You’d quickly accepted because you liked Jack and there was no reason not to.
Elvis Presley was just your friend, after all.
Now you realize that in that short 24-hour period, the trajectory of your entire life changed. Maybe you’d fallen into Jack’s arms so quickly because Elvis’ rejection had upset you more than you wanted to admit. It had been easier and more realistic to date Jack, and it had taken your mind off the unwanted thoughts you had for Elvis.
Oh, no.
The intense discovery of this long-hidden memory and the emotions to go with it rocket through your skull with a shooting pain, causing you to hiss. Tears flood your eyes, from both the ache in your heart and the pain in your head.
“Baby, you okay? What can I do?” Elvis shoots his head up, noticing your distress, looking you over carefully.
You can’t explain, not now. “Bad headache,” you breathe out instead. “Can you get my medicine?” You didn’t want to take pain meds if you could help it, but in this moment, everything, pain and otherwise, is too overwhelming and you think maybe you just need some sleep.
So, you take the pill he gives you gratefully. You try not to think about how the way he looks at you now has that same boyish quality it had all those years ago when you’d taken him into your bed and into your arms, and he’d left you cold.
It’s okay, you think. He’s here now, taking care of me. He wants me now, even if he didn’t then.
And with that, you drift aimlessly away into welcome darkness.
*
Everything is fuzzy, the dull ache in your head muddling the flashes that are floating to the surface in your dreams.
You kiss Elvis’ forehead, the tears on his baby-faced cheeks, his pouting, full lips. You can taste the salt of his tears on your tongue.
Not Elvis now, you think, Elvis a long, long time ago.
But that doesn’t make sense. You didn’t kiss Elvis until two weeks ago.
He’s so sad, though, so alone. He needs you, he needs you, he needs you…
And you need him.
But it’s wrong, all wrong. And so right, all at once. Your body tingles through the ache in your head as you ever-so-gently press your lips to his. You’ve wondered for so long what he tastes like.
Soft and sweet, like marshmallows.
His bright blue eyes widen with shock.
“Y/n, baby, you don’t want this…” he whispers. The words echo and swirl around you.
He’s right, isn’t he? You can’t want this. You shouldn’t. Of course not…
You’re so angry, so sad, and he’s so beautiful.
Elvis. Your Elvis.
No, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not.
He belongs to no one. He belongs to the world.
Need pulses through you, a need so deep it brings you to your knees. It cuts through the pain in your head. It singes through your heart.
It’s unbearable.
It burns through you, from the inside out.
Those eyes, deep as the ocean, rimmed in black, plunder your soul. You ride the swell of the waves in them as they rise higher and higher and higher until they shatter underneath you.
The fall is blissful and terrifying, all at once, but Elvis is with you the whole way.
Free falling through the abyss, you are scared. It’s never-ending. You don’t know when you’ll hit bottom, and the anticipation of it runs like ice through your veins.
Guilt. Shame. That ache in your chest.
And then you hit bottom.
*
Your eyes pop open with a shuddering gasp. Gripping the sheets for dear life, you frantically try to piece out where you are, that you are not falling anymore.
Just a dream. Just a crazy, medication induced dream, you pray, seeing that you are in the darkened suite in Elvis’ penthouse.
But the unease remains, lurking more visibly now in the corners of your mind, trying to tell you something you don’t want to hear. Something you don’t want to see.
The door to the bedroom slowly opens and you jump, a hand flying over your chest in surprise. Elvis strides in quietly, clad in his white gi jumpsuit, sweat pouring over him. He must have just finished a show.
You had been asleep a while.
You are still amazed at how his presence fills a room, even when it’s just you here, even when there is no one to impress. He looks gorgeous and you know he’s riding the post-show high by the way his eyes sparkle and by the flush of his cheeks.
“You’re awake, baby. How’re ya feeling?” he asks, gliding over to you on those long legs of his.
You are still reeling from the dream. You shake your head, trying to clear that feeling of dread, of falling, and as he sits on the bed next to you, you are sucked into those oceanic eyes once again.
Your heart races.
“Are you okay?” He looks concerned, brushing your sweaty locks off your forehead, thumb grazing your cheek.
“Are you okay? he whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek. You sit still in his lap, saying nothing and can feel him begin to soften inside of you, the wetness of spent arousal leaking down your thighs under your dress…
The flash of memory hits you hard, because it was then, not now. Triggered by the same gesture, the same man, but it was a different time. He looked so young…
But that’s impossible. Impossible. The first time you had sex with Elvis was less than two weeks ago.
Your heart thunders in your chest because suddenly you don’t think that’s true.
You kiss Elvis’ forehead, kiss the tears on his baby-faced cheeks, and then, with a strange boldness, you kiss his pouting, full lips. You can taste the salt of his tears on your tongue.
His pants scratch at your bare thighs as you straddle his narrow hips. His tongue explores your mouth, sending searing heat through you. Boldly, you rock in his lap, feeling him grow underneath you.
You need him, oh, god, how you need him.
The flashes aren’t complete, but they are real. You are suddenly so sure that they are, and you don’t understand, not at all. You look at Elvis now, wild-eyed, silently seeking answers. How? How?
His long fingers are cold as they part your wet folds, and he pushes one, then another deep into your heat while his thumb massages that ever-sensitive bundle of nerves at the front. It stings at first, this surprising intrusion, but he’s gentle, letting you adjust around him, letting you decide when to move.
Your breath is coming fast now, and Elvis looks more than concerned.
“Satnin, what’s happenin’? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, eyes searching you.
You screw your eyes shut. This can’t be real. It can’t be.
You sink down on him slowly, the tightness of your canal stretching around his considerable size as you try to take him all in. It’s easier now, after he prepped you with his fingers, and the discomfort wanes quickly as you bottom out. He’s hitting places inside you that you didn’t know existed until this very moment.
Elvis looks utterly ethereal as you begin to ride him, his mouth open and pink, his freshly dyed raven hair falling in his eyes. Everything about him looks carved out by the gods, and his eyes drink you in in a way that strips you bare, right to the heart of you. He looks at you as though you hung the moon and the stars.
Those eyes are now looking at you in a panic.
He brings you to the brink easily and you crest the wave hard, your orgasm fracturing you into a thousand pieces as you fall. You’d never felt this way before, not with Ted, not with Jack, not even with yourself. The pleasure of it rips through you and he follows quickly, a warm, sticky heat pulsing deep as you cling to each other for dear life.
Oh. Oh god…
It was real. You know it now. You are more sure of it now than you’ve ever been.
Graceland, you realize suddenly, when he took you to see Graceland for the first time. That’s where it happened. Nineteen-fucking-fifty-seven.
Elvis and you had sex, a long, long time ago. And he kept it from you. Pretended it never even happened.
You push away from him and stagger off the bed in daze, flooded with so many emotions and sensations at once that you don’t know how to react. Dizzy, you sway a bit on your feet.
Flashes keep hitting you as you move. Waking in the hospital, not knowing how you’d gotten there. Elvis, worried at your bedside. The pills. The accidental overdose.
You think you might be sick.
“What the hell is happenin’? You’re scarin’ me. Talk to me, baby,” Elvis says from behind you. He feels so far away, but that deep seeded need to flee him is rolling through you and you walk unsteadily forward, though you aren’t sure exactly where you are trying to go.
Oh, he must have been so relieved when you didn’t remember anything about that night. That he didn’t have to take back what he’d—you’d—done. That it didn’t completely derail his friendship with you or Jack. That he got to keep being Elvis without any repercussions.
Twelve years. Over a decade built on lies and half-truths and pretending.
Tears are streaming down your burning cheeks now. You feel humiliated. Shocked at both yourself and at him. You’d cheated on Jack, with Elvis. It didn’t matter that Jack had cheated first. You’d had feelings for Elvis all the way back then, feelings you acted on in a moment of vulnerability for both of you. He’d been devastated about June, scared about his fame. You’d wanted to comfort him, but you had also wanted to prove to yourself that if a man like Elvis Presley could want you, then of course Jack should.
You’d thrown yourself at him. He didn’t stop you. And then he lied to you about it all.
If you’d have remembered…Christ, the repercussions would’ve been life altering.
Elvis grabs you then, in the present, his hot, long, ring-clad fingers circling your arm, pulling you back towards him.
And it is then that your anguish fully turns to anger. After everything that has happened these past two weeks, these past fourteen years…Suddenly, that sense of betrayal, your seeming lack of control of anything in your life, all the fear of the past, present, and future, pushes you to the brink. You feel done being at the mercy of the universe, done at being at the mercy of the lies and whims of men.
“Take your fucking hand off me, Elvis,” you hiss, venom in your glare.
You watch as his brilliant blue eyes widen in surprise, and with that, he releases you.
“Is this all a game to you?” you ask pointedly, voice shaking under the weight of your simmering fury.
“W-what?” he says, shaking his head. “Baby, I can’t emphasize enough that I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“You lied to me. You’ve been lying to me for years,” you throw at him. A fueled rage clouds your judgement. You are quickly becoming unhinged and near irrational, but you are unable to stop it, almost like you are possessed, out of your mind, and watching your unusual behavior from afar. It’s as though a part of you wants to blow all of this up and you are powerless to stop this destructive side of yourself.
Elvis throws his hands up in surrender and begins to turn away. “That concussion has you bein’ all crazy, honey. I don’t even know—”
“That day at Graceland, right before you bought it. When I accidentally took too many pills for my headache. You know the one, don’t you?” you interrupt scathingly.
He stops and looks back at you, that pretty brow furrowing, and you think you can sense his panic truly brewing now. “I-I-I thought ya didn’t remember nothin’ about that afternoon.”
“Oh, I didn’t.” You think now you do, but you have to be sure. “You were awfully upset that day because of June, weren’t you? Going on and on about how you’d never know if a women would truly love you. And, come to think of it, you never did tell me how it was that I fell asleep,” you add, turning the knife with both curiosity and fervor, glaring at him.
His eyes truly widen now, his pouty mouth popping open and then shuttering closed again, his pallor turning pale.
And there you have your answer. You are not supposed to know this. He’d told you about June all over again after you’d left the hospital because you hadn’t remembered him telling you at Graceland. But he definitely hadn’t told you again about his insecurity of not knowing if a woman would love him for who he really is.
It’s all true.
That realization is horrible and vindicating and almost relieving all at once. You weren’t wrong when that voice in your head was telling you he was keeping something important from you. You weren’t crazy. And you even think this isn’t all he’s been hiding, but you can’t go there now. It’s too heavy a punch to the gut, and all you see is red.
A frantic, small voice in your head tries to remind you that you should consider Elvis’ feelings about that day, how he was vulnerable and frightened when he couldn’t wake you, and that your concussion has you not in your right mind and missing pieces of all this, but your rage kicks those thoughts aside and you plow forward anyway. You have too many unanswered questions.
“We had sex, Elvis. In 1957! How could you…how dare you then pretend it never happened! How could you not tell me?!” you scream at him, in a way that is utterly unlike the passive and quiet woman you’d become over the years. The woman who had learned to cower instead of speaking up for herself. The stubbornness and fire from your youth flares, driving you forward recklessly. It hurts your head to do it, but you can’t help it.
Elvis just stands there, staring, silent, using that well-honed talent of his to make his beautiful, godlike face an unreadable mask. It kills you inside, but you wait, unwilling to let him off the hook. But he still does not speak.
“Did it even mean anything to you?” you then ask quietly, tears prickling your eyes again, “Or was I just another notch on your bedpost?”
He blinks slowly and presses his lips together, and your heart sinks because you can’t tell if being with him so intimately meant anything to him at all. You should be able to tell, but you can’t, not when he’s shutting you out like this. And that deepest fear being realized both destroys you and pisses you off even more.
Finally, Elvis breaks his silence, voice low and measured and too careful for him, like he’s reciting lines in a movie, “It wasn’t…You were high. Your judgement was impaired. I was mortified...” He trails off, looking away. Then he pauses, taking a deep breath before challenging you with his intense eyes, “And would tellin’ you have changed anythin’?”
You choke at that and shake your head as you turn away from him. The words linger in the air, and you are irate at them, at him. They whirl within you, stabbing you in their coldness. He was mortified by being with you. Good god. The wound of that cracks through you like ice shattering.
You know deep down you didn’t sleep with him because you were accidentally high. You are certain of it. It wasn’t just about getting back at Jack, or just about feeling attractive and desired. No, it was so much more than that. After remembering what you have, you know you’d given yourself to Elvis willingly, medication or no, doing something you’d sworn after Ted that you wouldn’t do again until marriage.
He presses you on this, this thing you can’t believe he’s asking. “Would it’ve? You were with Jack, you loved Jack. And I’d just gotten home and was leavin’ again just as fast. What would’ve it changed, y/n, other than to make things awkward between us and ruin our friendship? Other than to ruin what you had with Jack?” Elvis asks from behind you, his gravelly voice strained.
You’re shaking now, your whole being quaking with physical and emotional toil, another headache slamming down upon you. Yes, you’d loved Jack, you truly had. And you know you’ve fallen in love with Elvis these past few weeks. But all of this craziness—these revelations, these secrets, these memories—are finally confirming something your mind has been trying to tell you lately about all those years ago, something you suspected and feared, but didn’t want to admit:
You have been in love with Elvis since the beginning. You had loved him then just as you love him now. And if you had remembered that, if he’d wanted it, if he had asked you, at any point, you think would’ve dropped everything for him.
Even if it would’ve ruined you both.
A bile of panic rises in your throat because, besides the times you truly can’t remember because you’d literally been dying, there had been all those other moments throughout the years where you’d pushed down your love for him. Important pieces of your life that you’d just forgotten, sometimes right away, in order to spare yourself the pain of this realization, the pain of Elvis’ rejection.
Maybe it started in the diner when he comforted you after Ted broke your heart, or maybe it began even earlier because god knows you can’t trust yourself or your memory. In fact, you are quite sure that there are still things he’s keeping from you, pivotal things you still don’t remember and it’s maddening. But after the diner, it feels like every moment you repressed is a missing piece to the puzzle of your life and reminder of how everything has gone so completely wrong.
Oh, and isn’t it rich that you are laying into him about keeping this naughty little tryst from you when you’ve been conveniently forgetting all these crucial moments of your relationship over your lifetime, a logical voice in the back of your head hurls at you.
Fuck you, you throw back, dread seeping through you.
And now your deepest fears are confirmed—Elvis hadn’t wanted you, not like that. He was mortified by it, in fact. He had a taste of you in a moment of weakness, because he’s just a man after all, and got lucky when you didn’t remember. Thinking better of it, he kept it all to himself. All these years, he’d lied by omission. And for some goddamned reason, he’d swung back around to you after all this time, destroying your life as you knew it in the process.
You spin back around to face him. Nausea rolls in your stomach because, suddenly, you’re not sure you know the man in front of you at all.
“Fuck you, Elvis Presley. It would’ve changed everything,” you say vehemently, honestly, leveling him with your stare.
And it looks like you just slapped him by the way he recoils.
You can’t stop yourself from digging deeper, too angry to care, “But I’m sure that’s not what you wanted, since you were so quick to decide that I didn’t need to know, so fucking cocksure that you didn’t even deem to ask what I wanted. No, you just got laid and got lucky and moved right on to the next girl.”
“Th-that’s not—“ he sputters, those azure eyes a little frantic.
“Isn’t it, though, Elvis? Isn’t that exactly what happened? We fucked and you decided it was a bad idea, so you didn’t bother to tell me when I couldn’t remember myself. Who cares what I thought, right?! Then you went on with your life as though nothing happened.”
As if it hadn’t mattered at all, as though you hadn’t mattered enough to bother. You can’t bring yourself to say that part, though, as the icy pain of saying the rest out loud like this sends more tears pouring down your cheeks, despite your anger wanting to keep them at bay.
As if the rest isn’t bad enough, another thought hits you sideways, “My god, you even pushed Jack to marry me, didn’t you?” You look at him incredulously, remembering how Jack had joked about it after he’d proposed. The words ache through you as you say them, as you realize the implications of that. Yet another one of your deepest fears confirmed.
Elvis looks stricken as he backs up to the bed and sinks down on the edge, putting his head in his hands.
“I-I-I w-was no good for you,” he mumbles.
“You don’t get to decide that, Elvis! You took those choices away from me!” you cry at him.
You watch as he holds his tongue, as his body stiffens at your words. His jaw clenches and his breathing changes. You know the signs by now, but you don’t care. You don’t care that he’s getting ready to explode and that it’s you pushing him over the edge. You want him over the edge. You want him to care enough to be mad about it.
“And what? Did you finally decide after twelve years that maybe you did like my pussy after all, so you decided to come back for more?” you spit at him nastily, driving him right over the threshold.
“I was protecting you!” Elvis bellows, leaping to his feet, face red with anger. His eyes darken and flash in a way that might have caused you to pause before, but not today, not after this.
You don’t let up. “Protecting me from what exactly? A bad marriage? A man that doesn’t love me?” you laugh haughtily at the irony.
He doesn’t elaborate, just bites his tongue in frustration and glowers at you, pulling himself back.
Then, another sinking realization drags you under. “Good lord—you had your hands in my relationship with Jack every step of the way. From day fucking one. You pushed us onto each other, a-a-and then you took him away from me, over and over again. The women Jack ‘dated’…Jesus, that was when he went to Vegas to see you that first time, wasn’t it? Of course. I should’ve known that’s when he started fucking other women. Because of you,” you point at him, more fury boiling in your stomach as you ramble.
God, was it all lies and subterfuge? Every fucking thing in your life related to these men?
Elvis stands there, jaw gritted so hard he might crack his veneers, his hands fisted at his sides, his leg going a million miles an hour. But you don’t stop.
“And then you came back home to find me upset, pretended like you didn’t know why, and then you fucked me?” The memories come to you too quickly, too painfully, fractured moments flashing in your aching head, weaving back together what you’d lost for so long, fueling your pain, fueling you forward. “And that was just the beginning. You sucked Jack and me both into your world, then played with our lives because…why? Why, E?” you demand.
Still, he says nothing, eyes fierce and his body vibrating with energy, letting you continue your verbal assault.
Your heart is going so fast you fear it’s going to explode, but you continue anyway, knowing that this isn’t like you, that perhaps this isn’t truly what you want. I love him, don’t I? But you are so mad, so exhausted from feeling like a plaything in the lives of the men around you, that you can’t stop. They’ve treated you as if you have no agency of your own. As if you were nothing without them. And you are done.
You shake your head. “You screwed with our lives because you could. You and your fucking egomaniacal, insane, manipulative bullshit. Nobody can be happy unless the King is happy, right? What the fuck is wrong with you?” you hiss, beside yourself with anger at him, on what he’d done to your life. In this moment, your love for him is entirely consumed by your rage, as your addled and bruised brain tries to piece together just how screwed up this entire situation is.
Elvis roars then and sweeps everything off the nightstand, sending things shattering and flying to the floor. You do your best not to wince at the outburst, unwilling to let him shake you. Then, he looks at you, like a caught, caged beast, his chest heaving and eyes dangerous. But he isn’t blacked out, and you know it because you can see the gears working in his head. You can see that the emotion in his face is not anger alone. There is a deep pain there and it confuses you.
Dread settles into a knot in your stomach because suddenly you can’t shake that terrible feeling that you are still missing something vital here, something both Elvis and your traitorous brain are keeping from you, but your head is pounding and your blood is up and you can’t think straight.
You stand toe-to-toe, staring at each other, chests heaving in the heavy silence.
He breaks first, but with an almost frightening level of clarity that you don’t expect after his outburst. “Fine. Y-you w-w-wanna make me th-the-the villain in this story, then fine, I-I’m th-the fucking villain, honey. I-I-I always w-was,” he stutters wildly, cutting, his stormy eyes narrowing like a crocodile as he levels you with them.
He doesn’t deny any of it. He doesn’t even defend himself anymore.
You don’t know what to do with that.
All you know is you hurt. Everything aches, inside and out. You feel like an absolute fool. You are infuriated with him and maybe even more furious at yourself. Then, your heart breaks, sending a wave of sorrow flooding through your chest and down your limbs.
Everything with Jack was bad.
Somehow, this is worse.
It feels like your entire world has been pulled from underneath your feet. The devastation you felt about Jack feels like nothing now compared to Elvis’ betrayal, and the weight of both together is crushing you from all angles.
There is no escape. You can’t breathe.
Somehow, you’ve lost them both. Or maybe you never really had either of them to begin with.
You silly, stupid girl. I tried to warn you.
You manage to hold back the sob that threatens to break you.
Wordlessly, you nod, clench your fists, then turn and walk out.
Elvis doesn’t stop you.
*
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