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cookiescribble · 3 months

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New In Town

A/N: hey there, to the anon that requested this, I lost your actual submission but I hope this lived up to expectation! I started writing this, forgot I started it, and then got sick but I tried my best haha, enjoy! Happy pride month! - mod ghost

p.s. sorry to mod angel, I definitely called her out in this fic lol

You had only been at the BAU for about a week, but something about Spencer made you feel like a moth drawn to a flame, as cliche as that might be. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself staring at him during briefings or even just sitting at your respective desks. Watching the way his hands would move over pages as he tore his way through books. His reading speed always amazed you, and you wondered how he actually retained any of the information he was taking in. Yesterday, he’d caught your gaze, making eye contact with you and giving you a polite grin before returning back to whatever it was he’d been doing. Your heart nearly pounded itself out of your chest, which is about when it dawned on you that you definitely had feelings for him. Shit, you thought to yourself briefly. It was probably best to keep this to yourself for now, you’d heard a lot about everything he had been through from the other members of the team and figured it’d be best to leave him alone. Even if you thought this while in private, it didn’t seem to actually stop you from flirting with him. What could possibly go wrong? He’d say no, but that wasn’t terrible. A few days later, you found him at his desk before the team was about to fly off to investigate a new case. You, however, weren’t cleared for field work yet, so you had to work in something before he went,

Gently putting a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, you leaned in closer to him as you said, “Have a safe flight, pretty boy, I’ll see you when you get back,” then walked off toward Garcia while practically being able to feel his eyes on you. Whether that was a good thing or not, you couldn’t tell, and the idea of having to wait until the team came back stirred up some nervousness that seized in the pit of your stomach but you pushed it aside for now to focus on helping Penelope here in Quantico. “I’m sorry, why is Reid making that face?” She laughed as she all but chased you further down the hall and away from the bullpen.

“I’m fairly certain I just called him pretty boy or something, I don’t know. I might’ve blacked out.” You sighed, averting her gaze as much as possible as you pushed through the door leading to all of her equipment.

“I knew it! You have a crush on Spencer!” Garcia cried in excitement, seconds away from jumping up and down. “Could you yell it any louder?? He might hear you! China might hear you–” You grab her arm as you whisper hurriedly, pulling her through the door and closing it behind her, “--wait, am I really that obvious about it?? Who else knows other than you?” “Mainly us girls, don’t worry. But I might be able to help you, see if he likes you back?” “What, have my own spy crew just for a crush? No way, I’ll get over it.” You brush a hand through your hair in embarrassment and frustration as you and her sit next to each other at her desk. All you could think about was Spencer, though. Nothing that happened throughout the day could fix that. Especially when he called a few hours later to ask for information. Garcia picked up the phone before you could react or steel yourself to the idea of talking to him again. “Hey, tall dark and nerdy, talk to me” She spoke quickly, leaning back in her chair. It made you blush, which you silently cursed her for. “Uh, hey, Garcia,” he paused to chuckle, “I need your help–” “Obviously” You started to get up to escape the room and compose yourself, but, much to your chagrin, he’d heard the background noise over the phone, “Is someone else in there with you?” His voice crackled over the phone line again, which made Penelope stop you from moving,

“Yes, actually,” She nudged you as she spoke,

“H-uh, Hi, Spence.” You spoke up, trying to sound lighthearted. The idea of speaking to him again this soon seized your heart and made it hard to breathe.

“Hey…as you can probably hear, I made it here safe. No need to worry.” There was a bit of a teasing tone to his voice. You’d never quite heard him use that tone with you before. Or anyone for that matter.

Before you had time to process that, they were on to talking about the case again and you were able to escape the situation pretty much unscathed.

The rest of the team didn’t return until later that week, on a Friday, so Garcia got pizza for everyone to celebrate.

She came to grab you from your desk and the two of you arrived just in time to see something that stirred up something in you, so deep you think you were possessed by one of your distant descendants.

“You’re cutting pizza with a butter knife?!” You ask incredulously, not meaning to come off so viciously.

Spencer froze, plastic butter knife still in hand as he stabbed into the pizza.

“We…We don’t have a pizza cutter here, and some of the slices were kinda stuck together with cheese…” he explained, almost frozen in place as he awkwardly chuckled at the ridiculous nature of the conversation while Garcia couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry, I honestly have no idea what came over me. Let’s uh, let’s dig into this pizza, huh? Now that I’m done getting possessed by my grandma?” You joke, going closer to the table with Penelope and grabbing one of the slices that were…cut. Definitely not sawed apart poorly. He’d tried his best. At this current moment, Spencer Reid was honestly just lucky he was cute. Despite that, you smiled politely and spent time with your found family that is the BAU.

That night, after all the fun was over and it was time to go home for a much needed crash, it had been just you and Spencer. You both volunteered to clean up after everything so that everyone else could go home for some much needed rest and to get a start on their weekend. They tried to insist that they’d help, too, but everyone was tired and it wasn’t that big of a mess so there was no need for everyone to stay.

You thought it’d be fine, because surely you could be at least somewhat normal around him, right?

The two of you easily talked and joked the whole time, the energy in the room fairly normal until you both reached for the same pizza box. Your hands brushed together and you instinctively looked up at each other, a similar electric feeling running down both your spines.

“Oh, I can um…I can grab that.” you speak softly, almost afraid to speak in the sudden intense silence.

“It’s okay, I got it. It’s the least I could do after you almost stabbed me earlier for my inferior method of cutting pizza.” Spence replied with a soft smile.

“Hey, you were the one with the plastic knife, mister.”

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

“Not as long as I’m here,”

You both broke out into laughter then there were a few moments of just eye contact before you’d started to lean in closer slowly. Like too fast of a movement would scare him away. It seemed like he would, too, but before either of you could touch the other, he quickly stood up and away from you.

“Sorry—um, it’s been a long day. I can take care of taking out the rest of the trash, you don’t have to stick around. Thanks for the help, though.” He says hastily, grabbing one of the two bags of garbage bags that sat by the door and quickly rushing off.

You sighed to yourself and grabbed your bag, heading out for the night and silently cursing at yourself. If it wasn’t awkward before, it would be now.

But you just couldn’t help yourself around Spencer, everything about him screamed out to you like some sort of siren call. Every time you weren’t around him, basically anything would remind you of him.

You just needed to bite the bullet and ask him out, so that’s exactly what you were going to do. The worst he could do was say no, right?

So the week after that, you had finally worked up some courage. The whole team was at a bar together, Spencer being the only one not drinking as per usual. You, being about two drinks in at this point, had enough of tiptoeing around him.

It’s now or never, you thought.

You went over to him while everyone else was doing their own thing in different spots in the bar, so it was just the two of you, and you sat yourself next to him.

Spencer looked over and smiled kindly at you, his brown doe eyes shining in the dim lighting. Your chest flooded with warm affection as soon as you made eye contact with him, and it made you that much more sure about this.

“Hey, having fun?” he asked cheerfully, the happiest you’d heard him in a while. Since you’d started working at the BAU, you’d realize when you thought about this moment later.

“Yeah, but um…I really need to ask you something, Spence.”

“Oh? By all means, go ahead,” he gestures for you to continue, turning his body toward yours to give you his full attention.

“Okay so…um…I…I like you. Like, I really like you—“ you started to say, before he interjected.

“This isn’t sounding like a question”

“Spencer, please”

“Sorry, go on” he sheepishly smiled, apparently having fun teasing you a little.

“Thank you, but I uhh…shit—“ you cursed.

“You were saying you really like me?”

“Right—so, I was wondering…if…if you’d want to…maybe…go out sometime? With me?”

“We…are out,” he gestured to the bar around the two of you, “right now.”

“That’s not what I mean—“

“I know what you mean, and I…I’m not sure.”

“What?”

“I’ve had a lot happen to me recently, between going to jail and everything that happened with Cat, as well as everything else and our jobs themselves…I’m not sure I have room to have someone else in my life. No matter how much I like you, too.”

You nearly gasped when he said he liked you, too, but you held it back. This was the most emotionally vulnerable he’d ever been around you. You weren’t going to take advantage of that.

“Well…” you take his hand in both of yours, holding it close to your chest. “We could take things slow…ride things out, y’know? But that’s only if you want to. I’m here to make sure you’re happy. Whether it’s with me or not.”

He stared at you silently for a moment, considering everything you’d just told him. He kept glancing from your eyes to your lips, as if he was contemplating at a speed your slightly buzzed mind wasn’t quite up to keeping up with.

Before you could speak or even think further on it, he was leaning forward and speaking low enough that only you would be hearing it.

“Let’s go, let’s go back to my place. We’ll talk about this more, I just can barely hear myself think with the music in here.”

You nodded and stood up from the booth, both of you waving goodbye to the rest of the team with gentle smiles before walking off.

Back at his apartment, he barely had the door closed 5 minutes before he was kissing you.

So much for talking things through.

The way his lips pressed to yours felt passionate, desperate even. Like he’d been waiting to do this for a long time. You let yourself relax into it, your hand drifting up to tangle your fingers in his hair. Everything about kissing him just made you want to lose yourself in him until you weren’t sure where each of you ended and began.

Then, just as suddenly as he started, he pulled away, taking in deep breaths and pushing his hair back away from his face but still close enough that you could feel his breath ghosting over your face.

“Sorry, that…I shouldn’t have—“

Before he could finish, you were pulling him back in for more. He wasn’t about to get away with a kiss like that with just a simple ‘sorry’. Not if you had anything to say about it.

The two of you ended up tangled together in his bed for the rest of the night, the blanket gently wrapped around you both in a comfortable silence.

Talking could wait, for now you were just…together, and that was more than enough.

#fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid x male!reader #dr spencer reid #mod ghost #sorry anon #but here you are #i was asked to write specifically italian reader so i tried #i hope he finds this #happy pride month

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strcwbrryklss · 3 months

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୨୧﹕ lollipop ! part 1

pairing ; italianbach x fem!reader contains ; friends to lovers , yearning a/n ; i’ve been needing bach fanfiction and there’s literally like one on here so i thought i might as well do it myself. ik this one’s short but there’ll be a part 2 i swearrr summary ; on a day out with his best friend, isaac starts to gain unusual feelings for her

“ Do you love me ? ” y/n asks, a strand of hair falling into her face.

Isaac furrowed his brows, “ What ? ”

“ You heard me ” she laughs before stopping for a second, looking up into the boy’s eyes. She repeats herself, yet this time with a whisper, “ Do you love me ? ”

“ Of course I love you ” Isaac responds, looking down at the girl, so close that their chests were almost touching. Isaac reaches for y/n’s free strand of hair and tucks it behind her ear, “ You’re my best friend y/n ”

“ Don’t play dumb ” she says, rolling her eyes, “ i love you ”

Isaac’s heart rate quickens as the two sit in a comfortable silence. He examines her face, memorising each feature; from the arch in her eyebrows to the colour of her lips. Her lips fascinated him; the way they parted as she stared into his eyes, the shine to them when she licks her lips. He couldn’t look away, he couldn’t resist.

Isaac didn’t realise how close they were until their lips brushed against each other. The warmth of her breath against his skin gave him a rush of adrenaline. Without a second thought, Isaac closed the gap between the two, placing a short but deep kiss onto her lips.

The two look at each other for a moment, a look of hunger which only they could understand. And with that, their lips met once more, but this time it was full of greed. y/n tangled her fingers into Isaac’s hair as he roughly pulled her closer, as if he wanted them to merge together and become one. The kiss was full of passion, satisfying their cravings.

“ Isaac ” y/n whispered breathily between kisses.

“ Yeah? ” he responds hastily, moving down to her neck and leaving sloppy kisses.

She repeats his name once more before speaking, “ Come on ”

“ What ? ”

“ Come on ! ” y/n yells, throwing a pillow at the brunette boy’s face.

Isaac wakes up in a shock, “ Fucking hell ! ”

“ We had plans, remember ? ” the girl reminds, flicking him in the forehead.

He swats y/n’s hand away before moving his hair out of his face to look at her. She was even more beautiful than in the dream. ‘ Fuck ’ he thought.

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rosiesfandomblog · 5 months

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A Huskerdust headcanon that just popped into my head is that Husker doesn't like talking about how many languages he speaks, so Angel goes around saying the FILTHIEST of dirty talk around Husker in Italian, NOT KNOWING HUSKER SPEAKS ITALIAN AS WELL I want to cry thinking about how the fuck this cat is gonna break the news to his lover

#how do u tell ur boyfriend u know hes been talking about ur ass in italian #how do u tell ur boyfriend u know he wants to top bc he said it in italian #how do u have the heart to tell anthony u speak his language #that would be embarrassing for angel dust #i love this ship far too much help me #lives in my head rent free #hazbin hotel #hazbin angel dust #hazbin husk #hazbin #helluvaverse #huskerdust #husker x angel dust #headcannons #headcanon #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fanfic

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leezlelatch · 1 year

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Lust in Your Eyes

18+ MDNI

The Cardinal waits for you in your room...but sometimes, he's impatient.

Directly inspired by my beloved @writingjourney's fic.

Filthy self indulgent smut, PLEASE see tags.

Copia x F! Reader - pervy Copia, scent kink, smelling of personal items, masturbation, desperation, breeding kink, explicit conversations, explicit thoughts, self-degradation, self-encouragement, possessive, going through personal items, using articles of clothing for masturbation, caught in the act, p in v, cunnilingus, praise, domination, loud Copia, loud reader, no clean up, teasing, fluff, endearments, exchange of I love you, talk of aftercare.

“Amore?” Copia questions, popping the door open and peeking around the wood. His eyebrows are raised, lips parted slightly, black smudged along the bottom from a day of pressing his lips together in concentration. His eyes briefly roam across the small expanse of your room in the residency hall of the Ministry, huffing a laugh when he spots the stuffed rat he bought you lovingly placed on a pillow in your bed.

He pushes the rest of the door open enough to squeeze his body through, nearly hopping inside before shutting it with his bottom. He pockets the spare key and pulls out his phone, turning it over right side up. “Eugggh…ah! Here we go,” he grumbles, flipping it open. The screen lights up and he raises a hand. “Eureka!”

He holds it away from himself and presses with a heavy gloved finger to open his messages, looking at the last text you sent him.

Hi, sweetie. :) meet me at my room when you’re done?

Copia smiles, the endearment, as always, warming his cheeks. You must be running a little late. He pockets his phone and rubs his hands together with a sigh as he glances around your room once more. He walks over to the small fish tank on your desk, bending over to peer inside at the betta fish relaxing amongst the greenery growing within the tank.

“Hi! Hello, Big Betta. Where is your mama, huh?” Copia shrugs when the beta doesn’t respond and stands upright again, taking off his biretta and placing it on the desktop. He leaves through your record collection, making small noises of appreciation, just wasting time until he has you in his arms again.

Abandoning the shelf of records, he sits down on your bed, running his hand across the comforter. With a sigh, Copia falls back, closing his eyes as your scent envelopes him. He turns on his side and follows the pattern of the bedspread with a single finger, a crooked smile on his lips as he thinks about the very naughty things the two of you have gotten up to in this very bed.

He turns his nose into the soft material, taking a deep breath, his mouth falling open slightly. He turns onto his stomach, drawing his legs up as he skims the tip of his nose across the length of the bed, crawling forward until he reaches your pillow.

“Amore mio,” he rasps, pants growing uncomfortably tight as he presses his face into your pillow. He rotates his hips, pushing the seam of his zipper into his hardening cock, a pathetic noise bubbling from his throat.

Copia freezes then, the silence following his moan terrible as he realizes what he’s doing. The Cardinal heaves a frustrated sigh and drops his head into your pillow. The man is so desperate for you. He won’t deny that. Desperate for your love. Desperate for your body. Desperate for any crumb of your attention he can get. He spent the day half-hard after reading your text, eyes following the clock religiously, counting down the hours.

The Cardinal is not ashamed of his lust, but…perhaps he shouldn’t be humping your bed when you’re not here. A slow smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

Or at least, not here to see it. It wouldn’t do to waste his seed on anything that isn’t the temple with which he worships. Your beautiful body. Your tight pussy. Your womb which he aches to fill.

Copia rolls onto his back and lets out a breath, staring at the ceiling. He grimaces, reaching down to adjust the insistent throb, fighting with his cassock. “Cazzo…,” he growls, sitting up and quickly unbuttoning the suffocating material, ripping it from his body. He nearly falls off the bed in the process, grabbing the bedside table for support. Your lamp sways violently and the few things you have on the surface shake and nearly fall off, but finally Copia throws the offending cassock to the floor.

He turns toward the mirror nailed to the small piece of wall next to your closet and smooths his hair back. He stares at himself, running a hand across his soft stomach as he turns to the side, admiring the way his cock tents his pants. Copia chuckles softly and palms himself, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “You’re a dirty old fucker, eh?” He sighs. “Satana, I need her so much.”

Copia checks the clock on your desk, eager for the time to pass. Missing you. Craving you. His entire body alight with the need to have you. Keep you tucked in his arms and in bed. Warm and soft and satisfied. He’d cook for you, care for you, ensure that his precious girl never wants for anything. You’re already his wife in his mind, Copia need only buy the ring.

He turns, idly debating on returning to the warmth of your bed when his eyes fall on the door to your closet. It’s ajar, the cut of the light from your room illuminating a few items of clothing which hang from the rack. Copia slips his fingers through the opening, teasing the door open the rest of the way. A shuddering breath pushes from his throat as the dress you wore to dinner last week reveals itself in all its sinful satin, hanging prettily as if it was waiting for him.

Copia hastily pulls his glove off his hand with his teeth, tossing the leather carelessly over his shoulder. With a nearly shaking hand, he reaches out, pressing searching fingers against the dress, his senses burning with the memory of how it felt to rip it from your body. He’s surprised it survived, looking nearly picture perfect. Its only failure is that you’re not wearing it.

Copia’s cock jumps, straining against his trousers. He whimpers, a small “mmm!” when he reaches down to unzip, his fingers brushing against the wet patch in his underwear. Copia pulls the dress from the closet with a frenzy, holding the hanger in one hand while the other frantically pulls down his underwear, letting his painful cock bob in the air, freezing against his heated skin. He lightly smacks it, watching with a groan as it bounces, the tip red with just the sweetest drop of precum pearled within the slit.

He stands there almost unsure for a moment, eyes falling to your door and then your doorknob. Oh, if it turned right now. If you caught him. The thought makes him shake with need, and he toes off his shoes, kicking his pants and underwear off to the side. He leaves his socks, doesn’t bother to unbutton his clerical shirt, his only remaining thought being to fuck his cock into your dress.

Copia drops to the floor, the floorboards rough on his knees. He groans, and then laughs, the sudden protest of his knees rocking him back to lucidity for a moment. Cardinal Copia, a devotee of lust. Horny and desperate and ready to pleasure himself with the memory of you, the scent of you, until he has you under him again.

Where are you?

Copia yanks the dress from the hanger, bunching it up in his hands and passing the cool satin across his thighs.

“Oh…amore, la mia preziosa ragazza! Ti amo, ti amo cosi tanto,” he whispers fervently, eyes shut tight as he imagines you before him, wearing the dress he so violently clings to.

He finally moves the dress higher, moaning low and deep, drawn out into a high pitched keen as he finally gives his cock the attention it so craves.

“Copia?” Your voice cuts through his lustful haze, and Copia’s eyes snap open, falling on your surprised expression at the door. He stands up so quickly, he falls backwards onto your bed. The dress covers his weeping cock, the Cardinal looking a mess while splayed across your bed, cheeks red.

It’s quiet for several moments.

“Did I keep you waiting too long?” You ask softly, dropping your bag and moving toward the bed.

Copia pulls the dress off of him, cock so hard it curves toward his stomach. “Look at what you’ve done, topolino. Your Cardinal hurts.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I should have hurried.” You pick up the dress, looking at it with a pout. “Were you going to cum on my dress?”

“Of course not,” he admonishes. He sits up and curls a finger, smiling as you dutifully flock to his side. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, the scratch of his mustache a comfort to you. “Nothing wrong with a little…foreplay, sì? I missed you so much.”

“I missed you,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your lips meet, Copia hands insistent as he pulls you down to straddle his hips on the edge of the bed. Licking into your mouth, the man flips you, your back hitting the mattress. He ruts into your clothed sex, your surprised squeak swallowed by his mouth. He pulls away to nearly tear your leggings and panties off your body, flinging them into the open door of the closet so hard they rattle the hangers inside.

Copia slides his hands up your inner thighs, spreading your legs to stare unabashedly at your pussy. “Surely I’ve been given favor by the Dark Lord…,” he murmurs, leaning in to drag two fingers through your folds, spreading your lips. “I’ve been waiting all day to taste you.”

His gaze flashes to yours, his lips pulling into a smirk as he gets comfortable on the bed, hooking his arms around your spread thighs. “Watch your Cardinal worship,” he whispers.

He moans, loud and unashamed when your pussy flutters at his words, your slick rapidly sweetening his evening meal. “Don’t worry, dolce. I’ll fill that pretty hole soon enough.”

Copia’s lips close over your clit and he sucks. His tongue flicks, curling around the sensitive nub. You buck your hips with a cry and he moves a hand to your belly to drop them back to the bed, pressing firmly. He keeps you there, attached to his mouth, laving his tongue over and between your folds, dipping into your entrance. His cock gives a powerful kick against the mattress as your walls pull in his tongue.

“Your Cardinal knows,” he coos. Your answering whimper makes him smile. “Sì, sì, he knows.”

“Copia, please,” you beg, rocking your hips into his face, trying to get that perfect nose to hit just right.

This makes him laugh, “My eager topolino. I’m eager, too.”

He kisses up your body, bunching your shirt in a hand as he drags it along. He fumbles for a moment, fighting with your bra, a few choice curses flying into the air before the bra also thwacks against the wall.

“Oh, dolce,” Copia tsks, gently kissing the red marks left behind from your bra. “We will take a break from wearing that, yes? Find you something more comfortable. I can’t have you in pain…they must be so sore.”

He lavishes attention across your breasts, alternating between sucking your pebbled nipples and gently soothing his tongue across the sore marks. The only marks on your gorgeous breasts should be from his mouth. Copia blows against the wet line of his saliva, a grateful sigh making your chest rise and fall from the cool sensation.

“That’s my baby,” he murmurs.

Copia glances down to where his cock rests between your legs, lifting his hips to drag it along your slick, a full body shudder wracking his frame as he moans. He reaches down to wrap long fingers around the length of him, pumping into his fist once, twice, a third time that has his toes curling in his socks.

His eyes meet yours and he leans in for a gentle, lingering kiss. “Are you ready?” He asks, gaze adoring.

“I need you,” you respond, tilting your hips up.

Copia places his tip at your entrance, adjusting to bracket you between his arms, your breaths mingling from how close your faces are now. “Be my brava ragazza and take your Cardinal’s cock, hmm? Can you do that for me?” He whispers, rubbing his nose against yours.

“Yes,” you gasp, feeling the stretch of him as he pushes into you, his cock filling you in a rush of perfection that has you crying his name already.

His thrusts are messy. Stuttering. Copia struggles to find a rhythm, so overwhelmed by the feeling of you. His love. His soulmate. To be inside you is to know the euphoria of damnation. His hands slide under your body and he pulls you impossibly closer as he slides his legs under for leverage, pistoning into you.

Copia’s own cries rival yours, filling the small space of your bedroom, the slap of your skin against his as delicious accompaniment. He collapses on top of you, still pushing, humping, grinding into your soaked cunt, his lips dragging along your shoulder, making a path to your lips.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” you chant, breathless. He claims your mouth, curling his tongue around yours while his hand reaches between your bodies to circle your clit. Your back arches off the bed, breasts pressed against his chest as your orgasm rips through you, your mouth caught open in a shout of ecstasy. Your hips cant against his, your hole spasming around his cock, milking him dry as he jerks, thighs trembling with his own orgasm. He screams into your skin, head buried in your neck, his hips making quick, tight circles as he rides out his climax.

Copia rolls off, a heavy weight, arms hooked around you to make you follow so you’re both on your sides, legs intertwined. He places exhausted little kisses all over your face.

“My heart. My love. My soul. My sweetheart. My future. My everything. Ti amo. Ti amo. I love you,” each of his soft words punctuated with a kiss.

He tilts your face up with a gentle hand to your jaw, searching your eyes. You have to smile, the black make up encircling his eyes smeared all down his cheeks. “Are you okay, baby? Everything feels okay?” He asks, his voice sleepy and sweet.

“Everything is perfect,” you answer, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose that makes him giggle.

“Eh…I’m going to feel that in the morning,” he chuckles, tucking you against his chest.

“I should leave you waiting more often.”

Copia playfully growls, ducking his head to press a kiss to your lips. “Next time, I’ll get into your underwear drawer.”

“No!” You giggle, pushing against him. “I already lost three pairs to you.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding with a little smirk. “I confiscate. Too many things between my mouth and your pussy.”

“Copia!” You gasp, your cheeks flaming as you fight a grin. “You’re awful.”

“Ah, you love it,” he shrugs. His expression turns serious then, pleading as he looks at you, wrapped in his embrace where you belong. “You love me?”

“Very much,” you murmur, pressing a hand to his cheek. “I love you so very much.”

Copia turns his face into your hand, placing a kiss in the center of your palm. “We go to my room now, eh? A hot bath will do us both good.”

“You’re gonna make me walk?” You groan softly, rolling onto your back as Copia makes to get up with a sore grunt.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You sit up, your muscles feeling thoroughly used, and make to grab a towel from your dresser. You can feel his cum smearing along your thighs.

“No, amore,” Copia says, his back to you as he begins to dress. “That’s what the bath is for.”

“But I still have to walk down to your room,” you say, turning to look at him, the towel clutched in your hand.

“Yes, you do.” Copia pauses to return your gaze, expectant.

You drop the towel, blushing softly, “Yes, Cardinal.”

#the band ghost #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #mdni #ghost #ghost bc #cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #poorly translated italian

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foursaints · 9 months

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#i’ve said this before but italian barty is such a war crime 😭 when he pulls up in the fanfiction like Ciao #my balkan king…… you were meant to be wearing the lowest waisted pants ever at an albanian nightclub #i just feel that he has a sort of innate hunted-animal raggedy desperation to him. & a Guardedness. that is not giving big italian family #yeah he is manspreading at a tiny cafe table smoking a cigarette for breakfast but like. that’s a tortured rich boy from Dubrovnik #his little wizened grandma is telling him that if he sits by an open window he’ll die #croatian barty truthers rise…..#and then you get yugoslav barty if it’s canon compliant. all we know how to do is win

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ilreleonewikiart · 4 months

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TDIOBCB challenge - day 12:

F/F ship - Visenya the Dreamer and Jaehaera the Silent

It was young Visenya who saved her from this unfortunate condition. As a child, instead of joining in the mockery of her playmates, she chose to support her cousin and persuaded her mother to make Jaehaera one of her ladies-in-waiting, effectively making her the favorite among the many noble girls of the castle. The subsequent years spent in the company of her little cousin proved beneficial for Jaehaera, who gradually became more sociable and serene, finally integrated into the world that had once disdained her. The bond between the two girls, created over several years and growing stronger, was so deep and tenacious that not even adulthood and their duties could separate them: even after Princess Visenya's marriage to Prince Qyle of Dorne and her subsequent move from King's Landing to Sunspear, the friendship between the two cousins continued to thrive, as Princess Jaehaera followed her to the South as her sole lady-in-waiting, continuing to live closely together, just as they had done in the Red Keep. Many sources close to the two, who had the opportunity to see firsthand how the girls behaved in each other's company, even insinuated that their relationship was much more than a close friendship, with some swearing to have seen them exchanging tender kisses on the lips when they thought they were unobserved. There are no confirmations that this is true, yet, leafing through the pages of the diaries in which the Princess of Dorne wrote about her cousin, one gets the impression of reading the words of a girl in love rather than those of affectionate friendship. Princess Jaehaera was also the favorite subject of Visenya's drawings: there are indeed hundreds, from charcoal and silverpoint sketches to paintings, the artistic reproductions by Princess Visenya featuring her cousin, in both formal attire and more everyday and domestic settings, culminating in sketches with a more intimate atmosphere, where the princess is depicted almost without veils, her hair loose over her upper body, which in this context is almost completely uncovered.

- from TDIOBCB chapter 1

(warning: these illustrations are inspired by an AU Divergence and have nothing to do with canon (book or tv show) events and are not meant to be reposted outside of their contest)

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 months

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Broken Glass Chapter 11.1 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Thank you so much for your patience as I got this up on different platforms due to unforeseen life crap! 💗 Okay, so Chapter 11 got a bit away from me length wise, so for sanity's sake (and so I can make some more revisions to some much-anticipated sexy times 🤭), I am posting part one of the chapter instead of making y'all wait any longer.

Some major, life-altering things went down in Chapter 10 and this chapter from Lori's perspective deals with a bit of the reality and consequences of that. (You can refresh your memory here if you need to!) We jump back in the next morning. She's got A LOT of feels going on in this chapter leading into some more twists and turns in 11.2, so the ending of this might feel a bit abrupt since it will all be part of the same chapter. Sorry!

Also, please excuse my alterations of some of the recording dates a bit to serve the story!

Anyway, as always. I can't wait to hear what you think! 💋

Loves and kisses, Madi xoxoxoxo 💗

TW: So many angsty feels, the Colonel, pregnancy and related symptoms, fear of miscarriage, Elvis and his endless PDA...smut to come in part 2 🤭

Broken Glass Chapter 11.1

“You’re what?!”

You wince at the way Tom Parker spits the words out, his shock and ire so palpable it feels like a slap to the face. The anxiousness skyrocketing through you, paired with the rapid beat of your heart knocking against your ribs, leaves you unable to look at the man, but you know he’s furious.

“We’re getting married. As soon as possible,” Elvis repeats firmly, grabbing your hand and squeezing. It seems unconscious the way he steps slightly in front of you, as if shielding you from the older man’s anger. You appreciate the gesture. No one, save for your mother, has ever protected you.

Elvis sounds so steadfast and sure about all of it. He’s a better actor than people give him credit for, but this performance is going above and beyond anything you’d assumed he was capable of.

Or maybe he means it.

Your heart flips, just the way it did last night when he asked you to marry him.

The last 24 hours have gone and changed everything so quickly that your head is still spinning. The moment when Elvis kneeled on the bathroom floor with you, wiped away your sick, and offered to fix everything, it felt so very real. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his eyes.

And despite it being an arrangement born out of necessity and not love, it was nothing like Gianni’s horrific proposal.

Your stomach turns at the memory of that nightmare before Parker’s voice cuts through, bringing you back to the task at hand.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you, boy?” The beady-eyed man glares around Elvis’ broad shoulders at you. You resist the urge to shiver under his accusatory gaze. “Did you threaten to go to the press, young lady? Is this about money?”

“Hey, now, Colonel,” Elvis says, deceptively calm, but his voice is low with warning. “It’s not like that at all. And you best mind your tone.”

Parker’s eyes flicker to Elvis with an edge of surprise, taking in Elvis’ protective stance and words in silence. You get the impression Elvis hasn’t stood up to the man before, not like this, anyhow. The crackle of tension in the air has you all on edge.

The older man’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and you worry you won’t be able to pull this off. You’ve observed enough in the last month to understand the influence he has over Elvis, the slight manipulations he wields, pushing Elvis right where he wants him.

Parker looks at you with scrutiny. He takes you in from head to toe. Your breath catches in your throat and you want nothing more than to disappear and pretend the last day was a dream. But you cannot. Forcing yourself to hold his stare, you remind yourself of everything at stake here.

There is no doubt in your mind he will throw you to the wolves the moment he senses anything amiss, the moment you threaten the image of his star client. So it has to be crystal clear you are here to stay, even though it makes you sick to lie.

But there are much worse things than white lies waiting for you out in the world. And as heartbroken and shocked as you are about this baby, you already know you’ll do anything to protect it.

You aren’t even conscious of the way your hand splays over your stomach, not until Parker’s eyes freeze there. His eyes snap up to yours and then to Elvis.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Parker groans. “Christ, I picked this one specifically because I thought she was smart enough not to fall into bed with you the minute you two were alone. Turns out she’s smarter than I gave her credit for—she managed to ensnare you and ensure she’d always be tied to Elvis Presley,” he spits.

Your cheeks flame hot with the accusation, and you can’t hold back your gasp at his insinuation, even though it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Elvis squeezes your hand tight and points at Parker, his eyes stormy and livid. “Don’t you dare blame her for this! On the train, you made it clear how she needed to improve her ‘attitude’ towards me and I told ya not to worry. Well, I took care of it,” he shrugs flippantly.

You try not to gape at his blasé attitude, wanting to trust Elvis to do what he needs to make this convincing.

“You damn well know I didn’t mean ‘get her pregnant’!” Parker hisses. “And we had this talk when you were just starting out! I know you know better than to—”

“I’m in love with her,” Elvis interrupts with such conviction your stomach swoops and you need to school your face to look like you aren’t amazed by how truthful his statement sounds. The earnestness on his handsome face takes your breath away.

Tom looks sorry for him. “Oh, son, we both know how easily you fall in love. But I don’t think you understand the gravity or responsibility of starting a family. What it’ll do to your image. Girls want you unattached and available, and they’re the ones buying the records."

From anyone else, it might be imbued with caring and concern, but coming from Parker, it is backhanded and insulting with the way he talks down to Elvis, as though he were still a 19-year-old kid instead of a 25-year-old man. But he does it with the finesse of a snake charmer.

You watch Elvis carefully as he recoils a bit, an innocence flashing over his features you’ve only seen in his most vulnerable moments making a quick appearance. For a second, you are terrified he’ll cave and you’ll have to pack your bags and head West after all. Thankfully, he blinks it away, steeling himself with the stubbornness which usually drives you crazy but just might work in your favor today.

“We’re in love. We’re gettin’ married, and that’s all there is to it.” It comes out as a growl and the sound reaches down to your toes.

Parker shakes his head, grasping at anything to control his client. There’s a carefully veiled desperation in his voice which barely conceals the threat he now lobs at Elvis: “This’ll ruin you, boy! What will your father do when the money is gone, hmm? Your cousins? Your friends? That big house you bought your mother? It’ll all be gone.”

Elvis looks as though he’s been slapped. But not you. Life has made you good at reading people, at seeing through men like this. Perhaps it is the fact you are running on adrenaline or because you have so much to lose, but you find yourself furious at Parker for speaking this way to Elvis.

“And after everything I’ve done to ensure your success, you’d throw it all away for—”

“How?” You barely register you’ve spoken until Parker’s glare lands on you.

Elvis looks down at you with surprise. It wasn’t part of the plan for you to interject; Elvis thought he could handle Parker on his own.

“How exactly will getting married and having a family ‘ruin’ him? Last I checked, you weren’t a young woman. How do you know it won’t help him? His audience is growing up and getting married, so why can’t he?” you say, a fierceness you usually rely on at work slicing through your nervousness.

“Young lady, you best shut your mouth before you get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in,” Parker seethes.

“You don’t talk to her that way!” Elvis yells, stepping in front of her, pointing in the older man’s face.

Parker looks taken aback, and you wonder if Elvis has ever stood up for himself the way he’s standing up for you now.

Your heart beats in double time, but you gently put your hand on Elvis’ arm to bring it down. His eyes are blazing but they catch yours and you breathe in slowly, hoping he follows your lead. Once he doesn’t look like he’s going to launch himself at Parker, you speak.

“I was going to be around for the foreseeable future anyhow, isn’t that right? Perhaps much longer based on what the doctor said,” you say, miraculously keeping the tremble out of your voice. “It is easier—and more proper—to explain a wife being by his side than a long-term girlfriend living in his house, yes?”

Parker scoffs but doesn’t speak.

“And there’s nothing more young ladies like me want more than weddings and babies, even more so when the groom is the most handsome and charismatic man on the planet, one they want the best for. They will look at pictures of us and imagine themselves as me, I’d bet. And the men will be much less threatened by the family man who served his country and might come around, too,” you continue with fervor, surprised at how easy it is to be assertive when it’s Elvis you are fighting for.

“It doesn’t matter if he is married or has a thousand babies, Mr. Parker. As long as Elvis is alive and keeps doing what he was born to do, they will flock to him because he is an incredibly talented, gorgeous, and kind man. My being by his side won’t change that one little bit. In fact, a wedding will be free publicity for his comeback album, I’d imagine.”

A breath wooshes out of you now your speech is finished. Your fists squeeze to hide the tremor in your hands. Silence hangs heavy and you shift uncomfortably on your feet, but you force yourself to hold Parker’s eyes.

At first, he looks at you with something akin to shock, which quickly morphs into a smirk as he throws a cigar in his mouth, considering your words, perhaps. He holds the silence and your gaze much longer than he should, and you know it’s a show of dominance. You’ve seen a similar look on the men in la famiglia when they seek to intimidate.

It equally makes you want to stand your ground and shirk back into the woodwork. You don’t want him to win, but you also know you must play a role here, and a man like him will want any good idea to seem like his own. You lower your eyes in faux deference.

“Well, Elvis, we may be able to salvage this yet,” Parker purrs, gumming the end of the cigar.

Elvis’ eyes haven’t left you since your speech—you know because you feel them boring into you—but it’s not until you look back up at those depthless blues that you see the unabashed way he’s staring.

He looks at you like he’s smitten. Like you are everything he could ever need. And he’s blushing as if bashful about what you said. His movie star gaze pins you to the spot, with his bedroom eyes at half-mast and his full lips falling open like he’s going to say something.

You would love to be able to say it didn’t make your heart flip over and your knees a little weak to be looked at like this by him; in fact, you are going to chalk it up to your hormones because this is all part of the act, you are sure.

It’s almost painful, the way you tear your eyes away from him to look at your shoes. Suddenly you are winded and exhausted.

He’s just a patient. Maybe even a friend after everything you’ve been through together this past month. A better actor than anyone gives him credit for.

Madone, I will not swoon over a man just because he’s good at pretending he loves me.

Elvis may have acted like a spoiled, sullen child the days prior to arriving back at Graceland, but you’d never in your life seen had a man so entirely consumed with your wellbeing once he knew something was wrong with you. No man had ever treated you with such care.

A swell of emotion sits like a lump in your throat when you think about his proposal. What he’s giving up to save you. To save your baby.

And he’s been so earnest it makes it hard to compartmentalize the fact this arrangement is a quid pro quo and not some romantic folly. Your mind knows this, but your heart is having trouble keeping up. It doesn’t help when he is looking at you like you hung the moon. Like you are precious and beautiful. Like you matter.

You clear your throat and look away, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks. Then, a wave of overwhelm threatens to consume you. Everything in your world has been upended in the last 24 hours, and on top of that, you still have a job to do, yet your body is fighting you every step of the way.

Pregnant.

Your stomach lurches, but you swallow the toast you’d managed to eat earlier back down. Now is not a moment to appear weak by losing your breakfast all over the floor.

Parker is sizing up the both of you, chewing on the end of his cigar like a cow chewing on cud. It makes you want to squirm, yet you force yourself to remain still.

Elvis grips your hand reassuringly, sensing your discomfort. “It’s early, so that means we should do this as soon as possible, yeah?” He says it as if asking, as if the two of you hadn’t already decided it. You can’t quite tell if he’s asking for approval or if he’s smart enough to know it will go over better if the old man thinks it’s his decision. Either way, it seems to work.

“Mmm, yes. Though some are already going to assume the reason based on your impatience,” Parker counters, pointing at your belly.

“Let ‘em think what they want. But I want it public. I want everyone to know who I’m spendin’ the rest of my life with,” Elvis says definitively.

Parker looks at him and narrows his eyes. “Are you sure, my boy? It’s quite the gamble.”

“Didn’t get where we are by always playin’ safe, did we, Colonel?” Elvis counters.

“Hmm, I suppose not,” he replies after another long moment of scrutiny, “and I know you like to charge ahead without looking, but if we give them too much at once, they might be too ravenous. And we must control the narrative.”

Parker looks at your hand. “Get her a pretty ring, then go out and about and be seen. Tell your boys, your family, but no one else. Let them start talking.” His mind starts whirring, you can tell by the gleam in his eye. “We’ll sell an exclusive to the highest bidder, with terms to run the story along with the release of the album. We’ll push the release up, but that means you need to get up to Nashville in the next few days and finish cutting the record. With singles, RCA is going to need…” He pauses to do the math. “At least 11 or 12 more songs to have enough. You think you can do that, son? With everything going on?” The challenge is clear, but you are surprised to hear concern in his voice, too. Elvis is an ill man, after all, despite how gallant he is.

Elvis nods. “Yessir, I’ll get it done.” There isn’t a lick of doubt in his words.

You, however, are worried it’ll be too much for him. It’s a lot of pressure for anyone on a good day, but for Elvis, this could be dangerous. He’s already been pushing himself to the limit with his childish behavior in Florida. You want to say as much, but Elvis must know what you are thinking because he shoots you a stern look before you can get the words out of your mouth.

“Well, then, when you get back, we’ll have a small ceremony at Graceland. A church wedding is out of the question. Safety, timing, you understand,” Parker adds, shooting you a look like he’s sorry when you both know he is anything but.

You swallow and nod, but a snake of disappointment runs through you, nevertheless. You’d been raised to expect a Catholic ceremony but realize it wouldn’t be possible anyway. Elvis isn’t Catholic. In fact, you aren’t sure what religion Elvis is. The fact you don’t know sinks in your gut.

There is so much you don’t know about the man you’re about to marry.

But he’s not Gianni, you think. And he’s willing and able to give my baby the life it deserves.

And that is enough. It has got to be. Arranged marriages still happen every day—this is no different. A love match was never in the cards for you anyway. Not with your father and Gianni in the picture.

He may drive you crazy at times, but at least with Elvis, you and the baby will be safe and cared for.

You’ll just have to quell any expectations he will see you as more than his nurse. Or more than one of the many girls just passing through.

I shouldn’t have kissed him last night.

You blush at the memory. It was a moment of weakness, but you’d been so overcome with gratitude, shock and relief, you’d let your emotions get the best of you. It was too revealing, too vulnerable, considering your roller coaster of emotions recently regarding him.

It hadn’t helped he’d kissed you back with such commitment. Like he truly wanted you.

It scared you. But you’d backed away instantly after accepting his proposal, convincing yourself the look in his eyes was nothing more than friendly and then busied yourself with putting your clothes back into his—your—closet. Then you’d used your very real exhaustion as an excuse to go right to bed after that, ignoring the gnawing feeling of want in your heart.

Elvis would never love a woman like you. A woman who’s been chewed up and spit out by horrible men, a far cry from the actress and model beauties he is used to. He is a good man, helping a woman in need out of the kindness of his heart, out of a need of his own self-preservation, but you best keep reminding yourself that pity and helpfulness is not love.

Lest you get too caught up in the fairytale you are spinning for the world, you remind yourself that once things settle down, arrangements will need to be made for him to get his other needs met.

It wouldn’t be the first or last time a powerful, famous man had dalliances, after all. They would just need to be discreet.

The thought makes your heart ache and tears prick at the back of your eyes, though you instantly try to push away the uncomfortable feeling. You don’t have time or energy to waste on such nonsense.

It takes a moment to realize the men have stopped talking and are looking at you as though waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry, what?” you say, shaking off your thoughts.

“I asked if you had any family or girlfriends that could assist you in preparations? You’ll need to get a dress and have any family travel in to be here after you get back from Nashville,” Parker says with a raised brow.

Your heart sinks. “Oh, no. There’s no one,” you say, trying not to sound as full of regret as you feel. The few friends from nursing school you had weren’t close enough to stand with you, and while you’d love to have your brothers come, there is no way to do so without alerting your father. And you feel absolutely sick at the idea of him being anywhere near you or Elvis.

Elvis looks at you with surprise. You hadn’t told him directly about the issues with Pop, but you assume he at least expected you to have friends. It’s pathetic, to be sure, but this was the reason you’d agreed to work for him in the first place. You are alone in the world.

Swallowing thickly, you hold your head high, even so.

Elvis, thankfully, takes your cue. “I’m sure Patsy would love to help,” he says with a gentle smile, pulling you into his side, his hand resting high on your waist. His double first cousin had been kind to you in the interactions you’ve had, so you suppose she will do.

You nod in response, hyperaware of the warmth of his hand radiating through your dress. It steadies you, tingling the skin beneath, and his closeness is a welcome anchor in this uncharted territory.

“Well, then, by this time next week, you’ll be newlyweds. I trust you’ll be able to continue to take care of Elvis despite your condition, Miss Cannava?” Parker asks under a veil of concern, but the accusation is palpable.

“I have no intention of shirking my duties, Mr. Parker. I want Elvis to be as healthy as possible.”

“Please, call me Colonel,” he says, an edge in his tone that lets you know your refusal to call him Colonel annoys him. But as much as you want to rub it in, you know you need him on your side.

“Of course, Colonel,” you respond, forcing a smile on your face. “And know I’ll continue to do whatever it takes to help Elvis keep doing what he wants to do.”

“I hope that’s true, young lady,” Parker says, “for everyone’s sake.”

You swallow down the threat, adding to your already churning stomach.

April 3rd, 1960

Nashville, TN

“Ready, Elvis?” the engineer up in the booth buzzes in over the com.

“Yeah,” he replies, shooting you a cheeky smile and a waggle of his eyebrows as he steps up to the mic.

You roll your eyes back at him, trying not to show just how much you are appreciating his presence. The secrets you two now share have matured him. You can’t help but worry about the dark circles rimming his eyes, though it is a bit unfair how it somehow only enhances his handsomeness.

Even so, he has been remarkably steadied and attentive these past few days, considering everything going on.

It is a godsend for you. Your nerves are fraying at the edges and more than ever, you want a cigarette, but you know Elvis won’t have it. Considering what he’s doing for you and this baby, you are happy to oblige him on this, despite your cravings.

With everything you’ve gone through in your life, you pride yourself on moving through adversity—for surviving as best you can—without falling apart. But since you returned from Florida, all bets have been off.

Along with putting on the performance of a lifetime in hiding your pregnancy, you’ve also needed to play the gleeful fiancée—a role that hardly feels natural for you, even if your relationship wasn’t a farce. A thousand other girls would be beside themselves to take your place, but for you it’s different. It’s like the ground is constantly moving underneath your feet and you are holding on for dear life, trying to stay upright.

It doesn’t help that your feelings for Elvis are rapidly slipping out of your control. While his poor behavior in Florida tempered them by the time you arrived back in Tennessee, his gallant actions since then, coupled with your exhaustion, have blurred the lines completely. Every touch, every knowing glance, every concerned look sends a cascade of tingles through your body.

You want to blame the pregnancy, you really do, but you aren’t sure you can at this point. Each sliver of attention and affection from him is peeling away the armor you’ve got around your heart, and you don’t have the mental or physical energy to keep rebuilding it.

It’s a recipe for getting your heart broken.

Your fingers twist nervously, still unused to the engagement ring now on your left hand. After telling him about Gianni’s gaudy monstrosity, you’d begged Elvis to keep it simple; he’d reminded you he has a standard to uphold. The compromise was a stunning ring with three large, round stones—a diamond in the middle, with blue sapphires on either side, surrounded by smaller baguette and single cut diamonds in a white gold setting.

You wanted to hate it, solely for its extravagance, but when he had shown you the piece ahead of the “surprise” proposal you both had planned for after dinner last night, you couldn’t drudge up an ounce of dislike. He’d looked so concerned about pleasing you, telling you over and over he could take it back if you didn’t like it, but frankly, it was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry you’d ever laid eyes on. It was elegant and sparkling, and the uniqueness of the sapphires set it apart. It didn’t take much acting to “ooh” and “ahh” when he’d gently placed it on your finger in front of his friends and family, cementing the reality of this strange situation. A flock of butterflies had erupted in your stomach as though he really had proposed, like the proud but blushing smile on his face was really because of his love for you and not an act.

Your ring catches your eye for the millionth time today and the sapphires suddenly remind you of Elvis’ eyes. How deep and endless they seem. There is no stopping the flipping of your heart.

Oh, Madone, it’s just a ring, you chide yourself. But it doesn’t stop you from twisting it around your finger again and again like a touchstone.

After a bit of back and forth, a heavy bass line and rhythmic snapping starts, jerking your attention to Elvis. The stripped-down jazzy sound is immediately recognizable—a Peggy Lee hit from a few years ago. Your brow quirks in surprise.

The slow grin spreading across Elvis’ face is sinful as he sinks into the music.

He wanted you in the studio from the start this time around, citing you as his “good luck charm.” Part of you balked at that. The other part was flattered. After the last two times you’d watched him come alive while performing, something deep inside you awakens right alongside the beat, scaring you in its intensity.

Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care…

He starts singing. It’s quiet and deceptively relaxed, but you know him well enough now to understand he’s a live wire under it all. And that makes it even more enticing when he locks his eyes on yours, singing the words directly to you.

You give me fever…

His voice skitters across your skin, lighting fires as it goes. After the beat drops, his limbs shiver with the drums and the movement feels directly connected to the shiver running down your spine.

And he’s just warming up.

Every line, coupled with the sultry timbre of his voice, drowns you further into the depths of his eyes. They don’t let you go for the entirety of the first take. Your face is flaming, your hands gripping the edge of your seat because it feels like he’s about to eat you alive.

Madre di Dio…you’d let him. Willingly.

He wakes out of the spell he’s seemingly cast partway through the second take. You watch him whistle and blink a few times, coming back to himself. He’s slightly more unsure through the third, but regains his original focus by the fourth, sliding into the take like he’s been singing the song his whole life.

You can’t help but feel this is an intimate moment you shouldn’t be privy to, when he homes in on you once again. You are barely breathing the entire last take, a throbbing pulse consuming your heart along with your belly, something liquid and warm heating the core of you.

When he grits out: When her daddy tried to kill him, she said ‘Daddy, oh don’t you dare’, you hold back a gasp, wanting desperately to squirm in your seat to relieve some of the pressure in your body you don’t have any idea what to do with.

Perhaps it is because the line hits so close to your own experience, but it is as if he’s channeling you. Or channeling into you. You aren’t sure anymore, other that you are combusting from the inside out by the end of the song.

What a lovely way to burn… he repeats again and again, and trails off, finally.

Indeed.

He comes out of his near-trancelike state, bringing you with him and you are suddenly not at all sure you’ll make it through the next few days of recording.

How did you forget what happened last time you were in this room with him? With everything that had happened since, you suppose it’s not that outlandish, but those feelings of want, of need, seep back into your bloodstream just like the last time he sang to you in Miami, and here in this very room just a few weeks ago.

Seems like a lifetime ago…

Forcing yourself to breathe, you think maybe you’ll have a reprieve with the next song, but the bluesy Like a Baby is so sultry it does absolutely nothing to quell the fire in your veins. It doesn’t help he looks positively proud of himself every time he drinks you in, gauging your reaction, with every word he sings to you.

The seductive quality of it all is so overwhelming you need to excuse yourself to the restroom the moment the final take is cut. You clutch your trembling hands, splashing cool water across your rosy cheeks.

Get it together, Lori. He’s just doing his job.

Letting out a shuddering breath, you feel an unusual slickness between your thighs that sends your heartrate skyrocketing.

Oh, God—the baby.

Frantically, you hoist your skirt, pull down your stockings, and examine your underwear for any sign of blood. Panic slices through you until you discover you aren’t bleeding or miscarrying—it’s only a clear, slick discharge you’ve not had before. Something hormonal, no doubt, due to the changes in your body.

Then you realize you are relieved.

Your heart stutters.

You’re not sure you should be relieved. If this pregnancy ended naturally, it would save all of you a heap of trouble. It would mean you might be able to put the memory of Gianni’s cruelty behind you. It would mean Elvis wouldn’t have to settle for you. You could break off the engagement easily enough at this point.

But the thought of losing the baby, of losing Elvis, makes your heart ache so much tears spring to your eyes.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

You can’t want to actually marry Elvis. You barely know him. God knows you don’t feel ready to start a family, especially out of such horrid circumstances.

Then why does the idea of losing it all break your heart?

Sniffling, you look in the mirror and hold back the tears starting to well in your eyes.

It’s just hormones. Your body is just protecting itself and the baby, nothing more, you say in your calm and collected nurse voice. Nothing more.

Because anything more means perhaps your feelings for Elvis have truly gone beyond what you can handle right now.

Scrunching your eyes shut, you pray to understand the purpose of any of this. Why Elvis feels more like home than anywhere else, despite his sometimes infuriating nature. Why he has to be so alluring and charismatic.

Why the thought of being without him is untenable at this point, and not just because of Gianni or the baby.

It’s just a crush—a silly little crush.

No.

He’s all I have, you realize.

Of course, you feel connected to him. Right now, he is consuming your life and drawing out a safe future for the both of you. He is the only one truly in your corner. You may not know him completely, but he has not deserted you or thrown you back to your father. He is deep in this with you.

He could’ve easily fired and discarded you and been right to do so.

But for some reason, he did not.

A shuttering breath makes your chest heave. You can’t bring yourself to examine why that might be and you push away the thing you are most loathe to admit. The thing that makes pretending with him so very difficult, yet so sweet at the same time.

Shaking your head, you wipe your eyes, and straighten your spine. You powder your nose and reapply your lipstick. You put yourself back together, locking up the feelings you are trying so hard to fight.

Looking in the mirror, you see a young woman ready to do what she needs to do to survive.

Ignoring the headache brewing behind your eyes, you paste on a cordial smile and venture back to the studio. The light is on because they are recording, so you sit outside until it flashes off. You stand, brush off your skirt, and reach for the doorknob but it whips open before you can grasp it.

Gasping, your heart leaps in surprise as Elvis fills the doorway, looking a tad frantic.

“Little Bird, are you okay?” he asks, brow furrowed. He grasps your shoulders gently, taking you in as though you might be hurt. He thumbs your chin and looks into your eyes. “You disappeared on me.”

You bite your lip, concealing the smile wanting to appear at the fact he noticed you were gone.

“I was feeling a bit queasy,” you murmur. It’s not a lie, but not the whole truth, either.

The pad of his thumb brushes over your cheek. Your heart thumps and you look down to avoid the intensity of his gaze, lest he see more than you want him to.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel then, darlin’.”

“I’m fine,” you brush him off, “And I won’t leave you. You look tired. How are you feeling?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re tryin’ to change the subject, little one,” he muses. His hands find your waist, burning through your dress. “I am tired. Let’s call it quits for the night.”

Your mouth pops open and your eyes narrow with suspicion. “Has hell frozen over? Elvis, you’ve hardly cut three songs, and the Colonel said—”

“I heard the Colonel, but I’m tellin’ ya it’s time to go.” There’s an edge to his voice, warning you his mood is shifting. “And I’m doin’ what I promised by knowin’ my limits.”

“Okay, I’m just surprised is all. I’m used to you fighting me like a stubborn goat,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. You can’t discern if he’s doing this for your sake or his, however. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if it gets the job done.

His cheeks are flushed, so you feel his forehead with the back of your hand. “I suppose you do feel a bit warm,” you concede. “Alright, let’s go get some rest, then.”

He nips at your hand playfully as you bring it down, pulling you closer. The flirtation has you blushing and you resist the urge to giggle, rolling your eyes instead. You can’t help but notice there is no one to perform for but remind yourself he’s just an overly affectionate guy. It means nothing.

“Hey, EP, you comin’?” Charlie yells from inside the room.

“Naw, we’re heading out. I’m tired,” Elvis says, giving you a wink.

Charlie sputters but recovers quickly, gathering the group as Elvis entwines his fingers with yours and heads out to the car.

He doesn’t let you go until you arrive back at the hotel, safe in the room you share.

Something is building between you two. You can feel it in the care of his touch, in the warmth filling your chest and your belly with each beat of your heart. It’s in his eyes as he sits on the edge of the bed, releasing the mask he wears for the rest of the world as you check his vitals.

He is tired and a little feverish. You are proud of him for following through on taking better care of himself, even if you think it is because he is looking out for you and not himself. You give him a quick little smile before turning to put away the blood pressure cuff.

“I wish you’d do that more.”

“Do what?” you ask.

“Smile. I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are when you do it,” he says, low and quiet.

It rumbles through you like thunder, your heart skipping a beat. You pay special attention to clasping your bag closed, unable to look at him but feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Elvis—” you whisper.

“I want you to be happy,” he interrupts.

You sigh with the weight of your circumstances pressing on your shoulders, still unable to meet his eyes.

“But I understand why that’s hard right now. I jus’…I-I w-want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier on ya. Because you deserve to have more of those pretty smiles.”

The clasp of your bag becomes blurry and your throat tight. You clench the leather and force a deep breath. Tilting your head up to blink back the tears, you clear your throat before you can attempt to look at him.

Why does he have to say things like that? It makes it harder to resist the pull you feel towards him. You are teetering on the very edge of being professional and he seems keen to push you over, whether he knows it or not.

“Thank you,” you finally manage out, though so many words linger unsaid on the tip of your tongue. You meet his eyes and fireworks erupt over your skin at the way he looks up at you so openly. The air is sucked out of the room, deathly still, like before a summer thunderstorm. It leaves you buzzing and dizzy.

He stands, slowly, as if not to startle you, and steps forward. With each inch closer he gets, the air shifts, beginning to crackle with electricity. Your heart gallops faster. If he touches you, you are done for, you just know it. The lightning burning bright inside of him has the power to wreak irrevocable havoc on you. And you cannot afford to let your feelings get in the way of your survival because when he breaks your heart, which you know he will, you will have nowhere to go.

You have the baby to think of now. It is easier to sit in the discomfort of your complicated feelings than in the pain of the inevitable heartbreak that will come when he realizes you’re just like any of his other women—you’re replaceable, at least romantically. And God knows you’ve had too much pain in your life related to the whims of men to add more.

The air sizzles as he reaches for you, tempting you to burn with his touch. Part of you wants to burn—the deep heat swirling unbidden low in your belly dares you to let him—but you jump back out of instinct.

“I-I should get ready for bed,” you stutter, racing to your suitcase to grab your nightgown before hightailing it to the bathroom and slamming the door harder than you intended. You think you hear him chuckle as you lean back on the door to catch your breath.

Your body shakes but not out of fear of him. No, it’s like you’ve refused it something vital and it quakes with the need of release. Like the crack of lightning in him would bring the relief of rain, cutting the heat between you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’ve never felt this before, but you know it is dangerous. Lightning is beautiful but deadly, after all.

As you stumble your way through your bedtime routine, you realize in a few short days, the storm of a man out there will be your husband. And one more boundary between you you’ve relied on to keep you on solid ground will be gone.

And one look in the mirror at the exhaustion lining your features, you wonder if it is too late; perhaps the coming storm is inevitable and will tear you to pieces no matter what you do.

There are worse ways to perish than in the arms of Elvis Presley.

The swell of electricity doesn’t go away. It abates some, at times, but your body is hellbent and hyperaware of Elvis’ every move, of every breath he takes.

You desperately want to blame your job—you’re supposed to be observant of him, after all—or the changes in your body because of the baby, but the waves of rolling thunder build under your skin despite the physical space he is trying to give you.

The marathon of a session on Monday does not make things better. You’d hoped it would be a distraction. He needs to be completely focused to bang out at least nine more songs to finish the album. There will be no time for anything but music.

Except you somehow forget music fuels him and makes him glow from the inside out. Instead of dissipating, the storm just builds and builds, like wild thunderheads in the sky. He lives each song so completely, expertly maneuvering through mournful ballads and bouncing pop and raunchy blues like he was born to do. It’s mind-bending and alluring, and every time he draws you in, it feels like he’s singing directly to you, about you.

He's enjoying himself, despite the long hours. Completely in his element. And electricity zings though your body during the playful moans at the end of Such a Night. By the Thrill of Your Love, you think you might combust.

And he knows it, by the sparkle in his eyes and the pull of his defiant but tempting upper lip. He wasn’t offended by the boundary you set last night in the slightest, giving you the physical space you desperately needed unless needed to keep up the ruse of your engagement. But everything he does, every lyric he sings, every twitch of his body, makes you feel as though you are swirling out of control. The more he respects your need for physical space, the more you want him to box you in.

He's doing just that, just not with his body.

You are completely on edge when not absorbed in his performance and technique. God, what an idiot you were to think he wasn’t talented. His stint in Germany only served to strengthen his craft. The world isn’t ready for this new and improved Elvis. Girls will be beside themselves.

You just never thought you’d be one of them.

By the time he gets to the last song, he can’t stave off how tired he’s getting. The marathon session has taken all night and into the dawn. He lets everyone know he’s not entirely convinced he should even sing this Are You Lonesome Tonight? but the Colonel, along with Steve, the RCA rep, press him.

Worry for Elvis’ wellbeing has you voicing your concern, but the men look at you as if you are a silly little girl and not a professional. It takes a moment to remember the only one who really knows your role here is Parker, and despite nearly being asleep on your feet, you are ready to go toe to toe with him. Elvis concedes to his manager, however, before shooting you a look and running his hands down your arms to placate you. The long touch of him distracts you enough to lessen your annoyance for the moment.

This last song is the only time he kicks you out of the room, along with everyone except the musicians, but you manage to sneak into the booth to listen. You can’t see anything through the window because he’s ordered all the lights be turned off, but the result has goosebumps rising all over your body with the emotionally eerie but gentle lilt of his performance.

By the end, tears are streaming unbidden down your cheeks, though you aren’t entirely sure why. You race to wipe your cheeks before the lights pop back on, but he catches your eye through the window and swell of emotion rises again.

You know you are careening quickly towards something beyond your control. The pregnancy is one thing pushing you towards the edge, but this new arrangement with Elvis, the intimacy involved, has your heart racing with both curiosity and fear. It is all so far out of your experience but there is no real choice. It is whatever this new normal is or running for your life.

Being off kilter and filled with feelings you don’t understand is uncomfortable, but you’ll take it versus the alternative, though you can’t help the fear you’ve put Elvis in terrible danger crawling at the edges of your mind.

It’s this that keeps you alert as you all board the bus to head back to Memphis after a quick diner breakfast. Elvis is dying on the vine, the energy of performing all night taking its toll. The darkness around his eyes and the pallor of his skin tells you everything you need to know, but his limbs twitch restlessly all the way home, even when he doses, curled up into you with his head on your shoulder. It’s as if he can’t shut it off even when he is completely drained.

It’s too much for him. Your anxiety builds and builds in the hours it takes to return to Graceland. You are worrying your lips raw between your concern for him and the position you’ve put him in. Guilt swirls in your stomach, making your carsickness worse.

On top of it, your body is desperate to be close to him, as though his presence is a balm to your burdens, but those feelings just bring more confusion. You relish the tickle of his long, soft hair against your jaw and the way his fingers interweave with yours, even in sleep. Despite how ready you were to leave mere days ago, you aren’t quite sure you could do so now without damaging a part of yourself you didn’t know existed.

It frightens you, but the tingle that zings down your arms and into your palm lets you know it is exhilarating, too.

The bus is quiet of its usual boisterousness when it pulls through the gates of Graceland in the early afternoon. It is hard to believe how much everything has changed in a few short days, since the last time you arrived like this.

“Elvis,” you whisper, but he barely stirs. His eyes are closed, and his full lips are open slightly, giving him an air of innocence that tugs at your heart. “Elvis, sweetheart, we’re home.”

Sweetheart? Madone, where did that come from? You blush at your use of the endearment, not having used it since your brothers were little boys and certainly never with a man.

Elvis sputters and his long eyelashes flutter open as he stretches his long arms. “Mmm, ‘sweetheart,’ huh?” he murmurs, his lips turning up in a small, sleepy smile.

“I—you must have dreamed that,” you reply, flustered, but you know your pink cheeks and the way you twist your ring give you away.

He just grins. “You can call me sweetheart all day, Little Bird.” Then, he pulls you down for a sweet, chaste kiss, which surprises you. He tastes of sleep and coffee and chewing gum. The kiss is quick but sends a tremble through you all the same, especially since the bus is nearly empty.

When he pulls back and takes a look at you, his eyes fill with concern. He runs his thumb under your eye, as though he could wipe away the darkness you know is there. “Did you sleep at all, baby?”

You shake your head no, trying to brush him off by getting up to walk away, but he stands and grabs your arm. Pulling you back gently, he wraps his arms around your middle. You give up trying to wiggle away—he’s stronger than you. You’re surprised to find you don’t mind it. If it were any other man, you’d be panicking at the closeness, but it seems you’ve grown used to Elvis’ near constant displays of physical affection.

“I’m fine, Elvis. Let’s go inside.”

“Little one, the doc said you need sleep…”

His vacillation through pet names and endearments should annoy you, but they don’t. Not anymore. You sigh.

“…and you’re gettin’ married tomorrow. You need ta look your best for your husband,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Rolling your eyes at his silliness, you try and mask the surprising buzz of excitement running through your limbs at the reality that in a day you will be married to this exasperatingly handsome and talented mess of a man. It’s overwhelming and a little exhilarating, but you can feel exhaustion pulling at you, knowing you’ll be knee deep in preparations in a few short hours.

You resist the urge to lay your head on his shoulder, but he senses your resignation in the way your body deflates. It’s hard, you realize, to let anyone else take care of you.

“How ‘bout I rest with you? Will you at least try to take a nap then?” If he’s conceding to more rest, you know you must look worse for the wear. But it does the trick.

“Alright, fine. I will rest if you do, too,” you concede.

Being back at Graceland—back home—helps you relax more. No one can get to you or Elvis here. You fear you won’t be able to sleep, but once your head hits the pillow, Elvis safe and resting inches away, you slide into the dreamless dark.

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

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

@littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

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

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

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

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