#good lord this was a doozy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

littlelioncub43 · 2 years

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Let's Exchange The Experience

Summary: Eddie's been acting strange lately. Slowly but surely pulling away, no matter what you try. But one phone call may just bring him right back to you.

Pairing: Mechanic! Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

Word Count: 6,468 (She's a doozy ok, don't hurt yourself)

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), slight angst, drug use, smoking, kinda high sex, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), cream pie, hair pulling, oral sex (f receiving), idiots in love, said idiots screaming while fucking, fluff, happy endings.

A/N: Ok! Part 3! Here she is! Honestly, I'll let this one speak for itself. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: HER.

Kisses 💋

—K

P.S. Reblog and comment something nice or else I'll cry.

Part II Series Masterlist

You listen to the electronic ringing through the receiver, twirling the curled phone cord as you chew your lip. The nerves of possibly being rejected again was burning in your chest. You have no idea what it was, but Eddie had been acting weird. More weird than normal. It started off as small things at first; his hands shook when he would hand you something or move your hair out of your face, his eyes wouldn’t meet yours for longer than 10 seconds (if even that), or his smile would fall a few seconds faster than normal. You assumed there was something going on, but you also assumed he would tell you about it when he was ready.

Then it was bigger things, like not letting you sit in his lap during game night with the gang or cuddle during movie nights (which were slowly but surely becoming less and less frequent in the last few weeks). You were starting to fear he’d start avoiding you completely. Your leg bouncing ceased as soon as you heard the ringing stop.

“Eddie?” You hopefully call into the phone. You hear someone shuffling on the other line before you hear the voice you had hoped for.

“Hey, Princess,” Eddie mumbles happily into the receiver, a smile was evident in his voice but his words were far too relaxed to be normal. “Been thinkin’ about you.”

“Are you high?” You couldn’t help but chuckle, ignoring the butterflies that flutter in your tummy. His rumbling, throaty laughter is enough of an answer for you to know that he is, in fact, high.

“Maaaaaybe,” he coyly drawls into the phone. High or not, it was nice to hear him sound so calm. “You wanna come over? Wayne is working a double tonight, and I got a little baggie with your name written all over it.”

Chewing your lip once more, you think it over. It had been a while since you last smoked and work had been stressing you out, not to mention whatever was going on with Eddie.

“Come on, Sweets, it’ll be good for you. You know it will,” he coos, really pulling out all the stops, he knew you couldn’t say no to him when he spoke like that. You give a dramatic sigh, feigning annoyance.

“Well, I guess I could,” you hear him chuckling, “I’ll have to reschedule dinner with the Queen and the peace summit with Russia for another day.”

“Gorbachev can wait a day or two, Princess,” he says, “I, on other hand, cannot.”

You laugh softly, a sound that Eddie swears he can live off of, and shake your head.

“I’ll be over in 10 minutes, Munson.”

“I’ll keep a joint warm for you, babe, don’t you worry,” he sasses before you hang up the phone. The stupid grin you wear doesn’t leave your face as you head out the door. It stayed put as you drive the short but chilly distance to his trailer, only when you get to the door does it falter ever so slightly. You don’t get a chance to knock, the door creaks open slowly, revealing Eddie’s red rimmed eye peering at you through the crack in the door.

“Can I help you, Madame?” He says in a goofy British accent. You nearly break into a laugh but manage to hold it in.

“Uh, yes. I’m looking for a Lord Munson. This is the Munson Estate, correct?” You match his silliness and put your hands behind your back snootily.

“It is, Madame, but I’m afraid you’ll have to state your name and business, otherwise I’ll be forced to set the dogs on ya,” he says, keeping the door ajar. You shake your head with a laugh.

“Come on, Eddie, let me in. It’s cold,” you whine softly. Snow coated the ground and an icy wind swept in from the north, your blue jeans and winter coat did very little to fight off the cold.

“Oh, right, sorry, Princess,” he immediately pulls you inside, the warmth of the trailer immediately soothing your cold hands. You take your coat off, breathing in the familiar aroma of weed and Eddie’s house. It was comforting scent that you hadn’t smelled in months, work made sure to keep you too busy to smoke as much as you used to. After kicking off your shoes, you turn to find Eddie making you a cup of tea, something you always wanted when you got too cold.

“I recall you saying something about keeping a joint warm for me?” You ask as you grab a handful of chips, popping some in your mouth as Eddie brings you your tea, focusing extra hard on not spilling a drop.

“I did! It’s right— wait, where did I put it?” He frowns and spins to search for it, muttering softly to himself as he retraces his steps before finding the neatly rolled joint waiting for you both in the ashtray on the coffee table. He grabs it and holds it up triumphantly, plopping down to the couch.

“Ha ha! Found it!” He pops it into his lips and lights it as you relax on to the couch beside him, stealing a few puffs off before handing it to you. “Here you are, my dear.”

“Thank you,” you chirp and pluck it from him. God, you needed this. Taking a deep breath, you let the thick smoke fill your lungs, eyes shut as you embrace the coming calm. Slowly, you blow the air from your pursed lips and up into the air, the action has Eddie’s full attention on you. Fuck, your lips are gorgeous. You hum and blink your eyes open. “God, I needed that.”

Eddie smiles and leans back into the couch, snagging the remote from the cushions and turning the TV on. Old reruns of Gilligan’s Island play on while you two pass the joint back and forth. You don’t say much, and for the first time in a while, it’s a comfortable silence. Soon, you find yourself leaning on Eddie, your limbs pleasantly tingly and light, made of feathers and lead all at once. You notice him shifting a lot beside you, his calmness slipping for a moment. A heavy yawn pulls from the base of Eddie’s chest as he stretches his arms above his head, one holding the shared joint comfortably between his fingers and the other coming to rest along the back of the couch behind you. You think nothing of it and choose to focus on the TV, Gilligan found radioactive vegetables and suddenly the entire island has super powers.

The warmth of Eddie’s arm sliding from the cushions to rest on your shoulders pulls your attention away from the screen once more. Eddie draws is a small breath, hiding the small gasp in the butt of the joint, but the longer his arm stays slung around you, the more he relaxes. With the buzz currently strumming through you, you decide to rest your head on his shoulder and reach for the shared blunt. Eddie hands it over, relishing in the heat as you snuggle in a little closer like you always do and sigh comfortably. His high was slowly starting to come down, which meant the nerves were starting to come back. Swallowing softly, he wills himself to relax (counterintuitive, I know). You look over at your best friend, his jaw was clenched as he breathes deeply through his nose, his leg starting to bounce as he fidgets with the hole in his jeans.

“You ok, Eds? You look tense,” you ask softly, it was killing you, you had to ask. When he looks back at you, he sees the genuine worry in your eyes. His heart soars when he realizes how close your face is to his, he can smell your shampoo, and God, you were just so perfect. He has to do something. Now or never.

“Y-Yeah,” he nods, clearing his throat, “I just wanted t-to apologize for being weird these last few weeks.”

“Oh,” you sigh, relief washing over you, “it’s ok, Eds. I figured something was up, but I’m…” you trail off, suddenly noticing how close your faces are too, “I’m glad we’re back to normal.”

“Me too, Sweets,” he says in a slow, deep voice, the sound sends a shiver through you, one you couldn’t exactly hide from him. His lips part as you stare at each other, his pupils dilating as the moments tick by.

Without breaking eye contact, Eddie takes the forgotten blunt from your hands and sets it aside in the ashtray. The brush of his hands on yours sears your skin in a way you’re all too familiar with. His hand comes back to caress your knee, his touch was gentle and careful, mindful of any boundaries that you might have. Carefully, you move with him, sliding into his lap, your movements unhurried and careful. Eddie takes a deep breath and welcomes you against his body, it was familiar yet different, you’d sat in his lap a million times before but this time just felt different. The arm that was slung around your shoulders slowly drapes itself further around your middle as you both are drawn to each other like magnets, his hold slowly capturing you like a python.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your own hand coming to his forearm, tracing those goddamn bats once more while the other rests against his shoulder. The second you touch him, Eddie is certain there is no going back for him. This was it.

“Be my girl,” he says in that low timber, his tone is bordering on begging. He’s scarily serious, a heat blazing behind his eyes. Your noses brush together, foreheads touching, your eyes stay fixed on his as you drink in his words, words you’ve dreamt of hearing for years. “Be my girl.”

“I am your girl,” you whisper without a second thought. It was the easiest answer you’ve ever given him. Eddie’s breathing catches in his throat at your words, his hands tightening around you before one slides up your back to cradle your head against his.

“You’re mine?” His voice was timid now, almost not believing you. You mould your body to him even more, cradling his head like he is yours.

“Yes,” you say simply, like it was the most obvious and true thing in the world— and it was. Eddie’s eyes slide shut with a sigh, relief washing over him as well as a tidal wave of happiness. You pull his head against yours a little firmer, basking in the quiet hush that took over the trailer ever since your conversation started.

“Kiss me.” You whisper, your words have Eddie’s eyes snapping open, almost as if he didn’t hear you correctly, so you repeat yourself. “Kiss me, Eddie.”

There were 3 things that you were absolutely certain: One, Eddie Munson had the softest lips in the entire universe. Two, there was no way you were ever going to forget this moment for as long as you live. And three, you were undoubtedly, unconditionally, and irrevocably in love with him.

Nothing in this world has ever felt so right.

The tender yet passionate press of his lips on yours had your head spinning, your hand in his hair tightened to help ground you. Eddie’s hold on you tightened as well, the kiss slowly but surely deepening. The first swipe of your tongue across his bottom lip evokes a deep groan from the pit of his chest, your own answering whimper vibrates against his mouth. He welcomes your tongue into his mouth with his own, playing with your tongue happily, taking his time to taste you as thoroughly as he possibly can. You lure his wet muscle deeper into your mouth, the action alone has Eddie panting like he ran a mile. The buzzing high from the weed is quickly replaced with the electric want strumming through you both.

Soon, breathing becomes a necessity and Eddie reluctantly breaks the kiss. Gasping for air, you can’t help but steal a few more pecks in between heaving breath, each kiss ending with a satisfyingly wet smack. The quick pecks soon turn back into full kisses, tongues drawn back to each other with need. When you shift forward, you feel it; hot and hard at the front of his jeans. Eddie detaches from your lips to gasp, his eyes fluttering as you rest your weight against his hard on.

“J-Jesus Christ,” he gasps, staring at you with those big doe eyes. He dives in again, not being able to stand to not be kissing you for every long. You hum before breaking away from him once more, your foreheads resting against each other as you breathe in sync.

“I… I love you. I love you so much,” he professes between deep breaths, the heft of sincerity is clear in his tone, “you’re… you’re everything.”

“I love you, too,” you respond and pepper his face with kisses, drawing a happy grin across Eddie’s face. “Been in love with you for so long, Eddie, so long.”

Eddie groans at that, tucking his face away into the crook of your neck, letting himself finally feast on the delicate skin like he’s always wanted. You shiver when you feel his lips sweep across your throat, messy kisses trailing along the column of your neck. It has you positively trembling, the throbbing wetness between your thighs was nearly unbearable. Sweet moans fall from your lips as he sucks a hickey into the soft skin of your throat, your hips naturally moving against his to ease the throbbing between your legs.

“Eddie,” you moan out into the living room, the sinful sound reverberating off the walls of the cluttered trailer and filling Eddie’s ears. He curses under his breath, hips lifting up to meet yours eagerly. You fall into a slow yet heated rhythm together, both of you writhing in perfect time. Eddie kisses his way back up to your mouth.

“Princess, fuck, that feels so good,” he growls, his cock pulses and strains against the seam of his zipper. Each roll of your hips was quickly turning his brain to mush, all he knew was that this was the best thing in the fucking world and nothing could possibly top it.

“Take me to bed, Eddie, please.”

Ok, he was wrong.

“Yes. I—You—Yes,” is all he can get out before he’s rising from his spot with you scooped up in his arms. You yelp at the sudden movements, clinging to Eddie’s surprisingly strong body as he marches you both towards the back of the trailer. Eddie continues to mouth at your neck and lips, switching between the two eagerly while maneuvering you both through the house perfectly. He slams his door open blindly before kicking it shut with enough vigor to shake the frame.

“Dreamt about this so many times, Sweets, you have no fucking idea,” he groans as he lowers you to his bed, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of you beneath him. The throbbing of his cock is nearly painful when he sees the sight before him: you on your back, your lips swollen and plump from his kisses, hickeys and lovebites that he left blossoming along your gorgeous neck, your hair messy from his hands.

“Oh, fuck, you have no idea,” he rips his t shirt off and tosses it to the side without a thought before diving back down to you, his mouth attached to the skin of your throat, “you’re so fucking beautiful, y’know that right? Make me so fucking crazy all the damn time.”

He was rambling, he knew it, but really couldn’t control himself at this point. The only thing on his mind was showing you just how much he loved you in any way you’d let him. Your hands eagerly explored the newly exposed skin of his torso and chest, your fingers tracing over the tattoos you’ve memorized a million times over. A pleased grin pulls at your lips when you see him shiver as your hands ghost over his heated skin. Slowly raking your hands across his chest, you cup his jaw in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“You’re gorgeous, Eddie Munson,” you purr to him, letting every ounce of emotion you feel for him pour into your words. You see his eyes glaze over as he searches yours, looking for any lies or truths in you, and finding more of the latter than anything else. His face turns an adorable shade of pink, one that you have every intention of seeing again.

Before he can say anything, you steal another kiss, distracting him for a moment. The feeling of your hands sliding down his body once more has Eddie pulling at your top, silently asking if he can remove it. You nod and he tears the fabric away from your body as quick as he possibly can to return his mouth to yours, Eddie was certain he’d never get enough of your kisses.

The moment your hands return to his body they start sliding south, teasing the buckle of his belt. A shuddering gasp breaks Eddie’s lips from yours, his jaw drops when you cup the front of his pants. Even through the layer of denim separating you you’re able to feel his length against your palm. From what you can feel, he was thick, and hard, and just begging to be played with. With your bottom lip caught in your teeth, you rub at the bulge eagerly.

“A-Ah, haaaaaah fuck,” Eddie moans, no shame evident in his voice. He grips the bare flesh of your sides as you touch him, trying to ground himself with his mouth over your bra-covered chest. God, if it was this good through his jeans, he was certain he was going to die when you actually touch him.

“Eddie,” you moan as he mouths at your nipple through the thin material of your black bra, the sound of his name has his hips surging into your hand. He switches from one breast to the other, giving sloppy kisses and teasing bites to the soft flesh. With trembling hands, you start undoing his belt as fast as you can but whine when the belt doesn’t come undone. “Wanna feel you, baby, please?” You ask oh, so sweetly.

“Fuck, ok, ok, yeah,” he mumbles as he rises to his knees, his own shaking hands unfasten the belt much faster than you could hope for. You hear the clinking of his belt and the hum of his zipper being pulled down, your face heating up with excitement, your hips wiggling on their own accord. Eddie kicks off his jeans and socks, leaving him in his favorite checkered boxers. You barely get a glance at the tent in his boxers before he’s playing with the button and zipper of your own pants. “Can I take these off, Sweets?”

“Yes, please,” you confirm with quick nods, and that’s all he needed before tearing off your trousers and throwing them behind him without a thought.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes as he hovers above you, his calloused hand tracing the slope of your outer thigh and hip, his thumb rubbing over the elastic band of your black panties (thank God you wore a somewhat matching set—basics for the fucking win). Your face heats up at his words again.

“You said that already, Eds,” you tease with a bashful smile, and Eddie can’t help but smirk at your reaction, you were so cute when you got all flustered.

“It needs to be said again, Princess,” his voice dropped back to that husky tone. He was looking a little too smug for your liking. Deciding that revenge was in order, you unclip your bra, letting it slip down your arms before you discard it with the rest of your clothes. The look on Eddie’s face, was exactly what you hoped: jaw dropped wide, his eyes wide and laser focused on your naked chest. He was stunned speechless.

“I—Fucking hell!” He curses under his breath before eagerly attacking your chest. Loud moans fill the room as he latches his annoying skilled mouth to your nipple, sucking and lapping at it like his life depended on it while his other hand cupped and kneaded the flesh of your other breast just as passionately. His own pitiful moans matched yours, eyes sliding shut as he relishes in the feeling of you in his hands and mouth.

“Fuck, yes!” You cry out when he pinches your hardened bud between two rough fingers and rolls it, your back arching into his face and hands for more while your hands pulled at his hair and scratched at his back. Eddie shivers when he feels the bite of your nails along his skin. Your eyes flutter when you feel his kisses getting lower and lower, now leaving a trail down your belly while his hands caressed your hips, playing with the bands of your soaked underwear. Settling in on his stomach between your legs, Eddie gently spreads your legs, holding your thighs in his large hands tenderly. A whine escapes you when he kisses along your inner thighs, making sure to leave imprints of his teeth and mouth on the juicy meat.

He was about to ask for permission to remove your underwear but you lift your hips for him before he can speak. With a pleased smirk, Eddie peels your panties away from your core, going slowly so he can watch the strings of your arousal stick to the gusset of your panties. Eddie can swear that he’s never been harder in his entire life. It takes every ounce of self control within him to not blow his load at the sight of your bare pussy, wet and waiting for him to touch. A loud appreciative groan bubbles from the back of his throat, your confidence skyrocketing at the sound of it. The small smirk you wear is quick to disappear when his tongue licks a fat stripe up the cut of you, collecting as much of your arousal as he possibly can.

“O-Ohh fuck!” You whimper and lift your head to watch him, Eddie moans as your sweetness coats his tongue for the first time. He knew immediately that he was never going to be satisfied, he would always crave your heady flavor. The feeling of his tongue lapping at your folds rids your mind of any coherent thought, all you could feel was the heat of pleasure coursing through you in perfect time with his wiggling tongue. You grip the long curly locks of his hair for help, head tipping back against the pillow, thighs trembling as his warm mouth surrounds your clit, sucking harshly just to hear you moan for him. He eats you like he would never be fed again, his movements viciously reverent, equal parts desperate and passionate.

Eddie casts a glance up at you, smiling through the hazy lust that coats his mind. You’re a mess with your sweaty skin shining in the light from his bedside lamp, your hair wild from where you’ve pulled on it, your eyes were screwed shut and your gorgeous mouth was hung ajar to let him hear every single noise you made. He’s got you right where he wants you; writhing and whining above him with his head between your thighs.

The firm grip he has on your thighs tightens the more you twist and writhe in his hold. The sting at his scalp spurs him on, your high pitched cries of his name and curses fuel his desire. He circles a thick finger at your quivering entrance before easing it into your heat, the tightness of your cunt around his finger has his hips driving down into the mattress on their own accord.

“E-Eddie! M’gonna cum!” You cry out, not caring if any of the nosy neighbors can hear you. If anything you wanted them to hear you, because Eddie Munson is a fucking God at giving head.

There’s a building tension in the pit of your gut, fire consuming your every nerve as he works you closer and closer to your high. He maintains the pace of his mouth and finger, carefully adding another finger in with the other, stretching you out as best he can. Your legs shake around his head, his free hand holding your thighs open for him, your back arching suddenly as you draw tight. He can feel your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, his cock flexing desperately with need as you finally cum for him.

Melodious. Perfect. Beautiful.

That’s how Eddie would describe the sound and feeling of you coming for him. The sinful cry of his name is the only thing on your lips as you cum. Stars burst behind your eyelids as you fall over the edge, your breathing shallow and erratic as Eddie slows the speed of his fingers and mouth, now giving your clit gentle kisses. Only when you push at his head with a whining plead does Eddie release you with a gasp.

“You taste so fucking good, so fucking good,” is all he can say through his own heaving breaths, petting your outer thigh while you come down. You feel his lips press soothing kisses to your heated skin, making you grin and giggle breathily. Eddie matches your smile, your release coating his lips still, and if it were up to him, they would stay that way forever.

“Come here,” you pull at him as he quickly crawls up your body. Your lips attack his the instant they are in reach, the tangy sweetness of yourself on his tongue does nothing to deter you from practically devouring him. Eddie’s brain short-circuits when you play with the waistband of his boxers. “Take these off for me, baby.”

He did not need to be told twice.

He scrambles to get them off and down his legs, his frantic movements making you giggle and sit up on your elbows. Eddie grins when his boxers are finally kicked to the floor, his skin flushed pink already. Your breath catches in your throat when you see him; he was thick and long, his red tip leaking beads of pearly precum and glistening in the lamp light. You moan softly at the sight, biting your lip as Eddie takes his place on top of you again. He can’t say that this was the reaction he expected, but it was definitely better than he had hoped for.

Before either of you can speak, you’re pulling him in to a heated kiss and flipping him on to his back. Eddie moans in surprise when his back lands on his bed, but then a pleased purr rumbles into your mouth when you settle into his lap. A pleased sigh flutters from you when his bare skin glides across yours for the first time. No clothes, no barriers to keep you separated. It felt right.

“F-Fucking hell,” Eddie curses in a soft voice when your dripping cunt settles against his bare cock, the feeling was only what he could describe as divine. Then you rocked against him. “Oh! Oh, fuck yes!”

You whimper when his hands clutch your hips, his bruising grip helping you to grind a little faster on him.

“Yeah, yeah, a little faster, rub your pussy on me, Princess, just like that,” he breathes out, his eyes glued to the space between you to watch as his cock get drenched in your juices. “Holy fucking shit, baby, that’s so—that’s so hot.”

“Eddie, please,” you moan, the desperation was getting to you, “need you inside me, need to fuck you.”

“God,” he groans and tosses his head back on the pillow beneath him, shutting his eyes to keep from blowing his load immediately. He realizes his mistake the moment your mouth starts to bite at his neck, your plush lips sucking at his pulse to leave matching hickeys that he’ll admire later. “Fuck, ok, Princess—“ he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you’re rising to your knees with a pretty hand wrapped around the base of his cock to guide him into you.

The moment his mushroom tip catches your quivering entrance, Eddie is sure that time stopped. You slowly ease him into you, letting gravity pull you on to his dick. So, this is what it heaven is like, you think to yourself before the pleasure renders you thoughtless. You listen to the long moan Eddie releases and naturally match it. Inch after inch, he fills you, stretching your little hole beyond what you’ve thought possible. The wetness you left behind on his shaft and the mix of his spit between your legs ease your descent, allowing him to slip further and further into you until he finally bottoms out. Eddie is speechless, his jaw open wide as he pants, eyes shut tight, his legs were already shaking. Nothing has ever felt this fucking good in his life.

“Oh my God, you’re so fucking big,” you moan in a thin voice, your eyes fluttering at the feeling of Eddie, your best friend, finally being inside you. “Feel so good, Eddie, so fucking full.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathes out quickly, trying to regain composure, and finally opens his eyes. He sees you perched on top of him like he’s always dreamed about: your back arched ever so slightly to accommodate him inside you, your eyes looked dazed and fucked out already, plush lips wet with your spit and ajar as you gasp for breath, sweat gave your skin a dewey ethereal glow.

“Oh God, you—fuck!” He curses again, his brain failing him and leaving him with no thoughts except ‘fuck.’ And he had every intention of doing just that.

With your hands braced on his chest, you give an experimental grind of your hips. Rolling in a circle, you let your hips move sensually, easing yourself into the sensations. The tuft of hair at the base of him rubs into your clit, the sensitive nub getting just the right amount of stimulation that has you speeding up. Drawing your hips up, you finally start to bounce on him. Soon the precise pace that you found is lost to a frenzy, want and lust taking over your bodies until neither of you can fight it.

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck, Eddie!” You cry out as you lose yourself, Eddie’s firm grip helping you ride him. He gives you a shout of your name in response of his own, his hips lifting to meet yours. He watches the way your face contorts each time he thrusts into you, addicted to the cute scrunch of your nose when he bottoms out.

“So good, that’s it, good fucking girl, taking me so fucking well,” he rambles in a gruff voice that is eerily similar to his morning voice. The throaty rasp has you clenching around him, pulling deeper groans from the man beneath you. “Such a tight little pussy, Princess, feels so good around me, never wanna fucking leave, wanna keep fucking you forever.”

He knows it’s silly but that’s how he feels. He can tell you like it too, judging from the way you claw at his pecks and throw yourself on his dick even harder. Tipping your head back, you let yourself feel. The blinding, searing euphoria coursing through your veins, Eddie’s brutal grip on your hips, his flush, heated skin sticking to yours, the pleasurable scratch of his body hair, the comfortable softness of his mattress beneath you both.

Eddie watches as your eyes slide shut, he can see each wave of pleasure crash down on you, the way your face can’t hide how good you feel, how your moans are forced out of you each time he slams you down on his cock, the hypnotizing bounce of your tits in front of him. He couldn’t take it anymore.

Sitting up, he braces a hand behind him on the bed and wraps an arm around your waist, holding you in place while he takes control. With his knees bent, Eddie is able to drive up into you harder than before. You claw at his shoulder and lean back a little, adding a small grind to his thrusts to send you both into a tizzy.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck! Eddie!” You moan at the top of your lungs, one hand grabbing a handful of Eddie’s hair and pulling harshly. That nearly does him in.

“O-Oh!” He whimpers, his cock flexing deep inside you as his pace falters for a moment before returning to the punishing rhythm. The feeling of your pussy juices leaking down his bare shaft and dripping down his balls leaves him delirious. It’s then that he realizes he’s not wearing a condom.

“Fuck! Princess, you gotta get off! M’Gonna cum! G-Get off! Gonna cum!” He sounds broken, he looks like it too, with his face crumpling with debilitating pleasure. He desperate to keep going right up until he has to pull out, his arm around you getting ready to lift you off of him.

“No, inside! Want it inside, Eddie, please!” You whine and lean in, kissing sloppily at his open mouth. Your begging is painful to listen to, but it erases any coherent thought in his head. The hand holding him up meets your clit to start rubbing furious circles on it, the rough callous of the pads of his fingers has you seizing up in his grasp. You needed to cum before he did. With his sweaty forehead resting on yours, he watches as you finally fall apart. “Cum inside me! Cum inside me! Eddie!”

You practically scream for him when you reach your peak, your entire body trembling and tensing around him. Eddie watches as you surrender to your high, he’s never seen someone look so beautiful. The unbridled scream of his name paired with your pleas for him to finish inside you is more than enough for Eddie.

“I-I love you, love you so fucking much!” He grits out through his teeth as he finally comes. Nothing in this world can describe the feeling of his cum finally filling you. The sounds of his loud moans, wanton and bordering on screams, were the most erotic sounds you could ever think of. You cling to him, and he to you, as you both shiver and tremble, riding out your highs together.

Eddie can barely think, nothing mattered to him except what he held in his arms at the moment. He could hear the ringing in his ears as well as your mixed moans, feel the heaving of your chests and the hammering of your hearts as they beat rapidly. Peeling open his heavy eyelids, he’s met with your own weighted stare. The fucked out expression on your face paired with the knowledge that he was the one to put it there, sent his heart soaring for the skies. He brings both hands to your back, rubbing the dewey skin with a shaking touch. He cradles you to him with a grin so bright you swear it could light up the sky.

You can’t help the giggle that bubbles in your throat, your arms slung around his neck to pull him into a kiss. It’s sweet and tender, a bit sloppy from your exhaustion but still absolutely perfect. Eddie strokes as much of your skin as he can reach, trailing his hands from your thighs and up your back as many times as he can.

“I love you,” you hear him mumble against your lips before kissing you again with the ghost of a smile, “I love you,” kiss, “I love you,” kiss.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back, you feel your face heat up, “that was the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“Fuck, me too,” Eddie grumbles with a smirk, clearly proud of himself, “I don’t think I can walk after that,” he chuckles, “fucking hell, when you begged me to cum inside you? Fuck, I nearly passed out.”

You chuckle with him and hide your face in the crook of his neck, letting him hold you a little closer. Eddie grins like an idiot, you were always so cute when you got bashful, and it was funny to see the contrast between the sweet angel hiding her face and the sex goddess who rode him within an inch of his life. His light laughter died off as he lowered his head to whisper to you.

“I came inside you.” You could hear the worry in his voice, so you caress the meat of his arm before pulling back to give him a reassuring smile.

“I’m on the pill. We’re safe,” you say gently. In an instant, any and all worries left his body immediately. The cute little wrinkle between his lightly furrowed eyebrows disappeared with a sigh and was replaced by his million-dollar smile.

“We’re safe,” he repeats and you nod, “so that means I can do that again?”

“If you want to,” you bite your lip when Eddie gives you a mischievous look.

“‘If I want to?’ Princess, that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do for the last 5 years,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “‘If I want to.’”

You giggle at his rambling and play with a strand of his messy hair. A few moments pass in silence as you both bask in the after glow.

“When did you… did you realize that you love me?” You ask gently, peeking up to see Eddie watching you with loving eyes— like he always was.

“Since you told me my bat tattoo was cool in sophomore year,” he whispers back to you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear while he smiles at the memory. “You were the only one who actually liked them. I couldn’t look at them without thinking of you, after that. Still can’t.”

“Oh,” you were nearly crying. How sweet can he possibly be, you were going to die.

“What about you?”

“When you beat up Derek Steinberg for starting those rumors about me. You did it without even hesitating and then you-you made sure that I was ok. You were so kind and so selfless and— no one ever cared about me like that before.”

“Well, it seems we’ve had it down bad for each other for a long time,” he chuckles, lightening up the mood a little. “We’ve got some time to make up, don’t you think?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod with a smile.

“Dates, dinners, parties… I think it’s time we did some of those.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

I no longer have a taglist! If you would like to stay up-to-date on when I post a new fic, follow @littlelioncub-library to be notified!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated and needed because I love them 💖

#come on angel the series #eddie munson x reader #mechanic!eddie munson is my new love #mechanic!eddie munson #mechanic!eddie munson x female reader #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x you smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #joseph quinn #little lion literature

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theonceandfuturequeenoftarts · 1 month

Text

It happens by chance, and while Harry wishes it hadn’t, this will at least clear up any lingering uncertainty for him.

There’s a skirmish between Harry and some friends from the Order and Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and a couple stray curses happen to catch him – one slices shallowly into his upper arm, the other sends him rolling across the ground. The upshot of this is that the left shoulder of Harry’s shirt is now in ribbons and hanging down around his waist, leaving his chest – and soul mark – bare to the world. Including Voldemort.

Who looks like he’s having one doozy of an emotion.

And that basically confirms the dark wizard hadn’t known, but right now Harry’s bleeding sluggishly and wants to go home and have a drink and pass out for at least a few hours, so Voldemort can rage on his own time. Everyone else from his side has already buggered off, so he’s not abandoning anyone if he does the same.

Unfortunately, the blood loss – while not severe – is enough to slow his reaction time, which leads to him apparating himself and the Dark Lord latched onto him to his flat. Not ideal.

There are a tense few moments of staring at the snake man, waiting to see if he’ll attack or start destroying Harry’s home, but when he doesn’t take advantage – when he just stares and frowns and stares some more – Harry decides he’s too tired for this shit.

“You are just impossible to ward out, aren’t you?” he sighs. The curse of being so physically and magically intertwined with the other man. (Well. And at the soul level, too, but he tries not to think of that.)

Voldemort yanks him by his uninjured arm towards the kitchen light that comes on automatically and stares at Harry’s chest, and the elegantly written Tom Marvolo Riddle thereupon.

Harry scowls when the staring drags on. “Oi, could you quit perving on me and piss off already?”

“You were never going to tell me?” Voldemort demands, ignoring Harry’s half-arsed attempt at distraction.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Why the Hel would I? Either you already knew and it didn’t matter to you, or you didn’t – and I wasn’t about to risk baring my soul to someone who has a history of wanting me dead.” He shrugs. “I’m reckless, not suicidal.”

Voldemort opens his mouth with an angrily indignant look, and Harry looks to the ceiling for patience before pulling out of the other man’s grip and opening his emergency bottle of firewhiskey, hidden in the pantry, because this conversation needs alcohol. He pours two glasses (his to the brim) because he tries to be a good host, even to the bane of his existence. And if Voldemort doesn’t want it, well, it’ll save Harry getting the bottle out again.

All throughout this, Voldemort is ranting at him. Harry tunes most of it out – he’s had to hear enough of the man’s monologues to know he doesn’t need to listen to the preamble; the meat of his diatribe won’t come until a couple minutes in, at least.

After he casts a quick episkey on the cut on his arm, Harry leans against the counter, watching Voldemort pace around his modest kitchen. He takes a long, slow drink, welcoming the fire flowing down his throat and warming his belly. And either the other man is taking even longer than usual to get to the point or Harry’s more exhausted and irritable than he’d thought, because he’s suddenly completely out of patience with this situation.

He cuts in boredly, “It’s not like it changes anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Voldemort is immediately before him, looming and enraged. “It matters to me!”

“Why?”

“I’ve waited decades for you,” he says vehemently, leaning closer in an attempt to physically intimidate or pin Harry in place.

Harry barks a harsh laugh. “You waited for a fantasy. You’ve spent my whole life killing and hurting the people most important to me. Some silly mark doesn’t change that – it doesn’t make it better, it won’t make me love you.” He takes a sip and rasps through the burn. “It won’t change who you are.”

“I never received a mark–”

“And that’s unfortunate. Clearly it affected you. But plenty of people don’t get soul marks and they don’t commit mass murder and incite civil wars.” He gives Voldemort a dismissive look, standing up straight and slipping out from between the dark wizard and the counter. He can almost hear the other man grinding his teeth.

“You have no idea what it’s like, not having a mark,” Voldemort hisses caustically, face contorted in a furious snarl. “The contempt, the ridicule I had to endure. I was denied one of Magic's basic gifts and they took it as proof they were better than me, those worthless fools.”

It’s difficult to know how he would’ve reacted to not having a mark. His burden has been to have the mark of the worst possible person, and he thinks he’s handled it far better than anyone could’ve expected of him. Having no mark would’ve confirmed that he’s meant to be alone, that there’s no one out there meant just for him, but having Voldemort’s mark as Harry Potter essentially means the same thing.

“Maybe you mutilated your soul too much to deserve a mark,” Harry says in a fit of cruelty. Behind the wrath crackling in the other man’s eyes, he can see the misery bloom. As good as it feels to score a hit against Voldemort, he regrets it even more. And isn’t that the exact reason why this damn war has dragged on for so long?

(Harry pushes that thought away wearily.)

“You had choices, Voldemort, and you made yours,” he says quietly but firmly. “I’m making mine, and it’s that I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“This is not a unilateral decision,” Voldemort says, the frustration in his tone edging close to desperation. “Do my wants mean nothing?”

"Your wants." Harry slams his almost empty glass down on the table; his voice comes out dangerously even. “Alright then. Can you bring my parents back to life? No? How about Cedric, or Sirius, or any of the dozens of others whose lives you’ve cut short?”

Voldemort’s mouth is pinched shut, a thunderous frown on his face.

“Hel, let’s start small. Stop this war, swear to never harm another person and get your followers to do the same. You want me to care about what you want? Start by addressing all of that.”

“You ask this of me and promise nothing in return?” Voldemort says bitterly.

“That’s the bare minimum it would take for me to see you as anything more than a murderous, blood-supremacist monster. And I honestly don’t think you can do it, but feel free to prove me wrong.”

That puts an unsettling gleam in the other man’s eyes. Harry thinks back on what he might’ve said to cause that reaction and feels his stomach drop. Oh bother. He’d challenged Voldemort. Harry knows exactly how he'd react to someone saying that; apparently Voldemort is equally competitive (and motivated by spite – he should’ve guessed that).

“...If I am able to–”

“You won’t–”

“When I fulfill your requirements,” Voldemort arrogantly says, face intense. “You and I will explore our connection, and you will meet with me frequently to do so.”

And now Harry is in a quandary. If Voldemort does what he’s been asked, Harry will have achieved what he’s been fighting for all six years of his adult life; if Voldemort doesn’t, Harry’s no worse off than he was before. And he knows the dark wizard won’t give up his cause simply because his soulmate asked, but if Voldemort does…

“You do realise that your soulmate is me, yeah?” Harry clarifies, unnerved by the shift in the other man's demeanour. “You don’t like me. At all.”

“Nonsense,” Voldemort says, waving off Harry’s really very logical point. “We simply haven’t had a chance to become properly acquainted.”

“...Because you’re always trying to kill me.”

“Details, details.”

Harry would very much like to strangle the megalomaniac who is still in his apartment. “...Uh-huh. Sure, you become a completely different person and we’ll talk.”

He sometimes forgets that magic occasionally disregards sarcasm. This appears to be one of those times, as the heaviness in the air snaps tight around them, signifying Harry’s flippant “sure” just turned this discussion into a magically binding agreement. Merlin’s pierced nipples. So much for intent over phrasing.

Catching sight of Voldemort’s smug smirk, Harry suddenly feels genuinely homicidal for the first time in his life. Sensing his non-existent welcome is well and truly worn out, Voldemort says, “I look forward to it,” and apparates away. Harry pitches a cushion through the space the dark wizard just occupied. It helps settle his irritation a little.

He drops onto his couch with a deep, bone-tired sigh and tosses back Voldemort’s untouched glass of firewhiskey.

He wonders if he’ll feel disappointed or relieved when Voldemort realises he’d rather keep trying to subjugate Magical Britain than have Harry as his soulmate.

Three days later, the war ends.

#harry potter #voldemort #tomarrymort #soulmate au #soulmate marks #manipulative voldemort #harry is 1000% done #drinking #alcohol

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oliversrarebooks · 3 months

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 40: The Maestro's Mark

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June 1905

TW: mind control, body control, captivity, human auction, abuse, burning, branding, mouth whump, forced self-harm, dissociation, this one's kind of a doozy isn't it

"Sir -- " Fitz's voice had returned to him, and he was dismayed to find it shaky and weak, much like his knees. Beside him, Miss Lily was gripping his chain so hard he thought she might crumble it to dust. "Sir -- who was -- "

"The Maestro, an old and powerful vampire lord. My sire, and Alexander's sire as well. The one responsible for turning us into vampires," Miss Lily said, picking him up into a princess carry. "I wasn't expecting him to be here. He normally does not purchase his thralls."

"Is he --" Fitz faltered with the amount of questions he wanted to ask, before settling on the most important one. "Is he cruel, sir?"

She hesitated to answer as she carried him backstage and out into the hallway. "...Yes," she finally said. "Yes, he is cruel. I'm sorry."

She sounded like she meant the apology, and Fitz's too-short life flashed before his eyes.

"What should I do, sir?"

"There's nothing you can do now. Nothing you can do but be obedient. Try to find the private places in your mind to retreat to, places where he can't reach. Eat whatever you're offered when you can. Sleep as much as possible. And never be defiant, even for the smallest matter. The price will never be worth it."

"...You seem as though you know what you're talking about, sir."

"I was his thrall, once."

It was a colorful and loud nightmare as Fitz was carried through the bustling hallway filled with vampires and their newly purchased thralls, talking and laughing and showing off their fashions. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he would open them, he'd be somewhere else. The lumpy couch in his drafty, shared apartment. His dressing room backstage. Even the opulent prison of his bedroom back at his family's home.

He'd found that unbearably oppressive at the time. Perhaps he'd been a fool to leave, after all.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a small room primarily occupied by a desk and a few chairs. A vampire in a fashionable black dress, her neck and ears dripping with jewels, entered the room. "Oh my, Lily, your expression is better suited for a funeral. You've sold your little project for an extravagant amount of cash. Whatever could be the problem?"

Miss Lily's face was sour as a lemon. "You know very well how I feel about my sire, Colette."

"His money will spend as good as everyone else's. If you ask me, you were a little too attached to this thrall."

"I don't care one iota about this thrall," she said, her grip tightening on Fitz's shoulders. "I just think that no one, not even a thrall, deserves the displeasure of serving my sire."

"And yet, I assume you'll want your share of the earnings."

"And yet."

The door opened, and Fitz's new owner entered the room. Perhaps it was Fitz's fevered imagination, but even the gas lamps seemed to flicker in response to the foreboding aura. He gave Miss Lily a small nod, and Fitz felt her fingers dig in tighter, painful.

"It's truly an honor to do business with you, Maestro, sir," said Miss Colette, settling behind the desk. "Now, then, sir, you'll owe eleven thousand dollars, unless you require any additional services..."

"No, thank you." He was staring at Fitz now, and it felt like icicles sliding down his back. Fitz couldn't help the impulse to look away -- and realized that he couldn't. He was caught hopelessly in the web of power once more.

His master, as soon as the money was handed over. His master forever. There would be no escaping a man like this.

Never be defiant. The price will never be worth it.

Never be himself ever again.

No, he had to snap out of it. There had to be a way out of this. Some way to charm him, to appeal, to get them both on the same side. There had to be. Weaseling out of bad situations was one of his specialties.

The Maestro was reaching into his coat and pulling out a pouch of what looked to be actual golden coins, as if he were some kind of royalty. Miss Colette didn't seem to regard this as strange, taking the coins from the pouch and weighing them on a small scale. Satisfied with the amount, she handed him a contract to sign.

"Now, if the transaction is complete," he said, "please leave so I can discipline my spawn and my thrall."

"Of course, sir." Miss Colette filed out of the room immediately.

Fitz's protests and his screams died in his throat, along with his desperate impulses to flee anywhere. He was under his new master's power again, frozen in time. He'd never escape, of course, but it still hurt to not even be allowed to try first, to be trapped in a treacherous body that wouldn't obey even his smallest commands.

"Lily," he said, approaching her, and Fitz realized that Miss Lily was holding him in front of her as though Fitz could shield her from her sire. "This thrall has an excellent bloodline and potential. Why did you train him improperly and allow him to make an embarrassment of you?"

"He's a performer by nature, sire, as I'm sure you can see," said Miss Lily, and she sounded as subdued and fearful as Fitz was, a far cry from her confident nature when enthralling him. "He is fully trained and obedient. I simply thought it was amusing to allow him to continue to perform, sire. Plenty of vampires would desire a thrall for entertainment. I don't think he's an embarrassment. It took skill to render him obedient while keeping his personality intact."

If Fitz could move, he would be nodding vigorously, appreciative of Miss Lily's defense.

"Yes. Performance is his nature, that much is true just by looking at him. But you need to be in better control of the thralls in your care, not allow them to preen and pose on the auction block." He reached past Fitz to touch Lily's hair, tucking loose strands of her hair into her bun. Fitz could feel her hands tremble. "Oh, child, I worry that I am too lenient on your soft heart. I don't understand what I did to be cursed with two spawn so gifted and yet so foolish."

"Thank you for your patience with us, sire."

"Indeed. And because you do often delight me, I will allow the punishment to be light."

"Yes, sire. Thank you, sire."

"Here. Take my knife." The Maestro held out a silver knife in a white-gloved hand, and Lily let go of Fitz's arm to take it. "You will find an unoccupied bathroom. You will remove your dress so that you do not bloody it. You will cut out your tongue. You will clean yourself and your surroundings thoroughly. You will then put your dress back on and join my other wayward spawn in the parlor."

Fitz's eyes widened at the description of the punishment, the only movement he could manage. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He couldn't do either. Miss Lily let go of his arms, and as she exited the room, head bowed low, he had the desperate, irrational impulse to stop her. True to her advice, she showed no sign of defiance, even when her sire was asking her to do the unthinkable -- as a "light" punishment. From the hard look in her eyes, he had no doubt that she was going to do it.

The door clicked shut. And Fitz was alone with his master.

The strange power forced Fitz's head up to look into the Maestro's eyes as he drew near, like a puppet on strings. With a surprisingly gentle touch, a gloved hand reached out and ruffled his hair, then hooked a finger under his chin and inspected his face from each angle. A soft finger traced down his neck and exposed collarbone, but there was no indication from his heavy aura that the vampire wanted to feed. There was no indication of any desire at all. Just control. Pure control.

What could he do to sway a man like this? He recognized his look, the man who was used to being the most powerful in the room, the kind who couldn't spare a scrap of tolerance for anyone else. No humor, no imagination. The kind of person Fitz usually avoided, or brought up on stage only to tease and get a response from the audience. On stage, Fitz held the power.

His new owner was center stage, now, and not one to relinquish the spotlight easily.

"Fitzwilliam de Hastings," said the Maestro in that musical voice. "You will answer my questions honestly. First -- do you fear me?"

Fitz felt his tongue loosen. This, at least, was an easy question. "Yes, Master."

"You are correct to. At least you are not that sort of fool. Now, tell me -- did you wish for my spawn Alexander to purchase you?"

He recalled the pathetic, fleeting hope he'd had when he'd flirted with Mr. Alexander in the showroom. Yes, yes he had, but he suspected that was the wrong answer. What had worked on Mr. Alexander wouldn't work here -- he needed to work a new angle. "I did think that at first, Master, but then you made that impeccable entrance. You're clearly the vampire all other vampires respect -- it's an honor to have been purchased by you."

The Maestro nodded, then removed one of his gloves.

A percussive crack rang through Fitz's ears, and it took his brain a moment to catch up and realize that he had been slapped hard across the face.

"Do not ever lie to me, child, and do not insult me with your cheap flattery. This is your only warning," his master said, in precisely the same tone as before, not betraying anger or disappointment or any emotion at all. "Try again. Did you wish for my spawn Alexander to purchase you?"

"Yes, Master," said Fitz immediately, praying that he wouldn't incur any further punishment. His tongue. He'd ordered Miss Lily to cut out her own tongue. And if his master wanted to do the same to him, there'd be nothing he could do about it, his very body out of his control.The thought of being permanently rendered mute, unable to joke and flirt and tease and perform --

It hadn't settled in before, had it? What it truly meant to be in thrall to a vampire. Between Miss Lily's mesmerism and his own hubris, he'd imagined himself getting out of this by charming the vampire, carving himself a better life through wit and charisma, as he'd always managed. But these vampires were so much more powerful than him and always would be. What good is wit against a creature who can control your body on a whim, or take your mind away with a word?

He couldn't save himself. No one was coming to save him. There was only him and his cruel new master, and he was unable even to express the despair bubbling up within him. A fate so much worse than death, inescapable.

The re-gloved hand stroked Fitz's cheek gently in the place that was still stinging from the slap. "Despite your ill manners, you have potential, Fitzwilliam. My darling Lily saw that in you, no doubt. A born performer with a compelling presence. Sharp minded. And so, so beautiful. A pity about your headstrong nature," he said. "But you needn't concern yourself. I only need to patiently carve away your imperfections. And I am a very patient vampire."

"Thank you, Master," said Fitz, who had never been more frightened of so-called praise in his life.

"More importantly, I believe you are the key to finally breaking my Alexander's will."

"...I don't understand, sir."

"Thralls aren't meant to understand, child. Thralls are meant to obey. And I have decided what young Alexander's lesson will be." He drew his hand away. "I will give you to Alexander."

Fitz couldn't help but furrow his brow, confused. That couldn't be right.

"It will be a test for him. One that he will fail."

The Maestro pulled a small metal cylinder from his coat. He carefully lifted the glass from the lamp sitting on Miss Colette's desk, beckoning Fitz forward. Fitz felt himself sleepwalking towards his master, even as the Maestro dipped the metal object in the lamp's flame, even as Fitz realized with growing dread what was about to happen.

"He will forget you belong to me. He will desire to possess you, cherish you, perhaps even love you. He will believe he can rescue you from me. He will be incorrect. I will allow him to believe this, then I will take you from him, and I will break you, and suffering will be a teacher to you both."

Fitz's heart pounded.

"Kneel."

His puppeted body gracefully knelt upon the carpet, the crushed red velvet of his dress cushioning his legs, as he looked up in terror.

With a calm, unreadable expression, the Maestro pulled down the neckline of his ball gown and pressed the burning metal to Fitz's flesh, just below his collarbone.

He couldn't scream. He couldn't flinch. He couldn't fight or back away. He couldn't do anything but feel his eyes filling with tears as the white hot pain seared through his body.

Fitz barely even noticed when the brand was pulled away, because the pain hardly lessened. His master was examining his handiwork, and, seemingly satisfied, made Fitz's body stand.

There was no way Fitz could be standing through the shock and the pain, but the puppet strings controlling his every move made it so, forcing him to walk on weak and shaky legs.

"Now show your gratitude for my precious gift."

Fitz's body curtsied low.

But Fitz's mind, flooded with pain and endorphins and magic, was traveling far away. Away from here, anywhere but here, anything but this. Anything but an inescapable descent into hell.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Well, wasn't that fun.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot @cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps

#whump #whump writing #vampire #mind control #vampire whumper #branding #rare bookseller #fitz #lily #maestro #colette

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thewritetofreespeech · 25 days

Note

hehe. liked the married ex fic you wrote for Lucifer, and I'm inlove with your writing! it has a cloudy vibe to it. can I request Barbatos x mc who's dealing with a stalker?👀👀

Barbatos x reader - dealing with a stalker

When he first heard about the human that was living with the Demon Brothers as part of the exchange program, he had laughed.

It was a ludicrous idea. First, this whole ‘good will event’ in general, then putting a human in the thick of it with demons. They were going to eat them alive, he thought.

But as he spent more & more time seeing them around the school, he became more & more infatuated with them. Never able to get close with the brothers always hanging off them, along with the angels, but he desperately wanted to get close to them as well. He had to have them.

Sneaking past the gates and making his way over the fence, the besmitten demon cursed as his pant leg got stuck on some flower thrones. Struggling to pull away.

“May I help you?”

The young man turned in alarm to see a man looking up at him. A soft, but somehow super creepy smile, on his face as he stared at him. He had a vague memory of this man. His mind’s eye reminded him that he had seen him at school events and Devildom festivals along with Lord Diavolo. What was his majesty’s butler doing here?

“I was uh…just—“Climbing a fence. Yes, I can see that.” Barbatos interjected quickly, with that same eerie smile. “But it seems you’re stuck. Allow me.”

The young man wasn’t sure what whizzed past him, but suddenly his pant leg and the rest of the shrubbery fence had broke free and he was on the ground. “Apologies sir. That first step can be a doozy. May I help you up?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” He quickly replied as he stood on his feet and brushed his clothes off.

“Good. We wouldn’t want you hurt now. I take it you got lost on your way to the front door?”

“I uh…yeah…I guess….”

“So you decided to look for a short cut for the garden party over the fence. How industrious of you.”

‘Garden party?’ He thought, but then realized he had a reason to get in and quickly agreed, “yes, yes! I’m here for the garden party!”

“Wonderful. Could I have your name please?”

The young idiot quickly gave his name to the older demon. Who had a clipboard appear out of nowhere and seemed to scan it. “Hmm…I’m not seeing your name. Who gave you the invitation?”

“[Y/N],” he answered quickly, “they invited me.” He wouldn’t dare drop the brothers’ names, and they were the only other person he knew that lived in the house. “They totally did.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I’m not seeing your name, as I said. And I don’t think [Y/N] would be so repugnant to not tell me of an additional guest they were inviting.” The young man gulped. “I know! Why don’t we go ask them? I’m sure they can clear this all up.”

He felt his blood run cold at the suggestion. If they asked them about it in front of everyone, not only would be embarrassed, shunned out of school, and possibly murdered by the Demon Brothers, his chances of getting close to [Y/N] were out the window.

“Well it…it’s meant to be a surprise?”

“Oh! A surprise! Surprises can be fun.” The butler took another step towards him. That smile never leaving his face for a moment through the whole exchange, but suddenly seemed so dark & twisted that the young man felt he was going to be swallowed whole without him ever opening his jaws. “I especially like surprises that maybe never come. Maybe it will be today. Maybe next week. Maybe never. But the chances of surprises happening are always out there. Just….waiting…to spring out on you.”

The young man jump and was suddenly running before he knew it. He didn’t know why. He just had to get out of there. Away from the House of Lamentation and that creepy smile. Away to somewhere safe. Wherever that was.

***********

Barbatos’s eyes narrowed as he watched the intruder sprint away. The outline of his back fading quickly off in the distance.

He and Lord Diavolo would really need to look into what special power [Y/N] had to continuously snare demons into their web. They never seemed to try, but every week their seemed to be some new admirer. He and his lord would have to uncover what that power was, and find a way to harness it.

“Barbatos,” the butler turned when he heard his name and saw [Y/N] there calling to him. “Is everything alright? You seem annoyed.”

“Oh. Don’t worry [Y/N].” He told them with a bright, genuine smile this time. “Just taking care of some rats in the garden.”

“Oh no,” they said with a little giggle, “I hope there weren’t too many. I know how much you hate them.”

“Just one.” Barbatos told them. “But they won’t be back. Come, let’s rejoin with everyone and have some tea. I made a special blend I’m sure you will enjoy.”

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers)#obey me #obey me scenarios #obey me imagines #obey me shall we date #scenarios #imagine #obey me nightbringer #barbatos #obey me barbatos #barbatos x reader #obey me barbatos x reader #barbatos x mc

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cassiefromhell · 9 months

Text

Bats and Fire: The Very Beginnings

What if we took y/n (who is, in this fic, a monster researcher/hunter) being mated to a couple acotar men... then made it all the acotar men (batboys, eris, lucien)....

So this was a silly joke. Then I wrote it. Then I realized that this could be multiple parts... so welcome to:

Bats and Fire

01 - The Very Beginnings

(this is such proof that i will write anything and i'm 6x more likely to write it if its MESSY and CHAOTIC)

Warnings: none

WC: 2k

Finding out you’re mated to all the ACOTAR men would be a doozy.

At first it’s Rhys, when you make eye contact with him while on a business visit in Velaris…

“I know,” you laugh, gently nudging your friend’s shoulder. “Boo hoo, you don’t like the Night Court. But it’s beautiful. We’ve been in worse places on business.”

“That’s tru— oh my cauldron, look who it is!” She points to the back of a man walking with a tall blonde woman, and you can immediately sense the power radiating off of him. He must be who you’re looking for: the High Lord of Night.

“Yes!” you grin, tightening your grip on the jar in your hands — which holds a very menacing pixie that has been stealing magic from residents of Prythian all over. The High Lord of Autumn had commissioned its capture, and you had tracked it back to night, and well… here you were.

“Lord Rhysand!” you call out, gracefully sliding your way through the crowd. “Lord Rhysand, I must speak with you!”

Someone bumps into you, and you stumble, crashing straight into the High Lord’s chest.

“You bellowed?”

“Yes, yes— sorry, my Lord. But you see, this pixie—”

But then you look up, meeting his stunning violet-blue gaze.

You drop your jar, and it shatters on the cobblestone ground, the pixie exploding out of the rubble, trying to make a break for it. The creature is immediately surrounded by darkness, unable to make its grand escape.

“You’re…” you whisper, covering your mouth with a hand.

“…My mate.”

Cassian and Azriel came shortly after. You and Rhys got close quickly, so why wouldn’t you be introduced to his friends?

“Darling?” Rhysand says, glancing around the room, his eyes finally landing on you. “Oh, good— you’re all ready. Remember that it’s cold, so wear plenty of layers—”

You blink up at him, gesturing to the not one, not two, not three, but four layers he’s made you put on. “Rhys. I’m going to be very warm. I’ve been to the Illyrian mountains on hunting trips before and I can confirm that this is too much.”

“It’s gotten colder in recent years.”

“Sure.”

Rhys grins, kisses the side of your head, and takes your hand. “Ready? We won’t be there for two long, I just want to do a little surveillance with the camps and introduce you to my brothers while we’re there.”

With a quick nod, you’re enveloped by darkness and wind. And then it all fades, and chill air bites at your cheeks and nose.

Rhysand holds you close to his side as you trudge through the snow. You wrap your coats tighter around yourself, leaning into his warmth.

And then you feel it.

You freeze.

An electric connection stuns you, seeming to form at your heart and spread through your chest.

And then another.

You reluctantly look over your shoulder, cursing when you see them. Two tall Illyrian males, staring at you. They definitely know. And you have the gut feeling that these two males are the Cassian and Azriel that Rhys told you about.

“Ah, look, there they are,” Rhys grins, waving towards the two males, who have both started in your direction.

This is your moment: fight, flight, or freeze? Your heart pounds in your chest—they’re getting closer—and the crowd is so thick with people…

As a monster researcher and hunter, you’ve never fled once in your life.

…But now is a fantastic time to start.

“Restroom,” you blurt, and then sprint from Rhys’s side, burying yourself in the crowd of taller Fae and wings and fur coats.

You weave between the people, attempting to mask your scent, and then burst into a small corner shop. A bakery, filled with the smells of bread and pastries. Perfect to cover your trail.

You walk up to the counter, fishing out a few coppers. “Do you have anything particularly smelly?”

The baker raises a brow, his wings shifting behind him as he gives you a once-over dripping with judgment. “Excuse me?”

“Love?”

You curse under your breath at the sound of Rhys’s voice. And then you slowly turn around, finding your mate… and your other two mates.

So you face your fate.

The Illyrians were easy to love. You got to know them in a matter of weeks, but you had other jobs to attend to, and was soon in the Autumn Court, where you had to finally turn in that damned pixie to High Lord Eris…

Are you sure you feel safe there? Azriel asks down the bond. One of us can come and accompany you.

Yes, you confirm. All is well. I’m just turning in this little beast. I’ll be back before sundown.

He sent you a wave of love, paired with a sarcastic you have fun with that.

So here you are, climbing a ladder to get to the top level of the Autumn palace. It’s built like a treehouse, with ladders separating the levels unless you’re nobility or a special guest, in which case you get to use the fancy-dancy wooden staircases in the center.

But being a monster specialist is pretty damn far from nobility. So you get the ladders route.

You decide that you hate this place.

Hoisting yourself up onto the final platform, where the throne room is, you climb to your feet.

A guard gives you a dirty look, holding out a spear to stop you in your path. “Female. State your name and business.”

You say your name, and hold up the jar containing a very angry pixie. “The High Lord commissioned this pixie’s capture. Now, if you’ll let me go, this Tinkerbelle is very eager to find an escape route.”

“You didn’t give advance warning of your visit.”

“I sent word a month ago,” you snarl, baring your teeth.

His spear strikes you quicker than your Fae reflexes can react. It collides with your cheek, sending you stumbling back, blood rushing down your jaw.

“What in Prythian are you doing, Magus?” an unfamiliar male voice enters the encounter, and you immediately see boots approaching.

“She was trying to force her way in—”

“Liar,” you hiss. You wipe away the blood and face the guard once more, free hand tightening on the pixie jar. “I have proper certification, if you would just let me—”

“She’s aggressive, your majesty.”

Your majesty?

You look up at the male who had approached. You’re met with a golden-skinned male, with a scar through one eye and a whirring, mechanical eyeball. When he too looks at you, you feel the slightest… ittiest bittiest… tug.

Shit.

His jaw drops, long ginger hair falling over his shoulder. “You’re…”

The doors to the throne room swing open, revealing a male that looks like your newfound fourth mate. But he’s wearing a crown, so he must be the High Lord that you came for.

And when his stunning copper eyes turn to you, it happens.

For the fifth time.

“Nope,” you say, throwing the jar in High Lord Eris’s direction. “Nope. Not again. Not doing this.”

With that, you turn on your heel, starting back towards the ladder.

“Wait,” the first male jumps in front of you, eyes glimmering. “You’re… you’re my mate.”

“What do you mean?” Eris jumps in, stepping into view and rapidly approaching. “She’s my mate.”

“See, so there’s this phenomenon,” you start, gritting your teeth. “I already have three mates. I don’t feel the need for another two. The Mother is cruel and she thinks that building me a harem is great entertainment. But you two are officially out. Capishe?”

The two males looked at eachother, and then back to you—

But you were gone.

We have an issue, you stated down the bond to your Illyrian mates.

You knew that blocking out two mates would not work. And it didn’t. They sent you flowers and gifts, and... oh, the gifts... such expensive and exquisite things... for weeks, until you caved… and called a meeting for all of your mates.

You sit in silence at The House of Wind’s dining table, monitoring the males’ expressions. They're all glaring at each other. The Mother definitely could have given you a less… volatile… group.

“Okay,” you start, scratching the back of your neck. “So… I think this is it.”

“I’d like to put it on the record that you said you were sure we were all last time,” Cassian grits out, wings rigid at his back.

“This is different. Now, we need to go over rules, boundaries… anything that comes to mind?”

“Separated court times,” Lucien starts, seeming rather open to the situation. “Eris and I manage the Autumn Court, and these three are always in Night, so it makes sense to do a week-on, week-off schedule.”

“Her work requires her to travel,” Azriel joins in, twirling Truth-Teller in his hand. “You couldn’t expect her to just stay in your court for a week at a time.”

“Of course he didn’t mean that,” Eris snarls, ear twitching. “He meant during her off time.”

“I could—” you try to join in, but it doesn’t really work out for you.

“I plan on making her my High Lady, which she has already agreed to,” Rhysand growls. “So she’ll be spending a lot of time in the Night Court.”

Cassian nods, joining in. “And we don’t want her to give up her passions. Which seems to be what you want. So she’ll be either at the Night Court or traveling. You two can… visit… her.”

“I really wouldn’t mind—”

“And what if I want her to be my High Lady?” Eris stands, lips pulling back as he faces Rhys. “Perhaps she’d prefer to reside in a more respectable court than Night.”

That prompts both Azriel and Cassian to stand, growling and wings flaring. “You’re a piece of scum and she does not deserve to be tied to the likes of you,” Azriel responds, bitterness and anger dripping in his tone.

“Have you lost all your dignity?” Lucien shoots to his feet too, and Rhys follows suit.

They start yelling. And arguing. And every time you try to cut in, they ignore you.

So you conjure up something that should get their attention.

“Contraceptive brews!” you shout, throwing your arms in the air.

Sure enough, the males go silent, turning to look at you.

“Sit down.”

And they all do.

Like puppies taking a command.

“Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel and I have all agreed that the males take the contraceptive brews. I have a rigorous travel schedule that often includes random overnights in the woods or mountains while hunting or researching, so I don’t always have access to them,” you explain, gesturing to the Illyrians.

Eris raises a brow. “Wouldn’t it make sense for you to just carry it with you rather than all five of us taking—”

“Drink the brew or you don’t get it,” Cassian growls, making a lewd gesture.

“New rule. No more fighting. It’s overwhelming and stupid.” you announce, taking the ribbon out of your hair and putting it in the middle of the table. “This is the Talking Ribbon. When you want to talk, you must have the ribbon. Else you shut the fuck up.”

“That is your—”

“Rhys. Talking Ribbon.”

Rhys obediently takes the ribbon, then tries speaking again. “This is your favorite ribbon. I wouldn’t risk this being used… it could get torn.”

Lucien takes the ribbon gingerly, and then faces you. “Then we will not tear the ribbon. Right, everyone?”

The males all nod.

You sigh, and then gesture around the group. “My time will be spent as I please. Now, I think I’ve been here for as long as I need to, so you five can work out the details on your own.” You stand, and walk away from the table.

“Love,” Rhys calls after you. “Love, I think that maybe we would benefit from your presence—”

“I can’t always be your mediator. I have a Wyrm to hunt. Good night.”

And you leave the males to grumble amongst each other.

If you'd like to be tagged for future 'bats and fire' chaos, comment and I'll add you to the taglist!

Read 02 HERE

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gojos-thot-patrol · 1 year

Note

Hellooo!~ I have a spicy 🌶️ gojo satoru x f!reader oneshot request 🙏

Story starts with Satoru feeling weirdly hot after he got hit with something after fight with a curse spirit so he went straight home to reader. Only to feel his inside burns and him to have the urge to just destroy reader's hoo haa when he saw reader who just got out from the shower ( water still dripping down her body for extra smexy moment for satoru 👌 ) and he did 😇 I imagine him stripping himself harshly and breathing heavily while give reader a very needy mwah mwah and also whimpering

A needy gojo satoru is what I need for valentines lord author

I am on my knees begging

Dear Reader, did you just come into my ask box and ask me to write about Gojo going into a sudden heat? Like, ABO dynamics style?

Reader I love you.

Now Presenting...

Starring a very desperate Satoru Gojo

“Fuck.” Gojo thought as he exited the cursed building. “That was fucking weird.” He knew he was in for a doozy when he was specifically called in to take care of this curse, even more so when they refused to tell him exactly what he was dealing with. He wasn’t worried though, not until he walked into the fight just to be immediately hit in the face with some sort of powder(?) that the curse was excreting. He didn’t notice it during the fight, but now that he was on the other side…

He realized he needed to get home. “Gojo!” Kiyotaka, the driver, yelled to him, “did you get it taken care of?”

“Yep!” Gojo smiled, trying to keep his head on straight and limit suspicion. “Hey, that fight took a lot out of me. I’m going to head home, ‘kay? Let Yaga know for me.” Kiyotaka nodded as Gojo spoke, getting a good look at him.

“You do look red…are you ok?” He asked, concern lacing his voice. Gojo didn’t have time for it.

“I’m fine, I promise.” He assured Kiyotaka, already setting the teleportation path. He could feel sparks going off in his veins, threatening to start a fire.

“Do you want a ride-?”

“No.” Satoru said, and before he even fully realized it, he was standing on the steps in front of your shared home. Things were, for lack of a better word, heating up. His blood felt like sulfur and the only thought he could focus on was of you. He felt like he was going to be torn apart from the inside out if he didn’t have you at that very moment.

“Hey, Y/n, I’m home.” He called for you as he rushed into your shared home. He was desperate to feel you.

“Satoru?” You asked as you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still drying your hair. Gojo thought he was going to explode. “You’re home early.” You noted.

“God you’re fucking gorgeous..” Gojo muttered, feeling himself start to burn apart at his seams.

“‘Toru?” You asked, worry for him evident in your voice as you approached him, “Are you ok? You look feverish..” you said, reaching out to feel for a fever. He grabbed you instead, pulling you close to him and pulling you into a desperate kiss. You yelped softly into the kiss, shocked by his desperation, before you melted into him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he pulled you closer than what seemed possible. You were right by the way, he was feverish.

“Fuck Y/n..” He whimpered, pulling away only to rip his shirt off. It was getting too hot anyway. “I need you.” He whined, pulling you close yet again and burning his face in your neck, marking any skin he could. You moaned softly, tugging lightly at his fluffy hair. You may not have been under the exact same spell as your loving boyfriend, but he always had an effect on you no one else ever had.

“I need you too.” you muttered softly. That was all he needed. He picked you up and you instinctively wrapped your legs around him. He attached his mouth to your neck, marking again over bruises he already left. He carried you to the room. You dropped your towels as he placed you on the bed, moving to kiss down your body. You moaned out his name, tangling your fingers into his hair as he kissed your shoulders, your chest, your stomach, your hips, and finally the place that you had needed him the most. And the place that He wanted to be the most.

Gojo wasted no time with teasing. The burning in his head and skin wouldn’t let him. He immediately went to your clit, sending fire throughout your own veins. “Fuck, ‘Toru..” You moaned, pulling at his fluffy hair as he held your bucking hips in place. You needed more, he indeed more. He slid two of his fingers into your weeping cunt, delicately preparing you for him. You had just begun to see stars when he pulled back.

“Fuck, Y/n,” He groaned as he struggled to rip his pants off. You could see his cock straining against his pants and it made both embarrassment and excitement bubble up inside of you. “I need you now.” Gojo whined, wasting no time in pulling you to him and pushing inside your dripping pussy. While you moaned at the feeling of him stretching you apart, he whimpered at the relief.

He wasted no time in setting a brutal pace, making you feel like you were coming apart at the seams as he fucked you ruthlessly. A string of praise fell from his lips as he destroyed your pussy, molding it to his cock like he owned it. As far as he was concerned he did. You didn’t hear any of it though, you were too lost in the euphoria he was drowning you in.

Gojo knew he was close to coming undone, and he’d be damned if he was cumming without you. His hand slid down to give your clit some much needed attention, and all at once it makes a world of difference.

“Fuck, Satoru!” You moaned out, your nails leaving crescent moon cuts in his shoulders. A tsunami of fire and dopamine stirred inside you, crashing and thrashing, pulling you under until finally you snapped. Your body felt like it was ablaze as electricity and pleasure coursed through you in harsh waves.

Gojo wasn’t far behind, your climax bringing on his own. Relief finally washed over him and he finally didn’t feel like he was burning alive anymore as he fucked you both through your respective highs, breathing had and all but collapsing next to you as you both finally came down. He pulled you close to him, kissing your forehead. “I love you..” He sighed.

“I love you too” You assured him, smiling up at him as best as you could. “So how was work?”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #slight abo dynamics #needy gojo #whats up nonny

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thebelugawhalefriend · 5 months

Note

Hii! Love your writing. Do you do any sub character content? If so could you do Sub Muzan x Fem or GN reader?

Hihi!! I'm very excited to have a first request! I actually had to go back and watch the fourth season and read his wiki page because WOW this is gonna be a DOOZY to write! I mean this is a man who has every demon praying for mercy at any cost. But, I love a good challenge, so let's get into it!

Merciful - Sub!Muzan x Demon!Fem!Reader

CW: DEMON SLAYER SPOILERS, NSFW, Gore, Death

Note: I have really only watched the anime, so anything from the manga will stump me here ^^

It was 150 years ago when you first met him.

"You BASTARD! Let him go!"

Human and feeble. So weak and small to even your own kind. A towering man stood above you with pure spite behind his green eyes. Muscular with sleek black hair tied tightly behind him. In his hands he held your little brother, ready to slit his throat with a sickle.

"What, him? I caught this boy trying to swipe from my shop! If I had half a mind, I would slice him into tiny pieces."

You were but 18, shivering and scared. Your own blade looked pointless compared to his- only being a mere dagger. And yet, you clung to it tight. This rusted piece of junk was your only chance of your brother's survival.

"I said let him go! Not just for his sake, but yours!"

"And what are YOU going to-"

With the quickness of an eagle, the blade in your hand was digging into his shoulder. You clung to this man as if you depended on him not to fall. It's then you plunge into his back. Again. Again. And again.

"Sister, stop! Stop!"

Your brother was trying to flail from the man's arms- trying to free himself from his grip. It was, however, of no use. Even with a crazed woman stabbing into his body, his sickle made quickwork of the boy's neck.

SWING!

Thud...

"BROTHER!!"

And from there, those moments were a blur. Faint images came back to remind you of your crimes. The shop owner's once proud physique now a pulverized, sad corpse. Bystanders horrified by the situation now also blood on your hands and bodies on the road. Even nearby pets ended up slaughtered by your palms. But... You wanted more. Even if you were still human, this man deserved the most painful death and afterlife you could imagine. Taking his sickle, you carved his chest wide open and ripped out his heart.

"Now wait, young one. Wouldn't you want eating him to matter more?"

Now this man... He gave off a completely different feel than the man who'd killed your brother. Despite a similar look, he held ruby red eyes that peered right through you. You pause for a moment with the heart in hand.

"And just who are you?"

"Such raw emotion and strength... And yet still so weak. You couldn't even save your brother, and here you are, eating a man's heart just for your body to waste it."

"You don't know me! I'll-"

With a finger to your mouth, your body freezes.

"Hush. I'm here to help, just for a small price. I can tell you'll be of great use..."

---

"Lord Muzan~"

You call from one of the halls, flashing this man a daring look. From the moment he met you, you would never let this man have the respect he's earned. Even the Kizuki tremble in fear just uttering the wrong word to him, and yet for you? He would tolerate just enough teasing to let you have fun.

"Now of all times, ____? Can't you see I'm busy?"

His tone is cold, but your glare is chilling.

"Ten months, Muzan. You've left me wasting away for ten months! I understand tending to your other wives and taking care of those demon slayers, but ten months?"

His silence speaks volumes... But you? You've never realized the pure fear that comes with messing with Muzan. He's never put you in your place, and maybe... Maybe a twisted part of him likes that. You remind him of the authority he only had when he was human. No one could command or demand anything. Except... You.

"Come with me, Muzan... Please, just spend one night with me..."

Those (color) eyes you give him... His glare simmers down into a rare soft gaze, backing away from his desk to approach you.

"You're the most fortunate woman alive, ___. Any other would fall to their knees if they spoke to me that way."

"That sounds like a yes to me."

---

For every rough move Muzan would make, you were twice as bad. The poor lord of demons was pinned by the hands while you rode his cock for everything it was worth. Your fangs were oh so close to his neck, and yet Muzan was only encouraging that you bite him. Just one move and he could pulverize you. End your life over your own rush for power. And yet, you were headstrong and uncaring. His breathing was quivering and shaky, eyes of blood red looking up to yours with a submissive lust.

"Like that, dear- Fuck! Like that!"

You could barely focus on his blissfully soft voice. The most powerful man to exist and yet he's under you... Your fangs sink right into his neck yet stay absolutely careful not to drop an ounce of blood. After all, wasting anything precious of his was a death sentence. When his hands shift under yours, you let them go to see what he does.

"Don't be shy now... I know you want more..."

His voice is so quiet and soothing that your focus slips for just a moment, just enough time for him to grip your sides and push you down on him. Keeping you absolutely still. Is this a trick? Some sort of act? You sit up for a moment to look down, seeing him with a playful smile.

"Muzan... Are you sure you want to toy with me?"

One of his hands slip down to tease you as his member sits inside. Pulsing and needing more despite his cool demeanor.

"I want to see that fire I know you have. I let you take over too easily this time... Prove you're worthy to actually let me finish inside of you, ___."

Before the blink of an eye, your claws are quick to dig into his own sides in an attempt to keep going. And yet, one of his hands keeps you still.

"I know you have it in you. I can see that frustration in your eyes, dear."

Oh, you have a plan alright. While your hands worked to mess with his body and neck, your legs were building up strength to keep things going. Just a little longer... One of your claws lunges for his neck, Muzan quick to catch it with the hand that was teasing you.

"Too eas-"

While he was only slightly distracted by your lunge, the sheer force of your legs resumed the session despite Muzan's grip. The free hand practically pouncing to hold his chest down while your speed threatened to break the bed. Once playful eyes now looked to you in awe as he twitched and let out just the tiniest of pathetic whimpers.

"Don't you toy with me, Muzan. I know you like this too much to stop me!"

He really couldn't hold back. Just mere seconds pass before ropes of his semen come through and fill your insides. Yet, your body is absolutely sure not to let a single drop seep from your womb. You can't go wasting even his cum, now can you? Shocked red eyes look up to you, now with a renewed sense of pride.

"Y-you're so damn lucky I'm merciful towards you..."

#muzan x reader #muzan kibutsuji #muzan x y/n #muzan x you #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer imagines #demon slayer

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pixiecactus · 4 months

Text

🍂book!(mostly)gendrya fanfic rec (part one)🍂

oh boy this is a doozy, so here they are the first one to twenty, most of the summaries were written by me, so if you ask yourself why the summary is really shitty and not appealing, that's why. a high number of these fics are restricted so you'll need a ao3 account to be able to see them. any kind of triggering content i put with the corresponding warnings, same with any minor pairings featured and finally if the fic contains smut (so if that is not a thing you're interested in reading you can skip it)

➤the rabbit by aneedleofmyown - arry and gendry banter/friendship back when they were travelling with the night watch's recruits

➤out of the dark by schwoozie - arry and gendry share a bedroll/cloak on their way north as night watch's recruits

➤my forest lass by theviolentdelight - smut - before the battle against the others arya visits gendry's tent - future au

➤cold by callioope - arya returns to the inn at the crossroads, gendry does not recognize her - future au

➤lay me down by elenei - smut - gendry sees arya wearing a dress once again and pretty much my featherbed starts playing - future au

➤the tilt by acornsandravens - smut - jon arryn sends gendry to the vale and he end up as a knight during the bolton and frey rebellion. arya and gendry meet at a tourney with good old stubborn arya and good old stubborn gendry - canon divergence - arranged marriage - minor bran/meera

➤cloaked by acornsandravens - smut - five times arya and gendry share a cloak and one time they share a cloak with someone else - future au

➤sapling by elephant_eyelash - arry, gendry and hotpie friendship, arry teaches gendry and hotpie about nature

➤conversations with dead people by prettyy_vacant - gendry sees dead people when he's at the crossroads, i know it sounds like a modern au, but it's not - future au

➤forest love by elenei - arya is confused and scared about her feelings for gendry cue godswood love confessions - future au - really minor daenerys/jon - (fic has talks about gendry and lordship)

➤wild forest lass by persuade_me - arya is never found after the fight with joffrey at the trident, she and nymeria have been surviving alone for years until she is found by the inn's blacksmith where she was trying to get produce - canon divergence

➤ser gendry of the hollow hill by vanillamostly - gendry's pov during and after the red wedding do i need to say anything more

➤caught a long wind by macneiceisms - domestic gendrya, arya and gendry arguing about their family sigil - future au

➤warmth by madaboutasoiaf - arya and gendry friendship during the bwb days and the end of said friendship a little bit angsty

➤dream by madaboutasoiaf - gendrya reunion, a really heartfelt one - future au

➤the first one by aliceinwonderunderground - lovely gendrya reunion - future au

➤there us no word for bull in old valyrian by bluethunder - i know that this fic has lord of storm's end gendry, but most importanly has past cat of the canals x young griff, a rare pair that i found actually fun, so this is aegon meeting arya again and trying to woo her and arya is having none of that also it has dany as a interpreter and a reversal in the targaryen-stark-baratheon debacle of old time - future au

➤the green eyed monster by joyblue - going to copy the fic summary because it's perfect, times the green eyed monster visited catelyn, ned, jon, sansa and gendry all because of arya. it has gendry being legitimized by stannis, but he doesn't get storm's end - canon divergence

➤fair gendry & ser arya the gallant by macneiceisms - smut - forge sex with first times and love confessions other than arya saying that sansa would understand her wanting to be with gendry and not be betrothed to some lord (we know sansa would not) is pretty much perfect - fluffy fluff - future au

➤don't go without me by like_a_dove - gendrya childhood friends in winterfell, basically gendry is hidden in winterfell and you know how it goes with this couple - friend to lovers, but arya is betrothed to lord edric dayne of starfall and their time together is coming to an end - canon divergence

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #house stark #arya stark #gendry #gendrya #arya x gendry #gendry x arya #gendrya fic rec #arya x gendry fic rec #gendry x arya fic rec #i honestly think this will take me over ten parts

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anti-spop · 2 months

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i just found this post

https://www.tumblr.com/ericamzdm/625397911293952000?source=share

and good lord, it's a doozy. the victim blaming is off the charts and they're twisting genuinely well-intended actions by adora into.. abuse? i don't even know where to begin so i would love to hear your thoughts on it!

Do not harass the OP of the post.

Did OP forget that Adora was literally raised to look after Catra? Like, she was actually trying to help Catra not get in trouble, because she knew Shadow Weaver was not going to be pleased to know Catra has been slacking off or showing up late to training. Adora is supposed to protect Catra. Or did OP forget about "Promise" altogether?

(And you know that if Adora doesn't protect Catra, they're going to hate her for that, too.)

I do not understand the "Adora is (emotionally) abusive" interpretation. OP took the screenshots completely out of context and distorted them entirely. I'm not saying Adora is flawless, because she isn't, but all of these scenes show us that she's trying her best to keep Catra safe or happy. More importantly, Adora does genuinely apologize to Catra after seeing she hurt her, and she was willing to talk to Catra about the Force Captain thing. CATRA is the one who refuses to have a more honest conversation. Why is that only Adora's fault? Why is Adora supposed to read Catra like an open book all the time? That is completely unrealistic to ask anyone.

I hate that the post has over 200 notes and from what I've seen, everyone agrees with OP. I do not like these posts that make Adora look "as bad" as Catra, because she really isn't.

#asks #spop critical #anti stans #abuse tw #anti c//a

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plushii-gutz · 4 months

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FS!Attmoz Stimboard for my boyfriend!

Good lord, this one was a doozy @5t1nky-p1nky

Sorry for the sudden swapping of GIFs

☁️|🌻|☁️

🌻|🩷|🌻

☁️|🌻|��️

#my singing monsters #fallen stars msm #msm #fallen stars au #msm au #celestials msm #stimboard

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spacetimesally · 2 months

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Good day, toy fans and action figure fanatics! It's time for another Spacetime Sally action figure round-up and there's so so so much to get to this week, so let's jump right in, shall we? And, as always, you can check out previous action figure toy posts here.

Above, we have the Fight Pit Sally figure. Who can forget that classic episode where Sally was enslaved by the Kurnonian Sweels and forced to fight for their entertainment? Which gives us a nice segue into Sally's saviors from the episode, and fan favorite, The Beagle Crew! (And a big big thanks to GravHell's Garage/TheAnkhst for suggesting some coverage of The Beagle Crew! I almost forgot about these guys!)

Beagle Crew leader, Captain Joyce Janetti (left, original figure; right, 2nd series figure with her signature Wrist Blade weapon)

Beagle Crew Ace Pilot, Dallas Lawrence (left, the original Dallas; right, 2nd series Dallas and his resulting white locks after being shocked to near death by the Cosmic Witch, Shelluno)

Beagle Crew member, the Jack-of-All-Trades, Tripper (left, original figure; right, 2nd series figure)

Beagle Crew Security, The Assassin, Sno (left, Sno in Battle Armor Spacesuit; right, 2nd series Stealth Assassin Sno)

Beagle Crew antagonist, Space Sheriff Furl Knottie (left, original figure in Sheriff outfit; right, 2nd series, empowered Judge Furlington Knottie the Third, and his SurveillanceBot, I-Speye)

Beagle Crew antagonist, Constable Norman Ropes (left, in official uniform; right, 2nd series, Search & Destroy Constable Ropes)

A couple more Sally figures: Grease Monkey Sally; and a most sought-after Sally figure, Space Vixen Sally

Top Left: Ticker, the out-of-control bounty hunting robot built and programmed to do only one thing: KILL; Top Right: Metro SecurityBot, Officer Stomp; Bottom Left: the animated version of Aluminum Tony (who can also be briefly seen in, 'Connection Cornucopia' in his live-action form; Bottom Right: Trick-a-Dee Six, the NavBot gone rogue

And for the Beagle Crew's nasty ne'er-do-well antagonistic group, and the ones who had enslaved Sally, the Kurnonian Sweels, an advanced Sweel species (the more primitive Sweels were seen in 'The Exoneration of Sharkfeather')

Left: a weaponized/armored primitive wild Sweel; Center: Sweel Trooper; Right: Sweel BattleBot

Top Left: Douglas, the kind-hearted Sweel who assists Sally and the Beagle Crew in escaping, and who eventually becomes a member of the Beagle Crew; Top Right: Maiden Aurelie, the Sweel Assassin; Bottom Left: Commander Tallus; Bottom Right: Lord General Grah'Vez de Gra'Vho

Welp, that's it for this week's toy round-up and, boy, was it a doozy. Hope you had fun and if there are any Spacetime Sally figures you'd like to see in the future, just let me know, and I'll see what I can track down in the archive! Until next time, So Long, Space Cadets!

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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

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Broken Glass Chapter 6 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x OC Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis Presley - Elvis (2022)

Read More Here - Broken Glass Masterlist! 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

TW: Some SMUT (HUZZAH! finally! but it's not what you think, sorry 😇). Anita. Angst. Grief. Temper tantrums/angry E. Some small/little/subby!e & caretaker!Lori. Some historical inaccuracies.

Tags: Fake relationship. Slow burn. Angst. (Sort of) enemies to lovers. Hurt/Comfort.

Rating: Mature/NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact || Word Count: 10.9k

A/N: Lord have freakin' mercy, I'm sorry this took so damn long, but the next chapter is FINALLY HERE! For a variety of reasons, this was a doozy for me to get through, so thanks for your patience. ❤️ It's a bit of a rollercoaster of ALL THE THINGS. You want some smut, it's there! Tropes? You got it! Every emotion under the sun? Yep! It is messy? In more ways than one...😏 You've been warned. (And let me know what you think!!)

And thank you SO MUCH for the encouraging comments and support coming in about this work. I was really afraid no one was interested in this one because it's such a slow burn, but y'all are giving it some love and that makes my heart sing! ❤️ Thank you for continuing to reblog, like, comment, and ask! FYI the taglist is being WEIRD and I don't know why so I'm sorry if you don't get tagged and should be!!

Feel free to visit my Wattpad or AO3, if you prefer those reading experiences! xoxoxo

He can’t stop thinking about you.

It’s annoying, really, considering all he’s got to focus on right now. Smiling for the crowds. Getting home. Interviews and pictures. Staying upright. Breathing.

Elvis closes his eyes and immediately thinks about the way your fingers splayed through his hair.

Stop it.

Your thumb catching his lower lip.

This isn’t the time.

Oh, it most certainly is not. He’s finally a stone’s throw from home, working his way through the waiting crowd at the train station, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing and his breath short.

Your hand presses his lower back, urging him forward.

He swears you have some sort of sixth sense in regard to how he’s feeling, or maybe you are really just that good at your job. Unfortunately, all he can think about is the warmth of your body pressed against him and the cool touch of your soft lips on his.

More than likely, you are just a distraction from how emotional he’s feeling. Being back in Memphis, as unusually cold and snowy as it happens to be, has him some kind of way. Perhaps it is the presence of his hometown fans. Maybe it’s the kindness of Gary Pepper, the young man with cerebral palsy that heads one of his fan clubs, when he says that he’s sorry there aren’t more people to greet him—"It’s a school day, after all.”

Biting his lip, Elvis fears he’s noticeably choked up at that. “I’ll see ya later, pal,” he manages to get out and makes note to find some way to thank the man properly in the future. It’s a testament to people like Gary that he still has fans at all after being away for two years. None of this was promised, neither is it continued to be.

Elvis wonders if he deserves it.

As overwhelmed by the crowds as you’ve been so far, it shocks him when you break ranks to kneel down and introduce yourself to Gary. There is a caring kindness about you in that moment that threatens to break his heart and he’s not sure exactly why. It strikes him that it’s because you have been so walled off behind that tower you’ve built around yourself and for the second time in the last 24 hours, he’s gotten a glimpse of who you might truly be on the other side of it.

And he has the strangest feeling that he is the prodigal prince returning home from a far-off land, with you, his new princess, already tending to his subjects as if they were her own.

A shuddering breath rolls through him at that.

Once again, you notice, shooting him a veiled look of concern. Saying your goodbyes to Gary, you grab Elvis’ hand and press along. You squeeze and he feels like crying all over again.

Get it together, Presley.

He breathes and continues forward, smiling away the feelings that threaten to consume him whole. Bright and cheerful, he plasters a grin across his face as they finally make it to Captain Woodward’s police cruiser. Your hand releases his and he suddenly loathes the fact that he’s pushed into the front seat (Better for the pictures, son, he hears the Colonel say).

But he keeps smiling and waving as they pull away. The truth is, he is happy to be home, it’s just clouded by the unease of the last few days and the fact that he might be goddamn dying. Not to mention the part where he’s not exactly sure what his place in the world is now.

And thirty minutes later, when they roar through the iron music gates, his colonial mansion coming into view for the first time in 18 months, his heart pounds.

Home.

It’s just family and close friends now, which has him sighing with relief as he hugs and kisses them all, yet a tension pulls in his chest. He realizes it’s because one very important person is missing.

Elvis had done a valiant job the past year and a half making sure that he stuffed down his grief in all the right moments and only let it out in lonely hours in the middle of the night. He was too damn sensitive for his own good, and God knows there was no room for that in the US Army, not if he wanted to fit in. So, instead he filled his days with maneuvers and his evenings with music and his nights with getting his dick wet, and there wasn’t much time in between to ponder much else.

But now that he’s here, and she most certainly is not, his mama’s absence hits him with the force of a freight train. A sob threatens to escape, his throat closing around it to keep it at bay, and it feels as though the wind is knocked out of him. Every ounce of exhaustion from the last week seems to close in on him all at once, and the only person who could truly soothe him is dead and gone.

The gentle press of your hand against the small of his back has him blinking and turning to you. He almost forgot your presence in the chaos, which he knows is incredibly rude of him because you are in a strange place with strange people, but somehow, once again, you just seem to know he’s not okay.

He needs space. He needs to breathe. He needs to get his shit together because this day is far from over and he’s already spent.

“Y’all, y’all, I need a minute to get ready for the onslaught of reporters that are on their way. We’ll pick this up tonight!” he shares loudly. “Lemme give you the grand tour,” he then whispers to you, taking your hand and yanking you past the white columns and into the house.

The smell hits him first. It’s familiar, yet there is something stale about it. Truth be told, he hadn’t lived here long before he was drafted, but it’s the house that called to him, the one meant for his mama. And now that he’s back, he feels certain she’ll reappear the moment he opens a door or rounds a corner.

Your eyes grow wider with every room as he pulls you through hallways and up and down stairs. His speech is as rapid as his tour, and he doesn’t fully stop until he’s in front of his mother’s room, the one he requested remain untouched until he got home. But now that he’s faced with it, he cannot open the door. He falls into a paralyzed silence.

“Elvis?” you ask quietly. “Are you alright?”

After a moment, he clears his throat. “Um, I...this is—was—my mother’s room.”

You pause, then nod. “I know it’s little more than words, but I am so sorry,” you say, squeezing his hand. It prompts him to look at you, and he finds your gaze knowingly, openly solemn. The look of someone who understands loss.

He does little more than tilt his head at you in question, and you sigh deeply in response, as if gathering strength. He knows that sigh, too.

“My mother died when I was fourteen,” you finally speak, “and she was…my everything.”

Fourteen? Dear God. He thought losing mama at 23 was awful, but he has no idea who he’d even be if she’d been gone at fourteen. The weight of just the thought feels impossible.

“Oh, honey,” Elvis manages to get out and suddenly he understands so much more about you, about those walls you keep around yourself. He wants to weep for you.

You shake your head. “It is what it is,” you say, trying to brush away obvious emotion. “I just want to let you know…I understand, is all.”

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing your hand back.

“Is it the same? Her room, I mean?” you ask suddenly.

He’s surprised by the question but nods.

“That’s nice. I mean…it’s nice that you still have some of her here,” you say in a faraway voice, looking at the closed door.

It’s a strange thing to say, and you seem to realize it the moment it’s out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that’s…I just…my father got rid of all my mother’s things within days of her passing. I only have a few small things of hers that I managed to steal away before he wiped her existence from our house,” you say so quietly it’s almost a whisper, a lingering bitterness in your tone.

“Little bird…” he starts, but then falters at what to say. His heart aches for you as much as it does for himself, and he feels an anger towards your father that feels awfully similar to the anger at his own when Vernon shacked up with Dee not months after his mother’s death.

A father’s betrayal is no small thing.

It makes more sense to him now why a such a young girl would throw herself into her work and schooling as you have. There’s an inkling of understanding as to why you dropped your entire life on a dime to come work for him when you don’t even care for his music or his fame. But something tells him there’s much more to your story than this tragedy, though by the way you shake your head and shutter off those pesky emotions, he guesses he won’t learn more today.

“What’s next?” you ask, your face now a picture of calm.

“The bedroom,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows to lighten the mood.

Your scoff and eye roll tells him he’s on the right track.

His door is open when they reach the suite, he’s guessing to air it out for his return. He ushers you in quickly, then shuts the door behind him. The plush, dark décor instantly comforts him, the sound proofing of the room shutting out the hustle and bustle downstairs. He can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves his lips.

Suddenly, he can’t get out of his dress uniform fast enough. It’s strangling him. He wrestles out of the jacket, stripping himself of the shirt and tie just as quickly, leaving him in his white undershirt and pants.

“I take it you’re done with the uniform?” you say with a touch of sarcasm and a raise of your brow.

“I’d burn it if I could,” he replies with a snort, “but I gotta wear the damn thing for the Sinatra show in a few weeks.”

You hum and nod. “How are you feeling? Let’s take your vitals,” you say, gesturing to the edge of the bed, and turning round to look for something. You find it in a pile of suitcases left near the door, which must have been brought up while he was giving you the tour.

“Exhausted. Wired,” he answers, flopping on the bed. Oh, how he’s missed his own bed.

“Well, you should get some rest. It’s been a very long few days.” He sits up when you come in close in that serious way you do when it’s time to do your job. His heart begins to race. Faint hints of rose water and jasmine fill his nostrils as you bend down towards him with all your tools in tow. It’s part of the scent that he’s learning is distinctly you and it has him flashing back to holding you close back on the train. When your head leans close to secure the blood pressure cuff, he can almost feel again the way his lips brushed over your skin, how they pressed into your lips…

The thought has him breathless now that he has you in his bedroom.

Elvis shakes the thought away because he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that at all. It was just a rehearsal, a way to get you more comfortable around him, and it had worked. You hadn’t jerked away from him all day and even seemed to tolerate his presence somewhat pleasantly. Or at least without outward distain. He wasn’t about to screw up your progress by having actual feelings towards you. Because that would be ridiculous.

Too bad his body isn’t getting the memo.

“Your pulse and blood pressure are higher than I’d like,” you tsk down at him, “and you seem a little out of breath.”

Case in point.

“You need to rest, Elvis.” You turn away, unknowingly leaving him wanting.

Lord have mercy. He needs to get a grip because right now all he wants is a tussle with you in this big, inviting bed. Instead, he shakes it off and clears his throat.

“No time, little bird. Gotta get ready for all those reporters showing up here in…” he checks his watch, “less than two hours.”

“Another press conference? Elvis, the doctor talked about this—you have to slow down. This isn’t good for you,” you bristle, putting your hands on your hips. For whatever reason, he finds it devastatingly cute. A slow grin begins to spread across his face, but he stops himself before it rankles you.

He rises from the bed, stepping into you, drawn to you in some inexplicable way. He resists the deep urge to grab you by the waist and pull you in tight. You’d probably slap him silly if he did.

“I know, honey, I promise I’ll rest after the party tonight.”

Your brow furrows and the defeated look on your face has him chuckling a little. “There’s a party tonight? You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I never joke about parties,” he says, trying to match your serious face, unable to stop himself from grabbing your upper arms.

You look like you are ready to rip into him but then your demeanor changes completely to one of concern.

“Elvis, this isn’t going to work if you don’t make some concessions. There’s only so much I can do for you if you refuse to help yourself,” you say softly, looking up at him with those crystal blue eyes of yours.

He can deal with your annoyance, but the concern in your tone has him shifting uncomfortably.

You’re right, of course you are, but he doesn’t want to think about how shitty he feels or how dramatically he’s going to need to change things if he wants to get better.

If he wants to live.

“Alright, honey. How ‘bout after the press conference I take a good rest?” he concedes.

“How about that and ending the party at a decent hour?” you add not letting up on the way your eyes bore into him.

A challenge.

It warms his blood the way you stand your ground, bartering with him to get him to do what you want, both in a frustrating way and in a way that doesn’t help his urge of wanting to ravish you with kisses. He pushes that tantalizing thought away as quickly as possible, before it gets him into trouble.

Honestly, Elvis wants to fight you on the subject because it’s his life and his house and his party, dammit, but instead, for whatever reason, he growls out a low, “Fine.”

You nod, seemingly satisfied for the moment.

“Now I have a date with my shower. You can freshen up after I’m done, darlin’,” he says, turning on his heel and stripping off his undershirt as he grabs his kit and heads into the bathroom.

“Okay…wait, what?” he hears your voice pitch up and pokes his head back out as he strips his pants.

“I said you can have the bathroom after me, honey…unless you want to join me?” he quirks a brow. Blood rushes straight to his crotch at the thought of you in the shower with him. He’s very glad for the fact that the rest of his body is concealed by the door, otherwise you might see how Little Elvis perks up at the idea.

“Join y—I—no, Elvis!” you sputter. Your cheeks blaze red, letting him know your mind likely went where his did, which sends a tingle down his spine. “I mean, shouldn’t I just get ready in my room?”

Oh. Well, this should be interesting.

“Honey, you are in your room.”

You blink, looking utterly confused. “Excuse me, what?” You look around, eyes landing on your suitcase in the corner.

“Well, the doc said I needed 24-hour care, little bird. What if somethin’ happens when I’m sleepin’? It’s not gonna do me much good if you are way down the hall when I need ya,” he says matter-of-factly, watching the realization finally hit you. “That and you’re supposed to be my girl, and no girl of mine is sleepin’ in a different room, if we’re bein’ honest,” he chuckles.

The look of fear that crosses your features sobers him quickly, however.

“I-I-I can’t—where will I sleep?” He can tell you are trying to keep your panic at bay, albeit unsuccessfully.

“In that giant bed right over ‘dere,” he points.

Your eyes go wide, the blood draining from your blushed cheeks, and he’s suddenly afraid you might pass out.

Elvis hastily grabs his robe hanging on the back of the door and throws it on over his briefs before crossing the room to you. He doesn’t want to spook you, nor does he want you keeling over, so he leads you to a chair in the corner. Making himself the least threatening he can think to, he kneels in front of you.

You are frozen, staring at the bed with the most trepidation he’s ever seen of a woman in his room.

When he speaks, it’s nice and soft, “Hey, hey, little Lo’, it’s gonna be fine, now. Remember, I ain’t never gonna hurt ya, okay? I’m guessin’ you didn’t think about the particulars when you signed on for the job, now didja? Not an innocent young thing like yourself, ‘course not.”

You shake your head.

“But I promise, I ain’t out to do anythin’ bad to you, honey. I won’t touch you. I won’t hurt you. And just look at that bed—it’s—it’s stupidly big. You can be on one side and me on the other and fit a whole ‘nother bed between us, right?”

You seem to be doing the calculations in your head and finally nod, your shoulders relaxing a little.

“And don’t you worry your little head, I always sleep in pajamas,” he adds, trying to ease you further.

“Oh, Madone, I hadn’t even thought about that…” you start to spiral, wringing your hands in your lap.

“And now ya don’t hafta!” he says a little too cheerfully, trying to steer you back on course.

You keep nodding, as if convincing yourself this is going to work, and he desperately wishes he could put you more at ease. It’s strange, watching you build those walls back up around yourself, brick by brick.

“Yes. Okay. This is fine. This is just part of the job. It makes the most logical sense,” you murmur. Your eyes closed, your chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths.

When your eyes finally open again, they are relatively calm.

“Now, I’m gonna go get ready. There’s room in those drawers over there for your things, and that closet there is yours for the takin’, so you make yourself at home,” he says, showing you what is now your space.

You gulp but nod in understanding.

“Are you gonna be alright, Lo’?” he asks, though he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer. A desperate part of him wants you to be comfortable here, wants to please you, though he’s not entirely sure why. You’re here to help him, not the other way around.

“Of course. It just…took me aback is all. I’ll adjust,” you say, gallantly, obviously still trying to convince yourself.

“Okay, darlin’.” Elvis pats your hand gently and your eyes meet his with a cautious understanding. Crisis averted, he stands and heads back into the bathroom to clean up.

Based on your hesitation to be intimate on the train, Elvis kicks himself a little for not having the forethought to warn you about the sleeping arrangements, but his mind has been so wrapped up in his own problems, he just didn’t think about it. That and it’s been a while since any girl has so blatantly not wanted to spend the night in the same room with him.

Relishing the heat of the water of the shower unknotting his tired muscles, he tries not to let his ego get in the way about the whole situation. It becomes clearer by the minute that your hesitation around him is less about him specifically and seems much more to do with your experiences and upbringing.

Or so he hopes.

Not that it matters…she’s here for a job, not for romance.

His brain whirrs with a multitude of thoughts as he finishes getting ready. It feels strange being here, dressing in normal clothes, getting ready for a press conference. He thought it would be harder somehow to flip back into being the Elvis Presley. And it’s true, he’s not quite the kid who left. He’s hardened some. There is a man looking back at him in the mirror now, and behind the sparkle of excitement in his deep blues lies the ghost of some cold, hard truths he doesn’t particularly want to face.

Maybe that’s why he chooses an all-black ensemble, playing with texture versus color. He pulls on charcoal trousers, just a little bit lighter than the rest of what he’s picked out. The thick, high-collared black sweater he pulls over his head is offset by the deep, rounded plunge that exposes his chest. Placing a gold medallion there helps add a bit of pizazz to the monochrome get-up, and he finishes with a boxy black jacket that broadens his shoulders and that’s just shy of thick enough to be a coat.

Elvis swoops his chestnut hair up into a somewhat familiar style and notices he doesn’t really need much around the eyes—he’s so damn tired, the darkness that rims them gives him the effect of wearing makeup when he isn’t. His color is up at least, though by the way his heart zips and his body warms, he’s wondering if it is another fever doing the job.

Whatever the cause, he looks pretty damn good, and right now that’s more than he could hope for.

Exiting the bathroom, he sees you hanging the clothes from your suitcase. There aren’t many, he notices.

Gonna have to take her on a shopping spree, he thinks excitedly, by the looks of your simple and conservative wardrobe. If there’s something he loves besides women and music, it’s buying clothes. The thought of dressing you up to match him, fashioning you to him, and being able to give you things you’ve never had sends a thrill vibrating through him. He can only imagine how amazing you’d look all gussied up based on how pretty you already are in your conventional and minimalist style.

You must sense his eyes because you turn and catch his stare. Your eyes widen the slightest bit at his appearance and take him in from head to toe with what he can’t tell if it’s a critical or admiring look.

“Whadya think?” he smiles broadly, turning around with his arms out.

After a moment, you speak, “Well, considering I’ve only seen you in a hospital gown or your uniform, I’d have to say you look…acceptable.” Your eyebrow quirks with a hint of judgement.

Acceptable?

He can’t help but chuckle a little at how unphased you seem to be, and he wonders if you truly see him this way or if you are just hiding behind those walls of yours. Maybe it’s a little of both.

“You might be my toughest audience, little bird, so I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs.

You nod. Then your eyes flit to the bathroom. It’s subtle, but he takes the hint quickly.

“It’s all yours, darlin’. I-I’ll, uh, I’ll be downstairs,” he says, stumbling through his words the moment he thinks about you being naked in his bathroom. He’s going to have to get over that, quickly, or else he’s gonna get himself in trouble right quick.

He turns to leave the room and is halfway out the door when he hears you speak again.

“Thank you, Elvis,” you say quietly.

He turns to you, seeing a genuine yet embarrassed look on your face.

“For being so patient with me. I know this can’t be easy, having me…invade your life like this,” you continue, waving a hand.

“I appreciate that little bird, just like I know it ain’t easy for you either. And you…you can invade my life all you want, darlin’,” he says with a flirty grin, trying to lighten the mood, but it comes out more breathless and endearing than kidding.

Your unreadable but poignant stare rakes over him for a moment, sending a cascade of shivers down his spine. Then, you blink and look away, and it’s gone, whatever it was that ignited this feeling inside him. You seem to be doing a lot of that lately, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about it, to be honest.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, clearing his throat and nodding before leaving you and closing the door behind him.

Sweat has gathered just above his upper lip. Elvis isn’t sure if it’s from knowing that you are currently undressing in his room or if it’s from the fever. Either way, he wipes it away, takes a deep breath, and makes his way downstairs to get ready for the reporters to arrive.

The interview itself is relatively short, a bunch of men crammed into Daddy’s office out back, but before and after the cameras follow him around the estate. He’s charming and polite as he eats bits off a huge fan made, guitar-shaped cake. He poses next to a Christmas tree from two years ago. He laughs and is pleasant and does everything he needs to do to make them happy.

Luckily, this part comes relatively easy for him. There’s no need to fake being excited to be home or for the movies and albums and appearances he’s already been signed up to do. No, his trepidation comes from other things. Like if he will be well enough to follow through on his commitments. Or if he can keep his declining health from the very people who surround him, so gleefully eating up his every word and gesture. And then there is the maneuvering around all the questions about the girls.

He knows Cilla ain’t gonna be happy when she sees this interview with the way he’s got to brush her off, but with recent developments and being back stateside, he has bigger fish to fry. Honestly, the little girl that captured his attention so fiercely in Germany feels a world away, almost like he dreamt her. So much has happened, and while he loves her and has a deep need to mold her to him, there is no way she is ready for any of this. Especially not now.

Plus, there is Anita to consider. Lovely little Nita, who promised to be good for him. The woman he wrote sweet promises to from across the sea as he entertained a multitude of other women in the meantime. The girl his mother begged him to settle down with.

Elvis thinks he should feel worse than he does for fooling around, but what was he supposed to do? Be celibate for two years? It wasn’t remotely realistic, and the situation was made worse by his grief over mama. He needed the company. He wasn’t gonna be sorry for that. But he doesn’t feel great about the lying or for quite accidentally falling for Cilla because Nita will most certainly see that as a betrayal. She already suspected as much in their last conversation, and they’ve been awfully cool with each other since, so he’s not even sure there is much of a relationship to come back to. But he has love for Anita, he knows that.

Sex is one thing, and love is another.

Unfortunately for him, he has the bad habit of being in love with more than one woman at once, most of the time. It’s in his DNA or something. But it causes a helluva problem when he’s got girls wanting to settle down because he can never seem to choose, nor can he seem to bring himself to ever actually break up with them. That damn jealous streak in him doesn’t help either.

Proof positive of this is how he’d sent Elisabeth, the young woman he’d fallen for in Germany right after mama died and made his “live-in” secretary, on to Graceland upon his return, even though they weren’t really an item anymore and even though he suspects she and Rex are having an affair. The thought of that boils his blood despite the fact deep down he wants it to be true because then it doesn’t have to be his responsibility to let her go. But it hurts his ego all the same.

Elvis is full of infuriating contradictions and he knows it, although he’s got enough problems as it is without getting caught up in how it all makes him feel.

Seeing Anita is both something he desperately needs yet also dreads, his stomach rolling with just the thought of it. He loves her still, though he’s not entirely sure in what capacity, but he’s certain she will want what he promised in his letters: marriage and a family.

And one thing is for sure—he can’t possibly start a family with a woman he can’t tell his secrets to, not when he’s not one hundred percent sure if that’s what he wants and who he wants it with.

This should tell him all he needs to know about his future with his little Anita, but the need for the comfort of someone familiar overrides all logic in his feverish brain. He can’t help but call her to come immediately, even though initially he planned for a private reunion after things had settled down some.

“Little,” is all he can bring himself to say when his blonde baby makes it through the front door before the party starts. He doesn’t hesitate to scoop her tiny body up into his arms and hold her like his life depends on it.

And she is warm and familiar and comfortable, Elvis thinks, as he buries his head in her hair and she clings to him. But the moment is quickly overridden by the tendril of doubt that climbs up his spine and sinks itself into his psyche. His heart begins to throb in his ears, and he pushes the bile that creeps up his throat back down with a gulp. Pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, he prays it will feel the same as before, that something, anything will be the same as before he was sent overseas.

It isn’t.

Lord, it breaks his heart a little, a flood of searing heat rolling through his chest when he pulls back and forces his best smile to paint his face. He can’t parse out right now why it isn’t, not exactly, not when she’s looking at him so expectantly. But he has a pretty good idea it’s not just the other women that has him feeling off about this, about her.

It’s cuz you’re a damn lying liar, a bitter voice in his head throws up at him, and you know you ain’t gonna tell her shit about all the ways you’ve betrayed her and especially not how you’re dyin’.

Shut the fuck up, he hisses back.

Perhaps this is why he pretends everything is right with the world, folding her into his arms through the evening, petting and patting her like he never left. He so wants everything to be perfect, to fit like it’s supposed to. He wants—no, he needs—a good woman by his side, to take care of him. Mama knew that. And she liked Anita for it.

But the ache in his heart and in his stomach tells him she’s not the one, yet his innate need to please still whispers maybe, maybe, maybe, matching the rhythmic pounding of his heart.

Later, when he pulls Little up to his room, he tells himself he’s gonna be honest with her, tell her everything and then they can start with a clean slate. But the words get trapped in his throat and he kisses her instead.

Elvis lets his body take over, even though it’s burning up, because this he knows how to do right. His lips plunder hers, hoping for salvation, and her mouth opens, ready and willing to take him. Her mewls and sighs, now those are real, those are something he can latch onto. It doesn’t take much at all to get her under him in his huge bed, his hands and lips exploring all the familiar dips and curves of her perfect form.

“You my good baby? Little was good while I’s gone?” he baby talks breathlessly at her, nuzzling her nose as his fingers dance over her body. Yes, this is familiar, this little vulnerability he lets leak through, this need to be insular and small and needy and taken care of.

She nods, furiously, replying breathlessly, “Yes, of course, baby.”

Elvis believes her, mostly. He wants to. She’s a good Southern girl who promised to wait for him, and he takes that for what it is. Because of this, he won’t go all the way with her, he never does, wanting to keep her pure.

But why? You ain’t gonna marry her.

The thought hits him like a truck, causing him to halt his ministrations.

“You alright, Elvis?” Anita asks, those pretty eyes of her clouding with a tinge of concern.

Shaking it off, he covers quickly, “Y-Yeah, o-of course, Little. Just missed ya, is all. Takin’ it all in.” Throwing a dopey grin on his face helps reassure her and his Little smiles back at him, her tiny hands running over his face and neck and chest until he remembers he doesn’t want to think anymore.

By the time he’s inched his hand up her skirt, feeling the center of her panties damp with slick, his mind finally relents, and his arousal takes over fully. It’s blissful, giving himself over to pleasure after so many days of racing thoughts. After having to fight his body at every turn.

No, now Elvis just slides his hand between her legs, grinding his quickly hardening cock into her hip, not a thought in his head other than bringing them both to the brink. He’s gentle, though, when he slips under the cotton, causing a whimper to escape her as he flits his fingertip over her slit and circles the little bundle of nerves at the top.

Anita keens and grinds into his hand, her hip rubbing deliciously against his length. With a moan, he pulls himself up, moving in between her creamy thighs to perch on his knees. This he can control; this he can satisfy.

“Show me how my yittle baby been so good while I’s gone,” he purrs in her ear. The way she’s panting with want and dripping onto his hand will have him finishing too soon if he’s not careful. “With no one to pet yer yittle kitty, ya must be all tight in there for me, right baby?”

“Mm hmm,” she nods, barely able to get the words out, as breathless as she is.

“Lemme see,” he commands. She opens her legs, knees coming up readily to accommodate him, lifting her hips up when he pushes her skirt to her waist. He smirks when he sees her choice of white panties exposed, the dark little curls visible through the thin fabric and the grey damp patch in the center that shows her need for him. The sight sends more blood rushing to his dick and it twitches roughly, scraping against his slacks.

But that will have to wait because he has an inspection to do, one he takes seriously as he hooks the crotch of her panties with one finger and pulls it to the side, revealing her bare, shining pink petals to him.

Oh, Lord have mercy, how he loves pussy, he thinks, swallowing a groan as he bends his head between her legs. She shudders at his proximity and bucks at how he parts her swelling lips with a long finger. He places a hand over her furry mound and presses lightly to still her, thumbing her clit.

Nita whines at that.

“Be a good baby,” he scolds. She stills. He finds himself wanting to rut into the mattress, but keeps himself on his knees instead, needing to see to her first.

He uses two fingers to part her lips, swallowing a moan when he sees her tight entrance leaking for him. “Aw, look at that. Kitty’s weeping for me, needs me so bad,” he coos. It’s a little wicked how he teases her, dragging a finger through the slick, up and down, watching her clench around nothing. But he can’t help but be enamored, can’t help how he brings his finger to his lips to taste the tang of her there.

“Elvis!” she squeaks, a wanton mixture of need and shock. She watches with wide eyes when he smiles at her before putting his entire middle finger in his mouth, lathing it with his tongue.

“The real test, baby,” he says, then takes his spit-soaked digit and slides it right up into that tight little hole. He can’t help the way he groans at just how damn good it feels to sink into her wet heat.

From the way she gasps and writhes and by how her walls clench around his finger, he reckons she’s passed his little test. “Such a good baby. No one’s been in my little kitty, now have they? I can feel it how good you been,” he praises, punctuating his words with a gentle thrust.

Anita cries out at that, the sound going straight between his legs. Slowly (because damn, she really is so very tight), he works his finger in and out, watching how she begins to rock with him, how she scrunches her eyes shut when he couples it with tight circles on her clit. His hand shines with her arousal in the low lighting, and the sloppy sound of her loosening has him clenching his legs together. Elvis wants to see her come apart, but at this rate he’s so aroused that it’s likely he’s gonna finish in his pants if he’s not careful.

Honestly, he’s so mesmerized by it all that he doesn’t even care. He’s dumb with her and can’t stop himself from lying down and pressing his lips to her clit, causing her to sigh out in surprise. This wasn’t part of his foreplay pre-army, so he can understand why she nearly levitates off the bed when he swirls his tongue around her and continues to work her with his finger. The tangy taste of her and the way she’s starting to tense around his finger has him dry humping the comforter, the friction causing his own moans to vibrate her core.

She’s panting his name now and all he wants is to make her scream.

Lapping and lathing and swirling, he bathes her sex with his tongue and he knows she’s close, and damn, he is too. He curves up and finds that little spongy spot deep inside while he sucks on her button and there it is.

“Elvis!” Anita shrieks his name, her hips coming off the bed as she clenches and shudders around him.

He digs his pelvis into the mattress as she soaks his hand in her slick. Removing his finger, a deep need overcomes him to taste her release from the inside. He licks her clean, spreading her open and driving his tongue deep into her as she squirms against him. Elvis moans into her soaking cunt and thrusts again and again into the friction of the bed under him, drunk on pussy.

Which is where you find him as you unsuspectingly walk through the bedroom door.

“Oh—my god! I—Oh!” he hears you gasp, and Lord damn him if his orgasm doesn’t hit him so damn hard that he can barely breathe with the combination of factors at play. For some reason, watching you stand there watching him covered in slick and tonguing pussy as his release erupts through him has him inconceivably turned on. It’s like the dial of his orgasm is suddenly turned up from 10 to 100. His cock pulses violently and he can’t stop the groan that emanates from deep within, can’t stop the hot ropes of seed that soil the inside of his slacks, coating his lower belly.

Anita screams, and in trying to cover herself, ends up driving his face deeper into her core. His eyes roll back into his head, and he finishes with another moan and an aggressive shudder.

In his post-coital haze, Elvis slowly removes himself from between Anita’s quivering thighs, sitting back on his heels. He sees you standing there in the doorway, frozen stiff with those crystal blue eyes blown wide and your hand covering your mouth. He’s not sure if he wants to laugh, cry with embarrassment, or invite you into the bed. Mostly the latter, he thinks, by the way his softening cock twitches at the thought. Regardless, as improper as it is, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you, and neither can you stop staring at him. Refracting and locked in this strange and intimate gaze with you, he knows he should do something to stop it, to stop this wild desire of his to try bring you into this decidedly pornographic scenario. His breath heaves from exertion and lingering arousal but he remains still, watching you, cum dripping down to his legs and seeping through his pants.

Anita is the first one to move, shoving a pillow on top of her lap with a yelp.

That seems to break the spell and set things in motion. “I-I-I-I’m so, so sorry,” you finally stutter out, covering your eyes, finally looking away.

“What are you even doing in here?!” Anita almost wails.

Oh shit.

When his clouded brain finally realizes the variety of bad implications your appearance brings, he shoots a warning, pleading glare in your direction. But in your mortification, you don’t see it.

“I—I was just coming to get—” you stop, eyes darting, finally catching the wild look on his face.

Anita wiggles around him and pulls her skirt down as fast as possible. “To get what? What could you possibly need to get in Elvis’ private bedroom? You can’t just come in here!” she huffs.

There’s no way that you could know that no one enters this room without express permission, and regardless, he had told you to make yourself at home. He hadn’t been thinking when he brought Anita up here because, well, this had never been an issue before.

You look at him for guidance, but his brain is barely functioning, so he has none to give, sputtering himself. He watches the wheels turn in your brain, how you go to speak, but stop yourself when realizing you can’t reveal that you’ve likely come up to check his vitals or come to bed. Any remotely truthful response is unacceptable, and because you are indeed no actress, it all reads on your face.

Anita jumps to standing, smoothing her skirt. Her eyes narrow, darting from him to you and back again.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding!” Anita seethes, turning on him. “Elvis Presley, what have you done?”

It’s like a bucket of ice has poured over what should be post-orgasmic bliss.

“I ain’t done nothin’, I swear, Little!” he placates, throwing up his hands.

“Oh, don’t you ‘Little’ me!” she points scathingly at him. “You told me she was fixin’ to see some friends down here and y’all were doing her a favor cuz she’d helped you after you hit your head! I should’ve known. I’m such a fool.” Anita’s eyes fill with tears as she shakes her head.

“I didn’t—it’s not—,” you start, trying to salvage the situation.

“Shut your mouth and get out, you silly girl!” Anita snaps.

You look horrified, but he watches as that unshakable face you get when doing your job suddenly slides into place. The look in your eyes when they meet his is apologetic, and then you leave quietly, the door clicking shut behind you.

“This isn’t what you think, Anita.”

“Don’t. Just—don’t. I’m not an idiot, Elvis,” she says, angrily wiping tears off her cheeks. “I just knew there were others…but you were tellin’ all your stories. I just never thought you’d bring them home…”

It both breaks his heart and pisses him off.

“Aw, shit, that’s not the way it is, that’s not the way it is at all, you know how I feel about you…”

“Elvis, I know we were cool to each other last time we talked, but—but you brought home a girlfriend!”

Her tone sets something off in him, flipping that switch inside that always makes him regret his actions later. Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted, sick and because his life doesn’t feel like his own and hasn’t for a long time. Or it’s because he’s truly trapped in this situation and knows there’s next to nothing that he can say to mend this without telling the truth, and that’s out of the question. But he can’t stop the wave of heat that boils through his veins, the one that wants him to burn it all to the ground.

Elvis rounds on her, defensive as can be, the words pouring out of him before he even has a chance to think on them. “You know why—you know why I was cool to you? This very reason, right here. I-I-I-can’t talk to you hon. You mess with my damn head, man. I-I-can’t count on a decent conversation with ya. Ya start throwin’ up all kinds of shit to me. Talkin’ about ‘girlfriends’ and all that nonsense. Been the same since I landed in Germany. You’re just a fuckin nag, that’s all, you’re just a nagger that’s all.”

It's cruel and he knows it by the way she looks like she’s been slapped in the face.

“Are—are you kidding me? It’s one thing when it’s across the ocean, Elvis, but quite another when you bring one of your whores home with you and in the same breath try and seduce me!” she spits.

Irrational, red-hot anger rolls over him at that. He chuckles darkly, livid, “Oh, I didn’t try, honey, I succeeded. And you shut your damn mouth about her. Don’t you dare call her—she’s no whore.”

“Oh, please. I didn’t want to believe it when I overheard Lamar talking about walking in on you two on the train. I wanted to think that you’d left it all behind. You said as much, but you and your never-ending parade of lies…” she says, her voice pitching up and grating on his last nerve.

His jaw clenches, ticking. “Why can’t you be sweet instead of bitchin’ like an old naggin’ ass wife, huh?” he says viciously. “I can’t stand that, I can’t stand it. Baby you’ve got me crazy, you know that? You get worse a-all the damn time, a-and th-th-that’s why I—"

“If you feel so strongly, Elvis, then I—” she starts in again.

“Well, that’s the way I feel about it a-a-and y-y-y-you don’t have to be that way either. Not to the extent that you are.”

Anita tries to interject but he’s countering her every move before she can even play it. They’ve danced this dance before, enough that he knows just how far to push before he breaks her, breaks them.

And he knows that’s what he’s got to do.

“No, you don’t have to be that bad,” he says vehemently, pointing at her, silencing her. “I just know you’re gonna start throwin’ something up to me a-and I don’t wanna hear it. I’m fuckin’ exhausted and try and try to give you what you want, but it’s never enough, is it? You turn me the fuck up, you know that? All the damn time! I-I-I can’t stand it. I-I can’t stand it Anita, I swear I can’t stand it.”

“Well, if you’d do right by me, this wouldn’t be an issue!” She’s crying now, the tears running down her pretty cheeks, smearing her makeup.

Still, he charges forward, his words brutal and cutting. He wants to tell himself this is just an act, but it’s as if every ounce of frustration he’s had the past week, the past few years, is pouring out of him all at once, directed squarely right at Anita. Elvis knows there’s enough truth in all this to make it real. As much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he knew the moment he saw her walk in the door that this was through, that it has to be. And that makes him even angrier.

“Naw, if I saw you every damn day, you’d still start that shit.” He raises his voice, tinny and high, horribly mocking her, “’Who’d you see today? You g-got a girlfriend? I’m surprised at you, blah blah, blah,’ and all that bullshit,” he spits.

“That’s a lie!” she wails.

“Naw, it ain’t no lie. Naw, you bring it up every time I talk to you.”

“Maybe if you didn’t make me a fool by flaunting them all in front of me, in the papers and the magazines, and bringin’ your whores into the house, I wouldn’t have to bother you about it!”

There it is again—that word, associated with you, the woman who’s done nothing to deserve such slander, no matter what you have to pretend—and his heart thunders in his ears. Rage fully consumes him. He goes nearly blind with it.

“She’s not a fuckin’ whore! I want her here, and it’s MY GODDAMN HOUSE!” he screams, kicking a nearby suitcase and sending clothes flying. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his now-wheezing breath. “And I ain’t gotta justify anything to you!”

Anita looks as wrecked as he feels, but she manages to straighten and pull herself together in the heavy silence that follows his outburst. “Fine. Then you ain’t got to worry about me botherin’ you anymore, Elvis. This is over.”

There it is.

He closes his eyes as she storms out of the room, the logical, non-enraged part of him hating how he’s treated her, how he’s failed her.

It had to be done.

Letting out a choking breath, his heart feels like it’s about ready to pound out of his ribcage and race right out of his chest. His body is railing against him the way he railed against Anita.

Serves you right, you sonnofabitch.

It’s as if everything is colliding in him at once. The weight of his responsibilities coupled with that of his treacherous body on top of having to push away someone he cares for makes it all feel like much too much. A faraway feeling comes over him, as though he’s watching the way he rampages through the room, tearing through unpacked suitcases like a starving dog in a dumpster, from someone else’s eyes.

Lord, he doesn’t want to care. He desperately wants to pretend it’s all been one of his night terrors—that he’ll wake up in some bizarre place and find out the last few years, since mama died, have all been a figment of his imagination.

But no, he’s knows it’s real. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if it wasn’t. His body wouldn’t feel like this if it wasn’t true.

Racing thoughts mimic his racing heart, his labored breath: Why, God? Why am I given these trials? Is this the terrible price I gotta pay for the fame and idolatry that I never truly asked for?

Elvis hears a mournful, roaring wail before realizing it’s coming from him, that the horrible sound is emanating and rumbling out of his chest. His vision swims with tears and the room spins around him, but there is a terrifying calm in the center of this storm where he finds himself now, watching the wreckage, unable to change anything.

No one will ever understand. I am utterly…alone.

And then the hideous whisper of his self-destructive streak: Burn it all to the ground.

“Elvis!” The door flings open as you barrel through, calling his name, your eyes wide with worry.

Lamar clamors in after you, putting himself between you and Elvis. “You don’t wanna be here for this, girly,” he says, trying to push you back out.

The overwhelming churning ocean inside him agrees. He wants you nowhere near him when he’s monstrous like this. The plea starts in his head… Get out, get out, “Get out!” Elvis bellows throwing whatever is nearest to him at the wall with a crash.

You jump, wincing at the sound, but when you open your eyes, they are filled with determination and something else he can’t parse through in his state.

“Let me go!” you snap at Lamar, fiercely enough to surprise him into releasing you. Then, you are in front of Elvis, your eyes piercing through the cloud of his anger.

“No. I will not go. Elvis, look at me. I will not go.”

The room snaps back into focus so suddenly he feels whiplash.

Blinking, he flounders under your stare. Part of him is livid at your audacity, for not obeying, for simply existing because it reminds him of his dire situation. But another part is desperate for you to make this stop.

Something between a growl and a whimper escapes him as he tries to turn away, but you pull him back. Your cool hands are like aloe against his burning, sticky cheeks. He slaps your hands away, suddenly ashamed that you’ve touched the evidence of Anita’s arousal that still covers his face, that he subjected you to that intimate act, that he got off on it.

“Just leave!” he shouts, heaving, tears of frustration now spilling down his cheeks. He’s dizzy with emotion and from not being able to catch his damn breath. His knees maddeningly buckle under him, and finally, he gives in, sinking his knees into the plush carpet.

“No,” you respond calmly, coming down with him. You turn your head, addressing Lamar, “You can go.”

The quiet order you have given has Lamar leaving and shutting the door without question. If he was thinking straight, Elvis might be amazed at your confidence, but the world is still swirling like mad around him. He doesn’t want you to see him weak or feeble. He closes his eyes, wanting it all just to stop, hoping to disappear.

“Elvis. Elvis, I need you to breathe as deep as you can for me.”

Your tone has him obeying even though he feels petulant about it.

“Again. In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

He does, oxygen shuddering through him.

You guide him like this for God knows how long, your presence a balm to his gaping hole of a heart. His shoulders slump and he starts to feel boneless, the fire of his anger cooling with each inhale and exhale.

Eventually, he can feel you begin to rise, and his eyes fly open in a panic. His hand grasps your arm, and he shakes his head violently.

“I’m not leaving, I’m just going to grab some things from my bag. Keep breathing.” You remove his hand gently, with a soft smile.

Elvis nods, closing his eyes again because it all still feels too big and the exhaustion he’s pushed off for too long is winning the battle. He hears rustling and the tap in the bathroom turn on, then off, before the padding of your feet on the carpet reaches him again. Sensing you before him, he opens his eyes and looks up at you mournfully through tear-soaked lashes.

You bring a dampened washcloth to his face, gently wiping away the salt of his tears and the arousal left from his romp with Anita. Then you wipe his hands, one by one. He wants to be embarrassed about it all, but all the fight has drained out of him and the action is so soothing that he can’t help but let you continue. He doesn’t deserve this quiet comfort, he thinks, yet is powerless to stop it.

“Up,” you instruct. There’s a softness to it that makes him want to do whatever you ask. You hold out your hands to help him off the ground, then wrap an arm around his middle which he is thankful for when he realizes he’s not steady on his feet. The few steps to the bed are conquered slowly and he falls to the edge quite ungracefully once you release him.

When you seem satisfied that he’s not going to slide off and back onto the floor, you pop a thermometer in his mouth and wrap a cuff around his bicep, taking to task without a fuss. He tries to not let his thoughts spiral again, focusing instead on the swish of your skirt against his knees.

“Hmm, 102.4,” you tut softly, looking down at him with compassion and an eyebrow quirk that intonates an I told you so without it being uttered. “And your blood pressure is too high. Probably from all that…exertion.”

It’s all he can do to just meet your eye, apologies for the multitude of bad behaviors you’ve witnessed tonight caught in his throat. He’s never been good at saying he’s sorry, but he wants to, he does, but he can’t seem to get anything out, much less an apology. Instead, he just looks up at you and hopes his eyes convey the words he cannot say.

You blink in response, your crinkled brow the only fissure in your currently calm exterior. Pushing it away as fast as it appeared, you reach into your bag to retrieve what looks like a bottle of aspirin, handing him two and a glass of water that you must have gotten from the bathroom.

“Swallow those down, and then let’s get you into some pajamas and into bed,” you say, looking at him for guidance on where his pajamas might reside.

He points to the set of drawers across the room. Popping the pills in his mouth, the taste is acrid on his tongue, and he washes them down quickly with the water.

There is something about how you’ve taken over the situation so deftly and completely that has Elvis at your mercy. No one, not even his mama, was ever very good at bringing him down from his bouts of temper, his explosive emotions usually being too big for anyone to handle. But somehow, you employed such a calming presence that he almost wonders if you hypnotized him.

Regardless, you hadn’t run in the opposite direction or turned into a trembling mess before him, and this shocks him, based on what he knows of you and knows of those unfortunate enough to be subjected to his temper. He has not scared you away, and that is something strange indeed.

A sudden and unwavering need for you courses through his tired body and weary soul. It’s different from his attraction to you, something more. It makes him feel raw, vulnerable, and a little afraid at how deeply he craves comfort from you, how he wants to anchor himself to you because he feels so adrift.

Perhaps this is why he gives himself over to your firm but quiet orders, finally deferring to you in a way that is both relieving and disconcerting because he feels so damn small. But he’s just so drained and worn and for once, doesn’t want to be in charge anymore.

His shoulders slump and his limbs feel heavy, so he does not resist when you begin to strip him of his top layers. In fact, the only help he gives is to lift his leaden arms to allow you to pull his sweater up and off, leaving him bare-chested before you. He finds himself desiring the intimacy of letting you take care of him, watching you sleepily through heavy lidded eyes as you move around him. The feel of your fingers brushing lightly against him when you lean close to remove the medallion from around his neck sends his heart fluttering.

You are singularly focused on doing your job, that professional concentration of yours playing over your features, assisting you in your goal of getting him comfortable and resting. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’ve helped others like this in your work based on your deftness, despite your lack of experience with men in general, but part of him wishes he were special—that he alone receives this level of care from you. The possessiveness of the thought swims away and he’s left feeling glad there are no expectations of him, other than to let you work. He relishes in this, letting you maneuver him like a child into his dark, silky pajama top. Frankly, he feels nearly catatonic, so your assistance is both necessary and pacifying.

It's when you undo his belt that a sense of bashfulness heats his cheeks. He’s not wearing any underwear, but that’s the least of his worries. No, it’s the fact that, in his burst of dramatic temper, he had forgotten he came in his pants, causing a sticky, musky mess from his waist to his knee. He only has time to suck in a sharp breath before you’ve already made quick work of his buttons and zipper.

Oh, God.

Elvis’ entire body flushes pink and he bites his lower lip with enough force to draw blood. But you are too engrossed in your task to catch his sudden embarrassment, and you manage to unearth the mess before he has a chance to stop you. He’s gotta give you credit in that you only pause for a moment, almost immediately reaching for the discarded washcloth from earlier and handing it to him wordlessly before continuing with your job of removing his soiled slacks leg by leg. The only hint that belies your composure is the bit of red that tinges your cheeks quite abruptly, but otherwise, you show no reaction to his nakedness or the mess.

Grateful that your eyes are actively avoidinghow he’s frantically wiping his pecker and surrounding areas, he forces his slow and heavy limbs to move as fast as possible. It proves difficult in his unwell state, and by the time he finishes, you are already pulling legs of his pajamas up his knees. You are so efficient that he barely has time to balk at the fact that you are between his legs and eye level with his bareness before he’s raising his hips and you are slipping the silk up to his waist.

A deep relief washes over him, not just for his modesty, but because he feels like he can truly rest for the first time in a long time. For some reason, with you here, he finally feels safe to do so. There is something incredibly soothing in having you take care of him like this. He’s not sure why he ever tried to fight it in the first place.

“Time to sleep,” you say gently, pulling back the covers on the bed.

Elvis is so drowsy and needy that he very much wants to surround himself in your soft embrace and finds himself unable to resist doing so. He unabashedly throws his arms around your hips, drawing you close, and buries his head into your stomach.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly in surprise, tensing under his sudden and intimate touch.

He does not relent, however, only nuzzling deeper into your body and pulling you in between his legs to bring you closer. This need of his to be held and coddled is strong on a good day, and right now it takes over what little is left of his conscious thought. The security of your soft, nurturing warmth is all he craves.

You relax, seeming to realize his intentions are pure, and Elvis feels your fingers begin to cart through his hair and rub his back. He sighs into it. It’s better for him than any medicine and that scares him a little. How could it not when he barely knows you? Yet you manage to soothe something deep inside him that no one else can seem to reach. Maybe he can’t stop thinking about you because you are meant for more in his life.

God has a plan…

The thought settles pleasantly, deep within the recesses of his mind. As you lay him down, covering him with the duvet and he drifts into sleep, he snuggles into the safety of knowing he is in your capable, beautiful hands.

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