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ohtobeleah · 1 year

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Kink.com // Jake Seresin & Bradley Bradshaw

Part One Summary: You’re offered an opportunity you just can’t refuse ~ To shoot a kink .com video with Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw, two of the worlds most renowned BDSM dominants.

Warnings: Jake Seresin x F!reader. Bradley Bradshaw x F!reader. SMUT!! BDSM type scenes. Unrealistic representation of the porn industry but it’s what you’re getting. Overstimulation, orgasm denial, anal, and double penetration.

Word Count: 6.6k

Author Note: This is strictly porn with a plot. There is no critically acclaimed literature here. But vibrators are encouraged!

The warmth of burnt oranges, bright yellows and deep amber reds cast a comforting ambience through your apartment. Cascading windows brought the natural beauty of central park into your living room. You held your phone held close to your ear as you sat wrapped in your bathrobe, hair masked up, drinking in the luxurious moisture of the organic hair mask your best friend had brought you for your birthday. A warm cup of tea cooling peacefully by your side, nestled on the coffee table as you tried not to bite your nails. Coming back into your own head as if you'd been off somewhere else at the sound of your manager's voice.

“kink’s offering $90,000, they really want you to sign on as the submissive in this video Y/n.” It was almost as if your manager knew by your deafening silence that you had your reservations. “At least think about it. Three of the top five porn stars in the world, working together? That’s a lot of revenue for the company and not to mention that 90k? besides! I wouldn’t throw shit your way.”

“I've just never worked with either of them before, I’ll definitely have to do some research, ask around, find out what the go is.” It was something your manager, Alex, agreed with, opting to let you do your research before accepting the deal you’d been offered by Kink and ask around the industry. Weigh up the pros and cons before making a commitment or passing up the opportunity to work with Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw .

“At this stage.” Looking out across the park as trees blew leaves haphazardly across the pavement, you sighed. “I really need to do my research but I wanna say yes just because I know I won’t get this offer again anytime soon.” Alex agreed on his end. “Just keep that between us! It’s not in writing, but yeah, I guess it’s worth it.”

Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw, two of the world's most renowned Dominants in the porn industry. A chance to work with them was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and surely one that doesn’t come around twice. You see, Jake and Bradley had a very unusual request, only one, and that request was–

They only ever work with a submissive once and once only.

So when Kink offered you the chance to work with two of the most well respected, very talented and downright jaw-dropping best friends how could you say no? Their careers as dominants had taken off around the same time you had started gaining recognition as one of the top female submissives in the BDSM community.

Although you were a switch at heart and could dish it out to both men and women just as much as you could take it – you could never resist the chance to be tied up and ‘tortured’ whenever the opportunity was handed your way. And what’s better than being denied an orgasm by a dominant? Being denied an orgasm by two incredibly handsome dominants.

It took you, if you had to time it, a rough four hours to decide to take up the offer and work with Jake and Bradley. You rang around, asked the questions that needed to be asked. It really did settle your nerves asking those who had worked with Jake and Bradley in the past what they were like. It only took you so long to decide because the layout you received of the scenes looked pretty intense – maybe even the most intense video you’d ever shoot. Kink was trying to get you to branch out and they knew to offer you the gig with the duo would entice you even more, because, at the end of the day you were still human and there was not a doubt in your mind that you would let Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw take you – with or without the money.

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

As a professional, you did your research – well, by research I mean you sat at your desktop and binge watched any and all videos the dynamic duo had ever done. Especially for Kink, because they were brutal and you needed to know how they operated.

So you sat for hours, drinking your tea and teasing your sensitive bundle of nerves every now and again as you watched Jake fuck Rachel (Phoenix Trance, another very popular pornstar) with a dick stick as Bradley whipped her clamped tits. Oh, boy, did she look helpless tied up like that – hands tied with rope above her head as her toes just barely touched the ground. She was almost suspended. To the untrained eye, it really did look as if she was in pain, desperately trying to force her leg from Jake's shoulder as he thrust the dildo repeatedly into her soaking cunt.

But for you? a pro? You knew all the signs to look for and without a doubt in your mind – Phoenix was loving every second of the painful pleasure that was being inflicted on her body by Jake and Bradley.

At the same time as you were researching them, Jake was happily stroking his throbbing cock to videos of you being a submissive.

“Ah fuck!” He sat on his bed, laptop just to the side of him, legs spread wide as he slowly pumped his throbbing length watching on as you took a paddling like a true champ. Your ass so raw as you bent over the bench, hands tied in true bondage style as you gaged around the cock that was face fucking you at the same time. “Such a good girl—“ Jake was thinking the same, you looked defenceless against the two burly men whose faces he couldn’t recognise. Unlike him and Bradley, most male dominants are off-screen as much as possible, whereas they like to show the whole world how they fuck their submissives.

“You can’t take a lot can't you?” Jake was looking for signs of distress, looking for your tell-tale signs to ‘stop’ or ‘slow down’ and he only saw one. You would gag three consecutive times if you truly needed to breathe, not wanting to break character, the dominant would back away, slap your face with his cock a few times before going straight back to work.

Bradley was busy doing his own research, but unlike Jake? he was watching you be a dominant.

See when it came to being a dominant or dominatrix to be politically correct, you much preferred to work with women. Why? Because you knew how to work your way around a woman's body. And views were always ten times higher so with good revenue coming in for the company, meant a bigger paycheck for you. You enjoyed your job, truly you did but sometimes it was more about taking the biggest check so you could provide for yourself financially.

“Ohh fuck—“ Bradley watched as you held your submissive’s cheeks, her lips pressed out and puckered as you held what seemed to be a very high-speed vibrator to her sensitive bundle of nerves. With a hand wrapped around his length Bradley jutted his hips forward as he twitched in pure pleasure. “Such a tease.”

You had her arms and legs tied together. Feet to wrist in some of the most professionally tied bondage Bradley had seen in a while. Almost as good as his own knotwork. Leaning over your submissive Bradley couldn’t help but noticed how much joy you took in pleasuring your submissive– Bradley was sure he’d fucked her once before but he couldn’t put a name to the fucked out face he was listening to scream for you to let her cum. It was safe to say Bradley was very much impressed with your abilities none the less but watching how you ‘torture’ your submissives just made him want to give you something to cry about. “Let’s see how you like your own medicine.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Nervous. That’s what you were when you entered the lobby of Kink’s headquarters in New York. Like a 5-star hotel lobby, it blew you away with its magnificent ability to be seemingly innocent in its disguise. Walking up to the ‘reception?’ you stuttered a bit before the lady typing away on the computer noticed who you were.

“Hi, um–I’m h-here to shoot a video for–”

“Y/n darling, we’ve been expecting you!” The lady confessed with a wide smile that was warm and welcoming. “I’ll show you to the room shall I?” Before you could even nod she was on her feet. Her pencil skirt was so unbelievably tight around her thighs and ass that you could clearly make out the thong underneath the thin fabric. Her red bottoms clicked against the marble flooring until you both reached the elevator. Stepping in, it felt awkward – so you prepared for the awkward silence. But to your surprise, she kept talking.

“This your first time working with us?”

“Hmm? Oh-oh yeah” You mumbled, pushing your hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat. “I’ve never shot in this building before, but I’m not a virgin to Kink – done maybe three or four soft bondage videos for you guys.” She smiled, generally intrigued by your conversation.

“I think I’ve watched a few of your videos actually, either that or I’ve mailed the check.” This time you both laughed, it made you feel really comfortable walking into such a compromising situation–but you figured that was a part of her job description. When the elevator dinged, signalling you had reached your final destination, she bid you a professional farewell.

“Well Y/n I hope you enjoy your day. Two doors down the hall to your right.” You nodded in response, still nervous but much more confident than you were just moments ago. As you walked down the hall, remembering the directions given, you stopped at the door that read “Seresin/Bradshaw x Lavender” on the front. It was common knowledge your last name wasn’t lavender, it was somewhat of a stage name, something to give you an extra boost of confidence. Your last name wasn’t public knowledge.

Knocking three gentle times it wasn’t long before someone opened the door, and boy were you instantly smiling when you noticed it was Jake Seresin himself.

“Hi” Was all you said as he stepped to the side to welcome you inside.

“Hi? That’s all the guy who’s about to fuck your brains out gets?” You immediately knew Jake was joking by his tone of voice. You let out a sheepish laugh, biting your bottom lip as you tried to hide the smile growing on your somewhat nervous face. Jake turned, leaning against the door he’d just locked behind himself, arms folded over his chest as the black T he wore looked as if it was about to burst from his chest.

“Rumour has it you only want me for my body Seresin? Where’s your other half anyway?” Jake chuckled before running a hand through his hair, only to gesture over to Bradley who was helping the camera crew set up their stations and double checking they had all the toys the scenes required.

“He’s being pedantic, has to make sure everything’s perfect for every shoot we do.” Jake placed a hand on the small of your back as he walked you deeper into the dimly lit room. Blinds drawn and studio lights already shining. “Especially for such a highly anticipated collaboration - Who knows? Maybe if you’re as good as what I’ve seen we might have to see each other again?” You stood still, frozen in your tracks at the words that just escaped Jake Seresin’s mouth.

“You don’t work with people more than one time around? I know your rule, don’t be a tease.” You scoffed, somewhat flirting to ease your anxieties.

“Aren’t rules meant to be broken? M’not teasing Y/n, just letting you know that if you’re a good girl we might be able to come to a standing agreement.” Jake was smug in the way he spoke to you, clearly already very deep into his dominant character–a method actor for the camera. So you humoured him, trying hard to fight off the natural dominant within yourself as you would have to submit in less than half an hour.

“Well as long as you don’t break my rules Jake, I don’t think we’ll have a problem.” Confidence seeped from your pores, or maybe it was just the sweat beginning to build up from the heat being produced from the studio lights.

“And what would those rules be Y/n, hmm? does it have anything to do with the fact you gag three times in a very not so natural way if you can't take a dick down your throat?” Remember that confidence you thought you had? Yeah no, it was definitely just sweat.

“How did you kno—” Before you could finish your sentence, Jake spun you around so your back was against his chest, his hands pulling your arms behind your back, coming between the two of you as he leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“I do my research sweetheart, oh am I going to have fun with you today.” His hot breath fanned against your cool skin, causing goosebumps to rise wherever it fanned against. The heat between your legs already began to rise but maybe that was Jake’s objective to begin with, get you as naturally wet as he possibly could before filming commenced.

“Trust me I did my own, that stick thrust? weak at best.” You fired back, looking over your shoulder as Jake's grip around your wrist became tighter at the sound of your fiery voice.

“Oh yeah? We’ll have to see about that, won't we? God wait until Bradshaw gets a hold of those perky tits – you’ll be begging for a fucking orgasm.” Jake let you go as he stepped away. His pants had become increasingly tighter at the thought of what he was about to do to your perfect body. Your attitude just made it even better. He always loved a fight, loved some foreplay before really getting into it.

“Shall we?” Jake questioned, gesturing to the stool you would be sitting on momentarily, going through your safe words and restrictions.

“Only if you have something other than that belt hugging your waist to choke me with?” You teased, walking past him to the chair, smiling at Bradley who was waiting–arms crossed and smirking wildly as he watched you saunter over. You could hear Jake mumble under his breath but chose to ignore it so you could get the nitty gritty part out of the way so the three of you could truly have some fun.

“Trust me, the thing I'll be choking you with isn’t on my pants, it’s in them.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

“Okay Y/n, are you over the age of eighteen?” Bradley asked as the camera’s focused themselves on you as you sat perfectly poised on the stool. Both Jake and Bradley sat just off camera for this section of the filming, just asking the necessary questions the audience would love to know when the video is finished and posted.

“I am.” You politely responded, crossing your legs as you held your hand over your knees. You were far too excited, probably more excited than you’d ever been to go to work.

“Okay good.” Bradley was reading from a list of mandatory questions that needed to be asked, stuff Jake and himself had to know before they could even lay a finger on you – something Jake didn’t really consider before when he was making you cream your panties in the name of foreplay.

“what’s your safe word when not gaged?”

“Red.” You smiled, biting your bottom lip.

“And how about when you’re gagged?”

“Three consecutive uh uh uh’s, really quick, you’ll know it if you hear them.” Bradley nodded as Jake smiled, he already knew that.

“What do you say in response to a question asked if you are completely comfortable and enjoying yourself?”

“Yes sir.” You were getting squirmy, moving around the stool as your panties dampened, every question Bradley asked meant you were closer to getting fucked –and truthfully? You had never been so excited.

“How about if you need one or both of us to pull back but not break character or stop the scene?”

“Yes master.”

“Good, okay.” Bradley was checking off questions left and right, flying through the paperwork he had to fill out as he smirked at you, his eyes dark and full of lust.

“What are your restrictions?” Jake took over, eggar to know with a curious tone to his husky, deep voice. Giggling innocently, you looked at the two of them, the camera crew practically none existent in your mind at this point – you had done this too many times before to worry about a few extra men and women seeing you get fucked.

“I don’t like foot play and I really don’t care for electro stim –so don’t come at me with anything that shocks or zaps.”

“So overstimulation, orgasm denial, anal, and double penetration are okay? Just no prods or feet. Am I correct in my assumptions?” Jake was being more than professional for the camera, he knew exactly what to say and when to say it.

“More than okay.” It was the way Bradley coughed slightly to clear his throat, interrupting Jake before he could literally walk towards you right that second and start taking you as if you were all his to play with.

“Okay well, I think we have everything we need, I’ll have Jake quickly log this and I’ll help you get set up shall I?” Bradley stated as he smiled wildly, excited to finally get you out of your pretty sundress and into some restraints. He definitely hadn’t forgotten about the video he had watched of you ‘torturing’ you submissive – so he was very keen to have you screaming, begging to cum.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

Bradley was gentle with his hands as he hogtied you with the thick natural rope – talking to you naturally while off camera.

“This okay?” He asked as he tightened the rope, pulling your arms back the slightest bit more to meet your feet. Your stomach flat against the bench, exactly hip height to where Bradley stood beside you.

“Could be tighter if you want it for aesthetic but it’s okay Bradley.”

“I saw what Jake was doing before? Did it work?” He chuckled as he walked around the bench, making sure you were properly restrained on all angles.

“I don’t know, you tell me?” You teased, your legs spread and already bent – it would be so easy for Bradley to slide his hand down your ass cheek to see if his best friend really did get you nice and slick–which Jake had, but Bradley just groaned softly. He could wait, but the question on the tip of his tongue was could you?

“I would, but I’ve got something else planned for you first.” Placing a blindfold over your pretty eyes before giving you a quick and sharp slap to your ass before he left you hogtied and alone on the bench, retreating to get the camera crew and track down where Jake had wandered off to.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

It wasn’t long after Bradley left that you once again heard heavy footsteps in the room and you knew it was go time by the slow and steady way they walked. Your breathing became increasingly heavy with anticipation. Everything was quiet for a moment, the only thing that could be heard was your heavy breathing–until you felt a slight sting against your pussy.

“Ah!” You whimpered softly before you felt the sting again, it wasn’t a hand so it could only be what you assumed to be a soft whip one of the duo was working to flick against your slick, dripping pussy. You could feel a hand being twisted and interlaced in your hair, making a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head up from the bench.

“Open your mouth.” You heard the familiar voice of Bradley say – or maybe it was Jake? Without your visual to back you up, you weren’t entirely sure, but regardless of who it was you did as you were told when you felt the head of their cock glide against your soft bottom lip. Plump and ready.

“Good girl.” You heard him say before he slowly got himself familiar with the feeling out your mouth and throat. ‘Good girl’ You thought as you gaged around his shaft–definitely Jake. He didn’t give you much time at all to adjust to his size, beginning to face fuck you hard enough for your mouth to salivate like crazy, spit trailing from your lips to his tip whenever he would pull back to give the camera something nasty to film.

“Do you like the way my cock feels in that dirty mouth or yours, slut?” Jake worked to slap your face softly with his wet, heavy cock as he asked you the first question of the day— testing to see if you remembered the responses. Starting with something mild.

“Yes s-sir.” You responded before his cock was being shoved firmly down your throat once again–thrust picking up speed and depth as Bradley continued his soft assault of whips against your pussy, tenderising the area so overstimulation would be quick and easy to obtain.

“Uh--!” You gagged around Jakes length, not only from him face fucking your mouth but from Bradley’s own whipping progressively getting harder–faster, not so soft against your sensitive clit that was beginning to throb from the sharp slaps it was receiving. Long strains of perfectly woven strings all working harmoniously to bring you pleasure in the hands of a master.

“Look at you.” You heard Bradley say from behind you as Jake never slowed his assault on your face. “Do you want me to make you cum?” You gagged, Jake only pulled out of your warm mouth to marvel at the sight of your swollen lips and chin glistening from your own saliva and his cock just covered– jerking himself off as he waited for you to answer.

“Y-yes sir!” You cried through gritted teeth, your breathing heavier than before as you tried catching your breath quickly before Jake shoved his cock straight back down your tight, contracting throat. With one last whip you whimpered around the length stilled in your throat before feeling a set of fingers spreading your lips apart.

“Look at how wet you are? I bet if I just blew on your throbbing clit right now you would cum instantly?” Bradley teased, a hand came down heavily on your left ass cheek – making you jump slightly before you felt something enter you. God, you wished you could see what they were doing to you.

It was the stick dildo, entering your tight fuck hole as Jake pulled away, finally letting your hair go as your head fell heavily to the bench.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Bradley pushed the dildo deep inside your pussy, so deep you swore it was in your gut.

“You want to cum?” Bradley asked as he began thrusting the dildo in and out of your slick cunt. Already making you a moaning mess. “Answer me, whore–”

“Please! Please yes, make me cum sir!” You cried, begged as he fucked you so good with the dick stick, you couldn’t see but you had a feeling his face was right in front of your pussy, getting a front row seat as he kneeled behind you.

From the whipping stimulating your clit and the thrust filling you so good you were so close, so close to hitting your first high of the shoot.

“Please can I cum sir!” You cried, whimpering as you trembled, Bradley never slowed his pumps as he watched you take the dildo nearly as big as his own deep inside you.

“Hold it.” He ordered, a scream of pain leaving your lips as you tried so hard to stop yourself from releasing. “Beg for it you little whore.”

“Ah--! Sir p-please let me cum!” You begged, you were so close to not being able to hold back any longer, until you heard it, the words that made tears soak the blindfold wrapped tightly around your eyes.

“Not. A. Chance.” You felt the dildo leave your body, now empty you sobbed from the denial. Both Jake and Bradley left the room as you cooled down a bit– ready for the next intense scene to begin.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

It was pure torture—being denied of an orgasm. But you loved it, the feeling of being powerless yet having all the power at the same time. Because you see, it’s never really the dominant who’s in control. It’s always the submissive - especially during a bondage scene because, with one word, you have the power to completely shut it down. Being powerless in a controlled and safe environment is exactly what you were right now, having been tortured within an inch of an orgasm you didn’t think it could get worse. Oh, how mistaken you were.

Hands tied above your head with one leg planted firmly on the ground and another tied to a plank of wood. This time you could see and oh how thankful you were for such a blessing. You couldn’t just feel the clamps pinching at your sensitive nipples, but you could see the way your buds plumped under the pressure of the harsh clamps that brought you so much pleasure— slightly irritated from the pressure they found themselves under. Just enough but somewhat painful. If left to be still it felt as if nothing was there, move slightly and oh shit.

You heard the familiar sound of the duo’s footsteps creaking against the wooden floorboards—you could see them this time, both of them in all their glory. Right now you could only describe them as sex on legs, but you were sure you’d have to wait to feel them inside you another time, maybe being a good girl as Jake said could be your only chance at feeling his cock inside your cunt instead of just your mouth - but at a later date that would have to be discussed because right now they were both walking towards you dangerously slow. Jake holding a vibrator in his large hand and Bradley with his signature whip.

You tried to move, whimpering slightly as Bradley got close enough to pull on the nipple clamps that made themselves at home on your perky tits. The chain dropping between them.

“Miss us?” He asked with a cocky smirk, pulling your head to the side as you answered a simple “Yes sir” While he trailed harsh kisses down your neck.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and Jake will let you cum? Do you want Jake to make you cum?” Bradley’s eyes never left your beautiful face as he moved to the side of you– allowing a smirking Jake to drop to his knees before you, placing the currently off vibrator against your very stimulated, very sensitive clit.

“Yes sir.” You whimpered only for Jake to slowly but surely turn on the vibrator one setting at a time.

“Ooh—! aauurrggg—--Yes!” You cried aloud. Your leg instantly shaking from the feeling. Bradley pulled and teased at the nipple clamps, his hands gentle in compassion to when he started to whip the soft whip against your exposed chest.

You tried running, but you had absolutely nowhere to go. The coil in your stomach tightening quicker than ever before as Jake effortlessly brought you closer to your orgasm - hopefully Bradley was right, hopefully Jake would let you cum.

“Aah-! Please, sir can I cum!” You groaned through gritted teeth as Bradley continued his assault on your now very raw exposed chest. Jake shook his head no, looking up at the desperation in your eyes he felt his cock throbbing.

“Why should I let you cum? What do I, well we, get out of it?” You really couldn’t think, barely able to speak as you held onto your orgasm for as long as possible.

“Anything, please sir just let me c-cum! M’begging” you cried out, at this point it was just pathetic how much you were crying out, begging to feel any sort of release. Wet tears streamed down your cheeks but everything just felt so damn good, like you were floating.

“Ahhhhhhh please, please I need to–I’m gonna– !” You cried again as Bradley tugged hard on the nipple clamps that were oh so tight on your nipples.

“You can cum but say what you are?” Jake turned the intensity up to the highest setting as he worked his fingers into your pussy, curling his fingers into your velvet walls as he manoeuvred the vibrator just right.

“Ahah- uhhh, I’m a fucking whore!” You whimpered. Your body trembling as your eyes rolled to the back of your head - squirting all over Jake’s hands as he finger fucked and teased your overstimulated clit through your orgasm–Bradley still working his magic on your exposed raw tits.

“Yes! Oh my fucking god yes! Mmmmm f-fuck!” You were sure your moans could be heard from outside the room but you didn’t care–you finally came, granted permission. Still coming down from you high as Bradley grabbed your face and pulled you towards him.

“We aren’t finished just yet, just one more thing before you're free to go.”

Jake slapped your clit three times after pulling the vibrator away–you were exhausted. Once again both men leaving you alone to recover for the next and final shoot of the day.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

There was nothing normal about your line of work, however – what’s better than making money off the feeling of euphoria. That’s how you felt when you were about to start the next and final scene of the shoot today. Jake and Bradley going out of their way to make sure you had a good experience with them and considering they were already considering working with you again? You were more than happy to play along with whatever they had installed for you – already knowing it wouldn’t be anything to do with your only two restrictions.

This scene was different all together, you were kneeling on a double bed made to perfection. your hands tied behind your back while a ball gag was sitting comfortably between your lips. Silvia already making its way down your chin as you salivated at the thought of what was to come.

When you caught the eyes of the two men, you were stunned to see them fully exposed and both rock hard. Their cocks bouncing freely as they sauntered over to you on the bed. Making sure to keep your cool so to not break character you eyed them both off as they sat softly on either side of you. Bradley must have had a fetish for your tits, because not only could he still see the lines his whip had left behind from the last scene, but he just wanted to feel his lips around your sensitive bud. So he did just that, diving head first into your chest to suck harshly on your nipple.

“Mmm��” You moaned as he sucked deep purple and red marks on sensitive buds – breaking some of your capillaries from the pressure. A pain you enjoyed and would marvel at the sight left behind in days to come.

Jake's hand diving straight for your entrance, making sure you were still slick as ever for him – and he wasn’t left disappointed. A smirk coming across his face when he saw you flinch from the overstimulation – so sensitive after being denied and tortured before. Jake grabbed at your face, his hand squashing your lips together as he came face to face with you.

“Are you going to take us both like the good girl you are?” Bradley finished his assault on your tits to come up and look at your face practically drained of all colour at the thought of having both their cocks buried deep inside you.

“Uhh huh” You moaned around the gag nodding your head with innocent eyes, Jake chuckled almost devilishly as Bradley rolled onto his back – bring you with him. pulling your chest down flat against his.

Bradley was quick to manoeuvre his cock to your entrance, unable to do so yourself considering your arms were bound behind your back in the same neutral rope used in both scenes before.

“Uhh-!” You cried out so beautifully in his ear, eyes rolling as he pushed himself further and further into your incredibly tight fuck hole. Bradley was biting his bottom lip as he lifted his hips just the slightest of bits to bottom out inside you, so snug and tight around his shaft–he could feel every pulse and shutter you made at the feeling of being so full, but not full enough.

As Bradley started a slow thrust into your pussy, Jake kneeled behind the two of you, stroking his own length with one of his hands and rubbing as much lube as he possibly could around your puckering tight ass hole. The feeling of Jake pressing his fingers around your ass made you want to cum then and there on the spot – but you knew what he was working up to, and you were so ready to feel so full.

As soon as you felt Jake's hand come to rest on your bound arms and Bradley’s hands squeeze against your ass cheeks – you knew it was about to happen. Soon enough the feeling of Jake pressing his tip inside your ass flooded every part of your body and you let out the most pornographic moan you had ever done, even some of the crew who were filing were stunned to hear you moan so beautifully as Jake pressed his cock further inside your incredibly tight ass.

“UUHH--!” Tears of pleasure were now starting to roll down your cheeks and Bradley realised that he had achieved his goal in giving you something to cry about. Both Jake and Bradley now balls deep inside you, one cock inside your ass, another pressing against your cervix – it was a feeling like no other and you couldn’t control your moans and whimpers of pleasure.

Not being able to tell them how you felt due to the ball gag hindering you from speaking, you could only tell them through your cries of pleasure. And they could only say so much to you during the process as well, not able to take things to a personal level like calling your name. all Bradley wanted to do at the very moment he saw your eyes roll was tell you how pretty you looked and all Jake wanted to do when he felt himself bottom out was let you know how fucking amazing you are at taking two large cocks inside you at the same time – but they couldn’t, contractually. Because it's porn and there are no relations in BDSM.

“Do you like the way we feel?” Jake asked at the very moment Bradley spanked your ass.

“UHH!” You replied, spit dripping from your chin onto Bradley’s chest as they fucked you at different speeds. Jake slow and steady in your tight ass while Bradley went all in, thrusting mercilessly into your dripping cunt.

“Do you want that gag out of your mouth? Bradley asked as he looked over your shoulder at Jake who was literal milliseconds away from blowing his load in your ass. You could only nod furiously – no noise escaping past your lips as you felt the familiar coil within you tighten as you enjoyed being used by two of the most renowned Dominants in the porn community.

Jake unclipped the gag, throwing it away and you couldn’t hold back any longer, screaming out how much you wanted to cum, how good it felt to be so full and stretched and how much you wanted them to flood you with everything they had.

“Please let me cum!” You cried looking down at Bradley as you felt Jake's hand come down on your right ass cheek.

“No” Bradley hissed as he slammed into you, his hand coming to wrap around your throat as Jake continuously spanked your ass–causing you to let out tiny “Ah’s” every time his slightly calloused hand made contact with your raw sensitive skin.

“Please, sir! C-can I cum!” You begged again, begging to feel the release, the pleasure, the euphoria.

Jake looked down at Bradley with a nod of approval and Bradley did the same, both about to shoot their thick hot spurts of cum deep inside you.

“You can cum but tell us what you are.” Bradley ordered and without a second to think you were creaming around his cock, pulsing like crazy around his shaft as you fell even more lifeless into his chest.

“I’m a f-fucking cum whore!”

As you came Jake felt your ass tighten around his shaft and that was enough to throw him overboard, spilling his hot creamy mess inside your deep stretched out ass hole. Bradley doing the same, only into your tight cunt, his load mixing around with yours as you trembled between the two of them – completely fucked out and exhausted.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

As you got ready, covered your body in the coconut scented moisturiser you liked so much, fixed your hair and makeup after an extensive shower, you exited the studio bathroom only to be greeted by Jake and Bradley who were once again – fully clothed and staring intensely at you. You could only raise an eyebrow in confusion at their weird behaviour.

“Do we need to redo a shot?” You couldn't for the life of you fathom doing a reshoot after how taxing today had been on your body, not that you hadnt enjoyed it. “I swear if that’s what you're asking me we’ll have to do it another time because–”

“Take this” Jake Interrupted you, handing you a piece of paper that had both Bradley and Jake's personal numbers written down. “I’m a man of my word and you were a very good girl Y/n.” You couldn’t stop the smile from plastering itself across your face or the feeling of heat rising in the apples of your cheeks.

“I already have the company’s number? Why would you give me your personal numbers?” you asked, still confused – most likely from being exhausted and ever so sore.

“I never once said we wanted to work with you again – you made that assumption on your own, I just went along with it.” Jake explained, but you still didn’t get it and that’s where Bradley stepped in to clear things up.

“What Jake's trying to say is we’d love to see you again, maybe on a personal call next time – just us three and no sets?” You looked at Bradley, your jaw almost hitting the ground.

“Mouth closed Y/n, you’ll catch flies.” Jake chuckled at your reaction. You instantly turned to face him more as you answered.

“Oh bite me Seresin.” You hissed jokingly as you giggled.

“That a yes though?” Bradley asked inquisitively – waiting for your response as your mind pondered the potential ramifications of a personal relationship or whatever this could be outside of the professional environment.

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Part Two Coming Tomorrow

Tags: @phoenix1388 @avaleineandafryingpan @bradshawseresinbabe @cherrycola27 @bradshawbabes @desert-fern @jstarr86 @a-serene-place-to-be @sweetlittlegingy @teacupsandtopgun @marvelshauntedhouse @weirdothatwritess @darkheartcherry @elijahmikaelsonbitch @je-suis-prest-rachel @untoldshortsofthefandoms @chunkiwhunki @whatislovevavy @roosters-girl @endofdays56 @ccristata @emorychase @averyhotchner @xoxabs88xox @krismdavis @creativitybeware @afterglowsb-tch13 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @ladscarlett @onlyheretowastetime @sometimesanalice

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coldairballoons · 6 months

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i've seen a lot of people saying that saltburn (2023) isn't a commentary on class, and genuinely, i have to disagree.

keep in mind, i watched this at 3am last night with my sibling, but i'm also a literature major with a focus in literary criticism of popular culture (including film), so i do know what i'm talking about!

spoilers below the break

first of all, framing saltburn as a conflict between the upper class and lower class is incorrect. in fact, that in itself is one of the major criticisms that comes up throughout it! oliver is quite literally not lower class, but uses the preconception that the cattons will view anyone in a lower social class than them as a tool to manipulate his way into their life. despite this, he is not lower class. and you are not meant to root for him, especially not towards the end.

the marxist theory of literary criticism surrounds the idea that in every story, one of the key concepts is a class struggle. this could be between any class, but the most common is the rich vs poor duality that shows up in most stories - ex. titanic, the fall of the house of usher. the thing is, in both of those examples, the sympathy lies with the victims - the lower class. in titanic, you are meant to feel guilty on behalf of the rich leaving the lower class to die. in usher, you are meant to feel anger towards the mistreatment of those who seek out the treatment the family offers. but while usher is a clear criticism of class, is that its main genre? is is purely a class struggle movie? no. it is a story inspired by edgar allan poe that surrounds horrors of family, trauma, and yes, class, but also morality. meanwhile titanic is supposedly a romance. though jack dawson is young and poor, he is not the only sympathetic character. what i'm saying here is that media is incredibly layered, and while on the surface level, something may not be entirely a class conflict story, those undertones exist throughout, no matter what. even take hit series percy jackson for example. there is still a class discussion to be had there, with percy and his mom struggling with finances, while annabeth and her father live comfortably.

but saltburn is interesting, because the antagonist throughout the entirety of it is, as far as the audience knows, lower class. you are introduced to him, not through judgement for his living condition, but through compassion and generosity. felix offers him a hand, even when he isn't in the same group as him. that in itself is a criticism of class dynamics.

listen. i hate rich people as much as the next gen-z college student. i personally have a hit list with many a billionaire's name right at the very top. but it's undeniable that, despite the class difference, the cattons - at least venitia and felix - are kind to oliver at first. obviously, he is a part of the other, but he is still a person. elspeth enjoys his presence. james treats him as a son. farleigh feels threatened by his presence, because he knows that, if they so choose, they could replace him with oliver.

i want to talk about farleigh for a second.

i literally have not seen anyone talk about farleigh, and i am upset about it. not only is he one of the most compelling characters - a supposed american slacker who lives with his extended family and blows their money on lavish means -, but he is important in the class discussion because it affects him directly. the cattons do not support his mother. she is in america, and although they have the ability to, they actively choose not to. the reason felix is bothered when farleigh implies that it is, in fact, a "race thing", is because it is. why is farleigh the one dependent on the cattons, and risking expulsion from the family? because he is the first other that they encounter.

and then pamela, who not only has sought help from the cattons, but disappears midway through with no explanation. she goes directly from rehab to them, and although she is trying to find a place to live on her own, the cattons offer her no assistance. they offer her nothing, and complain when she is in their space. they offer her NO help, when they so easily could set her up with a small flat and monthly allowance to help her find a job.

and not only is this a criticism of the upper class - the inactivity and extremely single-minded worldview that the cattons have, the amount that they are out of touch with not only the outside world and the lower class, but their own emotions -, it's also a criticism of the upper middle class.

as someone currently in college, whose parents are a college professor and a high school teacher, i am fairly middle class. however, there are so many people in my immediate vicinity - folks i know from high school, in my classes, extended family, etc., - who are Extremely upper middle class. however, they have the comfort of certain things that i, and my family, don't have. that's just part of life. however, in saltburn, oliver milks the "middle" in his "upper middle" class. he milks it, and he runs it absolutely dry.

someone truly in his alleged position would not be able to spend the summer lavishly and hedonistically gallivanting around the countryside of england, playing tennis and smoking cigarettes by the lake. hell, someone in my middle class position wouldn't be able to do that either, especially not while attending oxford fucking university. he would likely need to work, not just to support himself, but to support his mother, especially after - again, allegedly - his father died. and not only is this coming from a place of an oversight on his part, not realizing what his privilege truly is, but it also comes from a place of oversight on the part of the cattons.

do i think that saltburn is a movie about class? nope. at its core, it's a story about a desire for power and possession, ownership and obsession. there is this intense, almost vampiric lust throughout the entire thing, and that's in part what makes it the perfect setting for discussions of sexuality, of madness, and, honestly, class. wealth is power, and the cattons have a lot of it.

#saltburn #saltburn 2023 #oliver quick #felix catton #barry keoghan #film #movies #saltburn movie #miles is dumb

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randomgirlyoudontknow · 3 months

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No one will probably read this, but as a long-time fan of ATLA (as in, I literally watched the show as it aired in 2005-2008), I wanted to share my thoughts on the live action. Let it be known that I am far from an ATLA purist––the original certainly had its own flaws and aspects that didn't age well, in retrospect. Despite the generally negative reviews I've seen from the fandom, I was actually very satisfied with this adaptation! But I’ve seen people saying that the characters were butchered, that it’s a soulless and superficial reproduction, and those who liked the live action aren’t capable of thinking/watching critically, which I wanted to push back against (I mean, I’m working on a doctorate in literature…I am quite literally incapable of watching anything uncritically).

The shift in tone to a darker, more mature one was a positive change, imo. It is definitely a much angrier show than the original, even if some of the characters were not as fiery as they should have been (*cough* Katara *cough*). Overall, while there were certainly decisions made that I didn't agree with (mainly related to pacing and narrative), I thought the cast and crew really captured the spirit of the original, and even added depth and nuance to parts I felt were initially lacking.

In general, I really appreciated the added emphasis on the cost and suffering of war and imperialism, as well as the depiction of the physical effects of bending. Now, I realize this is largely a matter of personal preference––for example, I'm very interested in depictions of war in fiction (I mean, my dissertation partially covers the impact of WWI on avant-garde art & literature, so...). But I've seen several claims that the live action glorifies war and violence in a way that is meant to traumatize the viewer, and I simply don't think that's true? While the original handled war, genocide, trauma, etc. in a phenomenal way for a kid's show in the early 2000s, it was also still sanitized when it comes to death and injury, to an extent that I feel like we, the viewers, almost lose sight of the fact that bending KILLS. Sure, we were exposed to its after effects, like the death of Katara and Sokka's mother or Zuko's scar, but there's something to be said actually seeing and acknowledging the very palpable danger that something like firebending presents.

I've even seen someone say that the show's depiction of "gratuitous violence" constitutes a "profound misunderstanding" of the source text, which I think is frankly a bad faith take. The death and violence, though more realistic, is still not a major focus of the show, nor is it glorified in any way. A glorification of violence would look like indiscriminate killing and maiming for the sake of edginess (looking at you GOT). We would see graphic depictions of death and injuries, which simply does not happen in this show (they even joke about the fact that we never see anyone die in Ember Island Players). War and fighting are still treated with the same depth and gravity as the original, only this time, the severity of its consequences isn't obscured from the viewer.

I also thought the show's handling of trauma (especially Katara's) was excellent. The choice to have Katara's mom's death revealed in flashbacks (specifically when around firebending) was something that really stood out to me. And the new characterization of Bumi, which I realize was quite unpopular, was another change I quite appreciated. His bitterness and cynicism seemed more in-line with someone who had endured 100 years of war and the suffering of his people at the hands of a brutal imperial force. Lastly, I was pleased to see the narrative attempt to address the role Iroh played in the Siege of Ba Sing Se (something that was absolutely missing from the original). The Earth Kingdom soldier confronting him and calling him a butcher was a powerful moment, for me. I truly hope the show continues to dive into this aspect of his character in future seasons.

Speaking of characters, I loved that we got extra background and insight into several of the characters. Zhao, for example, was unexpectedly quite funny, and his actor really did a phenomenal job of fleshing him out and making him feel like a real person (as slimy and smarmy as he was) rather than a stock, cartoon villain. And I have to give kudos to the actors who played Sokka and Zuko––they both did an incredible job of embodying their respective characters, in a way that felt highly reminiscent of the original. In particular, I thought the handling of Zuko's backstory was truly outstanding––perhaps even better than the original.

All in all, I felt the live action did a really nice job of balancing the darker sides with the light. While I've seen fans complaining that the show doesn't have the same goofiness and lightheartedness, I actually thought the humor worked really well––it was one of the few times I felt the overly ironic, Joss Whedonesque one-liners actually fit. Sure, the humor was a lot drier and more toned down than the original, but I nonetheless thought it carried the show's spirit well (loved that they let Sokka say “ass” not once, but twice). There were moments when I genuinely laughed out loud! I also appreciated how, despite the more mature tone, hope, friendship, and harmony still remained the most important aspect at the end of each episode.

There's a lot of room for improvement, but I was overall very satisfied with the live action, and I'm very glad that the series has been renewed. I'm very excited to see what the cast and crew does with the rest of the show!

#tl;dr i really enjoyed the live action #long post #there's honestly so much more i could say but my brain is currently fried #this is probably a little all over the place but i just finished up a book review and i am incapable of forming coherent thoughts #atla #avatar the last airbender #natla #natla positivity

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sunlightmurdock · 11 months

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sitting on professor! bradley’s lap while he grades papers <3

Bradley barely lifts his head, peering at you over the top of his glasses. He looks so serious, bathed in the warm glow of the lamp on his desk, but the left corner of his mouth twitches at the sight of you standing there, fiddling with the hem of his oversized dress shirt that hangs around your thighs.

“You’re up.” He comments calmly, not giving you an inch to work with. He likes it when you have to tell him what you want.

It’s been over an hour since he slipped out of bed, leaving you naked and curled up between his sheets, breathing in the soft scent of him on his pillow. He thought you might just sleep through the rest of the night with how exhausted you had been.

“You too.” You tell him softly, quiet but loud enough for him to still hear you over the sound of his old Otis Reading record playing lowly from the corner. He’s got it low so that it wouldn’t wake you. You’d woken up anyway, stretching your limbs and finding a foreign kind of coolness against the sheets instead of the warm thrum of his perpetually flushed skin.

He’s busy putting pen to paper so he doesn’t look up at you this time, but you can hear that fondness creeping into his voice again the next time that he speaks. “You need something, honey?”

You push away from the door frame and wander forwards along the dark floorboards of his home office, onto the rug, stalking towards his desk. “Could I sit with you?”

This time, he looks up. Setting his pen down on the page, littered with comments and circles — harsh criticisms for a pupil he had expected better from. His brown eyes study you, always making you squirm under that dark, heavy gaze.

Standing there, just a couple of feet from him now, with only three buttons of his shirt fastened. He knows that you’re not wearing a single stitch under that either. There’s still a purplish mark sucked into the right side of your throat, just short of his teeth marks still being there, that’ll be gone by the time the two of you wake up tomorrow. Remnants of the afternoon that the two of you had.

Bradley sits back in his chair and pushes away from the desk slightly. “Will you behave while I get this done?”

Your lips quirk up at him. Like butter wouldn’t melt, you give him three short nods. Bradley’s mouth twitches as he makes a sound of faint amusement.

“Alright, come here.” He sits back and parts his legs for you, sitting there in nothing but a pair of pyjama pants and those glasses that drive you wild. You smile, walking over to him and settling down against his thigh.

He takes a moment to let you shift around and get comfortable before he picks up the pen again. His bare chest presses into your back, his free hand resting against your bare thigh as he returns his focus to the paper.

Your brows draw together as you look down at the paper in front of you.

“This is my paper.” You realise.

Bradley just hums, the deep sound vibrating against your back. He scrawls a line under a sentence, frowning at the page and writing the word assertion in deep green in the margin.

“It’s not—“

He taps his palm against your thigh, “What have I told you about using references to back up claims like this?”

You sigh, sitting back against his chest, pressing your mouth shut. Bradley glances across at you scowling at his comment. You turn your head to look at him fully, silent.

“If you’re going to be a brat about it, baby—“

“I’m not.” You sigh.

He goes back to grading. You watch him. He holds you, heart beating against your back. A few minutes of silence passes, neither one of you acknowledging the other as he passes by another page.

“This part with the modern and archaic literature comparison is impressive,” He tells you, tapping his pen against a paragraph. You swallow to keep from smiling, letting him read on a little further. “Trying to impress me, huh?”

You feel his smile as he turns his face into the crook of your neck, gently pressing his lips to your skin. He makes you jolt as his hand jumps from your thigh to your waist and playfully pinches.

Your teeth press into the plush skin of your bottom lip, leaning harder into him again, “Is it working?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. You hold your breath as he presses another slow kiss to your throat, his hand moving passively back to your thigh. Trailing three kisses along the supple length of your neck, his hand creeps along your thigh until it touches the hem of his shirt.

“Of course it is,” He shifts his hips, purposeful, just so that you’ll be able to feel the swell of his hardening cock through the thin cotton of his pants. He smiles, sucking softly at your throat as he absently let’s go of the pen. Both of his hands find that blue shirt hem, starting to slowly nudge upward. “The paper’s good. I’m proud of you.”

Your teeth drag along your lip, watching as his fingers trail, exposing more and more of your thighs.

“My smart girl.” He murmurs, tugging your hips back so that he can rock his up against your bare core. You hum, letting your head fall back against the muscled swell of his shoulder, his big hand finally reaching the apex of your thighs, inching them apart.

#thots week!#bradley bradshaw #professor bradley #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut

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sgiandubh · 7 months

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I’m reading the new Clanlands book. I was hoping it would be a fun read like the first one, no narrative. I’ve now read two different passages in the book where Sam talks about running into a woman he finds attractive whether it’s a hotel patron, hotel staff, or shop worker, including this passage about Valentines Day. He hoped to ask the woman making his smoothie on a date and instead ended up alone in his hotel room on Valentine’s Day dreaming about a romantic night in his hotel room with the fantasy date that never came to fruition.

I wish for once we shippers could get a win instead of taking one step forward and two steps back if you know what I mean. It’s hard to hold out hope of Sam and Cait ever coming out publicly when there’s interviews and books filled with the narrative.

Dear Valentine's Day Anon,

You start with a lie. You are not reading that book. You have read someone else's (dutiful Marple, as always, all hands on deck) choice of salacious/commercial/crappy sentimental passages of a 150 to 200 pages book chock-a-block full with other things. You, therefore, have an F- from me for laziness and naïveté. When you speak about a text, any text (and this, Anon, scarcely is literature), please be honest with yourself and wait until the end. The same way you should never judge a book by its cover, do not judge a book by some excerpts someone picked up in order to show you how desperate the author is to sell it.

Reading is a personal affair. Buy the book. Read it all. And then you'll be qualified to have a grounded opinion. I am not in a hurry to read it and I certainly had no hopes he would give us a single ounce of his reality or truth in a commercial companion to a TV show, as this book clearly is.

Then, there's also that: it is a ghostwritten book and not a very good one. Travel books are also always rife with false self-references and I hope, for one, you do not believe there is anything remotely objective in Marco Polo's Book of the Marvels of the World (some say he never got where he told all the Western World he did!). And if Marco Polo himself lied shamelessly, why wouldn't SRH do exactly the same, for the needs of a scantily cobbled show where he is playing the decoratively fit clown along his older, wiser, nerdy companion?

I was shown the reactions to those dutifully poisonous posts. A mob, cackling and the host gleefully throwing gasoline on that fire (but oh, no: she is not a hater - my foot she isn't). The only comment that truly broke my heart, Anon, is this one:

What a terrible person must the woman who wrote that be! What a horrible, empty life she must have! Please, for the name of everything holy, leave Chrissie Heughan out of your putrid pettiness! She raised her boys by herself and with very little. Whoever wrote this comment should really, really be ashamed of herself. She can even say whatever she wants about SRH, but she should leave his family out of her hatred. Not a single woman in that thread corrected or challenged her. Not. A. Single. One.

You also tell me you are tired with the tango. I also think no real shipper could fall, by now, for these tired tricks. And if you do believe the interviews and books more than they should be, you are the perfect fodder for those interviews and books that can and should be questioned, as anything else in this strange story is critically questioned every single day.

So you see, Anon, I will perhaps be interested in your grounded opinion the day you will come back after reading the whole book, not Marple's Reader Digest version. If anything, your uninformed, gluttonous curiosity backfired. Unless you came here to spread the holy shite on this doorknob, too. But that is your problem, Anon. Not mine.

#Anon #fandom

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cerise-on-top · 5 months

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EEEE BACK AGAIN CUZ YOUR WRITING IS YUMMYYY

Valeria, Graves, König, and Soap (separately) who has a s/o who's into poetry?

like maybe they're a poet or a librarian or something.

bonus points for a silly little cozy aesthetic dressed s/o :33

MANY HUGSSSS

-☁️

(CLOUD ANON)

Hello again! Welcome back! I'm glad my silly writings are enjoyable to people! I wrote it so Reader is a librarian and writes poetry both, in most of these! I think I forgot for Soap! I hope these are good enough! Thank you very much for the request! ^^

Soap, Valeria, Graves, König with an S/O who likes Poetry

Soap: While he may have read some poetry throughout his life, but only because he was forced to at school, he doesn’t care for literature like that in the slightest. Sure, he can understand some metaphors and some messages a piece of writing might try to convey, but he won’t go out of his way to buy himself an anthology of William Blake. He doesn’t have the time to read, and he doesn’t really want to either, he’d much rather go outside and take a hike. However, once you come up to him with one of your poems in hand, he’s more than happy to sit down and read through it. The way the language flows, the way the words intertwine with each other and form something unmistakably beautiful, it has him in a chokehold after a while. He’ll always cheer you on, quietly, while writing and read everything that you put on paper. While he might not be the best at giving criticism, he can use his words to reassure you that your writing is, indeed, the bomb. If you ever release your works then you can be certain he’ll be the first to buy a copy of the book, maybe even several because he loves and supports you that much. He loves the cozy aesthetic you have. Beige cardigans with either matching trousers or skirts. If you’re roughly the same size then let him borrow one of your cardigans, he wants to feel for himself how warm and cozy they are. It’s not usually his style, but trying them on won’t kill him. He actually also kind of likes it when you send him pictures of you drinking tea or coffee with a book on the table. It’s, as mentioned, very cozy, very comforting. You’re living your best life, you’re happy and thriving, and that’s all that matters to him.

Valeria: Unlike Soap, she has picked up books after school. The only poem she has read after school was the Divine Comedy by Alighieri since it sounded interesting to her at the time. She never finished it, though, having become far too busy with the military and, afterwards, the cartel. She doesn’t particularly miss reading either, though. Maybe sometimes, when she just wants to have a nice and quiet day, she might pick up a book she found just lying around, but that book could contain just about anything. While she might not always have the time to read your poetry, it will likely be sitting on her desk for a few days before she can read it, she will visit you at your library. It’s calm there, it’s quiet, and likely not a place anyone would suspect someone of her caliber to be. While she might not particularly be there for the books, you could read her some poetry every once in a while. Doesn’t have to be at the library either, you could just check out a book and read to her at home. She can appreciate something like that, you spending time with her, reading your favorite poem in a soft, almost mellow, voice. She gets to see you happy, after all, and that’s what she’s usually striving for. Even if that library isn’t doing too well, she’ll always make sure that it’s up and running because you love your job as much as you do. She, too, likes your aesthetic. It’s fairly neutral, it doesn’t stand out too much. While it might be a bit boring to her occasionally, since you likely would look just as lovely in something a bit more flashy, she won’t tell you to dress you any differently. In fact, she might instigate you a bit and egg you on by buying you expensive coffee beans or expensive hand made tea. The most aesthetically pleasing tea pots and cups will be yours, in this case you won’t even need to ask her.

Graves: Graves has not picked up many books after school either. The occasional book on business and history, yes, but nothing that was written lyrically. It never interested him, he had to analyze poems at school and that was the start of his disdain for poetry. He never did well with writing down what a specific metaphor might mean, so he never got any good grades on that. At first, he won’t be very happy to see you’ve brought him a poem, even if it was written by you, but he won’t complain, he’ll read it and give you honest criticism. He’s better with constructive criticism than Soap because he can still see the poem’s flaws while being nice and uplifting about it so you can do better next time. It likely won’t ignite a spark for poetry in him, but he has a soft spot for you, so he’ll read anything you want him to see. On the off-chance he has time to visit you, he will. While he might not be as quiet as Valeria, he tries, but he just really wants to converse with you. He doesn’t get to see you often, so it wouldn’t be too unlikely for him to waltz up to your library in his gear either. He tries not to scare the people, but it doesn’t always work. Tries to convince you to go home early with him so you can pay attention to him instead of burying your nose in some books. It doesn’t work, but hey, an attempt has been made. He really digs that entire cozy aesthetic. You look warm, you look soft, you look like you want and need a good hug from him. He’s a very touchy person in general, but that goes up by 100% since he likes the feeling of your cardigan, it’s made of wonderful fabric. If you’re more of a coffee drinker, like he is, then you can drink some coffee at a lovely cafe together, he knows plenty of nice and calm places. Tea, too, but you’ll be alone in that endeavor since he’s a coffee drinker first and a human second. Send him some cute pics of you, though, he’ll appreciate them after a mission and tell you how good you look.

König: He sort of likes poetry, actually. While he hasn’t read enough to actually have a favorite, he likes the way it sounds when read, either out loud or in your head. While he, by no means, could ever write a poem himself, English or German, he does like to read some every once in a while. He has an anthology at home he never got around to finishing. It’s a calming hobby. However, he finds himself with a favorite poet once you show him your writing. He’s very supportive of you, asking you fairly often about your progress and how you’re doing, answering any and all questions you might have that might bring you some inspiration. Whenever he writes it’s somewhat dry, mostly because he’s used to writing reports these days and nothing else, so seeing your flowery, beautiful language makes him smile a bit. It makes him imagine the scenery very vividly, even if you don’t specify too much of your setting. He, too, will come visit you at work when he can, but he won’t make a ruckus. If he can talk to you, that’s fine, if he can help you sort some books, he’d love to, but if you just want to do your work in quiet, then he’ll grab himself a nice book and sit down quietly until you have time for him again. Might ask you some questions regarding some books, might ask you for some recommendations as well, but he respects your want for quiet. He also really likes your aesthetic, it’s such a contrast to what he’s used to. You don’t look like you’re fighting wars, you look as though you sit down at a park bench during late spring or early autumn to read some books, and he thinks that’s very nice. If you want to, then the two of you can sit together in silence while you’re reading some poetry and he’s reading the Schachnovelle. He’s more than happy to tell you about what he read or listen to you reading some of the poetry out loud as well. It’s nice, it’s calming. It’s so far away from what he normally does at his job, he could fall asleep to the comfort of it all. If you’re reading at home, he might put his head in your lap and just take a nap.

#cod #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #könig #konig #könig x reader #konig x reader #I used to write poetry back in high school and I always loved reading it #I remember going for a cozy aesthetic like that when I was hospitalized as well haha #drinking some tea while reading one of my Arsene Lupin books was actually just the best thing ever #I should really start reading some of my books again I have so many classics I never really touched which is a bit sad #I remember getting into poetry because of dmcv due to the character v #I never regretted it and I still think about that one poem from time to time #“I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe” “that made my love so high and me so low”#I have read that entire poem but it's been years since then #I was really into DMC V when it came out like four or five years ago or so haha

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be-my-ally · 1 year

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Empty Promises

(Crossposted from AO3) I think i’m finally getting the hang of tumblr formatting!!!

pairings: afab!reader/Elvis Presley (actual!Elvis in my head, but could be Austin!Elvis.)

summary: You’ve been in a relationship with Elvis for ~6 months & for some reason your sex life has tapered off. So you attempt Operation: Seduce Elvis but for some reason he’s not entirely impressed with your choice of outfit or method of execution. // LOTS of discussion of virginity - Elvis refusing to have p in v intercourse with reader & you attempting to convince him otherwise is a main tenant of the plot.

warnings: 18+, daddy kink, spanking, thigh riding, fingering, discussions of reader being ‘too tight’ and needing to be ‘trained up’, no idea what it’s called when he rubs his dick against your pussy but that happens, spoiler: there’s a proposal at the end

wc: 10.9k

You’ve been together almost six months at this point, and it was mostly going swimmingly. You had, when meeting him, been surprised at the speed at which he moved; he’d picked you up from the diner where you were working to save a little money before college - though you’d graduated well over a year ago now - met your parents, and moved you into his home all in the span of about five weeks. You’d spent two of those weeks shell-shocked that the man sending you pretty gifts, picking you up from work and taking you out to dinner was Elvis Presley. You’d wanted a poster of him in your room since you were in the sixth grade, but your mother had never allowed it. She couldn’t, however, stop you from using your allowance to buy as many of his soundtrack albums you could get your hands on, or demanding you went to see them in the pictures, regardless of their critical response or whether she claimed they were unsuitable watching.

It had been, sitting at the dinner table with your parents, difficult to reconcile the fact that he wasn’t a reflection from your new colour television set, he was actually there. Elvis Presley. In your little dining room, dressed as sharply as ever if not more demurely than you tended to see him - a single glinting ring on his pinky finger was the only concession to his usual image. Elvis Presley. Only in your house to get what he came for, fulfil his promise to you that he was gonna, “Take you home, show off my pretty lil’ thing, play house with you, baby, come on let me take you home.”

You still had no idea how he’d managed to convince your father, other than with his irresistible charm and seeming utter confidence that all would remain proper. You’d warned him that your father could be protective and that he certainly wouldn’t be impressed with the over 10-year age gap between the two of you nor would he fall for empty promises and charm. Yet, you’d been proven wrong - Elvis’ deferential tone and good manners had gotten him further than you’d expected them to into your father’s good graces. He hadn’t had to work hard with your mother. Despite her opposition to his poster, she was predisposed to agree to anything a pretty man said to her regarding her only daughter especially if he was implying he would provide a safe future for her. And he certainly did imply such - even going so far as to suggest you put your plans for college on hold indefinitely; what good was a degree for a woman who didn’t need to work? He’d said it subtly, simply assuring them you wouldn’t need it. But still, your father had been horrified by this - all his work to try and make his only child see she could have a brighter future than a housewife seemingly for nought. Your mother, however, had been pleased as punch when you’d gone along with it. Other than as a matchmaking opportunity she had never seen the point in you going off to study literature. But with a promise that you agreed and that it was just for the moment, not necessarily forever, although Elvis had winked across the table at you as you’d said it, your father had relented. He had completely caved once Elvis had assured him that you would, of course, have your own bedroom in a tone that had implied he was appalled that it was even suggested that would not have been the case and the very next week you’d left for Memphis with him.

More startling to you than even the speed of their agreement was the fact that most of these weren’t empty promises as you’d assumed. You hadn’t really had a strong opinion about college, although you hated to disappoint your father and you had enjoyed your advanced classes in high school, you had believed that he truly was just telling them what they had wanted to hear. Simply using it as a way to emphasise his ability to take care of you. But while he hadn’t actively stopped you, he also hasn’t been particularly encouraging either - making it very clear that under no circumstances would he consider it if it meant leaving him for any length of time. You’d decided that you honestly weren’t bothered enough to push the issue, at least not yet, since it wasn’t as if you could imagine yourself either bored or wanting for anything while you lived at Graceland.

You had been particularly shocked at his not-so-subtle assurances that your virtue was, in fact, completely safe. You obviously knew it was what your parents wanted and needed to hear but had just expected him not to broach the topic, considering not an hour before the conversation you had been necking in the back of his Cadillac - just two blocks away from your house and his hands had definitely not stayed strictly above your waist. You’d had more action in that hour than ever before - the most you’d experienced before that moment was in the tenth grade when Trevor had slipped you the tongue and squeezed a single boob behind the science block. That hadn’t been anything special, you hadn’t understood what the big deal was, but Elvis? He’d lit you on fire.

Some of his promises hadn’t held though - you did have a bedroom but you had never slept in it. He’d kept the alcohol strictly away from you - you were, after all, he joked, not 21 yet; you’d tried to argue that you were in Tennessee now and you only had to be 18 but it hadn’t got you very far. He didn’t, however, seem to have the same qualms with slipping you a pill to help you stay awake every now and again when he was late back. He was still Elvis. He still threw lavish gatherings and after-dinner chats that turned into raucous parties most nights, and he still took you out to places that would cause your father to pass out if he’d known you were hanging out there. There were still people coming and going from the house at all hours of the day and night and his face was still plastered over all the tabloids and newspapers. But you had fun, it was exciting and different and he never made you feel like you were small-minded for being unaware that this kind of life could be a possibility. Instead, he seemed to relish opening your eyes to the new opportunities - closing down diners, taking you on expensive dates, gifting you outrageous presents; you had only been at Graceland a few weeks when he’d left a perfectly wrapped box on your vanity for you to find - a little pendant spelling out EP in perfect, tiny diamonds. You’d never imagined you’d be the kind of girl who could own diamonds, you’d hoped for maybe an engagement ring but never fathomed them in your everyday jewellery.

Some of his promises he’d clearly felt exceedingly strongly about - he would not budge on you going out with being essentially chaperoned, he wouldn’t budge on college, or ensuring you didn’t want for anything. Most frustratingly, while you wouldn’t claim to be entirely virtuous you were, fundamentally, still a virgin. At first, you’d been pleased he wasn’t pushing for it, you had always been certain you would wait until marriage if only because the only girls you knew who didn’t were “trouble”. But he had rocked your core beliefs with how easy he had made it all seem. Before Elvis you had always understood that pain was inevitable; Suzy’s big sister had been vocal about the fact that it almost always hurt. But now you were convinced that everyone had either been exaggerating or simply been with peculiarly inexperienced and unaware partners. Elvis hadn’t done much more than slip you a finger alongside his tongue but he’d certainly made sure each time that you were ready for anything. Even if anything had not yet occurred. He’d fundamentally altered your understanding of sex, and it seemed totally incongruous with his appearance and personality that he would be willing to hold out for any reasonable length of time. But he’d told you not to worry about it and given you an education in everything but. You were no longer scared of the possibility of the awkwardness, or the pain of your first time, instead you were desperate.

Furthermore, despite all the fun you were having you couldn’t help starting to worry that he was surely going to get bored soon; you were itching to be more to him, do more with him. Sure he’d had you on your knees “trainin’ [his] baby up” but wouldn’t that only satisfy him for so long? He was Elvis and sure you had a pretty good opinion of yourself but you weren’t anywhere near his level in your opinion. You weren’t totally innocent, you’d heard from your mother’s gossip and girls in your friendship group discussing how you had to make sure you offered a little bit more, “keep ‘em interested, but not too much”, “don’t seem too eager”, “make sure you keep ahead of him though, you don’t want him to bore of you”. This worried you slightly - he didn’t seem bored, but it was also impossible for you to stay ahead of him. You’d had no idea that the things he’d done with his fingers or tongue were things people did. Or that the way he made you feel was even possible.

You’d been at Graceland almost a full three months when you had started to push for it. Sure that if you didn’t you wouldn’t last past the six-month mark. Begging him to slip “just the tip” or mentioning that you felt like you were grown enough to make your own decision on that matter, after all, you had celebrated your 19th birthday with him now. That had just made him laugh - assuring you that regardless of how grown you may feel you were his, and he made the decisions around here - down to the colour of your nails - not you. It was always said so nonchalantly too; like the very concept of being owned in that way wasn’t strange at all.

You’d tried going at it the other way, catching him while you were in the middle of other acts - promising you were his “good girl, daddy’s good girl, couldn’t you give him a present?” Only to get firmly rebuked and told as he laughed darkly at you “- now baby, how you gonna gift me what’s already mine?” Once, after a brief period where he’d been away, on the night of his return you’d almost managed to get him to give in and had been, after he’d calmed down, informed that even if you were positive you were ready he was certainly not about to risk your reputation with a baby.

You had laughed at this - if this was his main opposition to your proposition there were plenty of ways around it. The first was of course reminding him that you were sure your reputation was already in tatters being pictured with him. And you honestly didn’t even care about your reputation anyway. It wasn’t the dark ages anymore, and while, sure, you hadn’t stood outside of congress with a placard, you still would have said you fundamentally agreed with the arguments of those who did. You weren’t the sort of girl who would proudly proclaim yourself a feminist but that didn’t mean you didn’t believe that what they were asking for was fair. So you’d spent a week researching - originally any mention of ‘The Pill’ had been met with scepticism from you; surely it was too good to be true? And in some ways it was - you weren’t 21, and you were unmarried so it was impossible to get ahold of for you anyway, well would have been if you weren’t sure that Elvis himself certainly could have gotten a hold of it. You had, one day, brought this up - perhaps stupidly - over breakfast. He’d considered you for a second, still chewing on a pancake, sat like he always did with his legs spread wide and lounging back. He was dressed casually, but still smartly - trousers and shirt perfectly pressed, but with his hair still barely combed.

“Ain’t no way I’m letting you mess with yourself like that.” He was firm in his refusal and he sits upright to stare at you.

“But El- everyone’s doin’ it - it’s not any different than your pills!”

You didn’t see the irony in the women’s liberation movement being reduced to you whining to your boyfriend to be allowed the opportunity to utilise it.

“No fucking chance little girl.” He tuts and shakes his head, “I’ve read about the shit that's in that, and there ain’t no way,” his voice raises “-no way at all, I’m letting you fuck around with god-knows-what.” He pauses for dramatic effect, pushing his plate away, “I’m gonna put a baby in you one day and they say it can affect it catching.” He’s getting caught up now starting to recite whatever article it is he’s read that makes it clear it's unsafe. You start to protest, even as part of you glows at the idea he might want to keep you forever.

‘Ok, ok,” You interrupt him as he starts to talk in wildly medical terminology that you understand very little of, “ok but what if, just for the moment, you wore a rubber?” You knew he wouldn’t go for it, the man barely wore underwear, but you were hoping it would make the pill seem like a more attractive prospect. He looked at you, and couldn’t have looked more appalled if you’d stood up and slapped him.

‘No.’ And that was that. You tried again a few minutes later when the silence seemed to stretch on - you knew you were starting to toe the line of what he’d allow but you couldn’t help it. Even though he seemed reluctant to discuss it, this was still the most engagement you’d had on the topic.

‘Ok but E - just wait a second and hear me out,’ He turns to look at you, his eyebrows raising as he waits with a look of patronising patience on his face, like how you wait for a child to tell you a new fact of common knowledge that they’ve learnt, “Really… how is it any different to what else we do, like… with your fingers?” He stands up and you wince inwardly. You’ve pushed it far too far.

“That’s different baby, that’s just … practicing. What you’re asking for - it ain’t right - not for God and not for you or the promises I made your daddy.” He looms over you, forcing you to peer up at him and he’s smirking like he’s already won the argument and you think well if you’re in for a penny;

“Ok well then, what if I say I don’t believe in that shit anymore? What if I wanna go out and be Betty Friedan? It’s not 1945 anymore baby - we don’t have to be married.” His hand comes up to your cheek and you force yourself not to flinch - he would never hit you and you know that but his eyes are flashing and he can be unpredictable in this mood. He grips your chin and cheek in one hand -

“You gonna tell me you’re unsatisfied now honey?” He laughs, “Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. Unsatisfied and a fucking slut? Doesn’t believe in god? No chance.” He forces your head to shake, “I know you Darlin’ and you’re gonna be my good little wife when the time is right and I won’t be goddamn fuckin’ rushed. Understand?” You nod. He’s right you didn’t believe what you were spouting either - he knows you still kneel before bed like a child each night, the habit of a lifetime difficult to break when doing so had given you him. His hand slips down to your neck and pulls out your necklace. You wear his initials around your neck always - that was part of your problem; the end did not seem in sight, you wore him around your neck not your finger. He joked about you being his ‘little wife’ but ultimately no real promises had been made. You sigh, looking up into his clear eyes and expression that had hardened beyond what you believed his soft cheeks could. You nod.

“Good girl.” He drops your chin and stretches starting to leave the room, he pauses in the doorway turning back to you his jaw clenching; “I don’t want this brought up again.” You nod again, for some reason the confrontation leaves you close to tears and unwilling to speak in case you can’t stop the floodgates.

You hadn’t brought it up again, even though the fear you’d felt; that your status as a shiny new toy might soon wear off, remained. It had - for a while after - seemed unfounded, a couple of months had passed and it had not been brought up by either of you again; it seemed he really was satisfied with you as you were. You couldn’t claim to be otherwise - but that didn’t mean that the desire you’d felt had waned.

————

He’d brushed you off again last night after dinner. Well, perhaps not brushed off, but he didn’t play like he usually does - or used to. It’s been almost two weeks and he has, in fact, not touched you at all like he normally does. Usually, you can count on being pulled onto his lap at some point in the evening, if not literally at the dinner table then certainly afterwards on a couch or armchair, and often this would lead to pretty public making out; often his hands would… explore … beyond the boundaries of propriety - you can’t imagine how many times other members of the household or ‘Memphis mafia’ must have caught a glimpse of your panties. Although that is certainly all that is ever offered - a glimpse. His level of possession over you knows no bounds and neither does his fairly traditional opinion of how women should both behave and be treated in non-private settings. You can still count on him either demanding you sleep with him or simply moving you to his bed but any bedroom activities have been strictly reserved for the tiniest bit of touching imaginable, a quick play of a nipple or squeeze of a cheek before simply kissing and falling asleep. He’s been looking tired lately, and he’s had a ton of meetings about a couple of his new films. You feel sympathy but at the same time, you’re getting tired of being ignored.

More importantly, you’re worried that he’s growing tired of you - he could have any number of pretty young things, any number of pretty mature things too and you do worry that the number of actresses and starlets he mingles with on a regular basis must make your shine pale a bit in his eyes. After all, what good is a girl that won’t even have sex with him, or rather from his eyes can’t have sex with him? And really what does he even need you for if not that? It’s not like you run his house, or work, or contribute anything more than your company. He can argue all he likes that he likes you like this. That he loved that all your experience is with him alone, that he’s solely taught you how to give and receive pleasure but you still worry that this last boundary is now making you seem unattractive to him in his new glitzy environments. Prudish and backward in comparison to the knowledgable shiny California girls he’s rubbing shoulders with. But after the last conversation, you’re definitely not going to be the one to bring it up. Still, the fact remains that Elvis has been treating you differently lately. You’ve tried everything you usually would - going up to bed before him, being almost aggressively available, and the opposite, being completely covered up and tucked in or absent entirely until he comes looking. You honestly can’t think of any other way to break the cycle now other than one solution: Complete Seduction.

A task you find difficult for a multitude of reasons - you’re not particularly body shy, especially around him, but you’ve been naked in front of him consistently the past fortnight and it still hasn’t enticed him. You’re certain nothing about you has changed; you’ve stayed the same size and shape - you’ve tried makeup on and makeup off, hair up and down. You’ve tried underwear and nightdresses as well as any manner of short day dresses, and exceedingly tight tops and trousers but still nothing. Ultimately, you think to yourself, it's hard to be seductive in sensible cotton underwear you’ve owned since you were 15 - just as it is impossible to feel so in gingham pyjamas emblazoned with butterflies and frills on the ankles and collar. Hard to feel seductive, and certainly hard to look it.

You’re alone today, he’d left you early in the morning - strangely early for him - for yet another meeting with the promise he’d be back in the early evening; a chaste kiss as he left the bedroom and he was gone before you were even fully awake.

When you awake properly, a few hours later, you roll over - staring at the dark ceiling of his room. You take the time to assess your options for Operation: Seduce Elvis. You could order something, but that could take days. You roll onto your stomach with a huff, the heat that you can already feel pulsing between your legs won’t wait for days. You consider touching yourself, he doesn’t like it…unless he’s watching. But would he even know? You rub yourself against the bed, no. You don’t need to. He’ll be taking care of you tonight. You could ask one of the other girls to pick you up something, which would solve the predicament of having to choose something, but the prospect of explaining the predicament you’re in overwhelmingly embarrasses you. The gossip runs rampant around here, and the boys are just as bad as the girls - you couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t get back around to Elvis nor could you stomach everyone knowing that you don’t know how to please him. Which only leaves one option: going shopping yourself. You push yourself out of bed determined to get this done.

You drag yourself through your getting-ready routine, grab your purse and check there’s an ample amount of cash inside - you have no idea how much this kind of thing costs but you’re willing to bet a fair amount - and start to leave. You consider the keys, debating if taking your own Cadillac would be more or less obvious than taking one of Elvis’. Although you guess, technically they’re all Elvis’. Pausing by the door you consider for a second if you should be going out alone at all - rarely do you venture out without someone accompanying you either for safety or security or just general companionship. It had only happened twice out of sheer necessity since living at Graceland and both times Elvis had been unhappy about it, but on this occasion, you didn’t have a choice. You peer out the window down at the gates and for a rare occasion there’s nobody out there; there is usually at least one or two girls or paparazzi hoping to catch a glimpse, although it doesn’t normally tend to get busy unless someone lets slip a known engagement or leaving time and/or it’s clear there’s a party happening. Well, that makes up your mind; you’re certain that you can do this all yourself. By the time you’re on the road your adrenaline is strangely coursing through you, why do you feel like you’re on the run? You laugh at yourself as you sing along to the radio, Elvis inevitably playing when you’re two miles away and you would have thought it would have made you more nervous, but for some reason, it inspires you with budding confidence. This is going to work, and it’s all going to be ok.

You’re recognised in the boutique, you can tell by the way the assistant’s eyes widen and glances down at your neck. It’s not unexpected, in the past six months you have been photographed together too often for it not to be assumed you were together in at least some capacity even if it hasn’t yet been confirmed by anyone. The ever-present necklace is clearly visible over the top of your pale dress; subtlety is not exactly Elvis’ strong suit, it may not be huge but it does still clearly spell out EP in twinkling diamonds and you are only ten miles from Graceland. You take a deep breath before attempting a confident smile.

“Hi there,” The girl smiles back at you but it's clear she’s nervous, looking you up at down as she stumbles out a greeting. “I need some new things… but I’m hoping we could be as discrete as possible?” You glance around the empty shop, the girl looks slightly offended in response,

“Absolutely, Miss. Of Course.” Your smile softens,

“Well in that case I could do with some help.”

An hour and a half later you’re leaving, satisfied you have everything required to make an impression. You’re not 100% certain exactly how you made it through the ordeal, eventually agreeing to model for the assistant after she mentioned they didn’t have any further appointments booked for the day and she was, therefore, willing to close for you, on the understanding that you would be spending enough to make it worth their while. The experience was… different to say the least, you had never shopped for lingerie before; in fact, the only ‘lingerie’ you truly owned had been bought for you by Elvis. You’d happily modelled the sets he bought you for him but even they were somewhat similar to the underwear you already owned - pastels in cotton and the occasional velvet or satin. And honestly, he mostly bought you clothing, dresses and coordinating sets rather than underwear of any kind. You think it’s probably because he didn’t want to scare you off, knowing that you’re still rather timid in the bedroom despite certain… desires you may attempt to make plain to him. But never had you even tried on anything as revealing as your purchase today - you’d tried it on over your underwear, aware that not only were you not comfortable with the random sales girl seeing all you had to offer but that Elvis would, should he ever find out, go completely off the rails at the very idea.

By the time you get back, it’s mid-afternoon, and you sit and chat with Mary for a little while in the kitchen before pulling yourself together, deciding to go and have a long bath before you have to be ready for Elvis’ return. The hot water does the trick at revitalising you and it allows you to make sure every part of you is perfect for the night you have planned; making sure you’re buffed smooth everywhere that you require to be. You take your time moisturising every inch, the coconut vanilla scent you both favoured remaining long after you re-cap the tub.

Finally, you’re in your robe, looking down at the big white box in your hands, you hold it for a moment and sigh before placing it back down on the bed. You turn to look through a drawer instead, pulling out a couple of different options. What were you thinking this morning? There’s no way you can pull that outfit off! You rifle some more, sure that at the least there was the pink satin set Elvis bought you last month somewhere in there and that would probably do if you put in a little more effort. But alas, while you can find the bra the matching panties are not in there, you huff; how can there be half the set?

The room you’re in is technically your bedroom, but it’s used as a dressing room since it houses all your clothes and you haven’t, despite how long you’ve been here now, slept a whole night in it. Despite the gorgeous bed adorned with all manner of frilly pillows and bedspreads, it was still a regular-sized queen frame and while it made you feel small in the centre of it - setting up the bed as if it were a twin with a singular set of pillows in the middle, Elvis claimed it was far too small and there was no need to stay there when he had such a large one next door. Disregarding the fact that wherever you slept he couldn’t help but crowd into you, or clutch onto you regardless of the width of the bed.

You consider the options before you. Biting your lip in consternation for a second before remembering that if there was a mark Elvis didn’t put there himself he wouldn’t be too pleased. You dramatically sigh looking the box over again. Fuck it. The vulgarity of the phrase is unlike you even in your thoughts. ‘Fuck it’ you think again, ‘If I’ve got this far I might as well go the whole damn way.’ You pop the babydoll over your head so that you don’t have to mess with the perfectly tied ribbon in the centre and tug it so it lies correctly. The slits in the bodice falling directly where they should be and your breasts resting properly in the cups. It was…sheer. Very sheer. You knew it was, but seeing it fully without your underwear obscuring the visuals it seems even more daring than you expected. It’s so exceedingly different to your usual underwear, which were all, even the ones bought by Elvis, certainly opaque. Most of your underwear had still been bought by your mother and so your collection mostly consisted of sensible block colours and girlish utilitarian designs. The bottoms were also considerably smaller than most of your own, you assessed as you dragged the panties up your legs, which has been a deciding factor in why you bought the set - since they weren’t too outrageous but were still decidedly different. Instead of cutting across your legs at the top of your thighs, they curved upwards into a high-leg effect. This also meant that they were considerably slimmer in the coverage at the back than you would normally consider proper, and made from the same sheer material with a tiny strip of silk along the gusset. But then, you also wouldn’t have found buying lingerie, a negligee no less, with only ties to hold it closed in a sheer dark maroon red proper usually either.

You stand and looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment. The overall effect was striking. Your skin looked paler in contrast to the depth of the colour and the blush you felt crawling over your chest and cheeks appeared to blend in, rosying your complexion twice over. You attempt a pose for a moment and debate if you should try to make your nipples harden or leave them as they are, knowing that the lack of structure to the garment will mean they’re probably going to be visible through whatever you decide to put on top. Suddenly you feel ridiculous, you’re not about to be in a goddamn centrefold. What are you playing at? You look like you’re playing dress-up. But when you glance over at the clock again you realise your time to make any changes has gone and if you want to be dressed by the time the boys get home you need to get a move on. Fast. You’d laid out a couple of options earlier and you decide to go for the safest bet, he loves green on you. It’s a little silk set - a long sleeve top with a high neck collar with little covered buttons going down the back and a matching mini skirt with a little flare to it. But when you put it on you realise that should you lift your arms it bares enough of your midriff that it spoils the surprise of the babydoll. So, thinking fast, you decide to simply hitch the skirt up high and tuck the shirt in. It causes the skirt to rise to an almost indecent height but the flounce at the bottom affords at least the illusion of length.

As you’re buckling your shoes you can hear a murmur of a car driving up from the gates getting louder. ‘Just in time.’ you think as you quickly fix your hair, you wish you’d left yourself more time to do something else with it but shopping and the preparation for the evening had taken longer than you had planned so you were stuck with the teased hair and white scarf you’d tied into a headband from earlier. Luckily the white still goes well with your white socks and shoes. You could hear the boys laughing and the car doors closing and you hurried so you could greet them as they came through the door. Ridiculous as it may seem you were always excited to see him when he came home - he just seemed to have a magic touch that made everyone happy to see him regardless of how little time had passed since you last had him.

The men burst through the doors just as you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and you were pleased you’d made it that far because when Elvis comes in he immediately looks up and beams through his sunglasses at you when you’re the first thing he sees in the house. He comes forward to grab you around the waist and you stumble for a second before his grip steadies you, his hands hot on your sides,

“Hey there, pretty mama.” You smile back at him,

“Hey, handsome boy.” You lean up for a hello kiss, which he obliges, the rest of the group spill into the hallway, shouting their hellos and greetings at you on their way past. He looks down at you and smiles,

“Whoo,” he lets out a whistle, “Baby, what are you all dressed up for? This all here for me?” He pushes you back and spins you around, your skirt flicking up slightly as it catches the slight breeze. You laugh,

“Well, duh! Who else Daddy!” His smile grows even wider, and he pulls you up to him

‘Well who indeed baby,’ he muttered against your lips, before kissing you again causing you to melt against him.

——-

Several hours later you’re all sitting around having after-dinner chats and drinks; both Elvis and yourself were nursing Pepsi’s but most of the rest of the group had felt free to avail themselves of his well-stocked bar. It was a pretty standard evening, nothing too rowdy and no strangers had been invited so it was just what Elvis would call family there tonight. He’d had you on his lap for most of the evening, placing you onto his thighs almost as soon as you’d finished eating, and then when you’d all moved into the den he’d made sure you knew he expected you perched between or on his legs. When you’d come back from the bathroom he’d not even paused in his conversation - simply holding out a hand and pointing to his thigh. Finally, you had thought, he’s showing an interest. He’s laughing and joking with the other boys while you sit there, jostling with every guffaw - his hand slips under your skirt, almost surreptitiously, although you’re sure everyone’s aware, and while you had been lazing against his chest you perk up slightly at the contact.

You feel him brush the back of your bottom - his hand pauses for a second by the crease between your ass and thigh before he dances his fingers across, he eventually finds the leg band and snaps it lightly against your skin. You didn’t expect it so you jump a tiny bit, although it didn’t hurt, and his hand immediately soothes where he may have left a mark and while his conversation doesn’t falter you can almost hear the cogs whirring in his head. You bury your head in his shoulder to disguise your smile, and can’t help but squirm a little as he readjusts you - holding onto you with one hand as his other, the one closest to his body, slips up the front of your skirt. You let out a tiny breathy whine as his fingertips run across your panties - the barely there fabric allowing to you feel everything. He removes his fingers and taps your thigh causing you to sit up straighter. Clearly, he doesn’t intend on doing too much in public tonight. He lightly pushes you off as he makes a stand, starting to make his excuses. “Oh, It’s been a long day.” He grips you tight to him as he announces that unfortunately, he has to be going as he’s sure you’re "tired and need to be put to bed". You fight back a growl at that remark, you’re perfectly capable of putting yourself to bed thank you very much. But you don’t want to protest too much; it’s been hours since dinner was served and you were more than ready to leave. The longer you had to wait to show off your new purchases the more anxious you got.

Elvis pushes you in front of him, slapping your ass playfully to get you to move, you quickly say goodnight to everyone left downstairs as you dutifully get moving towards the staircase. As soon as you’re out of the room Elvis grabs your wrist and pulls you back. He looks at you in the eyes for a moment, unblinking and you’re the first to break glancing down at his lips and back up. The second you looked away you’d lost and he immediately pounced, kissing you like he was dying without it. Your tongues fought for dominance for a moment, and his hand stayed clutching your arm while the other climbed up your chest to rest just below your neck. You acquiesce, submitting and letting him take complete control except for your hands finding their way into his hair. He pulls back and pushes you in front of him up the stairs, you hurry up them - near slipping once but thankfully his arm caught your elbow before you fell;

“Eager darling?” He laughs at you, and looks you once over before throwing you over his shoulder and bounding up the last few stairs - he smooths your skirt down as you pass into his bedroom. He smacks your ass once, you yelp and he drops you gently on the bed, leaning over you to kiss your face and neck. One of his hands goes up to hold himself up, resting the other side of your head whilst the other strokes gently up your leg getting bolder and climbing up even further with every passing second. He presses his fingers against your panties and pauses again. Your breath catches in your throat. He sits up and pushes the skirt all the way up, he pulls back to look at you. He stares at your panties for a moment, you know by now the growing dampness has to be evident through the other side, they are after all very thin, before looking you up and down as a whole.

“Is there…” His tone is gruff, both from momentary underuse and arousal, he coughs a tiny bit and his voice is even deeper when he continues, his words slightly slurring together, “more of this unner here?” He tugs at your shirt, and you nod,

“Yes, baby, it’s a set.” He frowns for a second, before moving like a child unwrapping a present on Christmas morning, rushing to tug at the shirt again, moving his fingers to pop the top couple of buttons out when it doesn’t shift and grabbing hold when he deems you capable of getting your head out. You slither out of the shirt and allow yourself to be manhandled for him to access the zip on the side of the skirt, pulling it open and off your body in one pull. He takes a deep breath in and stands, taking a few paces back to appraise you better. His eyes darken as his pupils widen as he looks you over, and he crosses his arms, the veins in his forearms flexing. You thank god for his preference for short sleeve shirts for a second. You look up at him through your eyelashes, attempting to recreate the coquettish countenance that all the girls seem to have a knack for that you can never quite achieve. His eyes flash and his frown deepens.

“God-almighty what’s this get-up all about?” You stare back at him stunned, he doesn’t seem pleased. In fact, he sounds downright pissed.

“What…what do you mean?” He stares at you, not responding and like always you cave first. “What do you mean daddy? Don’t you like it?” You push yourself up onto your elbows looking at him with concern. He heaves a dry breathless laugh, and he leans back down, his hand rising up your stomach, through the break in the negligee and up to squeeze a breast, fingertips dancing over a nipple as he resumes kissing your neck, pulling you closer to get to your lips. He breaks apart briefly to speak,

“You tryna kill your daddy sweetheart?” You laugh against his lips, laugh turning to a moan as he pinches a nipple particularly roughly and catches your bottom lip in his teeth. His fingers trail south again, and before you know it he’s tracing the line of your waistband, his fingers starting to dip beneath when you seem to lose all control of the situation. They’re not doing much more than simply resting there but even that is enough to set you alight. Your own hands start to travel down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, you buck up as his fingers graze past your naval circling around before going back to their ministrations below the panties. Your hips briefly touch his and you moan,

“Daddy, please. Please. I’m all wrapped up just for you. For anything you like.” You take a shuddery breath in as he leans back to look at you again, his own lips looking bitten and swollen and his eyes burning brighter than you’d seen them in days.

“Please Daddy, it aches.” His eyes roll back and he starts to stutter a response, his hips thrusting seemingly involuntarily forward. ‘Gotcha’ you think. You arch your back and through your hooded eyes you can see his expression perfectly he hungrily watches your own hand trail down to your soaked panties. You moan as your fingers touch your hot lips beneath your panties, spreading them apart and rubbing a finger between - and you look back at him, gazing into his eyes for a second before taking the chance.

“Daddy, I feel so empty,” you squirm slightly for emphasis, and you glance down at his still fully clothed bulge, “You could….put it in me if you like?” His hips shutter forward and he breathes out heavily, his eyes closing briefly before he grimaces. Damnit - you were so close. You shouldn’t have pushed your luck - just taken the attention he’d not been recently bestowing on you happily and moved on. He stands up again, this time grabbing your forearm, yanking it out from between your legs and pulling you right up with him, like a rag doll you go where you’re put. He sits on the bed and pulls you around to sit facing him on his spread thighs. He hums for a second, one hand gripping tightly at your side, the other clutching your thigh. You drape your arms over his shoulders, simultaneously for balance and for lack of knowing what else to do with them. His hand on your side moves up to grip your neck as soon as you seem to start to relax.

“My lil' girl a whore now?” You stare back at him. The tone was unkind and unnecessary - while he’s been stern with you in the past he’s never been so callously harsh before and you can’t imagine what he stands to mean by it. You look back at his face horrified for a moment, tears immediately starting to fill simply at his tone.

“Daddy!” You respond in outrage, pulling your arms away, “What on earth do you mean! Do you not like the outfit?” He looks at you again, flicking the bottom of the babydoll with a finger;

“Well honey, It’s not what daddy would have picked out for ya.” Your cheeks redden as you sputter back at him;

“What’s wrong with it? I liked it! The girl at the store liked it!” At no point when you’d spent the day planning the evening had you expected he’d get you undressed and then not like the get-up. It was a scenario that had not even crossed your mind. His grip on your thigh tightens further.

“We-ell baby,” He starts to take on the educating tone he’s forced to put on so often in his movies, or rather the tone he ends up using in his movies because he does so often use it to talk to women, “I like it too but it’s not right for my innocent little girl. You’re not a whore waiting to be … fucked. at any given moment. You’re my sweet little baby doll and if you wanted new panties you should’ve come ‘ere and sat on daddy’s knee and asked for them.” You felt another rush of wetness at his words, even as your body burned with embarrassment, you attempt to push away from him but he holds you in place,

“I’m not a child Elvis! I took myself to the boutique, I tried this on myself and I feel good in it! And who cares even if I was a whore!”

“Hell darlin’,” he laughs again briefly, “I oughta putcha over my knee for doin’ all this behind your daddy’s back. Let alone suggesting your daddy might be with a whore.” His tone changes again deepening further as his grip on your neck tightens for a second, holding your head in place. “Baby, I thought we’d been over this. You’re my dolly. My yittle bittle baby doll and that means I get to buy you new clothes, or underwear and dress you exactly how I want to.” He swats your ass, and his tone changes as he practically growls the next part, “1And that also means that you’re a whore if I say you’re a goddamn whore, and if I say you’re not then you’re goddamn not. Get it doll?” You squeak and nod as he grips your chin. “And my wittle girl is a good girl, so however much she wants it, she isn’t getting fucked by anyone but me. And that means she’ll have to wait until Daddy’s done the right thing. Understood.” His finger taps your cheek, your wetness has to be leaking through to his thigh by now, you can practically feel it seeping through the fabric. You hurriedly nod,

“Yes! Yes, daddy.” He rewards you by hooking a finger into the crotch of your knickers and gently stroking from your clit down to your labia and back up again. He shifts you to balance on a single thigh rather than across the two, You rut against him, unable to stop yourself - catching his finger between your core and his own leg; his knuckle catches briefly on your clit and you feel sparks - almost like pins and needles shoot through your body. He pulls his hand away as soon as you rock back again, and stills your forward motion with his wet fingers against your middle - wrapping his arm around you to hold you in place against him, his hand once again sliding down to play with you although this time he kept you still - his lips are against your ear and he kisses just beneath your ear lobe and down to the crease of your shoulder before continuing to talk,

“Honestly honey, I’ve got a good mind to put you over my knee anyway and give you a good dose of what happens to sneaky, naughty, dis’bedient little girls.” Your face burns and he laughs, jostling you on his lap before he pulls his finger out, wiping it on the mesh of your top on the way before considering for a moment and shoving it into your mouth with the firm instruction to

“Taste how desperate you are for me.” He uses his other hand to pull at the ribbon holding the two sides closed,

“I want this off, and my pretty little dolly back in her pretty little girl clothes, and maybe I’ll decide you don’t need that spanking after all.” He yanks it down and off of you, simultaneously gently but roughly pulling your arms out, akin to a tired mother forcing her baby’s arms out of their sleeper. Before screwing the fabric into a ball and flinging it against the wall. You don’t really understand - he can’t like your usual underwear, can he? And it took such a lot out of you to even go and get this set that to just have it thrown off upsets you.

“But, but wait a second Daddy, don’t you think it’s all a bit babyish? my mother bought most of my underwear.” You flinch slightly and put on your best pleasing eyes, “And… you’ve been ignoring me and this set really was a lot of money…”

He pauses again, before putting you upright between his legs to tug the panties off - you have no choice but to help by stepping out of them, still held by your arm and not wanting to stand there stupidly hobbled by the frankly, soaking panties, he talks as he strips you;

“So that’s what this is all about? I’ve been ignoring you? I’ve been busy mama.” You start to protest again and he jumps in before you can say anything else, “I like your panties darling, but if you wanted something new you should’ve asked, I’d buy you the whole damn shop.” You scoff,

“Yeah but only the ones that the pope himself would approve of.” He growls and grips your arm; chucking you over his legs. “No! Daddy! Elvis! I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that - you don’t have to do this!”

He smacks your ass hard, a handprint blooming in pink almost immediately - “Elvis!” you shriek.

“Clearly, you need some remindin’ whether you got a ‘pinion on any of this,” his accent deepens - full words becoming lost and his sentences blending together as his breathing picks up, “and who your Daddy is.”

You’re not sure how he manages to stay so stern when he couldn’t keep a straight face delivering a similar line in Blue Hawaii - unless it’s simply that he truly does believe he has the right to do what he likes here; he’s not playing around with you. But that’s a thought you have later, in the moment all you can feel is the flood of heat between your legs from his word and all you can think is, ‘Lord above he’s smacking me hard.’

“You’re mine. Say it. Say you’re my dolly.” His hand smacks down again, he doesn’t hold back much. While he might treat you like china the rest of the time for some reason he truly seems to believe that it doesn’t count if he’s spanking your ass. Even his playful slaps are generally pretty hard - he doesn’t seem to feel the need to modulate his boisterous approach to activity if it applies to smacking you. He spanks you for probably only a minute, you squirming around the whole time, before he pauses and pulls you back closer to his body, you shriek when his hand comes down again, instead of leaving your body again he grips down - his fingertips turning where’s he’s clutching white amidst the pink-red of the rest of your ass. You take a shuddery breath, you feel like you’re on fire, and while you’re sure you should be trying to resist more you can’t help but melt at his rough actions. He lifts to go again and you panic, thinking that really you’ve had enough of this now and you start to plead,

“I’m yours! I’m yours!” He smiles to himself, lowering his arm to pull you closer and leaning down to growl closer to your ears;

“You’re my what?”

“I’m your doll! I’m your baby!” He chuckles,

“That’s right baby, that’s right.” His hand slaps down a few more times before he stops to gently rub the marks he’d left, his thumb going in small circles. He hums for a second,

“Now lil' baby, this isn’t the first time this has come up, so I’m starting to get that you might be serious about feeling …” his fingers tap on your cheek, “oh so empty”, he puts on a high-pitched voice in an attempt to mimic you, “So how’s bout this darlin’, my mind ain’t changing and I ain’t gonna be rushed but … why don’t we set a date?” Your heart jumps to your throat, he can’t seriously be asking you this, bright red bent naked over his lap. It’s too ridiculous for words,

“Daddy, El-, Elvis, are you,” you push at his arms, twisting around, “are you serious baby?”

“Serious as sin mama - but now don’t go getting it twisted - I’m not saying we’re gonna go out tomorrow - but …” he raps his fingertips on your sore ass consideringly, “how bouts next summer?” You paused briefly in your attempts to squirm around,

“As long as you’re serious - you could promise five years from now and I’d be happy!” He laughs,

“Well now that you mention it the new decade could be a plan.” he tugs you back up and you immediately fling your arms around him,

“Thank you,” you kiss his neck, “Thank you,” his face, “Thank you,” his lips.

“Only you darlin’ could be put over my knee and come back up proposed to … you got me wrapped around your finger doll.” He squeezes your ass cheek and you squeal in response.

“None of that now honey,” He shushes you, “Daddy don’t wanna hear you whinging and whining - you deserved every one of them handprints.” You look back up at him, making your eyes as big as you possibly can,

“Aw, little mama that’s not fair - don’t look at me like that.” He’s now the one whinging, “Daddy’ll make it all better - he’ll kiss it better.” he lays you down and you bring your knees up, your legs spread looking at him between them; you can’t help but laugh at how eagerly he jumps onto the bed, settling between your thighs. He leans down again, your legs encasing him. He looks up at you, his face is slightly flushed and he looks overwhelmingly, ridiculously, happy - you can’t help but feel pride that out of all the girls in the entire world who want him you’ve managed to make him feel this way. He kisses your forehead, his open shirt tickling your sides as he leans over you, he’s suddenly your entire focus - all you can see, smell and feel is him.

“We’ll hafta make it official baby, why dontcha pick a ring out from Daddy’s box in the morning for now and Daddy’ll go shopping soon?” You nod frantically, narrowly missing bumping heads with him. You lean up to catch his lips again, he’s unable to simply kiss; his teeth catching on your lips. Your head rolls back and you can’t help the noises that are coming out of your mouth - you’re practically keening as he moves down to mouth at your jaw and neck. He slides down further, peppering your chest in kisses - he sucks just below your collarbone, leaving you gasping and a bruise sure to bloom.

“For now though darlin’ let’s get this feeling better.” He swats your ass and you yelp -

“That’s not…That’s not better El-“ You break off as he kisses down your naval, his hands gripping your hipbones and his thumbs rubbing circles.

“Just relax baby, Daddy’ll take care of you.” He kisses just above your mound and you can’t help but thrust up slightly.

“No, no. Stay right there sweetheart, stay right there and I’ll take care of you. Wanna make the most of my good little girl before you become my wife.” He pushes your hips down, and then spreads your thighs further - “Daddy’ll kiss it better, make you forget about your sore ass.”

It’s one of his talents, he almost might be as good at it as he is at singing. He licks a stripe down before focussing on your burning core, his tongue slipping in and out as he rubs his thumbs over your clit, his hands holding you open for him. He sucks and nibbles like he has toand you can feel the edge building as he moves his hands to hold your thighs and down and sucks on your clit. Your hips grind in circles, and despite his efforts to hold you down you can’t help but push down and he responds by pushing back - simply sucking harder than before. Your body shudders as you head for an orgasm and you tremble as he lets go with a kiss to the spot he was sucking before once again licking down to your entrance.

“Lawdy baby you’re drippin’.” He stands up and looks down at you, before heaving you up, you stand on shaky legs for only a moment before he hoists you back, sitting himself on the bed and pulling you down - your back against his chest. His thigh slots between your leg, and you can feel his burning hot length against your side - he wraps an arm around you pulling you tight to him as your sweaty bodies slide against each other. Your head rocks back onto his shoulder and he leans down. It’s an awkward angle and you’re sure your neck will be sore after this but you wouldn’t ever be the one to end it. He’s practically clutching at you - his hand that wasn’t curled around your waist keeping your head in place and kissing you with a dizzying force. He pulls back and you pant, his hand trailing down your body, thumb brushing your nipple, each little movement causing you to shiver.

It eventually reaches between your legs and with a single finger, he strokes down both sides of your labia before circling your clit. Your breathing is heavy now, erratic, and you can hear and feel his similar change of pattern against your neck, his head dipping down to kiss your shoulder. He pulls you tighter so that you’re leaning more heavily against him as he shuffles back - allowing him to lean on the heavily pillowed headboard. He spreads your labia with two fingers and you would, if you had any presence of mind left, be embarrassed at how his fingers just slipped with how wet you are. He dips a single finger into you, and you shudder around him, it’s obscene how close you are to orgasm that that almost sets you off, he chuckles against your shoulder before crooking his finger - your back arches as he strokes your walls. He kisses you again and then he pulls almost all the way out, before going back with two fingers. Your hips are circling of their own accord again now, grinding back down on him. You can feel his cock against your back still, and you wobble on his fingers and thigh as he releases your waist to pump it a couple of times.

“Think you can do three, little?” You frantically nod and he goes to slip in a third, your eyes widen as he goes to push it in alongside the other two, thumb rubbing your clit. It feels much bigger than just simply an extra finger, although his are pretty large, and you feel the burn (despite your wetness) in a way you haven’t since the first few times he touched you like this. His arm has encircled your waist again, so he feels how you jump as he attempts to slide in past his first knuckle and wince as he wiggles his fingers.

“See baby,” His voice is impossibly deep, and his hair brushes your neck as he speaks close to your ear, “Daddy knows best. Your tight little cunt can barely take my fingers, honey, it’s too small for much more still. Daddy’s gonna hafta open you up for next year, train your little wittle hole up.” Your mouth falls open, and he pulls the third finger out - crooking the other two in you - rubbing against your walls, and your hands clutch at his arms as you rock against him. “Can I- Baby, can I just rub against ya?” You nod frantically, grinding your hips down on his fingers and he slips them out to lift you up, placing you more squarely against him so he’s able to slip his cock under you. Rubbing it against your pussy, it knocks against your clit and you shudder - his hands lift you and pull you back and forth, you’re going to have bruises on your hips after this, and your sore ass is being knocked against him but it all just adds to the pleasure you’re feeling.

His hips start thrusting, hard, but impossibly fast - his penis sliding between your lips, your slick and his precum mixing for lubrication. He knocks against your clit, and your head throws back onto his shoulder in pleasure. It only takes a minute or so before he slams you back, and the involuntary grinding of your hips continues even as thrusts start to falter, he’s groaning behind you like a dying man, and the next second he’s cumming. He rubs it through your folds, his cum mixing with the rest of your fluids down here, making it extra slippy across his fingers - he pushes it into your pussy, slicking his way for just the two of his fingers again although you’re sure with the extra lubrication you could take more, and he crooks his fingers just so. His thumb coming up to rub against your clit once again, and everything is so sticky and it feels so wrong in a delicious way. He plays your body like he does guitar, and you’re already so close to the edge that it only takes a few seconds of him stroking you before you’re shuddering against him, mouth open. He rubs you through it, only stopping once you whine at him and attempt to buck off his hands - the overstimulation too much. You roll over, off of him and he slumps next to you. You’re still seeing stars a moment later when he taps your tummy with his sticky hand,

“Whoo,” He whistles lowly, his eyes closed, “mama, what a night.” You glance over at him, you’re having a struggle trying to process all that’s just happened. He glances over at the bundle of lingerie lying against the wall and back at you, huffing a little laugh “God you little minx, can’t believe you bought that. I really do like you in your regular stuff though honey. I really do. You’re my little yittle, I’ve just been busy baby.” You smile, it didn’t take much but you’re convinced, it never takes much where Elvis is concerned. He seems to have some sort of mystical power for it.

“I know Daddy, sorry for trying to make ya…you know.” He pars your thigh, “I do love you…. were you…” You wonder if you shouldn’t just be grateful for what you’ve just had and leave your questions for later, but you’ve just got to know for sure, “you were being serious earlier weren’t you?” You panic in the afterglow that his earlier promise may have been empty - but you should know by now he doesn’t make empty promises.

“Shit, baby, yes.” He tugs your arm, rolling you into his side, leaning down for a kiss, “We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.” You kiss him back, and then pull back, curling into his side.

He waits for a moment or two before placing a kiss on your sweaty forehead as he heaves himself up and heads to the en-suite. You’re half asleep when he’s gently wiping you down with a damp washcloth, and barely cooperative as he pulls a pair of your, regular, panties up your legs. You look up at him with hooded, sleepy eyes as you see him considering your nightgown before clearly deciding against it. He disappears into the bathroom again and you slip out of sleep as he climbs into the bed, helping you under the covers his silk pyjamas brushing against your bare skin. He pulls you against him and you’re fast asleep in seconds.

#elvis presley x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presely smut

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autumnmobile12 · 2 years

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The Vampires in Castlevania

Vlad III Dracula Ţepeș (Impaler) was a real person. He was a Wallachian voivode who was born sometime between 1429 and 1431, and he died in 1476. The exact manner of his death has been lost to history, but the common belief is he was beheaded in battle and his head was sent to Sultan Mehmed II in Constantinople as proof of his death.

As for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, some historians are starting to doubt the prince was the actual inspiration for the famous vampire. One of the reasons for this is Stoker was a very thorough note-taker, but none of his notes for writing Dracula mention Vlad III or any of his lifetime achievements/atrocities. So it’s possible Stoker only chose the name ‘Dracula’ because he knew it translated as ‘son of the Devil.’ Further reading - Dracula: Sense and Nonsense by Elizabeth Miller.

Carmilla is the name of a lady vampire in the novella Carmilla by Sheridan le Fanu, a story that is actually older than Stoker’s novel. It features a lesbian relationship between Carmilla and the protagonist, Laura, and was written as a criticism of the Victorian view of women, specifically repressed sexuality.

Varney also comes from a book. Varney the Vampire or The Feast of Blood was a penny dreadful written by James Malcolm Rymer and Thomas Peckett Prest. (I haven’t read this one all the way through, but there is a scene where Varney is struggling to get over a garden wall, and I think that’s hilarious. Not exactly apex predator material.)

Varney: You think you have me stymied, don’t you.

Trevor: No, I think a garden wall has you stymied.

Lenore is the name of a German poem written by Gottfried August Bürger. It’s about a woman named Lenore who curses God because her beloved did not come back from war, so Death kidnaps her to reunite them, effectively condemning her soul for eternity. It’s not about a vampire, but the poem has had a hand in influencing vampire literature.

Anyway, does anyone else really want to see Lenore cheering Trevor on in the last battle? Or stealing the knife and ending Death herself. Cause I do now.

The closest thing to a vampire in Viking folklore is the draugr, although this creature is more of a restless ghost than what we think of as a vampire. They haunt the graves of the dead and guard the treasures they acquired in life by driving humans insane, drinking their blood, eating their flesh, and other nasty things.

Side note: I’m really curious as to what led Godbrand to becoming a vampire. Immortality didn’t really play a huge factor in Old Norse culture since the Vikings believed a glorious death in battle was the one and only way to go to Valhalla. Other deaths that were deemed shameful or unworthy landed you in Helheim, which I really need to address further in a separate post.

Japan also doesn’t have an exact vampire equivalent, but they do have some yokai spirits that have vampire-like characteristics, including but not limited to:

Nukekubi: A flying head that detaches from its human body at night and attacks people to drink their blood.

Rokurokubi: A similar creature to nukekubi except the head doesn’t detach but rather travels from the body via an elongated neck.

Nure-Onna: The ‘drenched woman’ is a large serpent with the head of a woman that drinks blood.

Personally, I would have loved to see Cho’s head fly off to attack someone simply to see Sypha, Alucard, and Trevor briefly panic.

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mortalityplays · 9 months

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Only tangentially related to today's ask discourse but I was thinking about this- do you have advice on pushing more out of your comfort zone ie media? I feel like its really easy to say you like or want stuff thats making you uncomfortable or is less palatable to wide audiences etc etc but I have trouble going out of my way to actually experience things like that over more popcorn you know

a good way to start if you're intimidated is to look for curated recommendations close to your cultural comfort zone (I'm focusing on US/UK lists here but you can look for recommendations from museums, libraries, and national award bodies just about anywhere in the world). e.g. the BFI Sight & Sound list or the National Film Registry (for movies), Booker Prize or National Book Award winners for literature

Don't feel like you have to watch/read everything all at once, it's fine to skim for something that sounds particularly up your street and start there. It's also fine to jump right into something intimidating and find out what all the fuss is about! the absolute worst case scenario is that you're bored or underwhelmed and can pick something else next time.

a lot of my film knowledge comes from when I was at university. I discovered that there was an A/V library and viewing room on campus that I could use for free l, so I just looked through the catalogue and started picking out things I'd never seen that sounded interesting. every day between classes I'd go, pick a title, and spend a couple of hours giving it a try. I watched Blade Runner for the first time in a darkened basement booth with headphones on, and The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, and Wild Strawberries, and Persepolis, and countless other weird and wonderful things. sometimes I picked something incredibly boring or something that annoyed me, but I always came away feeling good that I'd expanded my knowledge of what was out there.

once you do start finding new things you like, a whole other path opens up to you. you can dig deeper into the work of one writer or director or actor, look up interviews and find out who inspired them. if you loved a specific book, see if the author mentioned any direct influences, or if critics compared it to something else you might enjoy. you get to start building these maps in your head and getting a sense for where different things fit, and it becomes easier and easier to hunt for hidden treasures.

finally! if you can find a group of friends (or even just one person) who is interested in taking this journey with you, start a club. take turns to pick something you want to explore, share the journey, and discuss it as you go along. keep sight of your purpose, whether that's to broaden your horizons beyond your home culture, take on more challenging works, or just be better informed. take it a step at a time, and learn to enjoy the experience of exploration even when you don't like something. figuring out why we hated Lady Chatterley's Lover is some of the most fun I've had with our book club yet. introducing friends to The Left Hand of Darkness and getting hype about it with them was just as good. love the process and you'll change your life.

#I hope this helps!!! there's no wrong way to tey new things as long as you're making a good faith effort to engage with them

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irregularcollapse · 5 months

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Fun fact! There is a difference between criticism and criticism.

criticism (n). saying something is bad

criticism (n). critique; the practise of evaluating and analysing works of art or literature

evaluate (v). making supported, informed judgements about the value and efficacy of elements of a work, or a work as a whole

analyse (v). to discuss the structure and relationships present in a work

n.b. My definitions of ‘evaluate’ and ‘analyse’ are drawn from their use in pedagogy and educational settings, particularly Bloom’s Taxonomy.

I think a lot of people I see on this webbed site think they’re being critical (2) when they’re actually being critical (1), and a lot of people see others talking about critical (1) and think they’re talking about critical (2).

Yes, it’s confusing, but if you use your context clues* to analyse and evaluate what someone is saying, you too should be able to identify whether a use of the word critical refers to (1) or (2).

For example, the phrases literary criticism and critical race theory are referring to critical (2).

On the other hand, someone on tumblr dot com talking about what they didn’t like in a TV show is probably being critical (1).

Crucially, criticism (2) should not be about whether a work is ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ or whether you liked it or not. It should be about evaluating how effective the work was at executing its intention.

Three building block questions toward criticism (2) are:

What was the artist/writer trying to communicate with this work?

Did they achieve it?

Why/how do you come to this judgement?

Yes, opinion is still present in criticism (2)—the objective criticism does not truly exist. However, I will refer you to two of the words in the definition given for ‘evaluate’: supported and informed.

This is quick and not at all comprehensive, but wouldn’t it be nice if in 2024, tumblr learned how to read? Wouldn’t it be nice?? Wouldn’t it???

*Context clues are generally the other words in a sentence or paragraph which also contribute to the writer’s intention being conveyed. If you don’t understand one word being used, have a look at the rest of the words written, as well as the form and use of punctuation! They can help to provide context**

**context (n.) 1. the connected conditions which surround something, such as its environment. 2. the parts of a discourse*** which can be analysed**** to show its meaning

***discourse (n.) literally just means an exchange of ideas, especially a formal and organised expression thereof like fucking hell how did it come to mean controversy or hysteria in online spaces Foucault is spinning in his goddamn grave

****analyse (v.) see above

#mini lit lessons #putting my grad dip ed to good use lmfao #that and the lit degree 🤪

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sissylittlefeather · 3 months

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Introducing:

Vivian Choquette

A new OC for the upcoming fic Your Love's Been a Long Time Coming.

Headcannons:

- Born in 1940, she's 19 when she meets Elvis

- Her mother, Delphine, was French and she never knew her father. Her mother was a dancer and she married Vivian's stepfather, Roland Everett, an American officer, during WWII in 1945. Delphine passed away when Vivian was 14. Now, she lives with her stepfather where he's stationed in Germany.

- She speaks English and French fluently and knows how to communicate in German fairly well.

- She smokes, drinks, and cusses like a sailor, but there's an elegance and grace to her that seems to make everyone forget how crude she can be.

- She writes poetry in English and French and is obsessed with reading, specifically literary criticism, philosophy, poetry, and classic literature.

- She's also an actress, a singer, and plays the piano.

- Her aesthetic is romantic academia and her favorite colors are light pink and mint green.

- Her birthday is February 26th, making her a Pisces.

- She's an outgoing introvert, meaning she loves to work the room at a party, but she also needs time alone to recover from the interaction.

- Her first love was a boy in high school who wrote poetry and played the violin. He promised to marry her, took her virginity, and then disappeared.

- She's a hopeless romantic who is obsessed with all things related to love and the beauty of human connection. She thinks people are poetry and nature is spiritual.

- Her hair is dark brown, her eyes are deep blue, and she's 5'2" tall. Her build is petite and slender and her hands and feet are small and almost fairy-like.

- Despite her French blood, she prefers American food. Still, she herself cannot cook to save her life. She's been known to burn toast and struggle with boiling eggs.

- The other thing she cannot do is any kind of visual art. She can't paint, draw, or sculpt and finds it infinitely frustrating.

- She has a quick, short temper and will explode easily and then forget why she was mad ten minutes later. She also has a sense of melancholy about her and when she's in a mood can spend hours weeping over a sad song or poem.

- She loves music, but her exposure is fairly limited to classical and pop. Her favorite music is her mother's collection of Claude Debussy, specifically Clair de Lune and La Cathédrale Engloutie.

- All in all, she's like a summer thunderstorm, beautiful, chaotic, calming, and poetic all wrapped into one.

******

Stay tuned to meet her as Elvis does

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @aliypop @your-nanas-house @rjmartin11 @elvisfatass @tacozebra051

Let me know if you want to be tagged in her fic!

#elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fic #original character #elvis presley x oc #elvis x oc #oc #ocs #elvis fanfiction #Vivian Choquette #your loves been a long time coming #ylbaltc

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year

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Hi 👋🏻 um, I don't know if you still take requests (I'm so sorry if not 👉🏼🥺👈🏼) but I'm in a bit of a ❗critical❗ situation here. I might die.

Because of this slut of a man:

The lifesaver would be a really Smutty™️, preferably professor!au oneshot with either Chris/Steve/Andy, and reader. 🫣 You're the one writer I can trust with something like this without fail, everytime. 💞

Okay imma go now, thanks for reading all this bye 😩🥵

Thank you for having so much faith in me!! This isn’t super smutty, but there’s definite smut and spice and I hope you still like it!

With his sweater rolled up to his elbows and his thick rimmed glasses, you would think that Andy Barber would be nothing but the friendly professor that everyone seemed to like. On the surface, he was one of the best professors you could get in this course and you were really grateful for him.

On the surface, you should have been grateful for all of your academic and brilliant scholarly professors, however there were two specifically that had you caught unaware. There were two professors who had made every day interactions in the classroom seem far more intense than usual.

With professor Barber, he made the rudimentary subject of the historical significance of Shakespeare come to life.

Professor Rogers and his iron backbone had made your history classes and courses as exciting as you expect, however he was not a pushover.

Neither of them were, really.

But no one would have expected the favourite professors to be such ruthless men, especially when it came to your pleasure.

Hedonism, they were incredibly aware of what they were doing.

And with a single appearance of Professor Rogers in your English literature history class had been astutely wonderful for your class.

But ever torturous for you.

With Professor Barbers’ soft sweaters, and Professor Rogers’ button downs, both of which were rolled to their elbows, their glasses and messily styled hair, it was torture.

It was torture having them both in the classroom, and it was torture knowing that they were adding a level of fun to this entire situation.

“Life imitates art,” Professor Rogers had clicked the button on a remote, simultaneously creating an unfair buzzing that radiated from between your legs, and reminded you that you were being punished, “art is about emotive responses to the challenges life throws at you.”

“Are you going to be good? Are you going to be our good girl?” It wasn’t enough that they were your professors, they were also paying your college tuition and in exchange you were theirs.

It was more than a sexual relationship, it was emotional. They were completely and wholly yours, they had dedicated themselves to you as your benefactors and boyfriends.

“Are you willing to push yourself?” You clamped down on your tongue, stifling the moan as the vibrator shoved into your pussy had increased in volume, controlled not just by Steve but by Andy as well.

“Are you willing to do whatever it takes to understand the complexities of life?” He smirked, piercing eyes fixated on you.

Another set of vibrations had started, soft clamps on your nipples had added another layer of pleasurable pressure that almost made you buckle and cave. While you were being surrounded by students, your body was pliantly and physically being toyed with even from a distance.

It was an amazement in itself that no one heard their toys, let alone could sense your lack of focus.

“I think that’s enough for today, Steve.” Andy stood and addressed the class, his hands resting on his hips as he scoured the crowd and then smiled nonchalantly. “Have a great weekend, remember to have your chosen study handed in by Monday. You had three weeks to complete it, don’t be late.”

You started to gather your things, desperately seeking an escape. You shoved your books into your backpack and stood, your thighs and legs shaking when you put pressure on them and you’d wondered if anyone would be able to notice your state of being.

“A moment, Y/N.” Steve raised his hand to stop you, lips pursing and his eyes dropping to the hem of your pleated skirt, and the expanse of your bare legs. “We need to have a discussion.”

Your attempt to tug your skirt down was fruitless. Your attempt to rub your thighs together was wasted as another vibration rocked you to your core. You carefully took the steps down to meet them, your hands shaking all the while knowing that of the two Steve was harder to please.

Though you were always their good girl, they liked to act like you were trouble.

“On the desk,” Steve tapped his knuckles against the hard surface, his head tilted to the side, “legs spread.”

Your skirt was flipped up, your back hit the smooth surface and your legs spread to reveal the evidence of their teasing. Your panties were soaked through, the toy still pulsing and buzzing while your hands fell behind you to grip the edge of the desk.

“What a good fucking girl,” Steve was pleased, his eyes were cathartically bright and vibrant with lust, “you listened to everything we had to say.”

“Steve please,” you whined, lifting your hips and arching your back for him, “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Over sensitive, darling?” Andy crooned, walking around the back of the desk, his cologne drifting toward you with subtle notes of spice and warmth. “Look at those gorgeous nipples…”

Your shirt was lifted, your back arching against his hands as he cupped your breasts and gave the vibrating nipple clamps a little tug. You felt the scratch of Steve’s beard against your thighs, the gentle pluck of the vibrator from your cunt.

And then the warmth of his tongue hit your clit and you shrieked his name, jerking your hips against his face.

“Oh yes,” Andy grinned, “you’re going to earn a special treat for this, baby.”

“A five fucking star resort for the three of us. A couple of sugar daddies and our sweet little darling.”

#professor!Steve Rogers x reader #professor!Andy Barber x reader #professor!Steve Rogers x reader x professor!Andy Barber #smut #professor/student #professor/student smut #Andy barber smut #Steve rogers smut

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 months

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seven degrees east - chapter one

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: Gale x Bucky; Nash x Helen; more tbd Rating: T (may change) Chapter: 1 / ? Word Count: 3798

Summary: It's 1996. Soundgarden's on the radio, Charles and Diana are headed for divorce, and seven American PhD candidates are studying literature at the University of Thorpe Abbotts in Norfolk, England. Between taking Prof. Harding's summer class and obsessing over their favourite authors, the boys will kick asses when they must, and fall in love if they can.

Spring was about to fall headlong into summer and Bubbles had decided Princess Di was the woman for him. They were all in love with her. Tabloid magazine photos of Diana in black and lavender—torn with care along the crease—decorated the walls of their dorms, overlapping posters for Superunknown and Crimson Tide, pieces they’d had published in the literary journal, and mundane scraps of paper elevated by their status as vessels for the phone numbers of girls they’d met at parties. Naturally, their Princess took supremacy, especially as they expected imminent, official news of her divorce from Charles. Lucky Bubbles.

It was mid-June 1996. They spent their days horny and sunburnt from laying out on the school’s big English lawn. These long stretches of apparent leisure were punctuated by the summer course in which they were all enrolled: “Thoreau’s Walden,” taught by Professor Harding. He was transparently attempting to instill in them a sense of self-reliance alongside an understanding of transcendentalist thought. The class wasn’t mandatory—the rest of their cohort would rejoin them in September—but their small group comprised a brotherhood of dedicated scholars. (Dedicated to having fewer courses to take come fall semester.)

Bubbles was their Great American Novel man, obsessed with Faulkner’s long sentences and Steinbeck’s long books. Crosby envied and lionized his best friend’s focus, but had come to accept that he was irresistibly drawn to the lower-brow, femme-fatale charm of Chandler and Hammett’s hard-boiled novels. Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal was their resident 19th-centuryist, plotting the spread of both his dissertation and his mustache on the fertile—if possibly cursed—intellectual ground of Edgar Allan Poe. Herbert Nash was Rosie’s chronological compatriot. Though he’d begun the doctoral program with a proposed focus on the works of Mark Twain, he had a literary wandering eye for anything that struck him as romantic. In the face of Nash’s flakiness, Curt fought (sometimes physically) for the pure pleasure of reading, but then he was often under the hedonistic, lunar-like sway of Oscar Wilde—a deviation (guided, he claimed, by his Irish heritage) from the later, hedonistic influence of his preferred poison: the Beat Generation.

If their ragtag band of chronic dogear-ers had a leader, it should’ve been Jack Kidd. Kidd was an upper year student, nearly finished with his PhD (unless his PhD finished with him first). He was secretive, perpetually put-upon, and capable of delivering heart-shattering criticism in a tone that made it sound like mercy. In short, he was everything they longed to be. When asked about the subject of his dissertation, he would drop his face into his hands with all the enthusiasm and surrender to gravity of a bridge suicide. In lieu of possessing the middle-aged-divorcé jadedness that seemed to come naturally to Kidd despite his being only 29, the seven younger candidates had taken up smoking the preceding November.

Because they did need a leader to make sure they did things like readings and laundry and correcting their posture after hours spent curled over, under, and around the library’s long oak tables, they had Bucky. And they had Buck, because it was smart to have a backup. “Bucky” was really John, and “Buck” was Gale, and when any of the other five called them out on being pretentious fucks, they would both grin and offer no correction. While John directed his furrowed brow at Lost Generation titans like Hemingway, Stein, and Fitzgerald, Gale was dreamily engrossed in a fin-de-siècle love affair with Henry James. At any given time, at least three of them (including John) were waiting for the pair to realize that who they were actually head over heels for was each other.

They were all students at Thorpe Abbotts—the Norfolk satellite campus of the Connecticut university. They knew people studying Goethe and Voltaire, Tolstoy and Shakespeare and García Márquez, seriously, they did. They just happened to be a collection of Americans reading Americans. In England. For one reason and another, they’d decided to study overseas, intrigued by the allure of matched tuition fees, rainy reading weather, and the proximity to older and fancier universities, which were fun to visit if they were looking to instigate a winnable fight against other easily-provoked academics.

That particular evening, they descended upon a bar favoured by students from the University of East Anglia. John and Rosie had both offered to drive. To decide who’d had to go with John (concealed as who’d wanted to go with John), Crosby had flipped a coin—well, a double-sided Batman pog he’d produced with minor embarrassment after fishing around in his pocket for a coin. As a result, Gale and Curt tumbled from John’s Wrangler (Gale from the passenger’s seat, Curt from the bench in the rear) looking half-drunk already from John’s weaving, lead-footed panache behind the wheel. Rosie pulled up smoothly, with no complaints from Bubbles, who might not have complained even if they’d slid into the parking lot on their roof, Crosby, whose motion sickness had not been triggered, or Nash, who’d ironed a shirt for this outing in hopes of meeting a nice girl. The rest had openly teased him, then tried not to feel self-conscious about their own attire.

“You look like Hugh Grant,” John leveled at Nash when he saw him sweeping his hair back as they made for the bar.

“Thanks.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

Fortunately for Nash, he was impervious to most insults. John knew this and took it as licence to tease him all the more.

“Ladies love Hugh Grant,” Nash reasoned.

“Don’t say ladies,” Curt whined. “Fuck’s wrong with you?”

“The thing Hugh Grant has going for him is he’s British,” John explained.

“And he’s a movie star,” Gale offered, nonpartisan.

“Stellar addition, Buck: and he’s a movie star.” He turned back to Nash. “You’re non-movie-star, American Hugh Grant. Capisce?”

“Don’t say capisce.” Curt took out his frustration on the loose chunk of asphalt he booted across the parking lot.

“Ah, don’t listen to him, Nash,” Rosie instructed, slinging an arm around Nash’s neck and hauling him close so his steps stuttered and skipped.

“You look good, Nash,” Gale said.

“Like a real gentleman.”

“Too bad he’s just Nash disguised as a gentleman,” John lamented with a grin.

Nash cracked a telling smile.

“Whaddaya think, Croz?” John demanded. He looked around and found Crosby and Bubbles trailing them, laughing about something that was part of their own conversation. “Croz! Nash in disguise! This some kinda hard-boiled, sleazy villain shit?”

Crosby shrugged.

“Nash is Nash.”

“Nash is Nash,” Bubbles agreed, and then they were all saying it, speaking over one another, until their voices dropped into sync and it turned into a chant as they shoved into the warmth of the bar.

They fell into a booth together, then forced Crosby and Bubbles back out to get the first round since neither of them had driven and even if you tried to send one without the other, they’d both go anyway, as though attached by a tether. They returned with pitchers.

“Croz got carded,” Bubbles gleefully announced, handing out glasses from the stack in his hand.

Everyone awwwed. Crosby erupted in a flaming blush.

“Don’t worry about it, Croz,” Gale told him. Crosby nodded gratefully, but then Gale tacked on, “When I was your age—”

Crosby’s protestation that they were the same age had Rosie laughing until he had tears in his eyes. He tilted sideways into Nash, who did his best to scoot away.

“I love you Rosie, but I will slash your fucking tires if you wrinkle my shirt.”

This just made Rosie laugh harder.

“You alright to drive back?” John checked with Gale, leaning in to speak quietly below the hilarity.

“I gotcha, man.”

John nudged Crosby out of the booth a second time and came back with a pitcher of water for Gale, who’d smoke weed and cigarettes with the rest of them but drew the line at carbonation. Crosby’s hand hesitated between the pitchers of beer and water.

“I’ll drive,” Rosie assured him, brushing away Crosby’s wordless offer with a wave of his hand.

Crosby looked relieved to be let off the hook. He poured himself a beer.

John pointed at Rosie.

“You’re too damn self-sacrificing.”

“Maybe you’re too sac-selfrificing,” Curt countered, making John twist to face him with an expression of extreme indignation.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna take this outside?” John squared his shoulders. Even though it was all in play, Gale held out his hand, palm down, suggesting they chill out a little. They’d been bounced from this bar before.

“Might as well stay put,” Curt said. “If I knock you on your ass while you’re already sittin’ down, you got less far to fall.”

John smacked the brim of Curt’s ballcap down over his eyes and they broke into a scuffle in the booth, legs scrabbling beneath the table, Curt giggling wildly as he jerked away from John’s hands while protesting that he couldn’t see. Crosby, sitting on Curt’s other side, attempted to right his hat, but ended up having to dodge Curt’s elbow instead.

“Bets?” Rosie asked.

“What’s on the table?” Bubbles wondered. Somebody’s knee slammed the actual table from underneath and Bubbles’ hand shot out to steady his glass. “Figuratively.”

“Losers have to format the winners’ essay citations.”

“That’s not ba—”

Crosby saw Gale whack the back of his hand into Bubbles’ chest to shut him up, but it was too late. Rosie was grinning.

“And type up their essay.”

They groaned. Bubbles, Nash, and Crosby shook their heads, bowing out, but Gale stuck out his hand for Rosie to shake.

“You’re on,” he said.

“Who’s your money on?” Rosie asked.

“Who d’you think?” Nash cut in.

It really was silly to ask; Gale took John’s side in everything, always. Crosby was going to point that out, begin recalling supporting evidence, but John started fighting really dirty—his hands dove to Curt’s sides, tickling hard, and Curt hopped back. Crosby bailed out of the booth and stood.

“Maybe they should take it outside,” Bubbles observed, reading Crosby’s concern on his face before he could voice it.

Just then, there was a scoff: “Typical.”

John ceased his attack on Curt as they turned to look with the others. Curt fixed his hat. There were three guys standing there, just past Crosby, who took a step towards the table to show his allegiance. Like most people they encountered off the Thorpe Abbotts campus, the trio were British. They looked about their age, maybe a little younger, and enough sheets to the wind not to mind that there were fewer of them than members of the group they’d accosted.

The pause after that single word seemed to go on and on. None of the seven had a doubt in their mind that it was a criticism of their behaviour—their Americanness. The Brits would expect them to get angry, to fly from their booth and jab their impolite American fingers in their faces, wet American spittle spraying from their mouths as they shouted rude American words. They didn’t know that this was what these particular Americans did for fun. That even now, in the pause, they were just deciding how they wanted this one to go.

“Can we help you?” Gale asked calmly, while his compatriots wordlessly downed their drinks.

“We’re just fine,” one of them replied. “Try helping yourselves.”

Gale glanced around at his friends as though confused.

“Did one of you need help with something?” he asked.

Curt had just poured himself a second beer. He held up a finger, signally for everyone to wait as he took a long swallow. He sighed in satisfaction.

“I actually do need help,” he said, looking not at Gale but at the Brits.

“Want us to teach you to tie your shoes?” a different one taunted.

“Nah,” Curt said, tone dangerously placid to the ears of his friends. “Nah, got that one figured out. I actually got a question for you: loserssaywhat?”

The first one frowned, head cocking slightly.

“What?”

Rosie guffawed, prompting the change in the trio’s expressions: superior to insulted. Angry. But Curt was beaming. He took another swallow of beer before slowly enunciating, “Losers. Say. What.”

And then he burped so loudly that Crosby, recounting the story to Kidd later that night, would swear it shook the walls.

“That wasn’t part of the question,” Curt clarified.

The strangers surged towards the booth and Crosby got in their way, Bubbles and Gale jumping up too to put a wall between them and Curt.

Gale said one word to them, and he said it like an order: “Outside.”

“Fucking right, outside,” was thrown back at him.

The three on their feet watched the Brits out the door, then turned back to the group.

“Who’s holding down the fort?” John asked.

“Not me,” Curt said. He clambered from the booth and started shadow boxing. As he ducked and wove, eyes fixed on an invisible opponent, John spun his hat around, brim at the back.

“Let’s all go,” Nash said from his spot against the wall. “Nobody’s gonna…”

He trailed off as his gaze landed on something beyond their prizefighting trickster, beyond the inseparable Bubbles and Crosby, beyond the deep-running still waters of Gale. There was a girl. A beautiful girl. Thick, dark hair, talking with another girl Nash barely noticed. As he watched, she laughed. She was even more beautiful when she laughed.

“Actually, I’ll stay,” he amended distractedly. He tilted his head to see around Curt as Curt decided to add footwork to his routine. “The rest of you can fuck off.”

Rosie looked where Nash was looking and smirked.

“Ah, no way, buddy. Wouldn’t leave you here all alone!”

“No more than three of us can go,” John declared. “It’s not…”

“Sportsmanlike,” Gale supplied.

John snapped his fingers and agreed, “Sportsmanlike.”

“I guess it’s you three then,” Bubbles deduced glumly, glancing between John, Gale, and Curt.

“Sure is,” John said, considerably more gleeful. He rose and clapped Bubbles on the shoulder. “Hang tight.”

“But—”

“If you go, Croz’ll come too, and we can’t go five-against-three; they’ll think we’re chickenshits.”

“Who cares about their opinion?” Crosby wanted to know.

“Me,” Curt said. He stuck out his lower lip in a pout. “They hurt my feelings.”

Crosby rolled his eyes.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“Yeah, and do us proud!” Rosie shouted at their backs as Gale, Curt, and John trekked towards the exit. John pumped his fist into the air.

When they’d gone, Rosie smiled slyly at Nash.

“So. Are we calling her over here?”

“What?”

“YO!” Rosie yelped at the top of his lungs.

The girl, her friend, and a dozen other people in the crowded bar turned their heads, searching for the source of the sound.

“What the hell?!” Nash blurted.

Rosie frowned at him.

“You think she’s pretty, right?”

“Duh. Look at her—”

“MY FRIEND THINKS YOU’RE PRETTY! YEAH, YOU! BLUE SHIRT!”

“If I wanted her to think I was a total jackass—” Nash began.

“You’ll get your chance. I just got you started. Wave her over.”

“You ever think there’s a reason you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Nash slid along the seat until he was free of them all, though Crosby did offer an encouraging thumbs-up.

“Watch and learn,” he called over his shoulder. He locked eyes with the girl—the beautiful girl, who was miraculously staring back at him with an expression of amusement rather than scorn—as he headed her way.

—

Outside, the tension was thickening. The Brits should’ve gotten some kind of points for holding their ground, John thought, because they looked nervous now that he, Gale, and Curt were all on their feet, not folded up in that booth. He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders to make himself as big as possible. And he smiled, not as massive as Curt though. That seemed to be pissing them off, maybe making them stay: that Curt was full-on grinning.

“Thorpe Abbott?” the mouthiest of the three asked, like an accusation.

“Abbotts, numb nuts,” Curt corrected.

“What do they grade you with there? Scratch-and-sniff stickers?”

“I wish!” John said. There was a threatening gleam in his eyes.

“You know it doesn’t mean anything when they give you all hundreds right? Your degrees don’t mean shit.”

“It actually does mean something,” Curt said. He suddenly sounded so serious that his friends looked at him from the corner of their eyes. “We go in this special room, ’k? Maybe not so fancy as the rooms at wherever you boys go—”

“East Anglia,” was offered.

Curt nodded.

“Yep, Easy Anglia, whatever. But we go in this room and then—true story—this woman shows up. Like, our dean calls her up to let her know another one of us special boys—”

“Us special American boys,” Gale emphasized.

“—got himself another fuckin’ hundred. Takes her maybe half an hour to show up. And then, guess what, you guys?” Curt looked at the befuddled Brits eagerly. “She blows us.”

Their reaction was a blend of highly skeptical and stunned by the turn Curt’s story had taken. Shit’s sake, Curt, John was thinking. This is gonna be a hell of a fight.

“And, you know, she did mention she had a son,” Curt said measuredly, homing in on the mouthy guy now, “but, damn, you’re her spittin’ fuckin’ image.”

The Brits lunged at them.

—

Nash wanted to ask her to dance, to hold her by the hips and sway along to whatever rhythm she chose. He didn’t care if it didn’t match the beat of the music. He didn’t care that no one else was dancing, or that this wasn’t really a place where people did that. “Helen,” she’d said her name was.

“You read much?” he asked stupidly, but he wanted her to like him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. More than anyone in the history of humankind had ever even dreamed their descendants could want. The only thing he could think to talk about was books. Talking about books, he could start to sound smart again, reassemble his brain in the background while most of him got lost in Helen’s eyes.

“Yes.”

Nash loved how she said yes. His heart, thumping happily in his chest loved it. The rush of blood to his groin loved it. The sound of “yes” in her mouth. She was American. He tried not to think how easy it would be, the two of them moving back home after school. Or staying here, a pair of expats. Whatever she’d prefer.

“I’m actually studying creative writing.”

“Where?” he asked, starry-eyed.

Her eyes darted to her friend before returning to his face. The reaction said he was being sort of stupid now, but then her expression shifted to something like guilt. She’d felt bad for thinking it. for writing him off so quickly.

“At the University of East Anglia.”

“Oh. So, like, right nearby.”

“Right nearby,” she confirmed. “Hence…” She glanced around. Hence this bar. Hence. Totally. Nash gave her a smile, weak with adoration.

“Why there?” he asked.

“Kazuo Ishiguro studied there. I admire his work.”

“I loved The Remains of the Day.”

Helen smiled at him. The clouds parted. Probably.

“Me too,” she said. “Are you in the arts as well?”

“English,” he told her. “Thorpe Abbotts. Working on my PhD.”

She was sufficiently engaged now that her friend moved off, giving them space.

“What’s your field?”

“American,” he admitted, and she got it, and she laughed. An American studying Americans in England. He shrugged, embracing her reaction.

“Who do you like?”

You. But she’d meant which authors.

“Twain,” Nash said, “and Hawthorne.”

Helen’s eyes lit up.

“Yes! My greatest influences are second-wave. You know, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem’s exposé on the Playboy Club, obviously…”

“Well, sure,” Nash said, just keeping up as she spoke in an impassioned rush.

“But I love the early feminists too. Hawthorne and Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Alcott.”

“Little Women!”

“It’s probably still my favourite novel of all time.”

For the first time, Nash took a careful, calculated pause, and he gave her a look. A Nash look. It was a look that usually communicated let’s get out of here, but this time, he wanted more. He’d worn the shirt.

“I’ve never met anybody who was as much of a Jo as you are,” he said, meaning it.

It was noisy, but he heard Helen’s pleased gasp. That she was actually an Amy was something Helen had not yet admitted to herself, and so Nash’s compliment hit its target with full effect. He watched as her lips parted—to thank him? to kiss him? to say some other unforeseen thing that would change his life even further? make him feel the earth move under his feet? did she like Carole King?—but there was a hard tug on his elbow.

Nash turned to find Bubbles standing there. He was the one person Nash wouldn’t snap at for interrupting, and the others knew that. He’d been sent.

“I am so sorry,” Bubbles said, addressing Helen. He was beginning to slur his S’s. “I gotta steal him back for a minute.”

“I swear my friends don’t speak for me,” Nash said as Bubbles physically dragged him away from the conversation. “I know it’s happened twice now, but they don’t!”

Was it worth it, to be removed from Helen’s side and brought back to the booth? Nash was surprised to feel that it almost was—almost—when his eyes landed on their smiling trio of champions. Gale had a cut on his cheek where a fist must’ve connected, or at least glanced off; John had the dark promise of a bruise below one eye; and Curt didn’t have a scratch on him. Nash laughed, shaking his head.

“What was he tryin’ to say though?” John was asking.

“Mumbling some shit about our hundreds,” Gale replied. “Our ‘bloody hundreds.’”

“Yeah,” Curt said. “But it was after I’d clocked him square in the mouth. That’s why he was lispin’. ‘Bloody hundredth,’ it sounded like.” He chuckled. “Bloody hundredth.”

“To the Bloody Hundredth,” Crosby proposed, raising his beer.

Rosie passed Nash his refilled glass, then lifted his own for the toast.

“Bloody Hundredth,” the rest of them intoned.

“And to Princess Diana,” Bubbles’ voice rang out when the rest of them had a glass to their lips. “Wherever she may be tonight.”

Crosby adopted an expression of deep solemnity, but Rosie ruined it by snorting into his water.

“Alright, men,” John addressed them. “Back into the booth. We got some fuckin’ drinking to do.”

“Spoken like a true Hemingway scholar,” Gale observed.

John gave him an affectionate smile.

“I try.”

#my writing #Masters of the Air #MotA #MotA fic #Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne #Harry Crosby #Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal #Herbert Nash #Helen (MotA)#Curtis Biddick #Gale 'Buck' Cleven #John 'Bucky' Egan #Bucky x Buck #Gale x John

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