#richard mull

[thelordwhohealsyou]

Unfortunately, healing is not even in the forefront of the minds of most Christians. The subject has been relegated to medical doctors and considered to be the false work of religious charlatans posing as TV evangelists. It seems like most people have given up the hope or expectation of God’s healing, and apart from a quick and simple prayer pertaining to “if it’s Gods will,” nothing much is expected of God as Healer.

Often mainstream theologies claim that God makes us sick for His purpose to be fulfilled in our lives, and we are to be thankful and pray, “If it’s Your will, then heal me.” No one stops to think. No one even examines the biblical veracity of this belief in healing. It seems that the second most popular way to pray for the sick is to pray for wisdom for the doctors. Is there anyone in the Bible that prayed this way? It sounds good, but is it biblical; is it the most effective prayer that can be prayed? It is so thoroughly ingrained in many that it is unthinkable to question this line of thought. The second most popular approach is the opposing view—that it is God’s will for all to be healed and that all one needs is more faith and speaking the Word of God over and over until it is realized.

The problem with both of these views is that they have just enough truth to be dangerous. Now is not the time to expound upon this, but let me initiate a challenge to anyone who wants to debate the subject of divine healing. First of all, read every passage in Scripture regarding healing, disease, sickness, doctors, or any other related topic. Some of this valuable material is included in the Appendix. The material I have provided for you is, no doubt, missing some passages, though I have sought to be extensive in my research. The reason I say it is missing some passages is that the more I poured into the study of the subject, the more I found. Even after writing most of the book, I was made aware that the Hebrew word shalom holds in its definition divine health, welfare, and prosperity. The word saved¹ in the New Testament is sozo in the Greek, and it means “wholeness,” “healing,” and so much more than we tend to mean when we use the word. In order to be absolutely thorough, I would have to examine every use of every one of these words and many more, which I have not done here.

I trust as you read the pages of this book you will be as amazed as I was at how much God has revealed Himself to be Jehovah Rapha, the God who heals. Writing this book has helped me to know my Father better. I have a deeper grasp of the depth of His love and care for me. May you, too, gain a deeper grasp of His love for you as you read.

I have a totally new perspective on sin and God’s loving grace. God hates sin because sin destroys us. He wants us to obey Him because He loves us and hates to watch us experience the consequences that sin brings with it.

My heart is deeply grieved by the conversations I have with students and professors of supposedly mainline theology. Somehow the entire subject of healing for many Christians is relegated to Charismatic theology. The first two points they want to address are almost invariably tongues and/or apostolic succession. If these terms are unfamiliar and their relevance to the subject makes you wonder, don’t worry; these issues won’t be discussed here. (I would consider myself a student of theology, and I end up scratching my head at the relevance of these topics to healing as well.) What amazes me is how easily we can be sidetracked from walking in and experiencing the abundant Christian life as Jesus intended and taught. I’m

reminded of the various religious groups from Jesus’ day who were tripping over truths while Truth Himself walked in their very midst undetected because He didn’t fit within their nice little theological framework. I urge you, please, to set aside any preconceived ideas you have about this subject and take some time to prayerfully study this subject in light of God’s Word. See if there might be something of value through this examination.

Richard Mull, Lord Heal Me.

[dramoor]

"Prayer is sitting in the silence until it silences us, choosing gratitude until we are grateful, praising God until we ourselves are a constant act of praise."

~Richard Rohr  

(Photo © dramoor 2018 Ben Craig Lodge, Isle of Mull, Scotland)

[sexypinkon]

Sexypink - Earlier this year - We Out Here - featuring six Caribbean Artists living and working in Hastings, England, including Richard Mark Rawlins.

Addendum: https://www.richardmarkrawlins.com/jumbie-family-2023/

[feraldrollery]

Men

Richard's brother, right?

[genevieveetguy]

. I was a victim, too. At least my wife was. She had friends who were... socialists. Well, we all make mistakes.

Clue, Jonathan Lynn (1985)

[thewomanwhowatchedchristmas]

Richie Rich's Christmas Wish (1998)

Ok, so I know that like, objectively, this is not a good movie. But wow it is campy fun. If you read my review last year of Jingle All the Way, this was also a favorite of at Nana's house because that was her taste, so I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Richie Rich (David Gallagher) is sick of all the responsibilities that come with his family's wealth and fame that prevent him from playing with his friends Gloria (Michelle Trachtenberg) Freckles (Blake Collins), and Pee Wee (Austin Stout). His attendant Cadbury (Keene Curtis) is patient with him, and Mr. Rich (Martin Mull) and Mrs. Rich (Lesley Ann Warren) are both loving parents and responsible community members, but things go south when the Van Doughs come for tea. Mr. Van Dough (Richard Fancy) is trying to shut down factories because he doesn't want to pay the workers. Mrs. Van Dough (Marla Maples) has no time for charity work because of all her spa treatments. Their son Reggie (Jake Richardson) is mean to all the waitstaff and is jealous that Richie gets to be on TV. Reggie doesn't want to do the charity work; he just wants to be the richest kid in the world instead of being second to Richie. So Reggie sabotages Richie and then blames Richie for ruining Christmas. Richie thinks everyone believes Reggie (they don't) and is distraught. He goes to Professor Keenbean's (Eugene Levy) lab and wishes that Richie Rich was never born. This triggers Professor Keenbean's wishing machine, but the world isn't quite what Richie was expecting without him in it.

This was really fun for me. I guess if you're not a fan of the "so bad it's good" kind of movie, this is not for you. But that's my personal favorite kind of movie. Overall, I have no notes, just 5 stars.

[occamstfs]

Higher Education

Bit of a belated 4/20 TF! Reliving the heady days of his weed-filled youth may not help a professor's tenure track. Enjoy! -Occam

It had been quite a while since Richard had cut himself some slack. He was on track to be tenured and the obligations and rigor involved gave him little time to himself. His department has really become more of a family to him than his estranged once loved ones. He spends more waking hours in this office than any room of his spacious home. Today he’s burning the midnight oil yet again as he mars a doctoral candidate’s thesis draft in red ink.

Seeing just how much of a scarlet mess he has left for this poor student he pauses to make himself a cup of tea. He certainly doesn’t want to be seen as too critical or crotchety, though he feels assured that his students know this. Upon returning to his desk he finds a small wrapped gift box resting squarely on the marked up essay. He knows precisely who it is from and chuckles as he looks at the kitschy weed-themed wrapping paper. 

Picking it up he hears something small and light shake around in the box. The tag reads: “Happy 4-20 Old Man, why not live a little- your favorite Candidate, Mac.” Slowly unwrapping it Richard smiles wistfully as he recalls way way back to when he was in undergrad. Walking down smoke filled dorm hallways bleary-eyed as he contributes to it. Just smoking grass on the main lawn welcoming anyone to open their minds at these little sessions. An alarm goes off on his computer shaking him from his reverie as he sets the gift down to respond to the pile of emails that have accrued today.

Richard begins his cookie-cutter responses to colleagues, scratching backs and brown nosing as need be to advance his own career. Not too long into this dull work however does he begin to smell that unmistakable skunky scent coming from Mac’s half opened gift. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, shocked that his subordinate would fully shepherd drugs into his office before pausing to remember that weed is legal here, in this state at least. He tosses the box in the bag making sure the scent can’t escape as he returns his attention to the ocean of busywork.

He cannot find purchase however as he finds himself impossibly distracted, the tea he made tastes bitter in his mouth and every so often he smells a whiff of the joint hiding in his bag. Richard rushes through a couple of responses before checking the clock and realizing Mac was right, partly that is. He can afford to head out a little early. It is a holiday of his youth after all, he thinks to himself smiling mischievously as he grabs his coat and heads to his home. 

Tenured he may not be but he makes enough to live incredibly close to campus. It’s about five so theoretically the work day is over anyway, but he lives close enough that should there be need he could easily return. He would be happy to even, he puts his hand in the bag and fingers the ripped paper of the gift box. Patting it as if to say maybe another time, though resolving to chew out Mac for such an inappropriate gift. 

Tossing his bag on a chair and entering his quiet home he pours himself a drink and heads to watch the daily news. As soon as it touches his lips though he spits it out all over himself. It was beyond revolting, for the life in him he can’t figure out why though? It’s what he always has as a treat isn’t it? He wipes up his mess and grills himself as to what on Earth caused him to do that. Going down the list of possibilities he finds himself distracted as wafting from his open bag is the impossibly alluring scent of Mac’s joint. 

For a time he just sits and stares at his bag, mulling over any real consequences there could be to just letting himself smoke just this once. He’s sure his colleague Dr. Bennet can barely go a school week without smoking away at least a day. Flicking the metaphorical angel off his shoulder he decides to go for it. It’s just one joint, what could possibly go awry.

The doctor takes one massive hit and remembers that whatever the kids are smoking today is leagues more intense than the kush he had back when. He coughs heartily and stumbles into his kitchen to get some water, smiling as he remembers the old adage that coughing actually gets you higher. He pours a cup for himself, spilling a tad over the counter and neglecting to clean it up.

Richard decides to throw on a record before returning to his joint once more. God he remembers loving nothing more than just sitting and watching his wax spin on his player as smoke danced in the air. He reclines back and immediately feels more at home. He’s lived here for almost a decade now and never has he felt more comfortable than this moment. He laughs at himself wondering why he’s waited so long to smoke again. Maybe he should text Mac and thank him?

At this his phone rings and he sobers up almost immediately, his first couple hits washed away as he sees a text from his department head. He holds the joint with his lips as he uses both hands to unlock his phone, smoke sailing wistfully past his eyes as he starts to read it. Sitting there looking at the bright screen of his phone alongside the ever increasing smoke though his eyes quickly dry and he sets it down. How important could it be anyway? The workday is over; he is under no obligation to respond, he reasons. Surely it’s nothing. He sets his phone down and goes to lie back on the couch and listen to his old music, taking another massive hit.

He struggles to kick his shoes off as they suddenly grow uncomfortable on his feet, almost as if they were a couple sizes too small, that can’t be right though as if his feet were growing in his old age. He laughs at the idea, picturing clown feet at the bottom of his thin legs, not seeing in reality that his feet are starting to strain his socks. Nor could he possibly notice as their odor begins to mingle with the overpowering smell of weed filling his den.

His phone vibrates again and he furrows his brow before his eyes glaze over as intended. His clothes all over begin to feel a little uncomfortable on his body. He grimaces wondering what exactly the move is before duh, this is his house! He hits himself on his head as he decides to just strip, he was always half naked smoking outdoors back then he may as well do so in his own house. Taking off his clothes he doesn’t notice as there is a skip in the record as it changes, the grooves warp, harden, and shrink as his pristine record collection diminishes into a massive, slightly disheveled CD collection. Richard certainly doesn't notice as he scratches at his chest, the only thought in his head as he rips his joint once more is “Man, I love this song.”

He giggles once more as he hears his stomach rumble and he recalls what a persistent issue the munchies have always been for him. In fact it was one of the reasons he quit back in his grad school, he simply couldn’t afford all the weed along with the food budget that satisfying his cravings demanded. Shouldn’t be a problem now though, he thinks, he is an, uh? Pausing as the haziness sets in his eyes burning pink as the thoughts in his head slow. He’s a professor right? Though his mind slows he continues his steady crawl to raid whatever snacks lie in his cabinet.

There he, surprisingly, finds a stoner’s paradise. The shelves are lined with chips and cheap pastries beyond imagination. He once more holds the joint in his mouth as he reaches deep to double fist some bags of chips, tacitly continuing to smoke as his stomach rumbles in jubilation. In his gluttony he drops bags to the floor and laughs letting the joint fall to the floor wondering if the five second rule applies to weed, guffawing some more. He hears his own voice in his head telling him to keep it down but as if he’s going to listen to that square.

He turns up his CD player’s stereo in protest as his inner monologue grows more agitated. Dude you’ve gotta turn it down, you share a wall with the neighbors. He stuffs his hand in the potato chips and starts devouring them as he reflects on this. Shares a wall? But that would be he lives in a duplex, or wait? He looks around his place and sees it smaller than he remembers it, right? Continuing to scarf chips getting grease all over his hands and face as, so far beyond his notice, it begins to produce more oil itself than it has in decades. 

Continuing to snack he hears his phone ring as his boss is fully calling him now. Stumbling up and over to his phone Richard doesn’t notice as his thighs begin to fill his underwear. He had lost a lot of weight from his long years of working and now that he is finally indulging once more it seems a healthy weight is returning. Rubbing together as he makes his way to the couch, the friction draws his attention to just how pleasurable physicality is when he’s high. Gosh he needed this. 

He grows distracted as he arrives at the couch, his phone stops ringing before starting up again as his Department head calls once more. Seeing her contact picture appear he says aloud, “whatever bitch” laughing like an ass as he hangs up on her and sets his phone to do-not-disturb. Once more there is a buzz in the air as the music set up changes once more. Phone now in hand he starts to play music the only way he has ever known, wrinkles and the few gray hairs that remained totally disappearing from his face as he presses skip on his phone and is awash in adoration as his all time favorite album starts playing. 

He sits there and just takes in the music as he rubs his slightly distended stomach. Grimacing as he thinks he should start hitting the gym. He hears Mac all the time talking about how much he loves hitting the gym high. His heart suddenly flutters as he thinks about Mac and grows giggly again. He feels a pang in his head that such behavior is inappropriate. He is a prof- He’s a? His mind strains to recall what exactly he is. His eyes search the room looking for any hints before landing on the TV seeing the Daily News that has been playing through it all suddenly turn to static before coalescing into the video game Mac was always talking his ear off about in office hours. In the once professors mind though the only thought present is, Fuck! I love this game!

Energy surges through his body as he searches for a playstation remote. His pulse races as his excitement grows and he feels a desperate urge to stretch. He feels as his tendons extend. Rubbing his arms across his torso he feels his increased weight begin to coalesce into firm yet weighty muscle. His hands twitch and scratch against his increasing strength as he controls on the couch, moaning and laughing at just how lascivious this pleasure is, his voice vibrating deeper as the pitch of the song and video game blast louder in his head. Haha wait a second, he thinks, I’m so fuckin’ sore I must already be going to the gym faded with Mac right?

He blushes and stretches some more, feeling his back arch and his tight torso stretches to its limit before surging beyond it. His arms raised behind his head they grasp at air and feel the sought after remote and a hat which he instinctively throws on. Ah this hat is Mac’s isn’t it! He is briefly confused once more as he tries to remember what exactly his relationship is with Mac. It’s? He’s, are they roommates? Rich looks around the room, eyes shifting to where there once was a record collection, no a CD stand? Why would he need either of those though haha, as if Mac’s apartment has space for that!

Mac’s apartment. The thought repeats many times over in his mind and his eye twitches as he feels a pain that the high cannot make pleasurable. Grimacing, he decides to try and focus on the game. Black ink slowly staining his body as he clicks buttons. After little time at all though he realizes, fuck, it’s been so long since he’d hit that joint hasn’t it?

Pausing his game he uses his bleary eyes to scan his apartment floor for the roach. He didn’t drop it in the chip bag did he? He checks far too quickly to possibly see it before giving up. There’s gotta be an easier way to smoke some more right? Out of the corner of his eye he sees the rocks glass he was using as a stupid smile inches across his face. Through the haze in the room the only thing Rich can see when looking at such a cylinder is a bong. Rich reaches for it, the glass growing taller and embellishing as he does. In a fluid motion he snatches it and starts to stumble around and look for a lighter. 

Lucky for him in Mac’s apartment they seem to be scattered around as if they were decoration. Thinking of Mac his mind is a sea of conflict again and there is a sudden urge, a craving, a need to smoke right now. He lights the bowl and before he even inhales from the beyond filthy bong he is at ease once more. Smoke rocketing into his lungs he holds back a coughing fit before a giggle breaks the line and he loses control. 

Between each cough he feels himself lose something. He sees Mac and laughs at the idea that he could ever be in charge. Mac’s older than him, right? He sees an unfamiliar house that he could never afford as it turns to static and shrinks into a small one bedroom apartment that doesn’t even have his name on the lease. He sees a degree he sees multiple degrees and not only can he not imagine himself having the willpower to get them, he laughs at the idea that he would even want to sit through a single college course. Smoke fills the air as if he were hotboxing the apartment and he rubs his body as hair pushes its way out of his skin. He needs to shave, Mac like him smooth. 

Feeling his body once more, flexing his bare body against the couch and rubbing his hands across his itchy stomach smiling without a care in the world or a thought in his head he hears a key turn in the front door. His eyes stay closed as his smile grows wider and the only man, the only thing, that matters to him in the world approaches. Mac stands over him, dressed in a suit as he clearly came from the campus and says, “Miss me, Dick?”

Dick’s eyes burst open more bloodshot than could possibly be healthy and he stares wordlessly, longingly, into the eyes of the man domineering over him. He’s a little confused at what the smirk on his face could mean, but Dick is confused most of the time, so he’ll just wait for Mac to explain! 

He doesn’t. Mac leans in close to Dick’s ear and just whispers, “Happy 4-20 Doc. Thanks for giving in.” Then puts his mouth over Dick’s before his mind could even recognize the words being said. He loses control instantly without a hand touches his cock as it expands heartily, no underwear to hold it or his cum back as he forevermore loses control over his mind, of his life. Not that he minds, how bad could life be with someone as nice and great as Mac watching over him! The two continue to make out on Mac’s couch, not caring for the cleanliness of the suit as the bong is knocked onto the table. From now on there is little at all that Dick would care about at all besides his master, his Mac.

[jewellery-box]

Wedding Dress, 1795, silk, cotton

Rare transitional gown. The bodice in keeping with earlier 18th century construction in white silk embroidered with scattered rosebuds and carnations. The apron front skirt constructed in Directoire style. Sheer stiffened white mull overskirt. Hem with rich polychrome embroidery having delicate baskets filled with rosebuds, trailing vines, tasseled bows trimmed with sterling spangles. Ground embroidered with scattered rosebuds and tiny carnations. All densely worked in tambour stitch.

This silk embroidered dress was worn by Elizabeth Bull in 1795 when she married Richard William Hart. The dress shows the transition from 18th century construction and design to 19th century styles. The embroidery design consists of scattered rosebuds, carnations, trailing vines, bows, and baskets.

Connecticut Historical Society

[melloollem]

DC Masterlist

BATFAMILY

Heardcannon

Problem with your relationship|| Batboys × No reader gender

Summary: What would you say is the problem in your relationship with them.

You're no good to me|| Batboys × No reader gender

Summary: Your relationship is wrong, you're not doing each other any good and you need to find a way to cope.

Evolution of touch||Batboys × No reader gender

Summary: What physical contact with them would be like in a relationship.

Bruce Wayne

Nights in the family||Bruce Wayne × Batmom reader × Batboys

Summary: Your children keep you company after patrol until your husband arrives.

Be Batman|| Bruce Wayne × No reader gender

Summary: Bruce must return to Gotham, it was his duty to save the city. He just wishes it didn't have to cost him leaving you.

Family Conflicts|| Bruce Wayne × batmom Fem! reader × (Platonic) Jason Todd

Summary: Bruce mulls over the guilt he feels after a fight with Jason, you're the one who advises him and tries to sort things out.

Richard "Dick" Grayson

Soon...

Jason Todd

Old love young|| Jason Todd × No reader gender

Summary: Jason's jealousy over his best friend rekindles old feelings.

Giving you hel|| Jason Todd × No reader gender

Summary: After discovering that you were responsible for his resurrection, you and Jason Todd have an argument that results in the end of the relationship.

Before The Great Fall|| Jason Todd (Robin) × No reader gender

Summary: You and Jason have become friends because you have a habit of walking around the city at night and Robin has a habit of taking you home.

"I thought I'd be the last person you'd ever let him hurt."|| Jason Todd × No reader gender

Summary:Jason's death meant nothing, your death meant nothing. He had lost so much and for no reason.

Timothy "Tim" Drake

We should date|| Tim Drake × No reader gender × Conner kent

Summary: It was obvious you liked each other, someone just needed to assume.

Damian Wayne

Cat and bird||Damian Wayne × No reader gender

Summary: You, like your mother, try your luck on one of Gotham's hunting nights.

Harley Quinn

Soon...

Selina Kyle

Soon...

SUPERS

Heardcannon

Soon...

Conner Kent

We should date|| Tim Drake × No reader gender × Conner kent

Summary: It was obvious you liked each other, someone just needed to assume.

[brummiereader]

PREVIOUS PART

A Ghost Of A Man (PART FIVE)

Summary: Things take a turn for the worse when the reader goes back to visit Tommy in the abandoned building.

Warnings: Language, supernatural themes, angst, violence

For the past few weeks you had regularly found yourself back at the abandoned building. Juggling between work, Uni and the dreaded assignment that you finally got finished, you would visit Tommy most days. During your time with him he would talk to you about his family and childhood growing up in Small Heath. You would often ask questions about the Peaky Blinders and the war in France, which at first he reluctantly opened up about. You had spent hours alone with Tommy in the old offices, at ease enough to confide in him your hopes and wishes for the future, he in turn had entrusted you with his gold pocket watch when you insisted on taking it to a Watchmaker after seeing it was no longer working. Often giving the other small touches, a hand on his arm, his palm on the small of your back, you were both now comfortable and content being within each others presence, grateful of the growing bond you had built. It was coming close to the date of Tommy's brutal death, soon he would be going back to 1922. You mentioned it to him once, only for him to get rather agitated, quickly putting an end to the conversation. For now this was your routine. But for how long could this last before one of you got frustrated with the way things were?

For the past few days you had been mulling over the idea of trying to find something...anything that could help Tommy for when he goes back to his time. He had told you rather hostilely to not go looking for any information which confused you, did he not want to live again? Being rather stubborn you walked into work with only one objective in mind.

" Hi Janette" you said as you turned on your computer.

"Hello you" she said giving you a huge smile.

" Erm, i have another favor to ask"

" It wouldn't happen to be about that gang, would it?" She said as she started stamping a stack of books on her desk.

" It's the last time, I promise"

" You know anything you need for Uni you're always welcome to go and do the research you need" she said smiling to you warmly.

Not exactly Uni research anymore with your assignment having been handed in over a week ago, this time it was personal research. You needed access to the newspaper articles upstairs, so with that in mind you nodded and thanked your boss as you headed up to the second level. To say Tommy wasn't consuming your life right now was an understatement. You was no longer frightened of the man you first met instead you felt drawn to him, you wanted to spend every hour of every day with him, did he feel the same?

Upstairs in the small storage room there was an old computer, and it looked like Richard had finally started photocopying and categorising all the books onto it. This would make your research easier, the only thing was, you didn't know where to start. There was very little recorded info about Tommy's death, and you was having trouble figuring out what to type into the search bar. The folder belonged to Campbell so you typed his full name in first. There was a few articles about the arrival of a new police officer coming to Birmingham to clean up the city, but nothing more. Then you remembered what Tommy said about how he was hired by Winston Churchill. You vaguely recalled your boss talking about how in London they recently discovered some old letters of correspondence from Churchill from the 1920's, now part of history they were published online for anyone to see. With nothing to lose you clicked on the article and downloaded them. There was over a hundred letters, sighing in desperation you painstakingly read through each one. After what felt like forever you came upon a letter with Campbells full name at the top. It was indeed a letter to the man himself. Reading through the correspondence it talked about a certain someone who could be of use. And then you saw it, the now familiar initials T.S. You knew it was about Tommy, it was too much of a coincidence to not be. If Campbell needed Tommy for something then maybe he could stop the attack by Sabini and his men. You knew by giving Tommy this information you would potentially never see him again, and with that you felt a huge wave of sadness come over you. Brushing away a tear you wrote down the information on a small piece of paper and placed it in your pocket. The real question now was, were you going to give it to him? You had grown fond of him and your visits to the abandoned building, you had developed a closeness to eachother, an understanding of who the other is. Could you really keep this information from him though, forever damning him to live between two worlds?

Arriving back home you felt drained with the knowledge that you had the potential missing link that Tommy needed to save his life. Trying to distract yourself you decided to do something nice for your friend, your lack of socialism the past month was evident, and you felt guilty for forgetting everyone else in your life, you hadn't even visited your 90 year old Nan in nearly over a month something you deeply regretted. She was the only family you was in contact with nowadays, your parents who you had a strained relationship with, living far from Birmingham. Taking out a bottle of red wine you had been saving, you decided to drown in your sorrows as you waited for your friend to come back home.

" Hey!" Your friend said as she opened the door.

" Oh hi, you ok?" you answered sitting up straight to face her.

" Good, good. Surprised you're home feel like I have barely seen you lately" she said sitting down on the sofa kicking her shoes off.

" I'm sorry Louise, I don't know where my head's been at lately. I'll make it up to you" you said with overly exaggerated pleading eyes.

" Fine, buy me food first" she said with a small giggle.

" Already done, and here " you said as you passed her the biggest glass you could find full of her favourite red wine.

"Ooh thanks, nearly forgiven" she said with a massive grin as she took the glass from you.

"And i promise, any movie you pick i won't give a running commentary the entire way through"

" Deal, but one last thing. You come for a night out"

" Fine" you said with a huff and a laugh as you handed her the remote control.

As your friend started flicking through movies, you arranged the food that arrived just 5 minutes before. Handing her plate to her you sat down getting comfy as you rested your plate of food on the cushion laying on your lap.

" Found one" your friend said.

" Ghost!?" You said dropping your fork, the title in large capital letters across the TV screen.

" It's a movie about a woman who's boyfriend is a gho..."

" Yeh yeh I know what it's about" you said cutting her off feeling a little flustered as you remembered the story line.

"Hey! You promised you wouldn't comment" your friend replied as she pressed play.

Sinking back into your seat, your appetite now gone, you reached to the side table taking a rather large gulp of red wine, you was going to need it.

A few days later you had reluctantly agreed to go with your friend for a night out, as promised. Before you did you wanted to visit Tommy. With a heavy heart you had come to a decision. You was going to give him the information on Campbell. You wanted the man you had begun to care for to live again, you would never forgive yourself keeping it from him, letting him spend eternity in that dilapidated building knowing he would always refuse to move on. Deciding to get dressed for night beforehand, you picked out a long black sleeved turtleneck top that you tucked into a camel coloured high wasted mini skirt, matching it with a pair of opaque black tights and your trusty black heeled ankle boots. You loosely curled your hair and put on a modest amount of makeup. Tommy's pocket watch now fixed you placed it in your coat pocket along with the paper of information on Campbell.

" You look hot!" your friend said as you walked into the kitchen. " But early though, it's only six"

" Yeh I just need to pop out somewhere, I'll meet you there" you said as you put on your long black coat and headed for the door.

" Alright, but you best be there!"

" I will, I promise" you called out as you shut the front door.

Sitting in the bus, you looked out the window at the darkening sky. Passing by Watery Lane you thought about the old lady, you wanted to go back and see her. You was curious to know more about her and why she would claim to be Tommy's grand daughter, and how she inherited the abandoned building after Tommy insisted it was not possible. Twenty minutes later you arrived at your stop, getting out you made your way to the building. You would never normally come this late, the lack of daylight was making it hard for you to navigate up the old stairs. Once you made it to the top you was thankful for the orange glow of the streetlights beaming through the second floor windows.

"Tommy" you called out as you made your way over to his office door, which was unusually shut. Opening the door, you jumped back almost falling over.

" Boo" Tommy said in a flat tone, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

"Jesus Christ Tommy! You scared the hell out of me" you said clutching your chest.

" Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?" he replied a smirk forming on his lips.

" Yeh well... Can you save it for the teens that come up here to drink their WKD. You said pushing past him breathless.

" WKD?" He mouthed confused.

Sitting on the edge of his desk you straightened out your coat recomposing yourself. Turning around to face you, Tommy's eyes widened.

" What the hell are you wearing?" He said brows furrowed.

" What? What's wrong with it " you said looking down at your outfit.

Lost for words, Tommy forcefully gestured with his hand up and down your body.

" Jesus Tommy, it's the twenty-first century, women can wear what they want. I'm going out with my friend tonight, I can't go out in jeans and T-shirt" you said slightly annoyed. Tommy's eyes locked on the visible shape of your legs he let out a scoff.

" You look like a whor.."

" Don't... don't you dare say it!" you said interrupting him as you pointed a finger at him.

Huffing he took a drag of his cigarette shaking his head still glaring at your legs.

" You know if a girl walked down the street like that back in my day she would have been.."

" Tommy!" You said, your eyes widening as you started to lose your patience. This was a great start to the night, Tommy's apparent mood becoming more evident by the second.

A small silence filled the room. You could feel his eyes on you as you picked at the edge of his wooden desk.

" So where you going?" He asked finally giving in.

"Just some bar in the town center"

" How long will you stay out?"

"Huh?" You said slightly amused at Tommy's question. " I don't know Tommy, until I want to go home. Would you rather I not go out?" you questioned sarcastically.

" Yes" he huffed under his breath as he exhaled a puff of smoke.

" Why are you being like this?" You said squinting your eyes as you tried to understand him.

"Just go Y/N, I didn't ask you to come tonight , you clearly have other plans" he replied annoyed, avoiding all eye contact.

Defiant you stayed seated. Ignoring his request for you to leave you took out the piece of paper from your coat pocket.

" Tommy I know you said not to look into it, but I think I found something that might help you for when you go back"

" Don't want me coming back, is that it?" He said cocking an eyebrow, a slight bitterness in his voice.

" Tommy... I didn't mean it like that" you replied slightly confused.

Another unbearable silence filled the room as you sheepishly looked at Tommy waiting for him to talk.

" I checked what you asked. The Garrison, it's no longer there, it's been turned into a corner shop, Tommy?... Tommy?" you said trying to catch his line of view.

" What is this Y/N, hm? What are we doing?" he said finally turning to face you, uninterested in the information you had.

" What are you talking about?"

Scoffing Tommy stared at you as he exhaled a cloud of smoke once more, his cigarette now hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Tommy, I think you should at least read it, it's about Campbell...I think it could wor"

"Just fucking stop alright" he said interrupting you, as his frustration grew. Standing up straight he let out a huff as he abruptly walked over to you.

" Tommy..."

" Look I have enjoyed your visits, they have been amusing" he said as he tilted his head. "A way to past the time, but now you need to go" he added coldly.

You stood there shocked, your eyes full of confusion. Why was he acting like this? Everything had been going fine. His hurtful words piercing you like a knife, you found your anger against him building up inside, about to burst at any given moment.

" What the fuck!" You said angrily as you pushed him away from you." I just told you that I have found something that may help you and then you tell me that this has all been a game for you" you said throwing the piece of paper at him." Amusing? Is that all I have been to you, a way to past the time as you said. You're lying Tommy".

"Stop Y/N" he warned you, pointing a finger at you as you approached him, so close your bodies were almost touching.

" What is wrong with you? Is this how you treated everyone. Use them, then discard them when you got bored. Like you did with the old lady on Watery Lane? For weeks I have convinced myself that you was more than the man I read about in those files, but you're just an angry sad bitter ghost of yourself" you replied your voice raising with each sentence, tears starting to fill your eyes.

"ENOUGH!" he shouted at you making you stumble as your back hit the wall.

" You've given up" you said tears now streaming down your cheeks. " You're a coward Thomas Shelby" you added as you clutched your arms around your stomach trying to comfort yourself.

" What the fuck did you just call me eh?" He said grabbing you by both your arms, pushing you back against the wall. " A fucking coward!" he fumed, his eyes now black, full of an anger that you had never seen before. The room suddenly getting colder...darker, you was petrified, his grip on your arms tightening.

" I'm not the one too afraid to live their fucking life" he seethed, as you looked down at the whites of his knuckles.

" You are afraid Tommy, afraid to move on... afraid to live again, what...who, are you waiting for? You sobbed.

His eyes narrowed at you as his squeeze got tighter.

"Tommy you're hurting me" you cried looking at his hold on you.

" You're just a stupid girl, bored with your own life. Why do you come here, hm? To fucking taunt me is that it, I think you like games too Y/N" he said clenching his jaw as he watched streams of tears fall down your cheeks. With little courage you had left, you looked up into his angry eyes, pleading him with unspoken words to let go of you. Suddenly snapping out of his anger Tommy looked down at his vicelike grip on your arms and let go stumbling back as he pushed your arm's away from him.

For a moment all you did was look at him, tears burning your skin, you was in utter shock. Tommy could barely look at you. Pushing past him you grabbed the paper you gave him out his hand and ran out the door not looking back. Just as you did you heard him call out after you.

"Y/N" he said quietly, shame riddled in his voice, as he sheepishly brushed his hand over the top of his head.

Ignoring him you ran down the stairs and out onto the street. You had just been a fun game to him. Just an amusement. What made him get so angry? His demeanor changed so quickly, you had never seen him so furious, not even the first time you encountered him in his office did he look like that. Were your words too much of a bitter pill for him to swallow? Or was Tommy the first one to inevitably crack, becoming too frustrated with the scenario you both found yourselves in?

Walking to the bus stop trembling from the cold air, your tears sticking to your checks you checked the times with blurry eyes. Realising you had missed the bus and with no one around to ask directions, you started walking the route back home. Alone in the dark, the cold chill of February numbing your hands you walked and walked the only thing on your mind, Tommy.

Wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, you realised you had walked onto Watery Lane. Slowly making your way down the street you stopped at the old ladies house, the warm light of her window welcoming you in. You approached her door and knocked twice. A few minutes later, she opened her front door and greeted you with a warm smile.

"Hello dear"

NEXT PART

Tag list: @theshelbyclan @babayaga67 @sysymei @nataliewalker93

[stupidfuckingwindow]

Masterlist // About;

Hey‼️ I'm Danny. I (usually) write and talk about the things i'm interested in. My requests are now open, currently fixated on Ryan Gosling and Christoph Waltz. If I do write anything x reader, they'll likely have no pronouns explicitly said (though they may be afab for a few fics) and will be nonspecific in appearance.

NSFW // ☆ | Slight NSFW // ♤ | Angst // ♧

Driver

-Hands // Driver's hands. ♤

-His curves // Your favorites among Driver's many curves. ☆

-You // You caught Driver in your apartment. He repays you. ☆

-Rain // Driver's thoughts about you, in his car.

-Captive // Coming back to a tied up Driver after a few hours. ☆

H. March

-Sensitivity // Holland's loud, stupid, and incredibly easy to startle.

-Drainage system // Holland mulls over his relationship with you. ♧

-Noise // Holland can't ever shut up, especially when it comes to pleasure. ☆

-Three's company // A night with Holland and Healy. ☆

-Silver lining // Part 2 to Drainage System. ♧

H. Letham

-Autosarcophagy // Henry's habit of 'eating' himself alive.

-Toxic Henry headcanons ♧

‐Turpentine // He can't stop thinking about you long after you've passed. ♧

-Nsfw hc. ☆

-Crowded // An unlikely trio find interest in you. ☆

Ken

-Eyes // Ken's worries regarding you.

-Cable knit sweater // Handjob with Ken. ☆

-Nsfw hc. ☆

-Peppered Kisses // Ken steals a jalapeño from your cutting board. What happens next will (not) shock you!

-Bark like you want it // Ken hates being ignored. ☆

-Campfire // Catching Ken. ☆

-Drivin' me insane // Ken has to be on stage soon, but you won't let him go without teasing first. ♤

-Guess I'll go eat worms // Ken doesn't seem to understand the concept of death. ♧

S. Wilder

-NSFW Alphabet. ☆

-Piano Keys // Cockwarming with Seb. ☆

-Pretty Predicament // Sneaking under the piano while he plays. ☆

L. Lindstrom

-Crow // Lars feeds some birds.

R. Haywood

-NSFW Alphabet. ☆

-Brutus // Richard gets his shit rocked.

-Crowded // An unlikely trio find interest in you. ☆

J. Thompson

-Drown // Julian's wants, regarding you. ☆

-NSFW Alphabet. ☆ (in progress)

-Dependent // Julian thinks back on his dismemberment. ♧

C. Seavers

-Stuntman // A morning with Colt. ♤

-NSFW Hc. ☆

-Terrible Idea // Using a vibrator in public on Colt. ☆

S. Six

-Nsfw hc. ☆

Officer K

-Crowded // An unlikely trio find interest in you. ☆

Noah Calhoun

-Smile At The Moon // Your deer is long gone. ♧ ☆

Multiple

-One NSFW hc for every character // part one. ☆

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Courting The Pirate King

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(Kevin Kline is literally so hot like the fact that he isn’t mine is such bullshit)

- Many women would consider your reality a tale of great misfortune. Living on a pirate ship with a band of infamous pirates who undoubtedly harass and molest you, ordering you around like a slave and groping at you like a harlot. What a tragic and terrifying life to live!

- If only they knew the truth: that was always your first thought as they peppered you with sympathies and offered you their assistance in escaping your captors. You wondered if their hearts could take the news that you had chosen this life: that the pirates you called crew mates treated you like Queen Victoria herself and used their utmost manners when addressing you.

- Admittedly, you’d been a bit surprised yourself. Like most of the people in your village, you’d assumed that pirates were nothing but trouble: criminals who wouldn’t think twice about stealing from and killing people. And while that might have still been the case; at least on occasion, your pirates proved to be rather empathetic. 

- You’d been …an orphan (*gasp*) when you first met your soon to be crew, torn between trying to find a proper job to support yourself and fighting off marriage proposals from less than desirable men who wished to prey upon your vulnerable state.

- Funnily enough, it was the pirates who showed you the most mercy and kindness: sobbing at your predicament as though the tragedy had befallen them instead of yourself and begging for your forgiveness in regards to their initial brash and impudent ways of addressing you.

- You’d been alone near the shore when they’d arrived at your village, too preoccupied with what you were doing to notice them stalking you from a little ways away. They’d ambushed and attempted to abduct you, hauling you off toward their ship like a living piece of treasure; up until you’d manage to let slip that you were parentless.

- Their leader; a man who may or may not have kissed you breathless only a few moments prior, immediately ordered your release and offered you a place on their ship: on account of the fact that you no longer had a proper home; at least not for very much longer. 

- Though it probably should have, the decision didn’t take you very long to make and in a matter of minutes, you were being led back to your new home by your new king; a nervous hammering in your chest and an arm wrapped delicately around your shoulders.

- I’m not going to use this idea in this story but Richard; the pirate king, is definitely the type of man who would convince you to marry him on the spot in order to secure a place on his ship; especially if you asked to join the crew. He’d laugh and tease you about your request; sharing amused comments with his merry band of thieves, but once you’d make like you were going to leave, he’d hurriedly stop you, mull over the idea, and offer up his own proposition; nervously sweetening the deal with halfhearted promises that it’ll just be in name and things like that. 

- The fact that you’re a beautiful woman is enough to make the pirate king fall for you but if he, by some rare chance, doesn’t love you from the minute he sees you, he falls for you the minute you act even somewhat motherly and caring towards him. Oh, you attempted to look after him when he was stressed or under the weather? Be his wife. 

- From the minute you step foot on his ship, Richard makes it his mission to have you for himself and though he doesn’t make it inherently obvious to you, he still stakes claim on you as soon as you agree to be a part of his crew. The pirates are tenderhearted to begin with but rest assured that their manners and kindness towards you are due in part to their leaders infatuation. 

- Your admirer is determined to show you how great it is to be a pirate and convince you to stay on their ship for as long as possible so he’s always making sure everyone is on their best behavior and that you’re having as much fun as possible. He’s constantly around you, checking in on you and asking how you’re doing, ushering you to join him whenever you step out onto the deck and entertaining you as best as he can. 

- He tries his best to be charming and friendly, flirting with you every now and again and treating you a bit like you’re already his lover. You’ll more or less be none the wiser; your naivety stopping you from seeing how he truly feels about you, but his gaze and tone of voice will make it pretty obvious that he has feelings for you; along with his attempts to go in for a kiss that are always interrupted or otherwise stopped by your obliviousness.  

- For some reason, beneath his typical frustration, he still somewhat assumes that you know there’s a romance brewing between you and that everyone else should understand it as well: that it won’t take you long to come to your senses and that he’s “working on it”. But, on top of that, he also comprehends that you’re not actually together yet so he’s not necessarily allowed to just order you around and tell you what to do or to not look at other men; which puts him in a rather difficult situation. 

- One day, he finds you distraught/lost in worried thought and questions you about it, listening closely as you tell him how you “really shouldn’t say” and how “it’s embarrassing”. Finally, you let slip that you’re in love and he immediately brightens, barely containing his glee as he urges you to share more, thinking that you’re talking about him. 

- He hangs onto your every word as he tries to pull the sensitive information out of you, desperate to hear you confess and listen to the words “I love you” fall from your lips.The love of your life is. The man who owns your heart, yes. Your love, yes, yes, carry on. The apple of your eye isssss~

“Oh, Richard! It’s Frederic!”

“Oh my darli-Come again.”

- He nearly faints upon hearing the revelation and probably collapses after watching you leave the room, letting out a hearty yet contained scream of mortification. You love someone else! How could you love someone else!

- If you’re attentive, you’ll notice him staring grumpily at you; crossing his arms and glaring daggers at the boy who’s taking up your time and affections. He’ll scoff and ask his crewmates if “Frederic” is more attractive than he is or if he’s not “just as handsome as” as the boy; oftentimes following up with a question of whether or not he’s blatantly more attractive than his romantic rival. 

- He’ll also ask how things are going between the two of you and how “our dear friend Frederic is doing” between clenched teeth; finding at least a little comfort in the fact that you’re not getting anywhere with the boy. 

- After a while, he decides to up his game and show you how good of a match he can be for you, doing everything he can to get your attention and impress you. He even orders your crew mates to help convince you and otherwise make him seem cool, instructing them to tell you about how great he is and to urge your eyes in his direction during your conversations with them; oftentimes to where he’s posing and making himself look as handsome as he can. 

- He’s overly kind as well: giving you gifts, acting like a gentleman, complimenting you ad comparing your beauty to the moon or sea, etc. If you had no inclination that he liked you before then you’ll start to notice it now; for obvious reasons. 

- He really just chases and pines after you constantly, so much so that any newcomer can see how he feels about you: how he’s never far away from you, always sneaking glances, how his mood instantly brightens when you’re around and how you have free reign over everything on him and his ship. He’s whipped to the fullest degree. 

- He basically acts like your shadow and portrays himself as your lover when you’re around other people: opening his arms for you to fall into and following you around during your musical numbers to throw an arm around your shoulder and pull you into him, backing you up with a passionate nod. If anyone asks what you are to each other or seems interested in you, he’ll quietly murmur that you’re kind of a thing “so, you know~”. 

- There’s two ways that I can see him confessing his feelings to you~

- One: he’ll just plain grab and lay one on you, kissing you with a ridiculous level of passion after months or even perhaps years of keeping it in. 

- Or two: He’ll explode and say in a very frustrated/angry tone that he “can’t take this nonsense any longer” before breaking down and dramatically sinking to his knees, more or less sobbing as he tells you that you’re “supposed to love [him]”; pleading with you to be with him in the most endearingly pathetic and borderline childishly way possible. 

- Either way, you’ll realize that you have a superior lover right in front of you and agree to be his, stopping him from steering your ship to shore in order to call upon a priest to marry you on the spot and telling him to just kiss you and see what happens; a request he happily complies with. 

- Pirates love a good unmannered display so pda is incredibly prevalent in your relationship. Most people would think that the two of you are attached at the hip with how close he keeps you: giving you little to no personal space and loving on you with no regard for who’s around to see whenever he has the chance. You’re his woman; probably his wife, and he’s completely unphased with the idea of people seeing you being affectionate with each other; unless perhaps he’s trying to seem tough in front of a certain rival. 

- He puts his arm around you a lot; mainly to keep you close and steady as he guides you around. He likes being able to look at you and have your attention on him as much as possible so the close proximity is perfect for him. 

- He likes to hold you in place so he can gaze at you lovingly; usually by holding your upper arms or both of your hands while you stand fondly in front of him. He’ll also pull you into tight hugs and different close embraces, relishing in your presence and the feel of your skin against his.

- Richard doesn’t really do “cute little kisses”; he prefers to kiss you like a man and take your breath away, but when he’s particularly in the mood, he’ll kiss up the lengths of your arms and peck your hands and shoulders. He’ll also lovingly accept your chaste kisses without complaint; unless he’s really looking for a long and much more involved kiss. 

- Being dipped into passionate kisses. Richard is concerningly good at kissing; so much so that a single kiss can make your head spin and get you to forget what you were saying. He’s a menace but he’s a menace you can’t live without.

- Him laying his head in your lap or draping himself over you in a very overdramatic and theatrical way is a rather common occurrence in your relationship; especially when he’s upset about something. If his weight is balanced on top of you, your cooing and consoling doesn’t come long after; it’s just a routine at this point. 

- Richard is arguably at least a good bit taller than you but it’s rare to find him acting as the big spoon whenever the two of you are cuddling. It’s much more common for him to snuggle into your bosom and make you worry about how much air he’s receiving while you lavish him with affection; or curl yourself around his upper body while you both lay on your sides. If someone knocks on your door, you’re usually the one to tiredly open it: though it isn’t long before he trails after you sleepily; his hair a mess and his eyes half open as he wraps himself around you and listens to the persons excuses for waking you. 

- Ridiculous amounts of pet names. Darling, dearest, dearest one, kitten, light of my life, lovely, my angel, my beloved, my goddess, my love, my moon, My queen, my siren, pip, poppet: and that’s not even all! Does he even remember your name at this point? You’re not sure!

- He’s completely whipped for you and everyone knows it but just doesn’t care; mainly because they’re equally whipped for you. You know how easy it is for you to fake cry and get what you want? Oh, you’re sad? Oh my dearest what’s the matter? I’ll do anything to see you happy again! Do you want jewels? A dress? Perhaps you’d like to go on land and relax? We could get you food? A kitten, do you want a kitten? I can dance or tell you a story or sing or-

- Like I said before: everyone else is whipped for you just as much as he is. Your crewmates either view you as a sister, daughter, or mother and they’re definitely prone to treating you as such: constantly being at your beck and call and lavishing you with attention. You’re never at a loss for something to do or someone to be around; though it’s not like Richard’s ever too busy to be around you anyways. 

- Speaking of how him and his crew act around you: they’re stereotypically terrified of you whenever you get your period; treating you like a dangerous animal that can snap at any moment and bending over backwards so as to not accidentally upset you. 

- He’s not great with gross stuff but he’s too sweet to abandon you so he’ll come and rub your back or hold your hair when you get seasick: all with a grimace on his face that quickly turns into a loving attempt to give you a comforting smile whenever you look at him.

- He tries so hard to make you happy and go on proper dates with you but he’s so not used to being on land and/or in well established buildings like theaters or tea houses. He was once a nobleman so I’m sure he can cope but he’s completely out of his element; more like a bull in a china shop than the graceful king you’re so used to.

- Rumors will definitely spread about the pirate queen but since you’re new to the predicament, you’ll be able to hide who you and your husband are as you dock and peruse a town. That being said: oftentimes you’ll be in a shop and have to awkwardly reassure the shopkeep that your husband won’t kill anyone as he bursts into the building like a maniac; unused to acting civilized and wondering why you’re bothering being polite and normal.

- Being completely in sync to an amusing degree. You both scramble to make sure everything's alright as your lover more or less acts like a bull in a china shop, clumsily moving around and assuming that everything is perfect and in place. You run after him and make sure he doesn’t fling himself off the boat, fall on his head, or shatter something on the ground, and he catches you in his arms and makes sure you don't stumble and fall, etc.

- Being impressed by how much he knows his way around a ship. You’d watch him swing and hold himself up on ropes and moving parts and how he jumps and moves around so effortlessly and wonder how long it took him to learn as you yourself stumble around; unused to the constant swaying and movement of being out on sea.

- Given the fact that he’s holding onto you more often than not, I think you’d slowly start to adopt his way of staggering around and find yourself walking very similarly to him; something him and his crew take notice of and find great amusement in.

- Him teaching you how to swordfight.

-  He’s simultaneously ridiculously smooth yet clumsy at the same time. You’ll oftentimes have to take him aside and treat his wounds after he forgets not to hold out a sword a certain way or gets overzealous with how well he can dodge a part of a ship.

- Richard is; at his core, a drama queen and you can’t help but love him for it. It’s not rare for you to find yourself consoling him as he weeps into your arms; usually upon hearing an orphans tragic tale, or to see him cling to his cremates in terror as you find yourself in even the slightest hint of danger. At least you’ll always know how he really feels, right?

- Getting told stories about how great him and his crew are. He’s very proud of their infamy and villainous status, and he may or may not embellish details to make them seem much more devious and impressive.

- He steals things specifically for you whenever they pillage another ship or city and does whatever he can to get you everything you could ever want/ask for. He spoils you like a true nobleman who’s gone wrong and he’s rather proud of it.

- I mentioned it before but you have free reign over literally everything. He’s a slave to your whims and has a hard time saying no to you and/or moving your hands away from him so you’re more or less allowed to do whatever you want to him.

- He’s a man who longs for unbounded domesticity so you can rest assured that he loves having you fuss over and dote on him. He’s not even embarrassed about it; blatantly melting the minute you show him affection or try to take care of him in the slightest. Blame it on the fact that he’s a sensitive and tenderhearted orphan. 

- He gets distracted by your beauty and looks at you like you’re an angel more than he’d care to admit. Beneath his fearsome pirate king persona, he’s really just an adorable softie who loves his wife. 

- He keeps your handkerchief on him like a good luck charm.

- If you weren’t an orphan when the two of you first met, you’d definitely spark up a secret romance right under your parents noses. He’d visit your window and romance you in the dead of night: telling you how he’ll whisk you away as soon as you say the words and asking for kisses as you gaze at him fondly from inside.

- Promises between the two of you are inadvertently, truly inescapable and it’s by his own design. He’s very thorough and particular about the circumstances of the promises he gets you to make; like how you promised to stay in bed all day or on the ship for a full week and you still have an hour left “thank you very much”, but consequently, he also has to abide by these very technical and literal terms so congrats, your lover played himself.

- A lot of the time he just assumes you understand what he’s saying when he brings up arbitrary details and random memories, and when you don’t automatically read his mind and figure it out, he gets somewhat frustrated. He’d probably try to ask you for some alone time or try to propose to you the same way and then have to put it plainly with a bit of exasperation when you merely stare at him in confusion.

- Spending time in the captains quarters. You love your crew and so does he but sometimes you just need to be alone and have some quiet time with your lover; especially since he tries to tongue you at like 9 a.m. in front of god and everybody.

- Picnics on the poop deck.

- Getting danced with and around.

- Even after you get together, he still makes an effort to pose around you and make you think that he’s “naturally” swoon worthy and handsome, and though it’s occasionally more ridiculous than anything else, you unfortunately have to admit that it does work every now and again. Although, he’s usually surprised to find that you’re actually more affected by him acting normal than you are by him acting like a model. 

- He loves, loves, loves receiving compliments and gives them back to you sevenfold. Praise is his love language and he spoils you with it; especially when he thinks that you’re in a bad mood for one reason or another.

- He’s so proud of and amazed by your talents. He makes you feel like a professional with the way he responds and forces the others around you to respond; even though you’re really probably just a bit above average. 

- Even before the two of you get together, Richard is adamant that you speak freely with him and voice your opinions wherever you have them. He thinks you’re smart and honest and trusts you more than anyone else in his crew so he’s constantly looking to you for guidance and for reassurance that he’s not a failure.

- Stopping him from accepting that someone's an orphan just because they say they are. Your responsibility is to see past their bullshit and let him know when someone's lying to him; which is partially how you become his lover and his confidante. You’re his right hand wo-man who’s typically found with his right hand somewhere on your buttocks. 

- You would undoubtedly adopt an orphan boy and I’m not even going to pretend as though you wouldn’t. 

- Richard is exactly the type of pirate to have a runaway lover who moves on yet is later confronted with their ex husband while being held hostage on his ship years down the line. They’ll inform their confused companion that this pirate is “an old acquaintance” while the king informs them that he’s “they’re husband” with a pointed look cast towards the tied up woman.

- On one hand, Richard is very proud and wants to brag about you to everyone who will or won’t listen, but on the other hand, he doesn’t like other men acknowledging how amazing you are. He’ll turn to someone and say something like “isn’t she wonderful” but as soon as they nervously agree, he glares at them and tells them how you’re his and to stop looking. 

- Depending on the circumstance, he’ll either be a pouty, childishly jealous person who insists that they’re better than whoever you’re paying attention to, or he’ll growl at and threaten others for so much as looking at you; even though you’re purposefully putting on a show. 

- He probably flirts with other women as a force of habit: usually before he catches sight of you and guiltily backpedals on what he was saying, uncomfortably and awkwardly acting as though he wasn’t doing anything while you glare daggers at him. He learns his lesson pretty quickly once you make a point of flirting with other men; men who unfortunately have to deal with his silent and pointed threats while he tries to appeal to you and insist that it was just a mistake.

- Richard has used himself as a meat shield for you so I think it’s safe to say that he’s rather protective. Regardless of the situation, he’s always looking out for you and making sure everyone is treating you accordingly; even if you’re not necessarily in a lot of danger. 

- He’s understanding and kind yet a bit short tempered so it isn’t rare for you to have a good amount of arguments. He’s emotional and will bicker with you or raise his voice but his anger leaves him almost as quickly as it came and he finds himself sorry for even having started the fight. 

- It’s usually the drama that gets you to forgive him. He’ll move in close and try to appeal to you as you childishly refuse to speak or look at him, moving around as he begs you to talk to him and get you to meet his eyes. He’ll then sink to his knees and tell you to kill him if you want, to be merciful and end him quickly because your silence is already killing him; usually before taking your hand and kissing it tenderly as you finally accept his apology. 

- He tells you he loves you often and a bit shyly; especially if you’re in front of captives. He won’t be able to just not reply when you say it or when you go to leave each others sides so he’ll usually say it all sweetly before coughing and clearing his throat in order to go back to his macho pirate persona. 

- He’s two seconds away from calling in a clergyman and marrying you on the spot at any given moment so rest assured that he’s in it for the long run and absolutely in love with you.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Read Paisley Dreams Part 1 🏵 NOW!

Hello, my wonderful darlin’s! (And Happy 1st Bday to Pink Scarf!💗) This week's story is a special request from a dear Sugar Mama regarding Elvis’ sexy yellow shirt from August 6th, 1970 and how it disappeared. It’s coincidence that I happened to be working on it on the anniversary of him wearing it, but I just take that as a good sign from the universe LOL.

This one definitely got away from me, and because of that, I’m splitting it into two parts—consequently, Part 1 is more tension building and not very smutty but I promise Part 2 will have more spice!

Enjoy babies, and let me know what you think!

xoxox, Madi 💗

TW: attempted sexual assault, cussing, ass kicking, protective!e, passing reference to his weight/ed/drug issues, masturbation

Paisley Dreams (Part 1) 🏵💛🔥

August 1970

Elvis has a love-hate relationship with going out on the town, especially when going to his fellow entertainer’s shows. He loves the novelty of it, being able to be out in the world like a (somewhat) normal human being, to be able to interact with people that aren’t necessarily there to see him. He likes that the focus is on someone else for a change, and he loves talking with people who aren’t part of his immediate circle.

What he hates, however, is pulling focus from the people performing. It’s the reason he shows up a little late and gets seated after the lights go down. Contrary to what some idiots may believe, he does not want it to be The Elvis Show all the time. And while he likes being around new people, he doesn’t always enjoy the hobnobbing that is seemingly required with other celebrities, if in attendance. No, he’d rather talk with people he cares about or regular, everyday folks instead of putting on airs for some Hollywood types.

There is also something to the fact that he’s not in 100% control of those situations when things are not revolving around him, and while a little of that is thrilling and breaks through the boredom that can happen in his insular life, it can also be disconcerting. It leaves him a little more jittery than usual, but the stubborn part of him refuses to let it overcome him tonight.

Somedays, he wishes he could be invisible and could mull about as he pleases in obscurity. Problem is, he’s way too used to the attention being him brings, and whether or not he’d admit it to anyone else, it would make him feel mightily insecure if no one at all knew who he was, if not one person came up to say hi or get an autograph. He had a little taste of that with Steve before the ’68 Special, when he’d been told in so many words to get over himself when no one stopped him on the street in front of the studio.

He hadn’t liked it, no siree, despite the freedom and lack of pressure it offered in the moment. No, he was much too used to being Elvis Presley. It is the conundrum of his life, of a fame unlike any other, that leaves him to continually pendulum from being trapped by it on one end and unable to live without it on the other.

Tonight, he fortifies himself for a night that won’t be entirely under his control and heads over to Nancy Sinatra’s show at Caesar’s Palace. Something about the unpredictability makes him feel a little more alive, like something exciting is just waiting for just the right moment to happen and bring him along with it. He much prefers thinking in those terms and not in terms of threats of harm.

Since Nancy is a good friend, he keeps himself rather understated for the evening. He knows he looks sharp in his high-collared, well-tailored chocolate suit, with a paisley yellow shirt underneath. His belt is simple (for him, at least). The outfit does not scream “look at me!” He wants the attention to be on Nancy and not him.

He also refused to bring the whole damn entourage tonight, feeling a little bit smothered by the sea of men he’s cultivated around him. He’d settled for Charlie, Richard, and Felton as his companions for the evening, despite Joe and Red’s protestations. All he wants is a little fun, a little music that isn’t his, and a little break from the pressure of rehearsals for his own engagement that starts in a few days—complete with a movie crew from MGM to film the damn thing.

He likes rising to the challenge of it, but hell, it makes him more nervous than usual. A lot is riding on his ability to deliver a fabulous show, and not only that, but they’ve been filming the rehearsals, too, so he feels like he’s under the microscope even when he normally isn’t. That coupled with learning three times as many songs as usual has his brain feeling fuzzy and him sleeping worse than usual. Nothing a pill (or three) can’t fix, though.

At least it’s all…stimulating. And Lord knows he’s a man that needs stimulation and variety, something that is harder and harder to come by with his life being the way it is.

But tonight isn’t about him. And everything seems to be going according to plan—there’s a little attention on him with fans and photos and such, enough to make him feel good, but most of the focus is elsewhere. It feels like he can breathe a little.

The show is great; he enjoys seeing Nance after, though his heart always does a little flip around her. She’s been a soft spot for him for a long time, and despite his multiple attempts to endear her a little more intimately to him, she’s always kept him mostly on the straight and narrow. He loves her even more for keeping him in check, though he still wouldn’t mind a tousle in the bedroom with her.

And it’s here he finds himself, ruminating pleasantly, if not a bit hopefully, on the past, when the lot of them sneak out through the back kitchens in order to avoid the crush of people out front waiting for a glimpse of him.

He certainly doesn’t expect to come upon some drunken asshole aggressively throwing a young woman up against the wall down the dark alley behind the Palace. His eyes narrow and a surge of adrenaline wafts through him as he tries to figure out what exactly is happening and why. Body standing to attention, he’s grateful his karate training comes in handy in times like these—which is precisely why he keeps up on the craft.

“Don’t think we should get involved, EP,” Richard warns, putting his hand out as if to stop him from moving towards the scuffle, but he bats it away like a fly.

“Come on, you little tart. I know you want it. You know you’re jus’ askin’ for it up there in those skimpy costumes, don’tcha?” the guy slurs at her, groping at her breasts.

Elvis hastens his stride down the alley, blood up, nerves tingling, and ready to kick this guy’s ass for assaulting this poor showgirl.

“Get the fuck off me, creep!” she screams back at the guy, slapping his hand away, and looking more angry than afraid, she stomps on the guy’s foot and knees him hard in the nuts.

Elvis can’t help but cringe, but the guy deserves it. Good on her.

“You bitch!” the asshole shrieks, clutching his groin. Unfortunately, in his pain, or maybe just because he’s that much of a dick, the man yanks down on her flimsy top, ripping it apart and right off her chest, exposing her braless breasts. Then, he lunges for her throat.

With a growl, Elvis takes his last few steps quickly, easily knocking the drunk bastard off his feet with a well-placed kick and sending him sprawling onto the dirty pavement. The guy lands with a groan, shaking his head. Elvis goes down on one knee and pulls him up by the shirt.

“Hey, fuck you, man! This ain’t none of your business—” the guy starts, flailing up at him drunkenly before his eyes go wide and he stops abruptly. “Holy shit, you’re—”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your ass from here to Sunday if ya don’t apologize to this nice young lady and get your ass back to whatever sewer you crawled outta,” Elvis spits out, quick and cutting, his blue eyes flashing with something the man doesn’t want to test. He is self-aware enough to know that his presence is big enough to knock even sober men for a loop, and that’s when he’s not angry.

The guy opens and closes his mouth like a guppy, looking altogether wrecked and muddled by his predicament.

“Boss?” he hears Charlie’s cautioning voice from behind him, and Elvis puts up a hand to tell him he’s got this. There are some things he can do on his own.

“Well?” Elvis asks, turning his attention back to the jerk on the ground, dragging the guy up by his ugly polyester shirt.

“I-I-I—” he stutters, looking bleary eyed from Elvis to the young lady.

Elvis uses the toe of his boot and grinds down slowly on the man’s fingers.

The guy yelps, then sobs, then looks helplessly at Elvis, “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her,” Elvis emphasizes, still wanting to make this guy pay. He points up to the young lady, who is standing there frozen against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her bared chest.

The man’s eyes narrow, obviously feeling it’s beneath him to apologize to a girl.

“Okay,” Elvis sighs dramatically, easily raising himself from the ground without using his hands, “but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He brings his foot back as though he’s gonna kick the man in the gut, and it has the intended effect.

“Alright, alright!” the guy shouts, curling in on himself while holding out his hand to stop Elvis. He begrudgingly looks at the woman. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”

“For what exactly?” Elvis asks, raising an eyebrow. He is getting more of a kick out of playing with this drunkard than he should, but he can’t deny he enjoys the pulse of blood through his veins as he gets to be the hero.

“I-I-I’m sorry…for…for touching you a-and ripping your top! I’m sorry!” he cries defeatedly.

“Was that so hard?” Elvis muses. “Now get the hell outta here before I decide I’m bein’ too nice and let my boys have a crack atcha.”

The man gulps and nods, then his legs wheel a bit as he tries to get up too fast and clambers clumsily out of the alleyway.

Adrenaline waning, Elvis turns to the woman, immediately softening his features and his voice—a well-honed skill. “Are you okay, Miss?”

She looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “Yes. No. I’m not sure…I had that under control, you know,” she adds a little bitterly.

“Oh, didja now?” he replies, amused by her fiery response.

She does not look amused as she shrugs her shoulders defiantly, then remembers she’s got no top on. Her green eyes widen to saucers, and she grasps her breasts tighter, succeeding in pushing them together and creating ample cleavage that in any other circumstance would have him looking twice. But this is not the time, and he feels guilty for even glancing at her in this state.

“Shit. I’m an idiot,” he mumbles, realizing how uncomfortable she must be half naked in a dark alley full of men she doesn’t know. He scrambles to unbutton his already half-open yellow paisley shirt the rest of the way, then shrugs out of his jacket, pulling the shirt along with it.

Her mouth parts in what he assumes is disbelief as he becomes as bare as she is from the waist up. It’s vulnerable and disarming in a way he doesn’t initially intend—he more just wants to give her something she can truly cover up with and his jacket only has the one button. He’s not in the habit of running around with his shirt off these days, even though he’s slimmed down for his upcoming performances (because God knows the cameras will add ten pounds whether he likes it or not). Years of being shamed about his weight in one way or another by directors, the Colonel, and the gossip magazines always have him self-conscious, even when he’s slim, which is perhaps why he is so readily understanding of the girl’s current predicament. The August Vegas night is hot, and he feels a tinge cooler now when the air hits the sweat beaded over his skin.

“Here, honey, put this on,” he says and holds the shirt out to her.

Her mirth shifts to guarded thanks, but then she shakes her head and tightens her arms around herself. He realizes that she can’t take the shirt without exposing herself more.

“Oh. Turn around, sweetheart,” he coos at her. “I won’t hurt ya none.” He throws his jacket to Charlie, who is suddenly by his side, and holds his shirt open for her.

She turns cautiously, letting him help her as she slips her shaking arms into the oversized sleeves. “Thanks,” she whispers quietly, and he watches as she fumbles unsuccessfully with the buttons because her hands are trembling so badly.

“Lemme help, darlin’,” he says, reassuringly, “I promise I ain’t gonna look atcha.”

Seemingly frustrated at herself for needing his continued assistance, she relents and turns back to him, her doe eyes brimming with unshed tears.

He does everything in him to not look at her pretty, soft skin, or her legs that go on for days, focusing the best he can on the task of doing up the highest buttons in order to give her some modesty. Of course, his shirts being designed as they are, specifically for him and his open-chested style, there aren’t buttons as high up as there should be. The shirt is already too big on her, so she’s still showing quite a bit of skin, but is certainly better than it her previous nakedness. He looks up at her as if to say sorry, and she just looks away uncomfortably.

Elvis nods, then races to do up the rest of them, needing to kneel before her to get the lowest ones. The act feels very intimate, him half-undressed but dressing her in this prostrated position, and it sends a warmth spreading across his bare chest. He looks up at her, finding her watching him carefully for any impropriety. He is determined not to give her any, but when her intense, tearful green eyes meet his, he feels a bit off-kilter for the way it makes him feel. His heart drops into his stomach like he’s on a roller coaster.

Uh oh. He knows that feeling all too well, and it usually ends with him neck deep in infatuation at the very least and in love at the most.

“All set,” he says, looking down almost bashfully. Clearing his throat, he raises effortlessly up to standing, and Charlie hands him his jacket to put back on.

“Thank you, Mr. Presley,” she says quietly, the edge in her voice gone now that she’s swimming in his yellow shirt and the threat is gone. Her pretty pink lip bottom lip wavers.

Then she bursts into tears.

There is nothing that pulls at his heartstrings quite like a pretty young thing weeping. She’s proven herself anything but helpless but having been through such an ordeal would be frightening regardless.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe now. Let’s get you home,” he says. He suddenly wants nothing more than to swoop her up into the protective cocoon that is his penthouse so no one can ever hurt her again, but he gets the distinct impression that bringing her into a private den full of older men is not the right move in this situation.

Sniffling, she swipes angrily under her stage makeup-smeared eyes as she attempts to get ahold of herself. He recognizes her need to not appear weak, to retain her dignity, so he gives her a minute to collect herself even though he wants to sweep her into his arms and tell her he can make everything alright.

It takes her a moment and he can tell she wants to tell him no, that she can get home on her own, thankyouverymuch, but after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she finally nods in acceptance.

Something in his heart soars because he likes feeling needed, likes truly helping people, and enjoys the warmhearted feeling it gives him to put others before himself. It is also the least he can do after what she’s been through.

Though it certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s a looker with her long, caramel colored hair, intelligent jade eyes, and showgirl body. He knows he would’ve helped her regardless of all of that but, even so, at 35 he’s still a virile man who can see what is plain in front of his face. And there’s something about her resilience that attracts him beyond her looks. A flash in her eyes that tells him her soul is guarded and complex and beautiful all at once. There’s a hint of darkness he can relate to, one that, combined with all the rest, sends his overly romantic heart into overdrive.

As he, Charlie, Richard, and Felton lead her trembling but head-held-high form to the car, he can’t help but think God put him in the right place at the right time tonight.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks gently once they are in the car.

“Pepper. My name is Pepper.”

*

This night is turning out to be incredibly strange, Pepper thinks as she shakily unlocks the door to her apartment. She hates that she can’t seem to stop shivering after the whole ordeal in the alley. No matter how many deep breaths she took in the car, she is still shaking like a leaf and she can’t decide if the fact that Elvis Presley is at her elbow is making it better or worse.

Finally jimmying the door open, she nearly falls inside, feeling all too unsteady in her high heels. Exhausted, it doesn’t help matters that she can’t remember if she ate today, between her waitressing shift at the diner and her showgirl gig at the Palace. She forces herself not to cry the stupid tears that pool stubbornly in her eyes. No, she doesn’t think she ate today and she’s cursing the fact because she’s quickly turning into an embarrassing pile of weepy nonsense, in front of Elvis Presley, no less.

This isn’t like her. She is no damsel in distress. She’s a strong, capable young woman who’s been dealt a bit of a shit hand, but she’s got it under control. She’s always got it under control.

Liar.

Pepper turns in the doorway to say goodnight and thank you to the man who so annoyingly but luckily had her back in that alley. She doesn’t want to think too hard about what could have happened if Elvis hadn’t appeared when he did, like some sort of movie star hero. Unfortunately, the spin towards him makes her dizzy and her wobbly knees start to give way.

“Hey now, little one, let’s get you settled, huh?” Elvis drawls out at her as he puts an arm around her waist and effortlessly ushers her into the apartment. She’s suddenly too exhausted to protest. It’s not often that anyone takes care of her. Honestly, she can’t remember the last time someone did, or the last time there was a man in her apartment.

He deposits her on her secondhand couch and its one of the many things tonight that has her embarrassed. Then again, she wasn’t expecting an incredibly handsome superstar to be gracing the walls of her tiny, dingy apartment.

Elvis stares down at her for a moment and his gaze is heavy and all-encompassing. It’s not what she expects—she’s used to the heated, horny looks she attracts from men—because it’s as if he’s surveying the situation, reading her with an intuitive intelligence she is not prepared for. She knows how to deal with men gawking at her—but treating her kindly with no expectations in return? This is unfamiliar in every way.

He nods to himself, making some sort of decision. His stance, one hip jutted out, hands on his hips and looking off to the side with his pouty lips parted, makes her feel a little funny in her belly.

Or maybe that’s just the hunger talking.

Her pride wants him to go, to not survey her poor existence and pity her. But the rest of her, the weak part of her desperate to have someone take care of her for once, wants him to stay.

Surprisingly, his face is devoid of judgement of her circumstance when his oceanic blue eyes meet hers again. There seems to be only concern and a bit of humor there. This confuses her.

“I’m starvin’,” he declares suddenly. “What would you say to some hamburgers?” His eyes sparkle—actually sparkle—when they look at her for approval.

Her stomach growls and before she can think better of the strangeness of eating hamburgers with Elvis in her crappy apartment, she’s nodding her head furiously.

“Charlie! Hey, man, get us some hamburgers and fries and shakes, will ya?” he tells the tiny guy who seems to be some sort of friend/employee, probably part of his infamous Memphis Mafia she’s read about in magazines.

It comes to her then that the man she’s read about and listened to and watched on screen for years is now in her home, and she is swimming in his yellow shirt. It smells wonderful—a heady, spicy mix of cologne and soap and sweat—and a silly part of her never wants to take it off.

Oh, god, he’s seen my tits, she realizes, her cheeks flushing.

“Hey, lemme get ya somethin’ to drink, honey,” he says, extraordinarily and infuriatingly observant, as he goes to pilfer around her kitchen.

“Oh, I’m just the worst hostess. I can get it,” she murmurs attempting to push herself off the couch.

He stops abruptly and points at her. “Stay.”

Pepper freezes. The command in his deep, drawling baritone is assertive and unarguable, sending a thrilled shiver down her spine that she’s not ready for. Almost as if her body were not her own, she slides back into the sofa.

“Whatchu got in this here ree-frig-er-a-tor?” he says, rummaging around in what she knows is a sad excuse for one. Her schedule hasn’t allowed time for her to go grocery shopping. She can hear him humming a familiar tune as he goes, and there’s something beautifully domestic about the whole thing that she doesn’t feel she deserves. He returns with two cans of Pepsi, popping the tab on hers before handing it to her, then doing his own.

She can’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye. “Thank you,” she says quietly, suddenly parched. She tries to be ladylike about it but can’t help but gulp some of the fizzy cola down as fast as possible. Of course, this all goes awry the moment the carbonation hits her empty stomach, causing an uncontrollable rolling belch to erupt her throat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry!” For some reason, this rudeness feels almost more humiliating that her top being ripped off earlier. At least with that, it hadn’t been her fault. This was just bad manners.

Elvis looks at her seriously, blue eyes narrowed as if he might scold her, and she holds her breath, wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Then he starts laughing.

It’s a giggling, hiccupping, musical sound that immediately disarms her in its contagiousness. She can’t help the way her own giggles bubble up. Suddenly, the absolute ridiculousness of this entire night has her doubled over with exhausted, hungry laughter, and he follows right along with her.

They are just starting to get themselves under control when she snorts. Elvis completely loses it and falls apart all over again.

Tears are pouring down her face now, and she’s grateful for this release in this way. It’s better than her weak and frustrated tears from earlier, and as she watches Elvis, she sees just how utterly beautiful, unselfconscious, and almost innocent he seems in his laughter.

She wonders if he laughs often. She hopes so.

Eventually, they are both wiping their faces and the giggle fits are dying down.

“Peppercorn, you are too much,” he smiles, shaking his head with a few lingering chuckles. “Who knew such sounds could come from such a pretty little girl like you?”

Peppercorn? She smiles at the nickname. If anyone else had called her that, she might have their head, but Elvis…well, he can call her anything he wants. Butterflies start rolling in her empty stomach when she realizes he’s called her pretty in such a way that it sounds like an obvious fact and not a come-on. Oh, he’s skilled.

The fact is, it’s almost bashful the way he looks down and then his eyelashes flutter back up to meet hers from the other end of the couch. As if she had called him pretty and not the other way around.

He opens his mouth to speak, and she thinks he just might say something profoundly charming, but his friend Charlie chooses that moment to reemerge with an arm full of food and shakes. And her stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough for the room to hear, sending Elvis and her back into peals of laughter.

Charlie looks confused, but laughs along anyway, pretending to get the joke as he sets the food down on the rickety second-hand coffee table in front of the sofa. Then, without a word, he makes himself scarce.

Elvis digs right into the bag, taking everything out of it, handing her a wrapped burger and then tearing the bag apart to make a sort of makeshift tray on the table.

“I do have plates, you know,” she says with a lingering chuckle, moving to get up. She’d certainly never seen a man of his caliber of celebrity—probably one of the richest in this town—eat off a greasy paper bag before.

“Don’t you worry yourself. I’m just fine,” he says, unwrapping and taking a giant bite of his hamburger, followed by a handful of fries. “Eat your food, Peppercorn.”

She’s way too hungry to argue. After the burp and the snort, she doesn’t put on too many airs about eating daintily, either.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says in such an earnest way that she cannot stop herself from doing so. As they devour the food, he asks her questions, and she finds herself telling him about how she’d moved here because there wasn’t much work in her small town, about how she sends most of what she makes back to her house-bound mama and little sister.

These are things she doesn’t tell people here, preferring to tell a common tale of wanting the glitz and glamour of being a famous showgirl, instead of sharing that she’s using what God gave her only to support her kin. But by the haunted look in his eyes, it’s as if he knows, like he truly understandswhat it means to keep family at the forefront and tell the world something different. So her mouth keeps moving and she shares too much, but she’s weary and hungry and Elvis Presley is in her damn living room eating burgers like it’s a completely normal occurrence.

“So, you’re tellin’ me what you’re doin’ now ain’t your dream?” he asks.

She can’t help but choke a little at that. “Um, no,” she says, wiping sauce off her lip with a finger. “Waitressing all day and being eyed-up all night is not my dream. It’s a means to an end. And I’m happy to do it.”

“For your family.”

“Yes, for my family.”

“And what about you, honey? What’s your dream?” He says it in such a perfunctory way that it takes her aback. It’s a question no one’s ever bothered to ask her.

“I…I don’t know,” she says, looking away from his curious, reading stare.

“Mmm, not sure that’s true, baby. Ev’rybody’s got a dream,” he says. “Hell, I was just a poor boy drivin’ a truck ‘fore all this took off. Could barely sing in front of anyone but there was this…this thinginside me I can’t explain, pushin’ me forward in spite of it all.”

“Really?” she says, shocked at this revelation. She didn’t know those things about him, and they make him seem more human and all the more unique all at once.

He nods. “So, what’s your dream?” he says, looking at her with a curious expectation she can’t deny.

She gulps down a mouthful of burger. “Okay, well, this is probably stupid, but I’ve always liked numbers.”

“Numbers?” he questions, confused.

“Yeah, I like solving problems. Making everything add up. Numbers are…calm, predictable, I guess. I’m sure that sounds strange, a showgirl telling you she likes math. Most men…well, they think it’s weird,” she rambles, feeling her face get hot.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it just weren’t what I was expectin’, is all. Usually pretty girls like you, they…” he trails off, not needing to finish the sentence to get the point across, “but I like that you’re different. Special.” He looks at her with a sort of pride, like he’s discovered some treasure in her she can’t see in herself.

This sends a wave of appreciation over her that she isn’t prepared for, and she smiles broadly. “So, I suppose my dream is to work with numbers. Money, maybe? I guess I’ve never really let myself think that far into it. I haven’t been able to, with everything else…That must sound silly,” she says, feeling too exposed all the sudden.

“Not at all, honey,” he reassures her, finishing off his burger and fries. She gets caught up in looking at his full, pouty lips covered in grease and has the inappropriate urge to touch them. Blinking, she looks away, hoping he didn’t catch her staring.

“Sorry I’m talking too much. I usually don’t tell people...I don’t…I’m not one to…” She hides the floundering embarrassment of both her circumstance and her attraction behind the last loud slurp of her milkshake.

“Naw, Peppercorn, don’t go bein’ ashamed of doin’ what it takes to take care of your family or about havin’ dreams for yourself. We’re more alike than you think, darlin’,” he says, wiping his hands on the paper napkins from the bag.

She quirks her eyebrow at him.

He sighs, as though he’s been holding a weight on his shoulders. “I’m know I’m lucky. My dream came true and’s put me in a position that most don’t ever get to. I’ve spent a long time makin’ sure my people are taken care of, and I love to be able to do it, but I also know it can be…” he trails off, a look of guilt flashing over his features as he waves his hand in the air.

All she can do is nod at this confession. He doesn’t need to finish for her to know exactly what he means. Burdensome. Difficult. Soul-sucking.

He shakes himself off, whistling lowly, a shy smile curving up on his face.

Pepper’s heart starts pounding in her chest partially because he’s trusted her with this knowledge of himself and she’s trusted him with her own. The vulnerability of that is strange and somewhat uncomfortable to sit with. But it pounds also because she realizes with chagrin the meal is over and she doesn’t know what he expects of her next.

Despite her job, she does not have a habit of spending the night with men she’s just met, but Elvis is not just any man. There have only been a handful of boyfriends, half of which were back at home, and certainly none recently with what little free time she has. She’s no prude but she’s not exactly experienced, either. And one-night stands are not her thing.

He has been nothing but a gentleman this whole night and didn’t even ogle her when her top had been ripped. There was no reason to even think that he wanted such a thing from her, yet there is tension building in the air that she doesn’t know what to do with. Maybe it’s because when she looks at him in his well-cut suit with no shirt underneath (shivering at the fact it’s because it’s on her) and sees the sweaty tuft of chest hair that is exposed against his tan skin, something deeply primal rises in her and she wants more than anything to feel it beneath her hands.

Pepper blinks and quickly looks away. She knows what it’s like to be eyed up and down by the opposite sex and thinks it’s a little strange that they share that in common, too. Making him uncomfortable is the last thing she wants to do but now she is not sure what to do with her eyes and finds herself staring at a tear in the fabric of the sofa instead.

Elvis coughs, and she can’t help but look up at him then. Getting caught in those endless, sparkling eyes, mere feet from her, she wonders how in the hell the world is supposed to go back to normal after tonight. How she is supposed to go back to working her multiple soul-sucking jobs, to try to forget the way he is looking at her now, like she is actually something special? That she matters enough to save her in a back alley and is worth him literally giving her the shirt off his back?

Her body betrays her, then, a huge yawn escaping her mouth of its own accord. It reminds her it has been an extraordinarily long day and that she has the monotony of another tomorrow, despite everything that has happened in the last few hours.

“I think it’s time for me to go and let you get some rest, little one,” he says quietly, that little smile of his pulling at his mouth in a way that makes her think he doesn’t want to leave but will anyway because that is the kind of man he really is—not some sex-crazed superstar locked in an ivory tower that the magazines might try and make him out to be. He stands and makes for the door.

Jumping up abruptly, Pepper follows him to the door. She is not ready for this to end. She is not ready for this to be the last time she ever sees Elvis Presley. But she is also realistic and practical. Her life is no fairy tale, nor does she need a prince to save her, as tempting as it all may seem in the moment.

“T-thank you…for earlier. As much as I’m loathe to admit it, I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come along,” she says quietly, feeling utterly caught in his blue-eyed gaze. “And thanks for the food, too. I’m feeling much better.”

There is a twinkle in his eye. “I’m glad I could be there for you when you needed it, Peppercorn,” he says with such kindness that she thinks she might cry.

Silence sits heavily between them and she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from his. He finally turns to go, hand on the knob, and she moves closer to hold the door, but suddenly he pauses and turns back. She nearly runs into him. This close, she can feel the heat radiating off his body and it scares her how much she craves the comfort of it.

“My show o-opens this w-week,” he says, stammering endearingly. “I’d like you to be there.”

Her heart jumps into her throat and her limbs feel tingly. “I would love to,” she gushes but then reality hits her and her face falls, “but I have to work. I-I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m so sorry.” She wants to cry, but that would be even worse than rejecting his offer. Don’t be a baby.

Pepper thinks she might imagine it, but Elvis seems defeated, too, for a split second before he smiles knowingly. “Well, we’ll see what happens, honey. The universe works in mysterious ways, don’t it?”

Cocking her head to the side, she wonders what he means by this, but she is too disappointed to try to piece it out now. She is also distracted by his bare chest rising and falling so close, the scent of him permeating her senses. The air in the room feels thick and hot, despite the whirring of the air conditioner in the window. He starts to turn again towards the door.

I don’t want him to go.

“Wait!” she shouts, a little too loudly for the proximity and he jumps a bit. “Your shirt—let me get changed real quick and I can give you back your shirt,” she rambles out, making for her bedroom.

His hand encompasses her small wrist, his firm touch branding her in such a pleasurable way that she gasps. He turns her back around to face him, bringing her closer towards him. She goes willingly, too enthralled by the nearness of him to keep her distance. She’s usually better than this, keeping a safe distance from the wiles of men, but she has never felt the pull of someone so strongly. It’s like he’s magnetized. And he’s succeeded in making her feel safe and valued in a way she’s not used to, leaving her rather defenseless against his charms.

“Don’t bother, sweetheart. It looks better on you anyway,” he says, his lips curling up into a grin that melts her heart into a pile of goo. He runs his fingers along and down the tall collar of the shirt, and the action, while innocent, sends a glorious heat into her belly.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to get out, her tongue tied into knots. She desperately doesn’t want this to end. She considers asking him to stay, but both courage and words fail her.

His eyes scan her face and then he brushes her long hair back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peppercorn, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other soon,” he says, as if reading her mind, as if he doesn’t want this to end either.

She nods, as if this makes all the sense in the world. It sets her heart galloping. She feels like it is about to beat out of her body when his long finger tilts her chin up to him, and he leans in and kisses her ever-so-gently on the cheek.

Her breath catches at the feel of his soft lips on her skin. It is somehow chaste yet incredibly erotic all at the same time. As a long-neglected warmth pools between her legs, a giddiness that washes over her that makes her feel like a schoolgirl.

Elvis lingers perhaps a moment too long before pulling back. “Goodnight, honey,” he whispers, then turns and leaves.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” she manages to squeak out before he disappears into darkness.

Once he’s out of sight, Pepper closes and locks the door, befuddled and hopeful and confused all at once. Her forehead lands on the wood as she closes her eyes, trying to reconcile this whole night with some semblance of reality.

He surprised her, truly, in his ability to be so down to earth. She is astonished (though perhaps she shouldn’t be) that he seems so complex, and she can’t help feeling connected to him because of all the small ways they are unpredictably alike. There is a part of her that very much wants to believe him when he said they would see each other again, but she knows her life isn’t build on wishes and dreams. It never has been, and she doesn’t expect that will change anytime soon, despite the bizarre fact that she can still smell the lingering scent of Elvis’ cologne in her living room.

Just be glad you had any time with him at all, she tells herself to try and manage her expectations. It would take a miracle for us to cross paths again.

Suddenly exhausted, she floats through her bedtime routine in a daze. But her doubts about the future don’t stop her from sleeping in his shirt, though, savoring the lingering scent of him on her skin and in her bed. And the feel of his lips on her cheek replays in her mind over and over as she reaches into her already damp panties to relive the ache he’s left her with. It doesn’t take much to bring her over the edge—imagining his sweet, pouty lips on her and his long fingers deep inside her does the trick—before she arches up with a strangled cry, clenching around nothing but a fantasy.

Breathing hard and barely sated, she collapses into the bed, wishing she’d been bold enough to invite him in with her. Refusing to wallow in regret, she finally manages to drift off to sleep with the unrealistically hopeful thought that his knowing smile means she’ll get to see him again someday soon, just as he promised.

Era One-Shot

A/N: This one has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for quite a while. Sweet Symphony started as a special request for '68 Special era Elvis from my Get to Know Me Gala way back in March! I also included the prompt, "Do it again, please." Nothing like a good two-fer!

A professional violinist Reader gets a little more than she bargains for after rehearsal for Elvis Presley's '68 Special...

Mature 18+ || Word count: 9.2k

TW: Sexxx in various forms, fluff, cussing, dubious use of a piano

For my most patient baby, @savedrebelcreation 💗

(If you want to get stories like this early, come join my Patreon!)

GIF by seredelgi

Sweet Symphony

A ’68 Special Era Request

You’re early. Too early, in fact, but your mother always said, “If you’re on time, you’re late,” so it goes to reason that for such an important job, you find yourself clicking your heels into the rehearsal room a full hour before it’s set to start.

The only reason they allowed you in this early is that your brother-in-law, Billy, is the one in charge of this portion of the production rehearsal, arranging the music for Elvis Presley’s television special due out in December. He had been tasked, rather last minute, to take over the musical arrangements. When your sister called on Billy’s behalf, saying he desperately needed a professional violinist to fill in for the one who’d been suddenly struck with a bout of appendicitis, you were a little confused at first. Why in the world would Elvis Presley need a violinist? had been the first thought in your head, but a job is a job, and you figure a television special of this magnitude wouldn’t hurt your classical resume.

Sure, why not? you’d thought, then packed up your violin and got a ticket for the next plane out to LA. If nothing else, I’ll get some sun.

Since your plane arrived late, you made the executive decision to go straight to the studio rather than chance the traffic by checking into your hotel first. Which is how you find yourself in the near-dark rehearsal space before anyone else has even thought to arrive, violin and suitcase in tow. At least you’ll get a chance to look over the score Billy just handed you before anyone else arrives, you think, finding a chair and settling in to unpack and prepare your instrument.

So focused are you that you don’t really register the door opening and then latching closed. You figure it is just Billy, who had been frantically going over sheet music up in the booth. When the piano begins to play, softly, you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise, having been so lost in sight reading and humming your part that you were oblivious to the presence of another in the room.

“Oh my god!” you gasp in surprise, managing to knock the loose pages of the score off the music stand as your hand flies up to your chest. “Damnit,” you mutter under your breath, scurrying to pick up the pages and put them back in order.

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” you hear a gentle voice drawl out from the darkness.

“Oh, no, I just wasn’t expecting anyone in here so early and I was so caught up in…” you taper off, furrowing your brow and trying to get your sheet music situated.

“Here, lemme help you with that,” the voice says, kneeling to pick up loose pages.

“Oh, thank…” your voice hitches when you look down at the man holding up more music that had fluttered away across the floor.

It’s the sparkling sapphire blue eyes that catch you first, framed in criminally long, dark lashes, blinking up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor next to your chair. They are utterly mesmerizing in the way they search your face apologetically. Your voice dies in your suddenly dry throat, and so mesmerized are you with those eyes that it takes you much too long to take in the rest of him.

That’s when you realize that the man with the pretty eyes on his knees near your feet is the one and only Elvis Presley.

“…you. Thank you,” you manage to finish, gingerly taking the pages from his grasp.

Elvis smiles up at you so bashfully, so charmingly, that it takes your breath away.

It doesn’t hit you until this very moment that you are playing for the Elvis Presley. Between everything happening so quickly and you assuming you wouldn’t get to meet the man himself, you just hadn’t considered the magnitude of the job.

You’d just hit your teenage years when Elvis came into his stardom, the timing perfect for swooning over the Southern boy with the rebellious good looks and the completely unique sound. But your parents had been strict and conservative, opting for your upbringing to be filled with learning and playing classical music, so the only chance you’d had to listen to Elvis was when you went to your girlfriend’s house. There you could swoon over him unimpeded, but it was more vicarious than anything else. And by the time you were old enough to properly swoon to your heart’s content, you were so busy with your music degree that it hadn’t really crossed your mind to ogle over Elvis.

To be quite honest, you had become a bit of a music snob at that point, so Elvis wasn’t really on your radar, though you had been impressed by his reworked English version of O Solo Mio. His It’s Now or Never had been a massive hit, and he had amazed you with his vocal talent, which you were convinced was wasted on silly pop songs. Needless to say, Elvis and his music had been off your radar for a long, long time.

You certainly hadn’t realized the man had only gotten more attractive as time went on. Magazine pictures and even his movies (which you hadn’t cared to watch since the beginning of the decade) don’t do him justice, which is saying something since you’d never once seen the man look anything less than handsome. But those damn eyes pop against his tanned skin and raven hair, and that curved-lip smile has butterflies flying in your stomach like a schoolgirl.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, still kneeling at your feet.

“My name? Oh, um, my name is y/n,” you stammer out. You could kick yourself for how gobsmacked you sound, a grown professional woman nearly forgetting her own name in the presence of an attractive man. But the thing is he isn’t just attractive—he’s ethereal.

“Well, hello there, y/n. I’m Elvis,” he says, as if he were just some regular Joe and not one of the most famous men alive. “What do you play?” He motions to your music.

“Uh, violin. Well, and piano, but violin professionally,” you reply, unable to take your eyes off him.

His eyes light up at this. “I play piano, too,” he says, with such a little boy quality that you can’t help but smile.

“Oh?” This surprises you quite a bit since he is so synonymous with the birth of rock and roll and you’d only ever seen him with an acoustic guitar.

“Yeah, a lotta people don’t know that, but between you and me, I like playin’ piano more,” he says, with a wink. Elvis stands up from his crouch with little effort, so lithely that you equate it to a dancer. Your eyes follow up, up, up his lean frame, and you try not to notice just how well his tailored outfit fits him.

He walks back towards the piano he came from, and you blush when you catch yourself staring at his backside, like some sort of lecherous creep. Quickly turning your attention back to the pages of music in your lap, you force yourself to try and make sense of page numbers, shuffling them back into order.

“Do you know this one?” Elvis suddenly asks, shocking you by playing the opening notes of a well-known Beethoven piece.

“Yeah, I mean, yes. I do,” you respond, still stumbling over your words. “That’s Moonlight Sonata.”

“What happens after this part?” he asks, playing the beginning again. The question seems quite honest, still having that curious, young quality about it. Before you think better of it, you’re walking over to the piano.

“May I?” you say, standing near the bench. Music is your language. You’ve always been better with an instrument at your fingertips than with your words. It makes you feel bolder, so when Elvis only scoots over instead of yielding the bench, it doesn’t stop you from perching next to him.

It only takes a second for the movement to come back to you and you place your hands on the keys, letting them speak for you. You’ve done your share of teaching, so it doesn’t take but a moment to fall into that role. You just try not to think too hard on that fact that it’s Elvis Presley that you’re teaching.

He’s nodding along, eyes focused solely on your hands. So close to him, you can feel the way the music affects his body. It’s something you can relate to.

You stop yourself from speeding too far ahead in the music and pull your hands away from the keys. “Is that…do you want me to go again, or do you want to try it?” you ask.

“Do it again. Please?” he asks watching your hands with incredible focus.

You do, trying to keep it simple and without too much flourish.

“Okay, so it’s like this then?” he says after you finish, and as his long, slender fingers glide across the keys, you realize they are musician’s fingers. They may be dripping with jewels that are likely more expensive than your apartment, but they are quite perfect for the kind of instruments he plays. It strikes you he was made to do this.

You recognize then that Elvis is truly a musician and not just a performer. The way he concentrates, learning and adapting quickly as you show him more of the song, only by ear and sight, amazes you.

It's through the music that you begin to calm. Talking one musician to another is much more manageable than considering the magnitude of the person you’re speaking with. Frankly, you are completely amazed by how incredibly gentle and disarming the man is.

When the door opens again, both of you are consumed enough in the music that it doesn’t faze you much.

“Oh, hey Elvis! Just the man I needed to see. I hope y/n isn’t bothering you,” Billy says, in a teasing tone only a family member could produce.

“Hello to you, too, Billy,” you say, a bit annoyed at the interruption and at feeling put in your place as if you were still a child.

“Oh, no, not at all. She’s a great teacher,” Elvis grins, bumping your shoulder. “You two…know each other?” he then asks, his smile faltering in the slightest as he looks from you to Billy. The question is innocent enough, but the way he says it gives you pause and your heart flips.

“Since she was practically in diapers. She’s my sister-in-law,” Billy says.

“Twelve isn’t in diapers, Billy,” you scoff at him, then turn to Elvis. “He’s married to my older sister yet has never hesitated to treat me like a baby. Lucky me.”

“Aw, you know I only put up with you because you’re too talented for your own good,” Billy ribs, making to muss your hair.

You duck swiftly out of the way, bumping into Elvis in the process. “Oh, sorry!” you breath out.

Elvis just chuckles at the two of you, looking pleased as punch, though you’re not exactly sure why.

“I think what you meant to say is, ‘Thank you for dropping everything to fly across the country last minute to help me, dearest sister-in-law,’” you throw at Billy, batting your lashes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it. Now, skedaddle. I need to talk to Elvis,” Billy shoos you.

You suppress the urge to stomp your foot and pout, but you realize you really should act more professional than you are. Settling for a huff at Billy, you turn to Elvis. “It was nice to meet you,” you say, all the spunkiness you had towards Billy deflating into shyness the moment you look into those dark blue eyes again.

“Oh, I have no doubt we’ll be talkin’ again soon, honey, and thank you for the lesson,” Elvis drawls softly.

His words send a cascade of shivers through your limbs. You feel heady as you stand from the bench, shooting a familial glare Billy’s way, noticing the frown on his face as you do so. God, even with you being 27, Billy had the ability to make you feel like a scolded younger sister.

You force yourself not to look back as you head to your chair. Be a professional. Just because Elvis is handsome doesn’t mean he’s not the man you’re ultimately working for. Busying yourself with rearranging your music, you hear Billy usher Elvis out and up into the booth.

Well, that’s that, you think, rosining your bow, and you get to practicing.

*

You’ve been at your share of long rehearsals, but you will admit this one is both long and intense. The music Billy has arranged—this “Guitar Man” medley of some of Elvis’ songs—isn’t difficult music to play, per say, but you can now sense an underlying importance around this entire operation. Part of it is the barely held back frantic look in Billy’s eyes, and knowing him as you do, for him to be this frazzled means there’s a lot on the line. However, it’s when Elvis comes back, much later, to run through the medley with the orchestra, that you realize you can sense it in him, too. It’s well-hidden, to be sure, when the man introduces himself and shakes hands with the members of the orchestra, and you probably wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t for the relaxed way he’d been with you earlier in the day, but it’s an undercurrent all the same. Then, they send him into the booth to do his thing.

And, boy, does he. You’ve worked your share of Broadway musicals and operas, but you’ve never seen a man completely give himself over to the work in just a rehearsal quite the way Elvis does with this medley. It’s like he’s singing for his life. By the time it’s all through, Elvis exits the booth, dripping with sweat, exhausted but exuberant. His eyes sparkle and his body hums, some part of him tapping or jiggling or wiggling every moment, as though the music had become electricity in his veins.

You try not to stare as you slowly put away your bow, your violin, collecting your music from the black stand. You try not to, but you keep stealing glances because not only does he look enticing, but it’s also more that you connect with the feelings he seems to be having. The way the music can just take over and become something else inside you, as if you are the conduit to something much bigger than yourself. This you understand. And you’d never imagined a sensation like Elvis Presley would feel the music that way, too. Perhaps this is the secret to his massive success.

Almost all the other musicians have packed and left by now. You tell yourself you’re stalling so you can say goodnight to Billy before hailing a cab and finally checking into your hotel by midnight. You are exhausted, after a day of traveling and frenetic rehearsal, yet you are buzzing with the excitement only music seems to bring you. And you can’t help that the part of you that feels that way is being drawn towards Elvis like a magnet.

When Elvis catches your less-than-sly stare, a million-dollar smile spreads over his face and your heart flip-flops in your chest so hard it takes your breath away. Caught, you quickly and conspicuously look up and away, as though that will save the burning embarrassment on your cheeks. Suddenly, all you can think of is how fast you can get out of here, and you finish packing up like a fire has been lit under you. You scurry towards the door, hoping to escape before making a fool of yourself further.

“Hey, Miss Moonlight,” Elvis says, fingers light on your arm, stopping you before you reach the door, “whaddya say you join us back at my place for a little get together?”

The nickname would usually make you roll your eyes, but coming from him so sweetly, you balk under the attention. It distracts you so much that it takes a full second to realize that he’s just invited you to his place.

“I…uh, it’s been a long day. I-I haven’t even checked into my hotel yet,” you stammer, the excuse so unconvincing you might laugh if you weren’t so befuddled and nervous that Elvis is asking you…well, you’re not exactly sure what he’s asking you.

He quirks a perfect raven brow at you. When he steps in closer, you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Well, I can have Joe swing you by your hotel before headin’ over, if you’d like, though there’s plenty of space at the house. We can set up a room for ya…s’probably more comfortable than a hotel,” Elvis drawls quietly in your ear.

You’ve never heard a man make a pass so naturally in your life, so much so that you almost hesitate to believe it is one. His low voice and the open suggestiveness spear straight into your core, threatening to melt you into a puddle on the spot.

In any other circumstance, you would laugh in a man’s face for suggesting such a thing. Generally shy, reserved, and cerebral, you’re certainly not the kind of woman who just spends the night at a strange man’s place. But this isn’t any other circumstance. This is Elvis Presley asking you to stay the night with him.

And maybe he does just mean it casually—a “hey, come party with us and you can sleep on the couch”—but at the moment, your body doesn’t know the difference. Your inner pragmatist begins listing off all the ways this is a terrible idea, but the only thing that cuts through the noise is the regret you know you’ll feel if you don’t accept this invitation.

“Um…well, okay. I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, of course,” you manage to breathe back.

His lip curves up into an almost bashful smile. “Oh, Moonlight, you couldn’t be an imposition if you tried. Plus, you hafta show me how to play the rest of that piece,” he says, running a calloused fingertip down your pointer finger.

You can’t help the shudder that runs through you or the way your heart catches in your throat. “Well, how could I possibly refuse?” you finally get out.

“Fantastic! Hey, Joe, this is my new friend, y/n,” he says enthusiastically, calling over the shorter man. “She’s gonna be joining us tonight.”

Joe seems kind enough, albeit barely looks or speaks to you after the main introductions. Before you know it, you, your violin, and your suitcase are packed into the back of what you assume is a ridiculously expensive vehicle. Elvis slides in behind you, and you, now sandwiched between him and the car door, think you ought to feel apprehensive about the situation, but all your attention is fixed on how Elvis’ side is pressed up against yours. The heat radiates off him, bleeding into you, his leg bouncing so quickly that you think he might need to get out and run laps. He makes conversation, asking about how you came to be a musician and you uncharacteristically and nervously start rambling about yourself. You’ve got to give him credit for the way he nods and hums, truly seeming to listen to you even though your mouth is running almost uncontrollably.

By the time you arrive at the house, you feel as if you’ve told Elvis your life story and you abruptly shutter your mouth closed. God, I am such an idiot. Way to play it cool, y/n, you berate yourself.

Elvis kindly helps you out of the car, walking you toward the house as Joe follows with your violin and suitcase in tow. The way your heart pounds against your ribcage threatens to do you in—it’s all suddenly become very real that Elvis Presley is leading you into his house where you are going to surreptitiously spend the night. His hand is guiding you so gently at the small of your back, but the heat of it blazes through you.

Oh, get a grip! The man has probably touched thousands of women, you’re no different. You’re not special.

Realizing you’re holding your breath, you force yourself to take in air as inconspicuously as possible.

“You don’t gotta be nervous, baby,” he says, a cheeky little smile gracing those luscious lips of his.

“Sorry, I…this just isn’t where I thought I’d be at the end of this very long day,” you chuckle.

“Well, let’s make you at home then.” His smile turns reassuring and warm.

He spends the next hour getting you comfortable and fed, having the most amazing ability to relax your normally nervous nature without hardly trying. You can’t help but feel butterflies in your stomach at the way he seems to be continuously touching you—the press of his leg, an arm around your shoulders, the graze of a finger against yours—in a familiar way, even though you’ve known him less than a day. If it were anyone else, you would have leapt off the couch and run for the hills.

What surprises you the most is that you aren’t uncomfortable at all. Excited and nervous, yes. But you don’t feel preyed upon or anything of the sort. Frankly, you are trying not to get ahead of yourself about what the rest of the night might bring.

An impromptu jam session with his old bandmates has you feeling even more surreal. If someone had told you yesterday that you would get a private concert with Elvis Presley and his former band, you would have laughed at them. You find yourself unable to take your eyes off him and how he seems to get completely lost in the music, and you right along with him. His gritty baritone combined with the sensual way he tackles each song has warmth pooling in your belly. Despite the cranked-up air conditioning, you find yourself sweating and parched, especially in the moments he smiles in your direction.

You aren’t sure how much time passes, only that you feel the heady exhaustion of being up too long coupled with an uncharacteristic hungry adrenaline running through your veins. When the jam session ends, you are both disappointed and exhilarated for what might come next.

Don’t get your hopes up, you remind yourself. This night has been amazing no matter what happens next.

“Did you enjoy that, Moonlight?” he leans over and whispers in your ear. It tickles you and sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod. “Oh, yes.” It comes out more breathless than you’d like.

You feel him smile against your cheek. “Are you up for teaching me more of that sonata, honey?” he asks. It’s an innocent enough request but you can’t tell exactly what his motivations are, though for the first time in your life, you’re not sure it matters.

“Of course,” you say quietly, starting for the piano in the corner of the living space.

His warm hand catches yours, and you look back, surprised, as he shakes his head and pulls you in the opposite direction.

Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage as he leads you down the hall and into what you assume is his private suite. It’s not until he closes the door and you realize that you are utterly alone with him that you feel a glimmer of trepidation.

It must read on your face because he jumps in to reassure you. “Oh, honey, I just want to get to know you better, away from the rest of them. I’d never hurt you or make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Honestly, I don’t want the other guys ribbing me…they don’t go for the classical stuff,” he says quietly, looking away, and you think there might be a little pink rising on his cheeks.

His sincerity is palpable, and you certainly never expected him to be bashful about playing classical music. There’s a softness to him now, almost a shyness, that wasn’t present moments ago around all his entourage. It is like a yearning for one-on-one connection, and this part of him melts all your reservations and tugs at your heartstrings.

“Well, I do…go for the classical stuff, I mean,” you say quietly. You smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly as his deep blue eyes find yours again.

He looks giddy as he leads you to the second piano in the house, a baby grand in the far corner of the large suite. You sit down, opening the lid, and he slides in beside you. The heat of him rolls around you, the smell of his cologne and a day’s worth of sweat combining into an alluring combination that perks up your senses.

“Show me what you remember,” you say, and he starts to play, long, nimble fingers gliding gracefully over the keys. It amazes you that he committed everything you showed him earlier to memory so fast and so accurately. Something about it tightens a coil low in your belly. Unsure whether it’s your attraction to him physically or musically that has you so aroused, you swallow hard as he finishes abruptly.

You shake it off as best you can as you show him more of the movement, hoping the music might quell the buzzing in your veins. You go through it a few times, getting a little lost in the notes, as you tend to do. It only serves to stoke the fire in you when he picks up what you’ve shown him so quickly.

He finishes a phrase, and you move to show him the next, but his hand suddenly covers yours. Surprised, you look over at him to find his oceanic eyes searching your face so intimately that warmth blooms across your chest and your breath catches in the silence.

Slowly, Elvis leans over, cups your cheek gently, and kisses you. It’s almost chaste the way his incredibly soft lips press into yours and your surprise is so great that by the time you register what is happening, he is already pulling away.

His eyes open slowly, those lashes fluttering along with the fluttering in your heart and belly. Shock has you outwardly frozen but it’s as if he lit every one of your nerve endings on fire with the touch of his lips.

He must register your surprise as hesitance because his gaze changes to something akin to apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I shouldn’t’ve—”

Before he can get the rest of that sentence out, your body miraculously obeys you and you unfreeze. Boldly cupping his jaw with both hands, you pull him back to you and plant your lips on his.

It surprises both of you, and it’s a second before either of you relaxes into the kiss. This permission is all it takes, however, and then his mouth is languidly searching yours and his arms are wrapping around you to pull you close. Soft, short kisses alternate with longer more passionate ones, and you feel utterly spellbound by him, every inch of your body aware and alert to his.

Never in your life have you been kissed so well or so thoroughly. It’s as if the music in his soul must find a physical outlet, and the way he explores and opens you up to him is like him playing a new instrument. When his tongue rolls softly against your lower lip, you can’t suppress the low moan that comes out of you, causing you to open your mouth. He accepts the invitation readily, expertly, and the wet plushness of his tongue slowly begins exploring.

The warmth that sparkles and blooms across your chest travels lower still, sparking fires as it goes, until you feel your pulse throbbing between your legs. It’s nearly unbearable the way he stokes you without hardly trying. You’ve never felt so aroused so quickly or so completely.

Your eagerness is impossible to contain, your fingers buried in that luxuriously soft hair at the base of his neck, your body rolling towards his of its own accord, as if magnetized. You follow his rhythm, meeting his music with your own.

When he pulls back to trail kisses down your jaw, you are left breathless and clutching the lapels of his half-unbuttoned shirt. The nuzzle of his nose on your cheek as he finds and licks the tender spot behind your ear leaves you gasping. Pleased, he does it again and your entire body shudders.

Every inch of you yearns to be consumed by him. It’s never felt like this, not with any man you’ve been with. Those were fumbling amateurs playing one handed melodies in comparison to the symphony Elvis is invoking. While he is leading and in control, you sense as much eagerness from him as there is in you. It’s reassuring and flattering all at once.

There is an embarrassing amount of slick between your legs already, soaking the cotton of your panties and leaving you clenching your thighs together in search of friction. He must notice this as he kisses down your throat and across your décolletage because then he’s looking up at you for permission with those pink, swollen lips and dreamy bedroom eyes.

It’s unspoken, but you nod and he continues his sweet journey, one hand deftly unzipping the back of your dress while his lips follow gravity as it slips down your arms and reveals your chest. Pushing the fabric off and to your waist, his hand is then hot against your bare stomach. He hums in approval when his mouth finds the swell of your breasts that spill from your simple, beige bra.

A low whine escapes you. His apt response is to thumb your nipple to attention through the thin satin before lapping at the bud with his tongue. The result is a jolt of electricity shooting straight into your core, sending you clutching his neck and writhing against him. Expertly, he undoes the clasp in the back and abandons your bra to the floor in what must be a well-practiced motion based on the speed of it.

Goosebumps rise across your now fully exposed flesh, both from the cool air in the room and the way his fingers brush so lightly over your breasts. He seems pleased with the way your nipples stand at attention under his heated gaze. You don’t have the wherewithal to feel your usual self-consciousness; instead, the sight of his pupils blown black with arousal has you shivering with nothing but anticipation.

The combination of the way his tongue darts between his lips as he lightly pinches the hardened buds has you begging for more. “Please,” you moan and that’s all it takes before he’s lathing his tongue over and around the sensitive nubs, palming the fullness of your breasts. You can hardly stand it, how everything he does makes your body sing and want to scream his praises.

A quizzical look crosses your features though when he stops his ministrations and slides to his knees on the carpet on his side of the bench. For a second you are worried something you’ve done something to hurt or displease him, but when he beckons you towards him at the end of the bench with such arousal in his eyes it nearly knocks you over, you obey without a thought.

Elvis scoots you forward and kisses your belly, sending a new wave of tingles over you. He removes one of your low-heeled pumps and then the other, ghosting kisses along your ankles before running his large hands up the smoothness of your pantyhose, pushing your dress up with them. As if under a spell, you can’t help the way your legs fall open for him when his thumbs drag up the insides of your thighs. The little coy smirk that graces that beautiful face when he feels the damp that has soaked through to the gusset of your hose has your cheeks flushing and your lips parting.

You can’t bring yourself to be too embarrassed at how wet you are because the pleased look on his face at the discovery makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. He pulls on the waistband, forcing you to lift your hips, before gently rolling the hose down your legs until they are off and discarded on the floor.

What you don’t expect is how he begins peppering soft kisses up your now bare calves, at the inside of your knees, and then up your inner thighs.

A swell of panic hits the farther up he goes, and you jerk up, unsure of what exactly he’s meaning to do. The men you’d been with in the past had been rather direct about the whole thing—once the clothes were off, they buried their pecker inside you and thrust above you, all with varying levels of success in getting you off as they did so.

But not a single one had kissed up your thighs and spread them open with a hungry and expectant look like the one Elvis had now.

Looking down at him, confused, you ask, “What are you doing?” in a voice that is a little too apprehensive for your liking, but you need to know.

He cocks his head at you a moment, as if trying to determine your level of seriousness. Then his eyes shine with understanding and in that low, Southern drawl of his says the downright naughtiest thing you’ve ever had a man say to you: “You ain’t never had a man take good care of your kitty before, have ya? Give her all the love and attention she deserves?” He runs a fingertip lightly over the wet cotton at your center and you shiver.

He can’t possibly mean what you think he means.

You must be gaping because he rises on his knees and catches your lips with his own before breathing, “Close that pretty mouth baby or you’re liable to catch flies up in there.”

You are speechless, unable to form words, but the question is written all over your face.

He leans back on his knees with a contemplative smile. “That sweet little kitty of yours ain’t never been eaten, has she, baby?”

Oh my god.

It’s all you can do to bite back a moan and shake your head at him.

He looks positively gleeful about this development, his shining eyes taking on a whole new level of arousal. Then he seems to notice your trepidation and reigns himself in.

“That okay with you, baby?” he asks.

You had never even considered it an option before, or that a man might like to do such a thing. Maybe he’s teasing you? Suddenly you feel very conscious of the mechanics of the act and breathlessly mumble, “You don’t…you’re sure?”

“Oh, I am.” The smile of anticipation on his face seems to echo the sentiment.

The enticing thought of that beautiful mouth of his being down there on you outweighs your uncertainty and prudishness. You nod your head. “O-Okay.”

You’ve never seen a man look so thrilled at the thought of being between your legs as Elvis Presley is. “Don’tcha worry, I’m gonna take real good care of ya,” he says comfortingly. “You just lie back and relax and let me make you feel good, honey.” Then he places a kiss just under the waistband of your panties and you let out a little sigh.

The piano bench feels slightly warm on you bare back as you lay down. Elvis, grabbing under your thighs, pulls you to the edge, and your heart resumes its pounding. You truly can’t believe any of this is about to happen and steel yourself for him to rip off your underwear and go to town.

But he doesn’t.

No, he takes his time warming you up, as if he’s trying to get you used to the idea. He kisses down one hip then trails down the panty line. You tense the closer he gets to your core but then he only ghosts a breath over it before jumping to the other leg and kisses up the crease on that side. The ticklish sensation is almost too much to bear as he works his way up to the waistband again.

You are panting by the time his mouth is grazing from your belly button downwards, pressing into the soft curls beneath the fabric. He stops just short of that forbidden little spot where your aching clit resides, and you push up on your elbows to shoot him a look.

A grin spreads over his features, his eyes narrowed like a crocodile’s and full of desire and he watches you intently as he finally places a light kiss over that sensitive little button.

The sensation is nothing like anything you’ve felt before and the whole scene has your body flaming white hot. You don’t recognize the low mewl that erupts from your lips and the only thing keeping you from throwing your head back is the way his eyes are locked on yours, as if feeding off your reaction. Then he uses his perfect nose to nuzzle into it before placing a firmer kiss there.

“Elvissss,” you whine, unable to keep from throwing your head back this time.

“You like that, baby? I barely even started,” he speaks, his hot breath puffing over the slicked core of your panties. He kisses down, down until over your entrance, where he then tongues the fabric, pressing it up and into you.

“Honey, you’ve done soaked right through,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure if he’s speaking to you or directly to your pussy. You’re not sure you care for the way you moan, the way your body shudders and writhes, suddenly starving for anything he’s willing to give.

“Lemme see how pretty she is,” he says, and God, if his filthy yet somehow sweet words aren’t stroking you in such a way that you wonder if you could come from his lilting voice alone. He pulls your underwear to the side, finally baring yourself to him, and he whistles.

“Just lovely, and all weepy for me, too,” he says, voice thick with lust now.

The anticipation has your heart racing and your fingers clawing at the wooden bench with a whimper.

“Okay, baby, I hear ya,” he murmurs kindly, then hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties and finally slides them down and off your legs. Then his hands are pushing them apart and his tongue is lightly skimming up your folds.

You gasp at the soft and silky feeling, unready even despite his preparations. When he circles your clit and then kisses it, bare this time, you are so aroused you’re afraid you might weep. But the teasing is done, and he tests you expertly. His tongue flattens and takes in the full breadth of you, licking a stripe up your pussy that sends your hips rolling.

He seems to gauge every reaction carefully, giving equal and alternating attention to every piece of you. Nipping, suckling, and kissing your swollen clit into submission and just when you think that heated coil in your belly might snap you in two, he moves down and kisses through your folds. When he laps at the arousal dripping from your tight little hole, tongues it, and then plunges it inside of you, you find yourself screaming out his name.

You can feel him smile and hum at your response, the vibrations adding entirely new sensations to the slew of new sensations you are feeling. He thumbs at your clit as he laps at your hole, and you think you might hyperventilate with how fast you’re breathing and how hot you feel.

So completely attuned to you, he pulls back and gives you a break, despite your whimpering protests. His full lips are swollen pink and slick down to his chin with you, and when his lip curls up into a knowing but almost bashful smile, you think this might be the eighth wonder of the world.

“You alright? I’m doin’ okay?” he asks, his left eyebrow quirking.

You giggle, almost drunkenly even though you’re entirely sober, because the question is so absurd but sweet of him. “Yes, yes, yes,” you say, words slurring.

“Okay, good,” he says, nodding. Then he rises on up on his knees and commands you forward with a come-hither motion so deft and quick, it has you drooling.

You are powerless to resist and push your dazed self to your elbows on the bench. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply, lewdly letting you taste the tang of yourself on his lips. Distracted as you are by his wandering mouth, you aren’t ready for the way he slides two of those perfectly long musician’s fingers up through your silky folds and deep into your wet heat.

A shocked gasp quickly turns into a moan that he swallows with another kiss. He begins ever-so-slowly pumping those fingers into you and the rough pad of his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of your sex.

“Goddamn, you’re so perfect, so tight,” he breathes into your mouth.

You can’t stop the shiver that ripples through you. “I-It’s been a-awhile,” you pant. You can’t help but look down and watch the way he works you.

“Don’t you worry, baby. I gotchu,” he purrs, then curves his fingers just so and the pleasure that courses through you has you crying out.

Your brain is fuzzy, with only one thing on its mind. Luckily, Elvis seems to be reading it because he smiles that coy smile and returns those full lips of his to your clit.

For a moment you think you might die from the intensity of the sensations he’s procuring from you. Seems an awful lot like God gave him long fingers and a full mouth not only for music, you think. Though the way he’s playing you right now and the noises he’s coaxing out of you makes it seem like a whole different type of song he’s expert at.

The way he traces and flicks and suckles your clit, coupled with the obscene sounds coming from the way he’s fingering your pussy has you writhing on the bench and gripping his beautiful hair in your hands.

More, more, more, is the only thought left.

He hums against you with one last kiss and a wildly accurate thrust and curve of his fingers. The coil inside you explodes, then white-hot, full-body shudders violently overtake you as you silently scream and hold onto him for dear life as to not fly away into the stratosphere.

Your orgasm is utterly mind altering and earth shattering.

“Good job, lil’ girl,” Elvis coos, soothing you through the aftershocks with a lathing tongue.

You can’t think straight enough to respond, only whimpering from the empty feeling when he removes his fingers, then gasping again when he laps at the arousal pouring out of your core.

It’s all too much, and, overstimulated, you whine and clench and pull at him.

He sits up again, between your legs, looking mighty pleased with himself. “Come ‘ere, darlin’,” he says, pulling you up by your arms and sliding you onto his lap. Boneless and naked (save for the dress bunched in a ring around your waist), your legs fall open, easily straddling his hips. Your hands grip at his shirt and you bury your head into his neck, still dizzy with release.

He holds you steady. “Didja like that? Your kitty all happy and purrin’ now?” he whispers in your ear, sending a new set of shivers down your spine. All you can manage is a pleased hum and a nod. You kiss his neck, tasting salt on his tanned skin.

A soft moan escapes his lips at that. Suddenly, you become quite aware of the hardness in his slacks, pressing up near your swollen folds. The embers of your arousal have not died, and you kiss his neck again while slowly rolling your hips into his.

Groaning, he tightens his arms around you, holding you to him. You nip at the throbbing pulse point on his neck and are reminded just how talented and famous these hips of his are when he rolls them back into you in response. He’s rock hard, straining against his zipper, the tip of him bumping against your sensitive clit. You moan and find his rhythm, feeling the wetness between your thighs start to soak through the fabric of his slacks, creating a delicious friction.

Elvis pants heavily in your ear, murmuring curses and praises as he grinds into you. At this rate, you think he might come in his pants, which just won’t do. Not with the way your pussy is buzzing, and that coil is tightening again in your belly. No, you need him inside you. You need him to fill you.

You use what little returning strength you have and rise on your knees, away from his needy cock. The man actually pouts, his lower lip jutting out with a desperate little whine and it is so alluring you almost forget what you’re trying to do. You place a finger over his lips to quiet him, then set to the task of trying to undo his lavish belt and zipper.

Once he understands, he races to help, making much quicker work of the whole thing and finally his cock springs free. It’s quite long, and the deep pink tip peeking out of his silky foreskin is already shiny and weeping with precum. Of its own accord, your finger slides over his slit, circling the slick tip and spreading the wetness gathered there. He hisses. You bring your finger to your mouth, tasting the salty musk of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his hand palming his length. He gives it a pointed tug, then another, his lips falling open as he watches you.

He’s gorgeous in every way and it’s almost intimidating the way he looks at you with such open and vulnerable lust. You can’t bring yourself hold back or tease any longer, needing desperately to give him all of you, to give him what he needs. Hovering over him, you help line him up, then slowly descend onto his cock.

You are plenty wet—he’s seen to that—but even still, the stretch of him burns. It’s been too long since a man has been inside you like this and he is much longer than you anticipated.

A quiet, “Oh, oh, oh,” is all you manage to puff out as you bob slightly up and down, taking a little bit more of him with each tiny pump. He presses gentle kisses everywhere he can reach and murmurs encouraging praises with each inch that you conquer.

By the time you settle on the hilt of him, snug in his lap, you’re both groaning. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders because you are so full of him you don’t know what to do. You’ve never been so gorged and the pressure is a little frightening.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he slurs happily, letting you adjust around him. “Little Elvis likes you lots and lots, baby. S’like you were made just for him.”

“Little Elvis? H-He’s not so little,” you say with wide eyes, then giggle a little, which causes you to gasp from the tightness below and how it makes you clench even harder around him.

He groans. “If ya keep doing that, he’s not gonna last very long, darlin’.”

You try to move, but in this position and after that orgasm, you feel weak and a little like he’s spearing you in two. You’re almost too full, and the angle is not quite right. You wiggle in his lap, your brow furrowed, as your arms grow tighter around his neck. A low whine escapes your throat.

He notices your distress. Petting your hair, he babytalks at you, which under other circumstances might be strange for a grown man, but it comes so naturally to him somehow it both comforts and arouses you, “Oh, shh, shh, baby, s’okay. He’s a widdle much for ya, ain’t he? Sometimes he gets too ‘cited and gets ahead of ‘imself. But he’s gonna take real good care of ya, I promise.”

And with that, he gingerly shifts sideways, leans forward, and lays you down on the plush carpet under the piano. The movement has him sliding partially out of you, giving you some relief from the bursting sensation, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Your body relaxes.

He looks so gorgeous above you, with his raven hair falling in his eyes and a soft, bashful smile gracing his lips. You can’t help but smile back at him.

“That better?” he asks.

You nod.

Leaning down, he nuzzles your nose, then places soft kisses on your mouth. He coaxes you back to him, the heat building between you with each deepening kiss. So focused on the rolling of his tongue against yours, you don’t even realize he’s pressing deeper into you until he’s nestled almost completely, but much more comfortably between your legs.

You sigh contentedly into his mouth. The pressure still has you feeling full, but in a delicious, silky way this time as you finally relax around him. He rolls his hips smoothly, the strokes slow and deliberate, in time with the movement of his lips. Each stroke is better than the last as your increased arousal combined with his own slickens your inner walls.

“There she is,” he moans quietly into the crook of your neck.

That feeling is back, a chant of want, want, want running through your brain as the tension and fire in your belly begin to grow once more. When he bottoms out this time, your punctuated, “Ah!” is from pleasure and not discomfort. He’s managing to hit places inside you that you didn’t know existed.

You writhe under him, starting to meet his thrusts with your own, trying as you might to find that perfect spot he keeps slipping past. If only you had the right leverage…

It comes to you once you’ve hitched your legs up around his svelte waist. You lift your hips and plant your bare feet against the grainy wooden underside of the piano, meeting his next thrust with your leveraged one. It sends him deeper, driving into that little spot just perfectly. You keen.

“Oh, goddamn,” he moans along with you.

Each thrust seems deeper than the last with your legs pressing up like this. They shake from the exertion, but it’s worth every ounce of effort for the way you feel driven into the earth by his cock. Sweat drips off his face and onto yours as he showers your body with pleasure you didn’t know existed.

He thumbs your clit, timed perfectly with the piston of his hips, and you can barely breathe at the sensation. Gasping, your entire body shudders of its own accord as you hurtle towards another release.

“I…I…I…” is all you can seem to manage as your second climax starts to crest, and he grunts with effort above you, his eyes glassy with unbridled desire.

He mutters a string sweet filth that only fuels you forward, slurring and panting, “Oh, fuck, yes…such a good yittle kitty…good girl for me…look atchu taking ‘im so deep…never been s’deep…Jesus, I can see ‘im in your belly.”

You both look at the swell of your abdomen on the next thrust and this time he holds you flush against him so you can see the tip of Little Elvis bulge out the slightest bit. The moan you let out is obscene. Holding you at the waist, he doesn’t let your hips down, instead running the palm of his hand over the protrusion while he flicks your clit furiously. Then he presses down at the same time he thrusts as hard and as deep as possible.

Your climax hits so hard and so fast that it knocks the breath out of you, leaving you gasping his name, “Elvis, Elvis, Elvis!” Flaming white stars flash behind your eyelids as you flutter and clench around his length. Molten fire spreads from your core outward. You shudder and claw at him, at the bottom of the piano, at anything that will keep you tethered to reality while the rest of you shatters into a million pieces beneath him.

“Good girl, s’good fo’me,” he praises you through it, losing himself to you as you come apart.

You feel his hips start to stutter into you again because a primal need has him beyond the point of waiting any longer. Somehow, through shivering aftershocks, you have the wherewithal to force your eyes open, even as the rest of your body goes slack. He looks like Adonis in the throes of passion, his full and swollen lips falling open. In one fell swoop, he drops your hips and pulls his considerable length from you, his knowing hand pumping his slick-covered cock with expert precision.

Watching him come is a marvel and you make yourself commit this moment to memory, knowing it will fuel your arousal for years to come. He tenses above you, those sapphire eyes fluttering closed. Shivering tension ripples over him with a choked cry and through gritted teeth. Thick and warm white ropes erupt and splatter over your torso and you moan along with him. Then his eyes pop open pointedly as he watches himself cover you with his seed. The poignant, dramatic end of a brilliant symphony.

“F-fuck,” he pants, finishing off with another shiver. Exhausted, he catches himself just before crushing you with his weight, instead pressing his sweaty brow into yours. Your hot, heavy breaths mingle as you both try to come back down to Earth. He nuzzles his nose into yours before kissing your cheeks and your mouth.

Eventually, you find your words. “That was…incredible,” you say breathlessly, with no exaggeration.

He pulls back to look at you, with a goofy, pleased grin. “I told you I’d take care of you, Moonlight. And boy oh boy, was that a neat trick with the piano there…that part of your classical trainin’?” he says, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Putting that college degree to good use,” you say with a giggle.

His eyes go wide and then he laughs—a musical, beautiful, contagious sound—which fills your heart up in a way you don’t quite understand.

He crawls back and helps you out from under the piano. Your back is rubbed raw from the carpet, which he kisses gently with apology, but you barely feel the sting. You are too dazed and relaxed to worry about much of anything.

When he helps clean you up and pulls you into his big bed, slotting you in next to him, you want to savor every minute. How he smells delicious and masculine, how the heat of his long body envelops your own—you want to remember everything.

Exhausted, you fall fast asleep, sated and cared for, knowing that you’ll never, ever be the same.

*

taglist

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[shadowflamekitty]

I have a feeling I know who’s gonna win…

[beatricebidelaire]

Almost forty years ago, in high school, for instance, we were all required to take a three-pronged career test: first we chose, from an excruciatingly long list of choices, professions that interested us; then they told us, from some dubious metric, what we might be good at; then, faced with the same list again, we had to indicate if we’d changed our minds. My friend and I convinced our homeroom, during this last step, to leave unchecked each career on the list, and then to check “other,” and in the blank provided write “pirate.” This got me in trouble, of course—I was told, implausibly, that this had thrown off the entire statistical analysis for the state of California—but I kept the idea in my head: fed-up teenagers who want to be pirates. It waited in a corner of my mind, like a lurking werewolf, or a sticky tune. I wanted two girls, furious and fun like my sister, as the heroes, rather than the usual strapping young men. An old man would lead them, I thought, years later, although I couldn’t figure out why this old man would do such a thing, until, years later again, my father’s dementia began to manifest itself in rash, sometimes fierce acts, but always smilingly, joyfully and often, to those who did not know him well, convincingly sane. The freakish idea, pirates, became sadder, more desperate, more violent. I reread favorite novels that seemed relevant—Richard Hughes’s always astonishing A High Wind In Jamaica, Marianne Wiggins’s John Dollar, and watched pirate movies with index cards piled up nearby. My father faltered and faded, and I lay that part of him to rest, some years after he died, in my novel We Are Pirates, along with the high school prank and countless other tiny ecstatic items. All my books are like this, corralled together from things I’ve been mulling over for years. It is a quiet feeling, when I find a place for them.

-- And Then? And Then? What Else?

[look-i-love-u]

Weekly Q&A Wednesday

Thank you for the tag to the wonderful: @mikhailoisbaby, @creepkinginc, @energievie and @creepkinginc and @michellemisfit

Favorite nickname you’ve ever been given: Schmetterling

Where are you located? Germany

What season is it where you are now? Winter

Favourite tradition this time of year: Christmas lights

Favorite holiday food: biscuits

Mulled wine, eggnog or hot apple cider? Hot apple cider

Turkey, Ham or Nut Roast (Or Tofurkey?)? Neither. Bockwürstchen!

Would you rather spend the December holidays in: A cabin in the woods surrounded by snow, or a house on the beach with sun and sand? Cabin in the woods surrounded by snow

Are you pro-snow or anti-snow? Am I the one who has to shovel it? Then anti!

Have you ever built a snowman? Yes

Skiing or Snowboarding? Neither. Sledding!

Do you decorate for the holidays? Yes

Favourite holiday movie? Little Lord Fauntleroy (Alec Guinness version)

Favourite holiday fanfic?

Currently smiling, laughing, crying and loving my way through If you were a melody (I used only the good notes)

And Gallavich wise - the amazing fanfics that have been written for me for the Secret Santa Exchange:

Bazooka by @squidyyy23

Not so Secret Santa by @sweetbee78

If you were to star in a Hallmark movie, who would be your love interest? Where would it take place? Like small British country side farmy area (next to Harvey's small British country side farmy area - my film can be the sequel to his :D). And my love interest would be played by Richard Armitage (John Thornton meets Harry Kennedy meets John Standring meets Thorin Oakenshield style).

I'm tagging: @ian-galagher, @vintagelacerosette, @gallawitchxx, @auds-and-evens, @skylerwinchester, @ardent-fox, @bawlbrayker