#since stubborns usually yellow he gets to be red this time

[tai-janai]

Why did you make me listen to Butcher Vanity/pos

Why did you let me/pos

oh, your heart, aortic work of art

my love, my knife, to carve it out, your life.

[snowyslytherinowl]

Mini Me, Kitty Me

PAIRING: Severus Snape x Reader

SUMMARY: You take home a stray cat, much to Severus's displeasure. But Severus and the cat soon get along, probably because the cat is a little like Severus.

*GIF isn't mine; credit to @smilingformoney

“No! I will not hear any sort of protest from you! This decision is final! I am keeping Pepper!” you shout at Severus. 

Dear Merlin, he loves your stubbornness and strong will unless your stubbornness and strong will are directed against him. To make your point even more clear, you storm out of the room and leave him alone with the cat. 

Severus’s stare burns into the cat, or “Pepper” as you affectionately call him, sitting on the floor. He’s black and has small, tired-looking eyes. How could you ever find this scruffy, scrawny little cat “the most adorable little angel known to wizardkind?” And how could you ever insist on taking this stray cat home?  

As if to challenge the dominance that Severus is trying to assert, the cat’s yellow eyes glare back at him. The hard look he’s giving him reminds him of Minerva leering at him from a corner when she’s in her animagus form. Severus jerks forward so that Pepper is only one step away from him. Pepper hisses at him and scurries out of the room to wherever you are. Finally, some peace and quiet. 

Later that night, Severus tries to relax with you on the couch. You usually lean your head on his shoulder as he reads a book to you, but not tonight. Just as your cheek brushes against his shoulder, Pepper jumps directly onto your lap and snuggles into you. 

“Aw, sweet little Pepper. Do you like cuddling with mom?” you ask in a voice typically used for toddlers. Severus rolls his eyes as Pepper meows back, indicating that he does indeed love spending time with you. 

“Get that wretched deformed tiger off our couch,” Severus grunts at you. 

You ignore him as you stroke Pepper’s fur and sweetly say to him, “Dad doesn’t like you now, but I promise he will soon. He was moody when I first met him, just like you hissed at me when I saw you next to Honeydukes. But eventually, both of you grew fond of me.” 

Severus scowls as you compare him to the cat. “I am nothing like him. He is unwilling to be friendly and he is nothing short of hideous.” 

Both you and Pepper turn to glare at him. “He is loveable and he is not hideous! Just let him get used to you and he’ll give you kisses!” 

Slowly, Severus’s face turns red. “I want you to give me kisses, not the cat!”

“You’re not getting any kisses if you continue to insult my Pepper!” you yell at him. You take Pepper into your arms, stand up, and slam the door as you exit. All Severus can do is huff with frustration. 

Over the next week, Severus and Pepper are forced to be alone in the house together whenever you go shopping or peruse the streets of the nearby village. In some ways, your absence is for the better since Severus and Pepper aren’t forced to be in the same room together. 

As usual, Severus is brewing potions in the wee hours of the morning when the door cracks open. The crack is a little too small for you to fit through, so Severus doesn’t need to look down to know that Pepper has snuck into his “mini dungeon,” as you like to call it. Pepper meows softly as he jumps onto the stool that Severus was sitting on just seconds ago. 

“Shoo, you wretched cat!” Severus swats at Pepper, but he merely hisses in response. Swiftly, Severus lunges at the cat and seizes him with his arms. He rolls his eyes as Pepper thrashes against his hold. The deformed tiger clearly is not smart enough to bear its claws, Severus thinks. Severus drops him on the floor outside his mini dungeon, and Pepper falls onto the wooden surface with a plop. 

Several peaceful minutes cutting roots and organizing jars pass before insistent scratching sounds from the door. Severus does his best to ignore the sound until he realizes that he’s allowing Pepper to create scratch marks on the door. He grumbles loudly as he flicks the door open with his wand. As Pepper struts in, Severus demands from the cat, “What do you want? It is to my understanding that you want nothing to do with me.”

Pepper meows softly as he jumps onto the table in the center of the room and strolls through the maze of mini cauldrons and jars.  He stops at the diced Observant Olives on a cutting board and pokes at it with his paw before hunching down to sniff it.

“If you break anything, I will throw you out of the house and tell my wife that you ran away,” Severus threatens as he watches Pepper explore his mini dungeon. Nonetheless, he turns back to his cauldron to continue stirring it clockwise since the allotted time for simmering has already passed. He isn’t going to ruin his potion just because of the wretched cat. 

Laying down on the counter directly beside Severus, Pepper lazily licks his fur and purrs. Severus watches him from the corner of his eye for a moment before poking the cat in the chest. Unbothered, Pepper simply rocks back once and looks his “dad” in the eye. “You remind me of Minerva,” Severus comments to the cat before he gets back to work. 

An hour passes by in which Severus suspiciously watches Pepper groom himself from the corner of his eye. A devious little voice inside Severus’s head tells him that perhaps this cat is a little cute. As if to reflect his thoughts, Pepper comes down from the counter and rests at Severus’s feet, softly purring.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Pepper jumps and hisses aggressively. Severus is about to yell at him and retract his thoughts about the cat being cute when he notices that Pepper is bolting after a rat. It seems like not even a second passes as Pepper pounces on the rat and grasps it with his mouth. He presents the rat to Severus, looking up at him with bright yellow eyes. 

“I suppose a thanks is in order,” Severus says as he takes the rat from Pepper’s mouth. He holds it by the tail with his thumb and forefinger and scrunches his face in disgust. “I do not like gutting rats for their spleens, but this will save me a galleon or two.”

Pepper purrs in response and settles in Severus’s lap. His instinct is to jerk the cat off; though when notices that the cat is gazing up at him, he realizes that maybe he’s not so bad. So Severus allows Pepper to snuggle into his lap as he cuts ingredients to place in storage. Occasionally, he even pets Pepper. His fur is a little greasy but a lot softer than expected.

“I see you two are getting along now.” Severus jumps in his seat, his hand still on Pepper’s fur, as he sees you standing in the doorframe. Pepper also jumps in surprise but remains on the lap of his “dad.”

Your smug smile bothers Severus. It’s clear that you’re holding back laughter as you bite down on your lower lip. With all the aggression he can muster, Severus sneers at you, “We are not friends.”

That finally does it for you; you burst out laughing. Severus glares at you as you reach him and rest your arms on his shoulders. “Tell yourself whatever you want. But how about you both join me in bed?”

“Fine,” Severus grunts. He carries Pepper into your shared bedroom and places him at the foot of the bed. Yawning, Severus realizes that this is the perfect time to head to bed. He holds his arm out as you snuggle into him and fall fast asleep. Seconds after you and Severus doze off, Pepper crawls over and settles himself between the two of you, deeming Severus’s chest a wonderful pillow to rest on.

[ressjeon]

storge: painting | myg

summary: you're busy preparing something for your one-two arguably little ones without thinking they'll do the same to you

rating: pg | word count: 0.8k

genre/au: slice of life, domestic!au, family!au

content: dad yoongles 🥺 and cute stuff (what is happening to me)

a/n: happy 30th birthday to the loml yoongi! finally posting a dilf drabble for him and posted on time. i suddenly wrote this out of nowhere after seeing some clips from the RUN episode last year because he's just a husband material oml i couldn't help it >.<

The smile hasn’t left your lips when you hear the bickering at a distance. 

You’re currently approaching the door right at the corner, carrying a tray of snacks and a pitcher to where the source of the noise is from. You knock as soon as you reach the door but they couldn’t seem to hear it because when you opened the door, your daughter and husband are still arguing in front of a canvas on the floor.

More like your baby girl complaining while Yoongi is purposefully being stubborn to tease her.

"daddy, come on, it's pretty easy" your toddler huffs as she tugs on Yoongi's rolled-up sleeve. Your husband’s wearing a yellow suede shirt, paired with a white one underneath that made you mildly concerned about getting dirty until he reassured you that he’d be careful. He’s wearing a long dark green canvas apron but even if it gets messy later on, he’d never mind so long as it makes his little girl happy. 

Your daughter’s little eyebrows are still scrunched together as she stares at her father's canvas. She seems to want him to paint a similar picture as hers, with bright colours closely depicting a flower garden. Your heart melts at what you’re seeing, Yoongi watching your daughter fondly while she tries to teach him how to paint like her.

The art supplies scattered around the covered floor that they're both on just add how beautiful what you’re looking at is. And now you know what to paint on your canvas.

You have to carefully mind your steps until you reach the table so you can place the snack tray you’re carrying.

It’s the weekend and you’re both thankfully off from work, allowing you and Yoongi to have a bonding time with your daughter. Every week, you let her pick on what activity you’re all doing as a family and this time its painting.   

"he's too lazy, mommy!" your daughter accuses, finger pointing at her father while holding a mini paint brush with her other hand. She’s pertaining to the plain hues of colour that Yoongi has been painting so far and it made you giggle. You approach his sitting form to see his progress so far. 

"not bad yoongs" you stare at his canvas of greys and blues with a teasing lilt in your tone making Yoongi pout.

"can you see my ruthless brush strokes? my plan was to only paint whatever comes to mind" he complains, lips puckering at your comment and it makes you laugh even more. 

.

"okay, break time for now" you called, unloading the snacks and a pitcher of pineapple juice. Your daughter immediately drops her brush and excitedly approaches you, having you remind her to be careful not to step on anything.

You handed her a glass of juice and a small slice of pajeon. 

"thank you mommy"

“ask daddy to get his share”

She hesitates a bit before calling for her Dad in which Yoongi replies with “i’m almost done baby”. 

He's getting lost in what he's doing again, similar to when he's working that you often have to remind him to get breaks.

“the hotteok’s gonna get cold Yoongi'' you playfully scold him, aware that he usually prefers to eat it quickly while it’s hot.

This got his attention and he eventually stands up, following his daughter to where you’re currently sitting. He grabs a bite and takes one fish-shaped bread after, humming when he tastes the red bean inside it. Of course, you have to make two flavours since he prefers that flavour while your daughter loves the custard cream filling like you do.

You help your daughter sit in her chair and move towards Yoongi next, bringing up his left arm to take off the hair tie from his wrist. He raises a brow at you, munching another piece of hotteok. 

“you’ve been moving your bangs a lot earlier, don’t want any paint on them” you smile, gathering his hair and pulling it back before securing it with the hair tie you’re holding. Yoongi's hair has been very luscious since he started growing it, and you've been doing your best to keep the scissors away.

However, you’re starting to regret doing so and your husband seems to notice it. Yoongi knows how you love his man bun, that little quirk of his lips stayed the entire time until he finished his glass of juice. 

He stands up to grab his apron to finish his own canvas, ignoring your flustered reaction. 

“mommy, come” your daughter breaks your reverie when her tiny hands reach for yours, dragging you to the empty canvas on her left side.

They've both gone quiet and are now focusing on their own canvases so you decide to do the same. You sat down and stare blankly at the canvas, forgetting what you wanted to paint when suddenly you feel strong arms caging you from behind.

Only then do you notice the paint streaks on your daughter's face, who's grinning widely while holding her small wood palette in her hand, fingers coated with paint as they reach out to your cheeks.

“your turn” Yoongi whispers beside you with his gummy smile, giving you a quick peck on the cheek before applying his paint-coated fingers to your other cheek.

In the end, you never get to paint anything on your canvas.

divider by: @cafekitsune 💕

[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.

*

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[skeleton-mischief]

Saint Serrif

Horrortale Sans, the one AU where everyone thought he was a cannibal(?) despite being a literal monster?? Fun fact: he has not once eaten human flesh! Anyways, here are my headcanons! Enjoy :-)

- Official height is 5'11

- He/Him

- Nihilist

- Taller and thinner bone from unstable magic

- He smiles a lot when he's in a dangerous situation, but otherwise he usually can be seen without one when he dislikes someone or finds them not worth is time listening to

- Has fast reflexes in dangerous situations since he had to be efficient underground. Otherwise, he comes off as slow to others because he takes awhile to actively choose to do something

- He carries guilt from what he did to Lunar, even if he thought that without it his brother would dust. Which, at the time, he would've

- Dedicated, protective, untrusting, observant, responsible, honest, caring, humble, reserved, pessimistic, hardworking, over thinker, cynical, stubborn, aggressive, and blunt

- The most patient Sans out of all the others, but only when he wants to get what he wants. He's only impatient with others who he dislikes

- Good friends with Powder and Red

- Selectively mute, he's more obligated to speak when he chooses to. There are moments where he just can't, however. Most of the time though, action is his language

- Loves any sort of food, a literal dumpster of food. Hell compliment the person's cooking and eat it even if it's utterly shit

- Does not remember Gaster due to all the events that occurred in his timeline. Gaster on the other hand watches in misery and grief, spiteful towards humans

- Will resort to violence easily, he doesn't hesitate to use it even if it's not fully needed

- He curses frequently, has a sailors tongue

- If he is not actively being spiteful, he follows directions without complaint. He may need guidance however, since he overthinks it

- Can be severely petty to the point he's doing it to provoke the other

- He is very deprived of touch, but he's too hesitant to initiate it since he carries a lot of dust and blood on his hands. He gets all stiff and awkward if someone touches him, and it'll take time for him to get comfortable

- Yellowed bone with an ash tint due to his health

- He is the best to rant to since he's quiet and patient, but there are times that he's just not listening at all. He only pays attention if he cares, because otherwise he'll pick his teeth and passively aggressively tell you that yes, he's listening, because he just cares oh so much about it

- He's willing to do anything for those he cares about over his own needs, anything.

- He is a very quiet crier, kinda disassociated as he stares at nothing. Catatonic, in a way

- He would wag his finger cartoonishly when scolding someone or use his finger to beckon someone instead of waving them over

- He clicks his sharp fingers against hard surfaces when impatient, even if he doesn't verbally tell someone that he is

- He would call his lover Lamb

- He summons a thigh bone as a weapon, but he carries a cleaver that he's attached to and will use it when he's low on magic. After all, magic is something he uses sparingly

- He absolutely hates Undyne and Alphys. He calls Undyne "Unbitch" and he isn't afraid to insult her

- He lobotomized Alphys after she betrayed him

- Has a rough sense of humor

- He feeds the people in Snowdin, even going so far as to teleport to the castle to steal food

- He starved underground for about seven years in order to feed the others

- He has awful posture, his neck bent forward and constantly slouched

- His "prank" in the forest was a spinning spike instead of a whoopie cushion

- Is quick to be snappish and rude to those he dislikes, he will only behave if asked by someone he cares about

- He only is nicer to others when above the surface and gains trust in others

- He is quiet when upset, going to Lunar and quietly clinging onto him

- Physically the strongest and most violent Sans, he isn't afraid to use his own hands and its clear that he doesn't mind playing dirty

- He never ate human flesh when underground, but he has fed monsters in Snowdin humans or even animals in order to provide. Because of this, monsters in Snowdin not only were physically changed, but their magic changed as well. It is unknown how the same has happened for Saint, but it's suspected that it's because of his LV that he changed

- Magic smells of veviter and oak, magic tastes of vanilla

- Has memory issues so he owns journals and sticky notes when above the surface. Without it, he struggles to remember even simple facts. He doesn't struggle remembering Lunar, however, since his brother was the only constant in his life

- No one is allowed to touch his skull, as it's his most vulnerable spot

- His other eye socket is pretty much empty, thus making a blind spot for him and means that he doesn't like sudden movement there

- He will not tolerate people wasting food so don't even think about doing that in front of him

- He scratches at his skull as a comfort or a habit when overthinking. But because he's done it for so long, it slightly chips like paint and small amounts of dust flake off

- Good at sewing, he picked up the skill underground after his brother's outfit became tarnished. Because supplies are limited, however, he doesn't bother fixing the ripped up shirt he wears. You can see small sewings on his jacket, however

- Can hardly spell for shit, he has awful handwriting since he had to focus seven years worth of his time through survival

- He ends up wearing a lot of comfortable and soft clothes when above ground, he refuses to wear suits unless hes forced into it

- He treasures gifts dearly, he never lets anything happen to them

- He carries snacks around when above ground since he never wants anyone to feel hungry. He also sneaks food and stocks up on it, he's wonderful at preserving things and splitting it up for rations despite his hunger

- Likes the rain but refuses to go outside without his hood, a hat, or umbrella since the hole in his skull is sensitive to the sensation

- Certain things make his skull hurt while others can rest inside such as flowers. Rain or liquids are usually a no go though because it swishes around

- He doesn't like thunderstorms because it's loud, since his magic is unstable and acts as damaged nerves

- He doesn't like the sensation of mud, the texture is too similar to blood

- He hates liars and those that are secretive. Because of this, he's nosy and good at finding dirt or lies someone has. He's able to determine where someone is, where they went, and most of the time why. But, no one is able to do the same thing with him. He's the best at covering his tracks, and even more so at not sharing information about himself

-He smokes occasionally, drinking even less so unless no one is around. He has to be in a bad mood, or else he won't drink

- He's pretty territorial, protective of who he deems as his close loved ones. So no one is allowed to mess with his brother or some of the other skeletons in the household. He'd kill for them

Closing Notes: he is so silly goofy goober omg😍🤭😋. But seriously I like the combination of putting different versions of him into my own hc's since the bear version and the rat version both have their perks. I plan to explore more of his dynamic with his brother and stuff later on! If you have questions do not be afraid to ask and thank you for reading :-))

[skylarmoon71]

Miguel O Hara (Across the Spider Verse)- Oneshot - Extra

Supervising so many spider people was never easy.

Miguel was doing his usual check. Reports flashed over the screen and his thoughts strayed. He wasn't sure why, but there was something amiss. His ruby gaze shifted to the red printed t-shirt left on the chair. He hadn't so much as moved it since you left it there. Part of it was due to the fact that he spent more time in this office than his own home. He selfishly wanted to be able to watch it whenever he could.

"Lyla, pull up the reports from earth 67."

"You got it boss!"

She saluted and he could see the files begin to stream in. Lyla was wearing a smile until she saw the article. Miguel's eyes drifted over the particular file, and he expanded it on the yellow screen.

"Civilian shot in drive-by hit."

Miguel felt his body stiffened.

He told himself not to assume the worst. That could have been anyone. But his eyes read the name provided in the small print.

"She was shot.."

Lyla nodded slowly, humor gone from her tone.

"According to the article she jumped in front of a kid during a gang altercation. They found the shooter, but she refused to stay in the hospital."

He knew how you felt about hospitals. It was possible that you were bleeding out somewhere because of your stubbornness. The frown on his face deepened. Miguel pulled up a separate window, typing in instructions.

"Lyla, I'll need you to oversee the rest of the missions. Keep me updated. I'll appoint Peter while I'm gone. Make sure he doesn't turn this place into a playground."

"Of course."

He couldn't help but let his eyes run back to the shirt left behind. It felt like a thorn in his chest. He shook his head, sending the message as he took off out the door.

Getting to your universe felt like a routine check. He was used to stopping by the many different streams to check on any potential issues. It was weird stepping through the portal on the chosen building not hearing a sound.

The steady bustling of cars and people was apparent for that time in the afternoon. But the building he stood on was a designated meeting spot. Whenever he made it known that he was coming, you would be right there wearing a goofy smile as you updated him on your recent rescues and heroic acts. You were never modest in your explanation of your saves. It wasn't so much that you boasted, but you truly enjoyed the work you did. He could see it every time you spoke of a crime you stopped, or a person you helped.

You were a social worker, so he wasn't truly surprised. Still, it took a lot to do this job and still smile as brightly as you did. He couldn't do it. That was for sure. The others teased him about his stoic front, but it was the only way he could ensure that he never let himself get reckless. Because it could be at the expense of someone else's life.

The vibration from his watch caught his attention and he pulled up the message.

"You're gonna have to let yourself in. I'm a little under the weather."

There was a coughing emoji attached and he rolled his eyes.

He took off down the familiar path. Over buildings, onto billboards. It took him about ten minutes to get to your apartment. Sliding down the wall of an alleyway, he depixelated his suit when he was shielded. Stepping out, he headed straight for your home. Each step that he took, he prepared himself for what he would see.

It was hard to tell your state just from your texts. You were a master at hiding any emotion that wasn't sunshine affiliated.

The trip up the stairs felt tedious and when he finally made it to your door, he twisted the knob.

The door opened.

"Reckless."

You really should have been more careful. Especially given your lifestyle.

He made his way through your home. The quiet was uneasy. The second he got to your bedroom door, he knocked.

"If you're a robber, come back tomorrow. I'm tired."

Miguel huffed.

He stepped inside and you smiled.

"I feel like I'm constantly babysitting you."

You were laying on the bed in a pair of shorts and a regular t-shirt. Although you were smiling at him, he could see the expression of pain. Your right arm had bandages going all the way down to your wrist.

"I can take care of myself, boss."

Miguel wasn't wearing his suit which was a bit unexpected. It was weird seeing him in regular clothes. In sweats and a shirt, he almost looked like a civilian.

"Did you forget that you aren't bulletproof? You shouldn't be here on your own."

His lecture at that very moment wasn't what you wanted to hear.

"I'm not stupid, I let them take the bullet out first. The second they did I sneaked out. I'm not going to be anyone's guinea pig. Not again."

Your somber tone felt so foreign to him. Medical facilities made you anxious and he could fully understand why. If he'd been experimented on he would have felt the same.

Your head moved in the opposite direction, and he didn't miss the subtle tear drop. You pressed your face into the pillow, your back to him.

"I'm fine, so you can save your disappointment for another time. I'm tired, so you can leave now. As soon as I'm healed I'll be back."

He could understand the reaction. You may have been unnaturally enthusiastic all the time, but you were just as bad as him when it came to asking for help. You must have been scared. Here alone.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Your head turned slowly, not truly expecting the soft look he wore.

As he stood next to your bed, you could see the care behind his often cold gaze. He was genuinely worried. Your cheeks flushed lightly, and you shifted your attention elsewhere to calm your heart down.

"Thanks for checking in on me." You mutter.

It was nice of him. Under all the fusing, you know one thing about Miguel.

He's a great leader.

"Well enough with the mushy stuff, I bet you have more scolding to do. You better get back before the spider society collapses." You joke,

"Peter is keeping a lookout for me."

Your brows furrowed.

"Why would he need to-

Miguel took a seat on the bed, and you jolted.

He didn't say anything, not that he had to. His gaze held so much raw care. For a moment you contemplated that you were infected by the bullet wound.

"I was worried about you cariño."

His hand came down, sinking into the sheets and you can't seem to stop the blush when he leans down slowly. You gulp.

Your eyes were definitely playing tricks on you.

"Y-You were?"

He licked his lips, now so close, yet he didn't initiate anything.

Just nodded.

"Whenever you run off I'm worried. I know you feel obligated to fix everything. You always put yourself in the line of fire and it's infuriating. But admirable. You're one of the best that we have."

Never in your existence did you think the Miguel O'Hara would be complimenting you. He must be ill.

"I-Is everything alright, d-do you have a fever!!"

You pressed your hand to his forehead and you could see that familiar look of irritation.

So maybe he wasn't sick.

He closed his eyes with a sigh, and when they reopened, he took your wrist, pressing it softly into the bed. Your eyes widened at the action, and you were about to form some more wide theories, but his lips stopped any attempt.

The softness was the first thing you registered. A few of his curly strands fell, tickling your forehead. You were still trying to rationalize what was happening. Because you weren't dreaming.

Miguel was actually kissing you right now.

His hold on your wrist loosened, and you shivered when his thumb brushed your cheek so tenderly. It felt like this was a completely different person. The gentleness was so unlike his personality. You leaned in as much as your weakened body would allow, and Miguel grinned when he felt your reciprocation. Your hand gravitated into his hair, tugging softly.

This is the very definition of heaven.

When he pulls away, you whine. You don't have all your strength and you want nothing more than to feel his lips again. Miguel's head moves to the side and your breath comes out in a shaky stutter when he starts leaving light kisses against your neck.

"M-Miguel.."

This still feels a bit unreal.

When he slides into the bed, you do your best to get your heart back to a normal rhythm. You're afraid that if he gets too close he'll hear it.

How much you're enjoying this.

His hand slides the covers to the side as he pulls back. The soft glow of those red eyes are like hypnosis.

"I'd hoped that when I finally got to touch you, we would be able to both fully enjoy it."

His hand moves up your hip and you let out a soft moan when he cups your breast. He takes in everything. That breathless expression. Those longing eyes. You look completely flustered, yet so ready for him. Your grip is still on his shirt as you try to urge him closer despite the color that has overtaken your cheeks. You want to continue, but he knows you must be exhausted. He smiles internally.

He pulls his hand back, brushing your hair back as he leaves a kiss on your forehead.

"Rest up."

It's said so softly, and you grumble in protest. But your eyes are beginning to lull.

There's plenty of time for this once you're healed. 

[akuutagwas]

Childhood Memories.

(Akutagawa x reader)

Genre: Hurt/comfort(?), reader grew up with akutagawa, maybe ooc, this is kinda bad ngl

You walked through the busy streets of Yokohama, trying to get to your second job on time. It wasn’t easy, of course, especially when you didn’t have a car, or the money to spend on public transportation.

Suddenly, you see an uncannily familiar face amongst the crowd. There’s no way.

“Akutagawa?!” You yell, trying to catch up with him. He had always been a lot quicker than you, albeit more stubborn.

The man in black turns around, his eyes widening as he sees you. “W-who are you?” He asks shakily.

“Akutagawa we both know the answer to that question.”

“(Y/n)…. You made it…” He seems surprised. But… there’s something different about you.”

His usually rough voice is now quiet and confused. He takes your hand and leads you into an alleyway, as to not get bumped by other people on the sidewalk.

“I was never the same after the day you left.” You say.

The alleyway is dark, but with him, it feels cold as well. Like a long since burnt out candle.

“What…?” He asks quietly. For once, he’s feeling that same coldness. Not a chill, no. The feeling of something that was once warm.

“I was watching, you know. The day you got scouted by the port mafia. I watched him take you away from me.” You say, voice uneasy.

Your second job must have started long ago. There’s no use trying to make it now. You stare up at Akutagawa, the sun setting, enveloping the sky in red and yellow.

“You… saw…”

He suddenly pulls you in for a hug. This greatly surprises you.

“I’m so sorry..” He says. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay, Akutagawa. I could never be mad at you. I love you too much.”

This surprises him. It had never even occurred to him that he could be loved.

“(Y/n)… I love you too.”

Wow I hate this immeasurably 😚

[longitudinalwaveme]

Some thoughts:

While I certainly won't deny that Len has some anger issues, he doesn't really strike me as having the explosive rage you see in the Red Lantern Corps. That's more Lisa's thing. If anything, I think Captain Cold is a Green Lantern. He's stubborn to a fault, he's managed to keep a team of supervillains with widely disparate personalities together for at least a decade, and, when faced with an opponent who is far more powerful than he is (the Flash), he continually and insistently keeps fighting him, coming up with new strategies and plans to stay one step ahead of the Scarlet Speedster. He also faces down much more powerful villains regularly, and without much fear. All that takes serious willpower, and I think that that's ultimately a more prominent part of his character than his anger. Also, Len didn't originally create the Rogues. It was Sam who came up with that idea, and who was originally often the one calling the shots. Len sort of fell into the role later as a result of being the only remaining Rogue with his head screwed on straight.

I agree that Sam Scudder would be an orange lantern. He loves his money and his shiny, shiny mirrors, and he loves attention even more. Evan McCulloch, though...I honestly think he'd be a better fit for the Sinestro Corps. He's basically an Eldritch horror, and borderline unstoppable. Of all the Rogues, he's easily one of the creepiest. I do, however, agree that both he and Sam would be interesting in the Indigo Lantern Corps (particularly Evan, since he's had so much trauma and done so many messed up things). Also, I kind of hate the retconned backstory of Sam having killed someone in a botched burglary before he became the Mirror Master. In his original stories, he was arrested for robbery, and there wasn't any indication that he'd killed someone, and the retcon darkens all his fun Silver and Bronze Age appearances. I love Geoff Johns' Rogues, I really do, but he really needed to lay off on the grimdark retcons.

I agree that Grodd is either a red or a yellow lantern, though I would strongly lean towards the yellow end of the spectrum myself. Usually Grodd isn't especially angry. Brutal, yes. Angry, no.

Captain Boomerang being a red lantern does work, though honestly I would lean towards him being part of the avarice corps myself. Like Cold, while he does have a lot of unresolved anger issues, he doesn't really have that obvious burning rage that seems to characterize a lot of the Red Lantern Corps---and he is very greedy and gluttonous. I also agree that him being a part of the Indigo Tribe could be potentially interesting.

Weather Wizard as a Red Lantern makes sense, since he's frequently very prickly and was very revenge-motivated in his first couple of appearances, but he could be part of the Orange Lantern Corps as well. He's a thief, of course, but, more importantly, we know that he craves power and respect, and it seems very likely that on some level he envied his older brother, who was always his parents' favorite child. I also have to admit that an Ultraviolet Lantern would be a good way to learn more about him, since unfortunately he doesn't usually get as much characterization as the other Rogues do. I will also say that Mark's New 52-and-onward backstory (the only part of which I like is the fact that he and his family are from Guatemala) does make him lean more towards the Red Lantern Corps than he would have previously, since in that version his brother was killed by someone else whom he then took revenge upon.

Eobard being a Red Lantern does make total sense (especially since Barry is a Blue Lantern), but I could see him fitting into the Orange Lantern and Yellow Lantern Corps equally well. As the video mentions, he wants to have Barry's life, which would mean he could slot in quite well to the Orange Lantern Corps, and, of course, as a time-traveling murderous stalker, there's no doubt that he's scary.

Killer Frost is NOT a Flash villain! ARGH! I do agree with the Lanterns assigned to her, at least if we're assuming this is the Caitlin Snow version of her (the Crystal Frost version would have been a more malevolent/stalkerish Star Sapphire or Orange Lantern, and the Louise Lincoln version would have been a Red Lantern).

I mostly disagree on Heat Wave. While the New 52 Hothead McAngryman version of Mick would indeed be either a Red Lantern or a Yellow Lantern, I'm inclined to think that classic Mick part of the Star Sapphire Corps. Not only does that group need some men in it, but, more importantly, Mick is traditionally incredible devoted to and supportive of the people he sees as his friends. You know, I think I now know why the person making this video doesn't like Heat Wave. It's because he's only familiar with the most terrible version of him.

The three rings the person making the video gives to the Pied Piper work pretty perfectly for him. We know that he was lashing out against society and his cold, controlling parents when he was a villain, so a Red Lantern ring does make sense for him as a villain, he did, of course, reform, and he probably does inspire a lot of hope as a hero and social activist. That being said, I think he could simply stay as part of the Indigo Tribe from his reform onwards, as he is extremely compassionate. And hey, he knew about Piper's stint in Breedmore! And...didn't know that William Magnus was paid to give Hartley the hearing aids that allowed him to hear. Piper didn't build those himself.

I definitely disagree that Trickster belongs in the Orange Lantern Corps. James is many things, but one thing he is not is greedy. Back in the Silver Age, he explicitly said that he didn't care nearly as much about money as he did about messing with the Flash, and he's much more interested in showing off and in outsmarting people than he is in simple financial gain. I'd put him in either the Green Lantern Corps or the Blue Lantern Corps myself. He's a persistent little imp, and he certainly holds out a lot of hope for his own future, being as he is generally cheerful and optimistic. Axel would probably be a Green Lantern (due to his teenaged stubbornness and general recklessness), although the very early Axel who was a total sociopath might have fit into the Yellow Lantern Corps. Either way, neither one would be an Orange Lantern.

The Top is either a Green Lantern or a Yellow Lantern. While I don't deny that he hates the Flash and isn't very fond of society generally, his anger is fair outstripped by his willpower and just how scary he is. This is a man who taught himself everything he could about tops and engineering, who taught himself how to spin at super speed, who tried to take over the world, the country, and the city on separate occasions, and who repeatedly dug his way out of the grave several different times through his own sheer willpower. If that doesn't qualify him for a Green Lantern ring, I don't know what does. And, of course, the fact that he's a power-hungry, bomb-building ghost that possesses corpses makes him very scary, so he would also be a natural fit for the Yellow Lantern Corps. But hey, props for acknowledging the fact that Roscoe is mentally ill, and that that does affect his behavior. I can't say that the ultraviolet corps would be bad for him per se, just that I think Yellow or Green would fit him better. Especially since they're already the colors of his costume.

The Orange and Yellow Lanterns would both work well for Savitar.

Characters who weren't mentioned in the video, but who I will classify anyway:

-Zoom (Hunter Zolomon) would probably be either a Red Lantern (because of his anger at Wally for refusing to help him) or a Yellow Lantern (due to his sheer power and willingness to kill). Before he became Zoom, he would probably have qualified for a Green Lantern simply because of all the terrible things he managed to survive.

-Golden Glider is 100% a Red Lantern, being almost entirely motivated by the desire to seek revenge for Roscoe's death. Prior to his death, she would have been either a Green Lantern (because of her incredible determination, bravery, and ability to overcome her abusive father) or a Star Sapphire (because of her deep love for Roscoe).

-Albert Desmond is a Blue Lantern, always hoping that he'll be able to live a normal life with his wife, Rita (who also qualifies for a Blue Lantern ring). Mr. Element is an Orange Lantern; he was primarily driven by a desire for profit. Dr. Alchemy is a Yellow Lantern, as he was disturbingly detached from his humanity, and possessed of almost unlimited control over the elements.

-Alvin Desmond would either be an Orange Lantern (he's a lot like Digger in many ways, but much more power-hungry) or a Yellow Lantern (for the same reasons as Albert when he's Dr. Alchemy).

[sassyshoulderangel319]

Time to Go

This is definitely not my usual writing style or a fandom I write for very often. I just have a little headcanon about Skizz and I wanted to explore an idea where Scott stayed in the world of Last Life for a little while after winning. Enjoy, perhaps? 2.1k words

—

"I can hear you, you know," Smajor says to the empty landscape, still devastated by the fighting. No animals spawn here anymore. The others in the arena were too careless, leaving nothing behind. But since they all vanished, it's like he doesn't need to eat or sleep anymore to survive. Phantoms don't even spawn. This arena has been abandoned.

Except for him.

And the voices that don't stop.

They're dreaming, he knows it. All of them dreaming. Suspended in some void. Unable to wake until he joins them. All of their souls are tied together. Tied to these games.

Whenever he tells them all to pipe down because he needs to think, no one ever replies. Not directly anyway. He was pretty sure he heard Martyn say "sorry" once. Just a quiet mumble.

Smajor doesn't rebuild the landscape. He doesn't care. This place was just another map of misery. It was fun, to some degree, but fighting one's friends does get heartbreaking after a certain point. And after Ren killed Pearl... all of his emotions seem to have fled with the souls of his friends. Leaving him empty.

Instead of rebuilding, Smajor works. Tests his limits going beyond the border. He can't survive long out there. Yet. But if he can break the border... maybe he can flee into the wilds beyond. Flee the violet-edged moon that stares down at him like an eye. Flee the memories. Flee the numbness and the pain.

But breaking the border is no easy feat. The power that holds it there is infinite and stubborn.

But so is he.

Every day, he mines for all the redstone left deep below. He stays awake all night, killing creepers for their gunpowder. He knows TNT won't be able to break the border, but he doesn't know what might, so he tries everything.

And still, his friends dream. Their minds echoing all around him.

Smajor sits in one corner where two border walls meet, a small pile of redstone and another of gunpowder on a crafting table beside him. He's never tried mixing redstone and gunpowder before. Maybe there's something to that...

"Smajor?"

With a jolt, he looks up.

A light shimmers near the border wall a few blocks away. White, tinged with yellow. Nothing like the moon's cold stare.

"I know that voice..." Smajor says, almost an invitation for an introduction. He pushes himself to his feet, watching as the light shifts and twists.

He blinks in surprise as it solidifies. A pair of vibrant blue eyes—glowing in the sunlight—smile at him. The figure is familiar. The eyes give the figure's identity away, sure, but so does the outfit. It takes a brave person to wear a suit with the sleeves torn off.

"Skizz?" he asks.

That invites an even broader smile. "Wussup homie," Skizzleman greets.

"You're... you're dead, though," Smajor says. "I heard your scream for blood." The crimson stars still dance around Smajor's hair, their light gathered in his throat where he swallowed the bloodlust of the Boogeyman, and then the bloodlust of a Red Life, forcing it all down.

Skizz chuckles and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. It's brown-black again, not red. At first, Smajor thinks Skizz has somehow acquired an elytra. But rather than purplish-grey, it's white. Flashes of a twelve-foot god with a bit of green in his brown hair and white wings strike Smajor's memory like lightning before they're gone again. "Yeah... sometimes I say things like that when I'm Red," Skizz remarks, sounding embarrassed.

"How are you here, Skizz?" Smajor doesn't dare get closer. Yet. Skizz is still glowing like the sun is directly behind him, instead of overhead.

"My friends helped me. But I don't have long," Skizz says. "The Others... they're trying to force my friends away from here."

"What do you mean? Our friends are tied to this place until I'm gone."

Skizz shakes his head. "Not those friends." He leans back, casually, against the border wall. "I have friends in... other places too." He clears his throat. "They're trying, homie. Trying to break the cycle."

"Who are they? How could they break the cycle?"

Skizz doesn't answer immediately. He looks up, staring straight at the sun without so much as a wince. The glowing light coalesces even more, ringing the top of his head in a band more solid than Smajor's stars.

"Let's just say... we're the same kind of folk that The Others are. But we split apart... a long time ago. We haven't gotten along since."

Somewhere in the void, still tied to this arena, Smajor hears Martyn... talking to someone. Usually the dreams are short snippets of sentences. This is a full—if distant—conversation.

Smajor and Skizz both cock their ears as though to hear the directionless sound better.

Skizz smiles. "Martyn always was special," he says. "Closer to the Veil than most of the others."

"The Veil?" Smajor asks.

"Look, homie. I don't gotta lotta time. Basically, you can't stay here forever. The Others want you dead. G-man and I are fighting them every waking moment. And I know it's breaking his heart, even if he does hate them as much as they hate you for breaking the rules of their game. But we can't fight them off forever. There's two of us and, right now, there's two of The Others. But they're older and more powerful. Original. We're just... converts, if you will. You can't linger here much longer. If they get to you before your soul leaves this world... it'll be shattered into pieces. There won't be nothin' left of you. Even Grian won't be able to put you back together."

Smajor waves his hand. "Wait. Who are these Others? Why do they hate me for not playing their game?"

Skizz takes a deep breath and looks to the sky again. "You wanna take this one?"

The disembodied, dreaming voice of Grian groans in complaint. "Fiiine. I wanted you to handle this, Skizz."

"Well sure, homie, but those guys are your area of expertise."

Grian sighs. "One moment."

Smajor lurches as a black-tinged-with-purple portal rips a hole in reality.

Grian steps out.

But he's not quite the Grian that Smajor has known all these years. The "elytra" on his back is more black than grey, and shines a darker violet than most enchantment glimmers. Rather than a red sweater, a black-and-purple robe that seems to be lined with stars underneath drifts around his ankles in a nonexistent wind. His eyes are closed, but others—spectral, vibrant, violet—drift lazily around him. Even his hair is slightly darker. On the chest of the robe, a broken, square-ish symbol burns purple.

"We're called Watchers," Grian says, not bothering with preamble or beating around the bush. None of his many floating eyes meeting Smajor's. "I wasn't always one. There used to only be two. They chose me to become one of them after I..." Grian shakes his head. "It doesn't matter now. It was a long time ago. They—we—feed on emotions. Any will do, but the easiest ones to illicit and consume are the negative ones. Misery. That's why the other Watchers made this cycle. To keep feeding on yours. I ran from them, down here, to undermine their meal ticket, as it were. I make it fun for all of us, and make their meal a little worse. They hate you for the same reason they hate me: because you refused to play their game the way they wanted, and denied them that control and that energy to feed on. And I'm sorry, but I'm almost out of power. I don't want to feed on my friends and I'm only one converted Watcher. The other two have always been Watchers. Their powers run deeper than mine, and I can't... I can't defend you forever. I've been trying. And I'm starting to lose."

Smajor looks over at Skizz. "And you?"

"My kind are called Listeners," Skizz says. "We're the same race as the Watchers, but split off a long time ago. Rival factions, you could say. Our self-appointed job is to try to protect those the Watchers go after." Skizz fixes Smajor with an intense look. "Now don't you go getting mad at G-man, okay? He never asked to be turned into a Watcher and he didn't want to be one. He didn't get a choice. And neither did I. So be nice, you hear?"

Smajor eyes Grian. "I'll... do my best, but no promises."

"Look. The only way to get you out of here—"

"—is to kill me. I know."

"It's better this way. For now. The Listeners are trying to rescue us all from these cycles, but there's only so much they can do. It's a slow thing because they have to conserve their power," Grian says.

Skizz pushes off the border wall and stands nearly toe-to-toe with Smajor. "If you join us back in the void, the drive of the Red Life will leave you alone for a while. You'll think clearer than you have in weeks."

Smajor inhales deeply through his nose, his stars twisting faster. "I was trying to save you all." He blinks hard to keep the tears from falling. He's tried so hard for so long... all for nothing...

Grian smiles slightly. "We know. Skizz and Martyn can hear you the best. They've told us all in our dreams. But this is bigger than just one person. Bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger than Skizz. Bigger than all of us. We appreciate your effort, but it's time to go. Please."

Smajor stares as Grian extends a hand. Another spectral purple eye blazes on his palm. Skizz's "elytra" flares, revealing feathers.

"Come on, homie. There will come a time for all of us to escape this cycle. But it's not now, and it's not your burden to shoulder alone," Skizz says.

Smajor swallows. "Okay."

He sets his hand on top of Grian's.

Whose black eyes open and flare violet along with all the floating ones as thunder booms.

Lightning strikes.

Smajor1995 fell out of the world.

Skizz looks down. His form is starting to dissolve back into light, starting with the ring around his head. "Don't have long," he says.

Grian nods. "We need to get back." His own fingers begin to look transparent. "This whole arena is going to turn back into potential for the next one." His many floating eyes look around. The world is already falling apart at the seams. Grian takes the last breath of fresh air he'll get until the next time the Watchers throw his friends into a new arena for a new game and he descends to join. He prefers fresh air to the void. Anyone would.

"Thanks, G," Skizz says. "I know it takes a lot for you to manifest in a dying place like this without help. At least I've got the other Listeners to bolster me."

Grian shrugs, his wings whooshing with the movement. "It's fine. You were right. He needed to hear it from me," he replies. "See you soon."

Skizz suddenly looks uncomfortable. "Actually, buddy. Not for a while."

"What do you mean?"

"I gotta take more time to recharge. The other Listeners are going to protect me for one cycle so I have time to build my power back up. Next time you're in an arena, I won't be here. But count on me for the next one."

"If there is a next one after, I'll hold you to that."

Skizz smiles. "I'd expect nothing less." He takes a step back, and dissolves completely into light that immediately fades.

Grian sighs and stretches. Without the other Watchers' power to bolster him, it takes a lot of concentration and effort to appear physical, rather than astral. "See you all soon," he says to the dreams of his friends.

He swears he can almost hear Martyn’s chuckle in response. The Veil was always thinner for Martyn than any of the other Evolutionists, even Grian before he became a Watcher. Martyn just had a natural ability to communicate with the Watchers and Listeners. Even in their extra-dimensional, astral forms on the other side of the Veil. Seems like nothing has changed with him since Grian’s Ascension.

Grian smiles sadly. Martyn’s ability is probably causing him more misery than the others, since he’s the only one who knows why these games keep happening.

“Stay strong,” Grian whispers directly into Martyn’s dream.

Black and purple shadows swirl around him.

He returns to the void.

—

“Just… tell me one thing before I go. Why were you so set on Grian?” Martyn asks the bodiless voice.

Hmph. HIM. He was never meant to be there, the voice says. He was only ever meant to WATCH.

[pokespefangirl]

Specialshipping

It reminded Red all too well of his past, the dregs of memory that would regularly steal the positivity out of his heart, fill his sunlit room with darkness-

"Working hard as usual, Inspector? I knew I'd find you here."

The sweet little voice of the younger Detective on an unexpected day immediately made him turn around, making his heart beat faster at the sight of the petite blonde in his open sunlit office.

After so long.

Nostalgia took over. Red didn't even have time in his hands to now think about the new-found difference in their rank, his arms wrapped around the younger Detective in a comfortable, warm embrace.

It was perhaps the first time he'd hugged Yellow at work, but the younger Detective couldn't bring herself to care as she blushed, cheeks well hidden under her straw hat.

However, that also didn't stop her from being slightly curious on what Red was working on before she came there.

"I can't believe you're here," Red whispered, letting go of the suffocatingly warm hug, the kind that only guys like him could give, "I was looking forward to you coming, but man, I thought it'd be weeks later? This is so great, have you found what you needed to find?"

During Yellow's almost three years duration going undercover in Texas and New Mexico, she had found it hard to regularly maintain contact with her colleagues, so she felt concerned to some degree that the Inspector who she used to work with so closely before would feel worried about her.

As was his propensity.

"I found /some/ things," the younger wandered off, before amber-yellow eyes strayed to the very practical microscope right on Red's messy office desk, with its paraphernalia thrown everywhere, "So, what's that about? You trying to find something?"

"With not much success..." Red trailed away, eyes turning serious, "there's been a recent trail of serial killings. Blake told me I could work it on my own... since he thinks it's got nothing to do with Team Plasma."

The realisation was immediately felt by the younger, whose heart twinged with some sort of pain seeing the elder Inspector carried away by the past again...

But if it helped him...

"I'll help you," Yellow said determined, eyes begging for the elder to help him, "regardless of what HQ says."

"Thanks, but I'm sure you've got lots of stuff on your plate, right?" Red answered, his smile hiding his imperfect stubbornness, "But this is something I need to do on my own."

A part of Yellow felt like it was just his paranoia keeping him from asking for help.

Lest something happen to the younger.

If only Yellow wasn't that helpless, if only she had known to help the elder better, been less weak. Her hands clumped into fists.

"I've already done what I needed to do," the blonde Detective answered, determined, "and I found what I needed to find. You've always helped me when you needed to, Red. So please, this time, let me help you." Her voice said the thousand words her words couldn't.

The sincere request hung in the air, as the younger hoped for Red to know her sincere intentions.

She wouldn't be a burden, that was for sure. She'd try her best to help.

Almost as if the message had reached him in some imaginary way, Red smiled, "Okay. Detective. I'm trusting you."

The air that Yellow let out felt like one of relief and reassurance at the same time, her mind and worries elevated at being able to be with the elder.

And /help/ him.

Get what he needed. No matter what the cost. Yellow would no longer be scared.

---

Future excerpt from my fic below~~

[whumpacabra]

Sharing of Burden

Angst, food, referenced hospital and coma, implied past child abuse and neglect

[Directly follows Vigil]

“You’re good at this.” They didn’t look up from their bowl, instant ramen steaming. Casey shot them a quizzical glance, his mouth already filled with too-hot noodles. “Taking care of people. Yourself.”

It burned to swallow, but it quenched the sourness in his stomach.

“Yeah. I am.” He didn’t mean to be too curt with them - Ghost was in a fucking coma and they hadn’t left the hospital in days. It was half a miracle he convinced them to let him drive them to his apartment.

RJ picked at their meal, chopsticks awkward in heavy hands.

“Teach me.”

“Hm?”

“Teach me how you do it. How you learned.” There was a dull intensity to their demand, a childish bluntness that hadn’t sharpened with age or ability. “Ghost didn’t teach me what to do when he was gone.”

“You think she taught me?”

“You’re doing it, aren’t you?”

Casey put his bowl down, stomach too heavy to entertain the idea of finishing it. Bitterness burned in his throat and stung at his eyes.

He slowly met their eyes, scanning over their dark eye bags and still blood spattered shirt. They were sleep deprived and dehydrated and their eyes were red from crying, but that didn’t dampen their electric focus.

“…What do you know about her,” he swallowed the word ‘mom,’ “about Liza?”

RJ blinked, exhausted confusion gracing their usually well composed expression. They really were spent to be slipping up, even around him.

“Ghost trusts her.” Their dark eyes flickered to the bowl in front of them. “He…still had her as an emergency contact, that’s why she was the one who called me - ”

“Those are things about him, not her.” Casey could feel his voice tightening, his sigh forced. RJ ducked their head, apologizing without words. He hadn’t seen them like this since he had to wake them up from a nightmare on a job in Santa Cruz.

Casey poked at the contents of his bowl with no intent to finish it. Sorting the vegetables and meat and noodles by color would keep him distracted from the words he spoke to fill the silence.

“She abandoned me. I was…I was 8 and she left me to deal with her debt.” All of the orange bits of carrot in one section, green was next. “She didn’t teach me anything. I guess you could say those - those - the motherfuckers who came to collect on her debt taught me a lot. All the different ways to hurt and use a person who couldn’t fight back.”

His wheeze was the best bitter laughter he could muster. Green done. Yellow noodles next - that would be difficult with all the broth.

“But being alone…living alone…I taught myself that. Getting food from the store with whatever stipend they left me with. Reading books and learning my numbers along with the programs on the telly.” He could feel the tears welling in his eyes. The sight of that Saturday morning educational program still knocked the wind out of him whenever he clicked through the cable channels.

RJ’s hands twitched above the table, signing since their voice was lost in their tired and troubled mind.

“Sorry - for asking and…I didn’t know, Ghost never - ”

“Of course he didn’t. She’s his friend. His only friend.” Casey felt the bark of resentment in his throat. If only that stubborn old Ghost had the balls to cut her off completely, to force himself to find new contacts and allies and friends and -

Casey knew the business as well as the Ghost these days. He had slept with far worse that a neglectful mother too ashamed to handle her mistakes. There wasn’t much room for improvement in this line of work when concerning something as rare as friendship.

“Besides, I haven’t been alone in a long time, and you aren’t either.” Casey left his gaze soften, a lopsided smile meeting RJ’s quizzical expression. “You’ve got me. And you’re stuck with me, dumbass. Somebody has to make sure you don’t die before G-man wakes up.”

RJ’s face twitched, amusement creeping over their exhausted, worried features.

“Now eat your fucking ramen and take a shower - you’re mopping up the mud you tracked in here when you’re done.”

[Before Up Late]

(Part of my Freelancers: Boy Meets World series)

[whiskeysmulti]

((Some parts based off what we’ve discussed a while back. As for how much time has passed since they’ve known each other- undisclosed. Up for debate if you wanna consider it canon to their interactions. I believe this is the last one I owe for ya! Hope you liked them all! I had fun! Thanks for requesting!))

-

To say that she was nervous would be an understatement. She was going together to a festival with G. It wasn’t to say that she’s never gone on dates before, but any date she’s been on in the past was something that was arranged for her.

Either it was her brother meddling in her life, or it was one of her parents who were worrying about how she was getting older and soon coming upon the age that most would socially deem her ‘too old’ to be married.

It was probably why her mother had become stricter with her in the past couple of years, thinking that she’d somehow erred in the way she’d raised her daughter which resulted in any past attempt at a relationship to fail.

Don’t tell them that it was simply due to Fiore’s stubbornness that she would secretly sabotage her own dates. She didn’t like any of the men her family would try to pair her with and she wanted to be with someone that she truly enjoyed being around.

So, this was not her first date, but it was the first date with someone she genuinely liked. There was a different kind of anxiousness that she felt as her heartbeat in her chest.

If there was something she had to thank her lucky stars for, it was the fact that she didn’t have anyone who could possibly prevent her from going out today. Her mother was out of town, and her father and brother were probably doing something with the military.

In essence, she had all the freedom in the world today. From her garden, she noticed that the Camellia flowers were in bloom, just in time, too. She often enjoyed taking some of the flowers from her garden and pressing them to make decorations with later.

There were also times where she’d place them in her hair as a decorative element. The took some of the flowers and weaved them into her hair as she let her hair down in a braid. She picked the white Camellias and a single yellow one- the accent flower.

When the time to leave comes around, she grabs her clutch which had enclosed inside of it a letter.

G is already there waiting for her when she arrives at the agreed upon time. With a smile, she approaches him. “Good day, G. I hope you haven’t been waiting for long.” She hoped that it wasn’t too obvious how nervous she was, but from the way she felt her cheeks flushing, it was probably readily obvious.

It mattered not how calm and composed you tried to keep your countenance when you were flushed pink.

Reaching into her clutch, she pulls out a letter. It was sealed with colored wax. She’d used a red and pink wax from the looks of it and stamped with a floral seal. She didn’t know how well he knew his flowers, and flower language was still pretty new—so there was a chance the symbolism could slip past him.

The Peony flower had different meanings based off its color. Pink peonies could symbolize romance, luck, and prosperity. All things that she wanted for him. Red peonies could symbolize someone wanting to express a deep love. It could also represent respect, and honor.

Maybe he would pick up on it? If he knew anything about the trends behind colored wax seals that were becoming popular as of recent: red was customarily used by men whereas women usually used a rose wax color.

Pink was appropriate when sending congratulations to another person, but both of those didn’t quite fit for the occasion, did it? Maybe he’d make the connection that she’d chosen the colors to be associated with the peony flower engraved onto the wax seal.

Well, if he didn’t pick up on it, that was fine. There was still time.

“I have a letter here that I’ll give you later once we part,” after this date, she means. It would be embarrassing for her if he were to read the letter while in her presence.

…

Later when he does open the letter, it would read:

[Dear G,

I’m writing this letter to express my thoughts towards you. From the start, you’ve been patient and understanding as well as accommodating. I do feel regret that many of our meetings came about because I have gotten myself in some sort of trouble, but I’m grateful all the same that I came across someone reliable that I could trust.

In the time we’ve known each other, I’ve come to learn more about you. Though you come off as calm and patient, you have a discerning eye to know when to exert force. It’s respectable what you and the rest of the Vongola are doing, and I do see it as an honor that you allow me to take some of your time.

With an air of mystery about you, it makes for an enjoyable time to spend time with you and to learn about your different sides. Admittedly, I haven’t met someone aside from my family who is a great marksman, so that too caught my attention.

I hope you don’t mind my continued presence in your life. Do speak freely if I am being a bother.

With love,

Fiore Rossi]

Valentine's asks 2024- accepting!

Had G had much of a relationship with his family anymore he hoped they'd have accepted Fiore. But nonetheless having anyone's blessing or not, he was happy with her and that was all that mattered to him. She had come into his life in a time when he didn't even realize he needed someone and now he couldn't imagine his life without her. Many women in the past hadn't worked out and at a moment when he thought he was meant to be alone, he met her. Fiore had come alone and changed his life and now he had to face the facts that he'd fallen in love and would never let her go. He took in her image. All those flowers accented her outfit perfectly. It suited her, he thought to himself. He linked his arm with hers, escorting her to a small outdoor cafe for dinner together, his treat. He'd promised her family she'd be home before dark and not wanting any trouble with her brother or father, G made good on his word and dropped her off as he was told to, giving her a kiss goodnight before he left. Turning the corner, he stopped behind a hedge to read the letter. He smiled, Fiore had nothing to be ashamed of, he'd be there to protect her until his final days. Maybe he could teach her to improve her aim one day, possibly a future date. He wouldn't tell her just yet, but he enjoyed her presence in his life as well and maybe later when he got home he'd write her a return letter explaining that to her. But for now she was home safely and that was all that mattered to him.

[monochrome-sunsets]

tOH x HtTYD

i genuinely could not get this out of my head so here are what dragons i think various owl house characters would have and why

.

.

eda - flame whipper

- heehee gecko dragon :)))

- flame whippers are super protective of their babies!! aunt eda is super protective of luz and king!

- flame whippers usually live in packs and don't like people, but babies are way more curious and open and tend to wander away

- eda probably picked up a baby flame whipper from somewhere and, upon being unable to find its pack, decided to raise it on her own, a la king.

.

- there's like a 50/50 chance eda names it something cool (like king) or a bad pun (like owlbert)

.

lilith - deathburple

- they're so funky lookin...... take a peek at lili's raven out of staff form and tell me she won't love a funky lookin dude, i dare you. that palisman looks like a pure white frogmouth.

- lili's deathburple is almost certainly of purple and white colouring

- she'd probably name it, like. beelzebub or asmodeus or something. i like asmodeus the best, tbh

.

- anyways. deathburples are mischievous (like hooty), vain, lazy, fierce, loyal, and deeply caring. i think lili would absolutely adore her baby deus (and occasionally be a little frustrated with him).

.

belos / philip - threadtails

- ......poisonous dragons. .....what else is there to say.

- i feel like philip wouldn't LOVE dragons, but he'd keep them around because of their use, similar to how he treated magic for a bit. he hated it and wanted it destroyed, but also... he needed it to get home.

- deeply loyal dragons. there would be no convicing them to not follow his orders. that manipulative, controlling bastard would love this.

.

- he doesn't name any of them because he has no love in his non-existent heart.

.

hunter - typhoomerang

- typhoomerangs are anxious, high-strung, and territorial. these all fit hunter pretty well well i think.

- hunter's typhoomerang (he'd name her after a food- waffle, maybe, to fit flapjack) would see him as her baby. she takes one look at him and goes "anxious... aggressive.... yellow...... that is a baby typhoomerang. mine now."

- she tries very hard to make sure he is well-fed. hunter is utterly bemused by her offerings of raw fish. he will not be going hungry on her watch.

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luz - changewing

- honestly if anyone could befriend the living embodiment of severe social anxiety, it would be luz

- it's luz's adhd (and, later, ptsd) service dragon

- luz is its anxiety service human

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- i'm gonna go with windsor for her changewing's name! she named it after red windsor, a type of cheese, and she thought it was funny bc haha dragon wind soar

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amity - swiftwing

- deadly nadder probably also would have been a good fit? but i already gave that to emira, and i wanna give everyone a different dragon, so a swiftwing it is!

- swiftwings are stubborn, brave, and committed. they prefer to stay close to their riders, and will do just about anything to keep them safe and healthy.

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this is the only image i could find :l no grown ups unfortunately

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willow - hobblegrunt

- hobblegrunts are calm and peaceful, but they are still dragons, and therefore still dangerous- just like willow!

- hobbles have the ability to sense shanges in temperature, air pressure, and emotions. these could be pretty useful to a plant track witch

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- since she named her palisman clover, she'd probably name her dragon something similar. hedge, maybe? leaf? idk

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gus - shovelhelm

- shovelhelms are social, friendly, level-headed, and intelligent. i think they'd make a good fit for gus, who is ALSO social, friendly, and intelligent!

- gus gives stupid long names (his palisman is named. emmiline bailey marcostimo.) so i'm gonna sayyyyy sebastian elias thiago will be his dragon's name

- seb is obsessively trying to build gus a nest at all times. gus often assists and is always bringing him new material. he wants the best for his boy, and that sentence means both gus for seb and seb for gus.

- sebastian also works as an autism & anxiety support dragon for gus! he's fantastic at helping gus recognize when he's getting overwhelmed or nearing a meltdown or depressive episode, and great at distracting him and helping him calm down.

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emira - deadly nadder

- constant grooming & focus on physical beauty from a nadder

- when well-trained and befriended, nadders are super affectionate and playful! good emira dragon :o

- nadders have super strong parental instincts, to the point where they'll adopt children of other species. emira's nadder probably sees her as its kid.

- i have.... no idea what emira would name her dragon :(

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edric - terrible terrors

- i cannot explain why. i simply think he'd have a small flock of terrible terrors following him basically everywhere.

- 100% they'd all be named something similar. there's grey, ray, jay, bay, fae....

[my2phetaliaheadcanons]

2p Scotland

Nation: Scotland

Name: Blaine Kirkland

Age: 29 Human, 1222 nation

Height: 6’2

Weight: 179 lbs.

Appearance: Blaine has wavy, red hair that curls upward in a wild cowlick. His yellow eyes are swirled with a beautiful blue making his eyes appear green from a distance. Big, black brows frame those eyes add a layer of intimidation to the pale, freckled man.

Similar to the Netherlands, Blaine is tall and thin. Where they differ is that Blaine is much more muscled. His muscles were built and developed from the years of fighting in back alleys, forests, fortresses and with his 1p. They are covered in numerous scars that range in all lengths, shapes, and sizes.

Blaine is classy in his manner of dress. He wears wool sweaters with a pair of tan dress pants. Occasionally, Blaine will switch it up by wearing a nice dress shirt with a vest. Both outfits are completed with a pair of short, black, leather gloves.

When its time to relax or if he is going to relax soon, Blaine sticks to his sweaters. He may put on some sweatpants so that he is at least partially presentable.

Personality: Like any true Scot, stubbornness runs like the blood in his veins. If he wants something, Blaine will fight and dig for whatever it is until it is his. Usually this means getting down and dirty with a fist fight; occasionally the brute needs a hand since he views blackmail as cowardly.

Blaine; just like his other brothers, is painfully cruel. Whenever he is fighting he will drag out the fight much longer than necessary; usually letting his opponents bleed, freeze, or die from exhaustion. If the fight is more personal, then Blaine will mix his physical torture with the mental torture of endless mazes that are full of monsters that will damage them horribly before facing them in one final duel.

You could say that Blaine’s emotions are on his sleeve, but that doesn’t do it justice for how expressive the Scot truly is. This man isn’t afraid to hoot and holler in joy during a ‘hunt’, often loudly mocking his prey. When upset, Blaine is known to physically throw his weight around, break things and have a large monster like sneer on his face.

Dead: He would fight the reaper just for another chance to live another 500 years.

Weapon: Scottish Broad Sword and his fists

Family:  England, Wales, Ireland

ETC: Despite being the oldest of the UK brothers, Blaine is second in command. This wasn’t always the case; when the brothers were young Oliver and Blaine fought. Each one attempting to end the battle by taking the other’s life. Oliver won with a knife to the spinal cord.

He owns a couple highland cows. Their names are Rowan, Maisie, and Allison. They three guard his home, but also love the scritches that their owner can give.

Blaine cannot play the bagpipes. He looks at the instrument and it just deflates.

Just like his England, he and his other brothers are known to cannibalize people. This is mostly what happens when you grow up in an area where there is not a lot of resources.

[skeleton-mischief]

Killer "Serrif"

Is he really a Sans? Does it matter? Killer doesn't think so, and it doesn't matter to him. After all, he's alone. Alone, Alone, Alone, Alone, Alone,

A L O N E....

- Official Height: 5'4

- He/Him

- Nihilist

- Perceptive, clever, confident, assertive, stubborn, cynical, blunt, optimistic, teasing, untrusting, deceitful, sarcastic, persuasive, erratic, social, cocky, dependant, careless

- Has a liking for the color green and red

- Can have a quick temper

- Named Killer because the nickname he had given Chara turned into an actual name for himself

- Curses often and his favorite word is shit

- Specially skilled with knives

- A little fucking shit

- Forgets things often, leaving him to knock on his skull when trying to remember something

- Talks to himself a lot, a habit he picked up

- Tries to "befriend" everyone

- Surprisingly quite patient when he chooses to be

- Constantly wipes away the ooze pouring from his eyes when it drips

- Black ooze spills from his eyes when crying, so he always has tissues in his inbox

- Laughs during inappropriate times

- He catches himself envying others sometimes, so he gets quieter when this happens

- Both internal sides of his soul argue about their opinions on things, so he usually has neutral opinions on things, leaving him indecisive on simple items

- He doesn't drink ketchup anymore

- Is quite lonely, especially after things went quiet for awhile

- Makes rude comments like the way a child is brutally honest

- He chugs energy drinks a lot to keep awake, he doesn't like sleep since he often has bad dreams

- Loves to mess around with instruments

- He's very touch oriented so he can't stand staying still. He tends to also get in people's space as a result

- Magic smells of iron, magic tastes of cranberries

- He would call his lover Doll

- He adores cats but does not own one of his own since he doesn't want them to get hurt

- When away from the underground he grows to have more fashion sense

- Drinks alcohol frequently, since he was left alone with it in the underground and grew thirsty

- Avoids getting emotionally invested in others

- Fucking eats chocolate UP

- He avoids yellow flowers like buttercups, but he likes roses and overall more red flowers. Yellow ones remind him of days long past

- Hates having anything to do with fate, so he often will get irritated if someone starts rambling about "fate". To him, it's all about chance and choice

- His soul turns back to a heart when he's feeling, and which then involves a lot of crying while one eyelight glows a white

- picks things from out of his teeth with his pinky, since he doesn't carry toothpicks

- Bro has a crusty dusty jacket, he needs a bath💀

- Can never get along with other AU's except very very very rarely

- I think he would listen to ICP

- Avoids hurting animals at all costs, despite his nature

- Would be a horrible babysitter for anything. Give him a baby? He lost it. Keep your keys in his pocket? He lost it. Your faith in him? He lost that pretty quickly

- His gaster blasters are fuzzy and slightly glitchy, not quite present. It is a last resort when he's out of knives since he uses a lot of magic already. His soul can visibly spike and he ends up feeling completely drained to the point it hurts using his magic

- Is able to detect FEAR when staring into another's soul, in which he'll mock them

- Hates being belittled or compared to others

- His magic bones are jagged and red tinted

- Hates seeing himself in reflections, so he avoids mirrors by cloaking them or shattering them

- He dreams of Papyrus and it feeds into his guilt. He gets shaken up by it every time

- A small white eyelight will show itself if he's either his 'normal' self or if he's super comfortable with someone

- He doesn't care for puns anymore, often teasing others or using dark humor instead

- Tends to play with victims during his sprees, as he enjoys teasing them and loves the chase

- He rarely feels remorse for hurting others, but it's possible

- It's not recommended to challenge him, as he feels that he has to win at all costs and tends to be quite tricky as a result through loopholes. He doesn't quite "cheat"

- Rarely does he lose or allow himself to admit defeat. Sometimes he'll even discard the challenge and deal unless they're stronger or best him in a way he finds acceptable

- He is a light sleeper due to paranoia, often waking up with a slightly jittery or skittish response

- Even if he has left others behind to chase a target, it's mainly because he's a chaser. His speed, dexterity, and stamina are his best qualities. He can outrun any other Sans, but he always makes sure to let them have some "leniency"

- Rarely does he quit chasing someone, not unless told not to (depending on different interpretations where he works for Nightmare) or if he's grown to become utterly devoted to those he's close with and decides to help them

- Rarely can be actually create emotional bonds with others, often having "partnerships" or "deals" instead

- Can only keep track of two things: his target of interest (monster, human, item, animal. For hunting or otherwise) and his knives

- Has fun executing those that he deems against his fucked up moral code. If he deems them horrible, then they must be. It's his preferred execution, and so he tends to actually avoid killing those that are aligned as neutral or good. He isn't against hurting them though, and only kills them if necessary

- He doesn't care for humans and seems to actually prefer attacking them instead, since they're not made of just magic. They bleed and can take more hits

-He is partially unable to feel pain, so even if his skull is cracked or if his bones are broken, he just laughs about it and even snaps things back in place

-He usually smiles, but there are times where he's absolutely pissed and is unable to force it. It's his default appearance, sometimes leaving him sore

- This based off my own little twist of the AT, and so this can be entirely ignored. I feel that there is more to his dynamic with Chara because I personally don't think that Chara is evil. In fact, I think that both were forced by the Player, thus bonding as they broke their coding in order to not only feel something, but to also make it nearly impossible for the Player to "win." In this version, I feel that Chara was just morphed into something else due to Hate and Spite. In the end, I feel that after Killer destroyed Chara's soul, a part of it consumed and molded within him, this leaving him and Chara to sort of share a soul

Closing Notes: I have a lot of fun working with him, even when I found him sort of boring when I was younger. Some of my own little twists on what my personal hc's do influence my perception of him. I hope you guys enjoy this and aren't disappointed, don't be afraid to ask questions or throw in your own hc's for him! Thank you for reading =)

[amnesiac-pawn]

His is a face she has gone some time without seeing, and no matter how she tries to fight the excitement that hurries her footsteps, she finds it near impossible.

Lucina finds his door with little trouble. Knocks once, and then a second time, clearing her throat.

"Morgan?" Her voice sounds foreign even to her--Gods, is she nervous?--"I know it's late, but I had hoped you may accept it nonetheless."

In her hands is a little volume bound in worn red leather. The title has long since worn off, but Lucina is quick to open the pages and expose its contents.

Sheet music. It's all sheet music. Pages yellowed with time and a few notes slightly smudged or faded, but all still there.

Most notably, though, the titles of each piece are written in Plegian. Every musical direction. Plegian. Lucina pushes it into his hands.

"I found it some time ago and had meant to send it, but-" a sheepish laugh, she had missed him dearly, "delivering it in person felt more right."

The night of the Ethereal Ball was a hectic one. Sure, the ball itself didn’t begin for another few hours, but everyone who was anyone at the academy had already started getting ready far before the current moment. Presently, Ilyana was off with some of her friends getting ready—it was so weird to him, how girls demanded to do their makeup together and gossip while getting dressed—and Morgan was attempting to wrangle his hair into something resembling a favorable style instead of its normal unparted pattern. Brows knit together as he brushes everything back to neutral for the fourth time.

A quiet knock startles him. 

Mage fumbles the brush he’d been wrassling and, with a deep sigh, makes his way to the door. He freezes in place with his hand on the doorknob as a voice he hadn’t heard in months years so long reaches him—“Morgan?”

The door nearly comes from its hinges with how fast he whips it open. 

Before him stood the one woman he could confidently call his closest friend, head tilted back ever-so-slightly to meet his gaze. She was holding something carefully against her chest, but mage cared only to stare down into mismatched eyes than whatever book she gripped tight. A smile draws on her lips and he swears he could cry, not realizing that that was a sight he had missed more than anything, and only after she finishes speaking does he realize he didn’t hear a single word.

“... Nina?”

Nina. His Nina, who he didn’t go a day without missing and praying that she would break that stubborn streak and come join him in Fodlan. His Nina, standing before him in a brand-new academy uniform—noticeably trading the usual skirt for a pair of slacks—while he donned half of a wheat-colored suit he spent way too much money on and an undershirt that nearly blended in with the pale skin of his arms. 

Things had changed so much since the war. 

“Nina.”

Although Lucina tried to push the songbook into his hands with some heartfelt sentiment about reunion, Morgan cared not except for getting his arms around her as fast as possible. The book falls to the floor—he’ll apologize for that later—as Morgan folds his old friend into the tightest embrace he can muster. Face burrows against the crook of her neck—even after all this time, she still smelled the same—and his hands clutch at the back of her shirt, wrinkling it in tight, shaky fists. 

He can’t cry. He shouldn’t cry. Because if he cried, so would she, and that would shatter him. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers instead, not daring to raise even the tiniest bit louder in volume, for he knew his voice would crack. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

That was better than any gift she could have gotten him. 

Now, even though it only felt like moments later, the ball was just a few minutes away. Ilyana had yet to return, so Morgan knew he still had some time, but the sun was beginning to set and, in the distance, one could hear the faint sound of the orchestra warming up their instruments. Still, Morgan sat at his desk, hair accessories and makeup pushed aside to make room for a well-loved songbook; he still wore only dress slacks and an undershirt, hair still unparted and unstyled; but he read through note after note, his Exalt beside him, as ringing flute and laughter brought back memories of peace.