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gretavanlace · 7 months

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Sugar II (part 3)

18+ plus only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: adult themes, angst, discussions of alcohol consumption, etc

Thank you all so much for your patience while I was out of town…I love you and never intentionally keep you waiting! You’re my babies!! ❤️❤️

“Why am I always the last to know everything?” Sam slips into Josh’s dressing room, shirtless and as always, slapping along on two bare feet “Is it because I’m the youngest, or are you just an asshole?”

In contrast to his brother, Josh drips in beaded satin; glitter swept deftly across his eyes; rhinestones grabbing at the light until he winks and flashes like a star against its midnight sky.

No one would expect anything less. He is always the first to be found wandering the hallowed arena halls, made up and shining like old Hollywood royalty. It soothes him…a lullaby masquerading as expensively tailored glitz. You used to help him…zipping up jumpsuits he could have easily secured himself, fussing over his hair, lint rolling velvet, laughing and chattering away to keep his mind off that unforgiving anxiety of his. They are memories he cherishes and thinks of nearly every time he primps.

They each have their rituals - Daniel bangs around on a kit until his arms are loose and his mind is buzzing with adrenaline. Sam terrorizes the crew and his brothers with his trusty four-legged sidekick, shaking off the jitters with hijinks. And Jake scrutinizes his gear meticulously, checking the work of techs and roadies who definitely know what they’re doing. He usually finds something to pick apart anyway. It sharpens his focus and quiets his mind.

Josh steps into costume and becomes someone else. Someone he often doesn’t recognize…who is this person with such charisma and grace? He who commands the attention of crowd after crowd roaring and shaking the rafters? He who is worthy of such primal, hungry fervor?

That is how he finds the spotlight night after night. While the others do their own things, Josh quietly dresses and becomes someone, something, else.

And so, draped in his finery, he watches Sam through the mirror as he flops into a chair, all legs and attitude. “By all means, Samuel, make yourself at home.”

“Were you even going to tell me that she’s here? She always liked me best, you know? She was just too sweet to mention it to you idiots.”

Josh turns with a chorus of clattering glass beads, and leans back against the vanity, arms folded “One, I haven’t even seen you since I found out, so you’ll forgive me. Two, I knew Daniel would break his fucking neck to be the first to tell you,” He shrugs, “figured I’d let him have his moment.”

Popping open a White Claw, Sam ignores his brother's carping in favor of a question “You see her yet?”

“Yes,” Josh turns back to his reflection, patting a fingertip lightly over his eye makeup.

Never in possession of any patience to speak of - the baby of the family rarely is - Sam immediately prods him along. “And?”

He’s met with a sigh, “And what? I went to see her, we caught up for a little while, and then I left. That was that.”

“I went to see her,” there’s a mocking, obnoxious quality to Sam’s tone as he parrots Josh “we caught up for a while and then I— would you shut up? What happened? How is she?”

“She’s...I don’t know. She’s herself and not herself. She looked sad.” The revelation comes with a sadness of its own. “She’s getting married, so she shouldn’t have looked so damn miserable...but she did, and I hated it. It almost made me wish I hadn’t even knocked on her door.”

“I’m usually sad when you knock on my door, too.” Sam deadpans, attempting to lighten the mood at least a little.

“Must you lie, Samuel? You’re stricken with joy when I enter a room, just like everybody else.”

“Christ,” Sam mutters, tossing Josh a white claw to match his own, “I swear, if you could suck your own dick, you would.”

Josh cracks it open and slurps with a dramatic flourish, “Obviously.”

“Why do you think she looks so miserable?” Sam is pondering, turning something over in his mind with worry evident in his eyes.

“Probably because she knows she’ll likely have to see you. That’d be my guess, anyway.”

Josh is disguising his own knotted up stomach with humor. Sammy knows it, and chooses to ignore the dig.

They settle into their drinks until Sam speaks up once again, “She’s getting married? That’s just…” he quiets, unsure and still bristling with concern, “How are you gonna tell him? You gotta wait until after the show, that’s for sure.”

For once in his life, Josh has been rendered temporarily speechless, and that answers the question just fine.

“Are you serious?” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knobby knees, “You can’t be serious.”

“How am I going to tell him?” Now they’re just lobbing questions back and forth at one another. “You can’t be serious!”

Sam’s eyes widen, shocked and hurting for Jake in his absence. It would almost be comical if the situation could lend itself to anything other than this crushing weight, “We have to tell him, Josh. This isn’t okay. He has the right to—“

Suddenly, Josh pushes away from the vanity and the energy radiating from him shifts until he looks nearly frantic, “He has the right to what, Sam? To know? To see her? Have you lost your fucking mind? Put him in a room with her and we’re right back where we started. Three years progress,” his fingers snap harshly, “Poof! gone in a goddamn second.”

Matching his energy, Sam is on his feet in an instant, “Progress? Now whose lost his fucking mind? What progress are we talking about here, Josh? Because from where I’m standing, he’s made none. For his twin you’re remarkably ignorant.”

“I’m not ignorant,” this is bad, especially right before they’re expected to perform. They both know it, but on they march. “I know him backwards and forwards, Sammy, so just fucking listen to me for once. She stays in the past for him and that’s just the way it’s gonna be, end of discussion.”

“She stays in his past, or yours?” Sam counters, sizing his eldest brother up as though he can see right through him.

Shoulders slumped, Josh shakes the venom in Sammy’s accusation off “That isn’t fair.”

“I don’t give a shit. Answer the question.”

Sometimes, Sam readies for battle in a manner that always comes as a shock no matter how many times they’ve seen it happen. When he sheds that goofball demeanor in favor of a game face, it hardly seems real.

He is fierce in his love and loyalty to those he holds close, and tonight, Jacob has earned his favor.

“This isn’t about me, I promise you that.” The truth rings out clear in Josh’s vow. “I loved her once, I love her still, just differently now. I couldn’t do that to him. Not ever. The way he loved her canceled me out a long time ago.”

“Loves her.” Sam corrects, with a finger pointed at his brother to drive home his point.

“All the more reason to keep your mouth shut.” Josh’s timbre is threatening in a way it almost never is. It sounds and feels strange…out of place. “She’s getting fucking married, do you really think he can handle that? Use your fucking head, Sam. Leave it alone.”

Hand on the door handle, Sam watches Josh as if he’d very much like to hurt him, “Who are you to decide what he can and can’t handle?”

The show is their worst in their collective memory since their days as greenhorns, though it’s doubtful the fans have taken notice. Each mishap is small and easily disguised, but present all the same. They are unsteady and off-kilter, but only Jake is oblivious as to why.

He snaps a string, misses a mark, foils a riff or two. Josh falls flat and overcompensates, vibrato ringing out sharp. Sam refuses to look in his eldest’s brother’s direction, leaving them detached and removed in an unsettling way. Danny is on point from a technical standpoint, but robotic…their chemistry has vanished tonight and they can all feel it.

The moment they stalk off stage, Sam is clamoring for Jake’s attention as Josh fights to intercept.

Most nights, they’ll filter off into their respective solitude for a time to bask in the quiet before the noise of the bus. Tonight, Sam follows Jake, and Josh follows Sam.

“Jake,” Sam jogs along, easily closing the distance his brother has gained ahead of him with those lanky legs of his. “Hold up, I need to talk to you.”

“It can wait.” Jake is on a mission, clearly in a hurry to close a door and shut out the world. To find a bottle and make love to the whiskey inside it.

“No, it can’t because—“

“He said it can wait, Sam.”

Josh’s admonishment, and the viciousness it’s crackling with, is what turns Jake around. It makes no sense for his twin to be this hostile over something so innocuous; over some random conversation Sam would like to have that doesn’t even involve him.

He turns to find Josh’s glare burning murderously in Sam’s direction. The air emanating from him is in such dramatic contrast to the sunny ray of entertaining light that has just been beaming around the stage, and immediately, Jake senses the urgency of the moment.

On his part, Josh feels the switch flip inside his twin and knows that they’re about to head into dangerous territory. Fucking Sam.

“What?” Jake is furiously fumbling with his hair, shoving sweat soaked snarls away from his face, suddenly overstimulated and on edge. “What is it?”

Sammy speaks up, fighting to be heard clearly as crew members dart around and rush by in a flurry of tasks. “She’s here. Well, not here, but at the hotel.”

Defeated, Josh admits his loss with a quiet “God damn it, Sam.”

Jake somehow manages to catch it over the din and he knows. Or at least, he thinks he knows. He can feel it coming off of Josh like ghostly fingers stretching out to claw at his chest. Still, he doesn’t quite understand, the pieces are just this shy from falling into place.

“Who?” His query is tentative…filled with hopefulness and also a strange terror. A fear he’s only ever felt once before, when, helpless and shattered, he had to watch you say goodbye. A torturous longing only you can evoke.

Sam’s lips part to speak, but Josh shoves past him, grabbing Jake by the arm with black beads shaking about on his shoulders. “No one. Go shower. Have a drink.”

Somehow, Josh’s grip tells Jake everything. All that feverish panic seeps into the fabric of his jacket, somehow chilling his flesh with its burn. “She’s here?” His entire body is rattling with frenetic energy and he wonders if he might crumple to the ground and spark like a downed power line if Josh were to let go of him.

“Jake,” his name is a coddling whisper on his twin's lips, “Leave. Now. C’mon, I’ll go with you. You know what’s best, I know you do.”

As it turns out, Jake doesn’t hit the ground like a live wire, because when he shoves Josh off, his footing is sure. “How did you know she was here? You knew? And you weren’t gonna fucking tell me? Have you seen her?”

Ashamed, and afraid of what’s to come, Josh remains silently stoic under his brother’s eager and furious scrutiny.

“I said, have you fucking seen her?” Now Jake’s body is vibrating with a fury so out of control it’s threatening to boil over and scald anyone in its path.

Suddenly, Danny appears as though summoned by the gods of intervention, as he so often seems to be. He steps in, tugging Jake away from his brothers while staring daggers at Sam.

Sam never fucking thinks…or is he the only one who is actually thinking clearly this time around?

“Come on,” Jake is stumbling around on his feet to keep up with a much larger Daniel, as he drags him along to his dressing room.

It feels like a fever dream when at last he pushes Jake into a chair before shutting their brothers out with a door slammed in their faces.

“Look,” he finds a seat in front of Jake and places a hand on his bouncing knee. “You’ve got to calm down and think for a minute. Do you really want to see her? I mean…”

He isn’t given the chance to finish his sentence, because nothing any of them can say will matter anyway.

“Take me to her.” Neither of them could have any way of knowing that Jake’s plea mirrors the one you had struggled to swallow down in Danny’s arms.

“I don’t know where she is.” He speaks in honesty, and Jacob can sense that.

“Find out.” He rises to his feet and straightens his back, resolved and ready to fight for this. Ready to fight for you. “Josh knows, that fuck. Go find out.”

“Alright,” Daniel nods because what’s to be done now? What’s to pointlessly fight? “Shower in here. I’ll go talk to him.”

You’re mindlessly staring at the television screen, gaze blurring and focusing in and out as some chef with a lovely accent you can’t seem to place tosses ingredients round a hissing wok.

The entire room is awash in the scent of the shower you’ve just wept your way through, and the robe you’re swaddled in feels stiff and scratchy. You should change, you know, but you haven’t the energy. Better to lie here uncomfortable and twisted up in aching sadness, that old friend of yours whom you’ve denied for far too long.

Lie to yourself all you want. Shove it inside a box and lock it up tight with chains and latches until it rusts shut, but that throbbing agony will wait patiently for you. Never losing focus, ever vigilant for the moment it can blast its way back into your broken heart.

How you’ll ever rise and put on a professional face for brunch in the morning is a cipher you don’t care to decode tonight.

He’s all you can think of; memories of him. Loneliness for him. The need, so real and palpable. It’s as if you can smell him on your skin though he hasn’t swept his fingers across it in years.

Years? How is that even possible? It seems laughable that you’ve managed so long without him. It seems impossible. A nightmare that you’ve been muddling through.

When the knock sounds out, clipped and sure, at your door, you’re tempted to ignore it - and you even give it a go, but it comes again along with a cheery greeting “Room service!”

You haven’t ordered room service at all, but there stands a smart looking hotel employee, dressed to the hilt in his crisp uniform, waiting patiently beside a cart, when you peer through the peep-hole.

Tightening that terrible robe, you crack open the door, readying to let him know he’s made a mistake, when a hand darts out to push several folded up bills into the server’s hand.

Stunned and struck silent, you manage only to stare as Jake gives thanks and sends him on his way, eyes never straying from your face.

He reaches for you instinctively, but thinks better of it and drops those hands you know so well to his sides, flexing them as if to shake the need to touch you away.

Instead, he opts to offer a soft smile and a gentle joke “Hey, sugar, how’d we get to this place where I’ve got to pay off hotel employees to knock on your door for me, hmm?”

“I—“ You give your head a tiny shake, begging the thoughts rattling around inside it to make sense.

He looks so different. His hair is shorter, and he’s filled out, thickened in a way that makes your throat constrict for all you’ve missed. He’s as beautiful as ever. Alluring and changed, but still just him. Familiar and breathtaking. Perfect and right. Yours. But yours no longer.

Strangely, it’s what he’s wearing that makes you weakest and a little unsteady. He’s dressed in tattered sweats and a beaten up t-shirt. Thrashed vans that were stark white in another life, and damp hair, clearly brushed in a hurry. You love this so much more than if he’d strutted back into your life dressed to the nines. You’d hate to think he’d forgotten you enough to think that sort of thing might impress you.

“Are you gonna invite me in or should I just stand out here in the hallway all night watching you?”

A laugh, breathy and dumbfounded, huffs out of you. You remember the first time he’d said those words to you, and surely he does too. Was that a calculated effort on his part? To remind you of where you’ve been together? Of who you were together?

It’s an awful, self-destructive idea, inviting him in, and you know it is, you do. But when he steps into the room, you can smell him and the fist that has been cruelly clenched around your heart for countless days and nights, relaxes and finally, finally, you can breathe.

The door closes with a click and he’s suddenly so close you could taste his breath if you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to sink into it.

“Hi, pretty girl,” He hushes, and you wish his mouth was pressed against your ear so you could secret that quiet greeting away and live on it for the rest of your days.

All that white-hot closeness morphs into a hug. He’s hiding behind the platonic gesture, and so are you, but he can feel it, the way your body tenses and then melts against his own.

He feels as if he might disintegrate into a puddle of blackened anguish if he ever has to let you go, forever staining the horrendous hotel flooring where you once stood like an ethereal phantom sent to mend his heart. But a hideous reminder of where you once existed in this room with him for a few precious moments.

His hands have touched too many bodies to count since he last held you, but he has felt nothing until this moment.

No, he loathes the thought of letting you go, but he pulls back anyway, readying to let you lead this interaction. Alas, his palms find your cheeks all on their own, cupping the beautiful face he’s bartered with the devil for, that he’s prayed to god for, that he’s raged and begged for.

“My girl,” he wonders, like you can’t possibly be real. “My fucking girl.”

Your hands are molded over his, how did that happen? And then he’s releasing your face in order to lace your fingers together…he longs to touch you everywhere, but that isn’t okay any longer, is it? So he’s desperate for a way to latch onto you innocently.

He feels it then, and holds fast when you try to pull your hand away. Gaze - gorgeous honey swirling with caramel and horror - locked in on yours, he turns your hand to inspect the ring perched there like a weapon sent to destroy him.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @profitofthedune @jakesgrapejuice @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake

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suraemoon · 6 months

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Get Ready With Me

- Elvis x Reader -

Summary: It's the 1960s and Mr. and Mrs. Elvis Presley are getting ready for yet another Hollywood party.

Warnings: a paragraph talking about a girl's measurements and a scene getting into a tight dress, skin getting caught in a zipper (not graphically described), sexual innuendos and metaphors that you might blink and miss including a subtle implication that he wants to suck her tits, a sentence talking about “breaking” a woman in, and implying that she might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer. also some references to Christianity.

WC: a cute little 4.5k

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For someone like your husband, Elvis Presley, possessive and protective in every way of what was his, he did not mind showing his wife off. He loved it. A beautiful woman is a man’s best accessory, right?

Sunset Boulevard parties where businessmen of all the major Hollywood studios would parade around a gleeful smile. Wives were dressed to the nines in expensive getups and accessorized their jewels with apparent frowns.

Diamonds were a girl's best friend. Diamonds were a girl’s pacifier to soothe from the all too quick world around her, a world not made for her or her satisfaction. A man with an arm around her cinched waist, who really could not give a damn that an hour ago she asked when they were leaving, only to be met with a shrug by the man meant to care for her needs the most. Get her a diamond to hold onto for security just in case things go south.

Elvis was different from these men in more ways than one. When the back of your kitten heels lifted slightly from the ground to reach up to your husband’s ear and ask in a hushed whisper when you were to leave and go back home, your husband made it his plan to leave as soon as you two could.

The truth is he did not want to be at those parties either but being ousted in the business meant he had to get his footing and swim along with the school of fish. Any wrong move and you are left behind, forgotten. For as much as he desired to swim the opposite way, he had too much to lose; too much and too many depending on him.

The dim lights above the hotel’s small, tiled bathroom provided a yellowish, comforting tint over the room as if a grandmother had not yet gotten the memo of the newest trend. Those bright, enhancing Hollywood-worthy style mirrors, similar in all ways to the vanity that Elvis bought you last Christmas, were in. As you were a couple who both came from humble beginnings and cracked mirrors neither you nor Elvis complained––at least you aren't in the dark. Checking how your makeup looked under the sun’s natural light cascading through the window helped ensure that your face wouldn’t parallel one of the clowns that walk the boardwalk of Coney Island the moment you step out of this personal Garden of Eden.

After being unveiled with much anticipation from the ribbon-tied gift box on the counter, the candy apple red satin dress slipped easily over your figure, ending a few inches above your knees in length. It was like a glove, except for the fact that it was loose and not yet zippered; the true fit and form waiting patiently to be physically revealed to its wearer. This layer of mystery stayed sitting and waiting.

Elvis picked out this dress for you at a local Los Angeles boutique just last week; this along with many other garments, ranging from a knit sweater for winter and an array of panties for the bedroom. All these he surprised you within gift-wrapped boxes, the box with today’s dress in it taken away before you can get your hands on it. He had to keep at least *something* exciting for today, at least one thing to look forward to, no matter how small.

Elvis Presley bought most of his wife’s clothing and took pride in knowing all of her measurements by heart. He was sure he could rattle them off on the spot like an accomplished kid at a school spelling bee. This he wouldn’t dare do though. It was a quiet contract of trust not needing to be formally established, one of manners that his mama was sure to have raised him with and should just come with the subconscious of being a human anyway.

He found that some men were a little too eager to talk about the personal details and inner workings of their relationships. A competition of who’s got the best broad and on some days who's got the worst nag. The one with the smallest waist. The one with the smallest brain. The one who can’t get slick or the one who’s too damn clingy she won’t get off you.

Anyone who has the chance to get to know Mrs. Presley knows that she is a keeper. Any eye who glances at her knows she is gorgeous. Any quiet spectator who notices her behavior and body language around Mr. Presley knows that she is a very satisfied woman, and no words are needed, that’s enough.

You had no doubt in your mind, under that well-hair-sprayed do of yours, that this dress would resemble all of the other pieces that Elvis had bought many times before and fit both your figure and the latest trends seamlessly. He really was a stylist if you think about it.

You hum a melody as your hands go to zipper your dress, only to find that the zipper is both too small to get a proper grip on and stuck on its track.

“Elvis?” You call out your voice’s first word in a while.

When hearing his name called, your eager-to-please husband quickly makes his way to the door of the bathroom. He moves suave and smooth as ever with his hands in his pockets before stopping and leaning his forearm on the doorframe taking the rectangle up, admiring the beauty you radiate reflecting to him in the mirror. What’s better than one of you? Two of you. A view from the back and the front simultaneously. He’s got a good one. He’s got the best one. The cream of the crop.

“...Elvis?” You repeat unsure if you should just get on with what you need or if he was even paying attention.

He licks his lips as his eyes go to admire your backside in front of him. “Hm? What is it, honey?”

Your left arm goes behind you, hand gently motioning to the undone zipper of your dress. Elvis hums, a breath of amusement escaping his mouth. The dress didn’t come with your pretty back on display like that? What a damn shame. “I gotcha, honey. Was just a little distracted there is all.”

“Mhm. I could tell you were distracted. Liking what you picked out?” You decide to perform a little shimmy, lips pouting in a playful, seductive manner. As you moved, your cleavage moved side to side with you, the cups of your dress not yet close enough to your body to keep them modestly contained.

He bends to kiss your soft temple. His breath and velvet-covered voice caused the words leaving his mouth to vibrate against your skin in a seductive whisper.

“Like is an understatement, doll. It's hard to stay focused when ya got such good candy in front of ya.”

He turns his head back forward and those sky-blue eyes of his that you love so dearly are fully visible to you in the reflection. The diamond on your ring seems to shine brighter when in the presence of his diamond eyes, while they look over you again.

“Candy so sweet you just wanna put your lips all over it….”

His sight rests again on your teasingly half-covered chest,

“...Candy ya just wanna suck.”

A blush, not the artificial pigment you powdered on your face earlier with a brush, but the natural light pink of your skin flushes your face. In that moment, Elvis touches your cheek, moving your head sideways for eye contact, getting a glance at the final product of your makeup while doing so. He feels the warmth spread and grins in satisfaction. The illustrious fantasies infiltrating both your and your husband's brains at that moment weren’t as pure as that pink.

He shakes his head as if being physically pulled out of his daydreams and told to remember the task at hand before fantasies turn into realities (they easily and quickly could in a matter of seconds with the two of you) and the remaining minutes are spent on something else other than getting ready. Elvis’ dress shoes then take a step back and his warm hands go to the small zipper on the back of your dress, right above your ass.

“This is what it must be like to dress one of ‘em Barbie dolls. My perfect lil’ model, looking good in anything put her in. Later we’ll hafta take some more polaroids…some showin’ the dress, some showin’ underneath it too.”

Elvis loved taking intimate photos of you in different outfits: some sheer lingerie, some completely nude, some without you wearing a top, some without bottoms. Mixed and matched photos were kept in a little box tucked in the drawer of his nightstand. He did it any chance he got. Well, any chance he remembered to do so before completely ravishing you because when your husband needs you, he needs you and who cares about the camera in a moment like that?

Your peaceful disposition is suddenly met with a flinch and your bright smile is interrupted by a yelp as halfway up your back the zipper catches on your skin. Elvis immediately flinches as if he had felt your pain and quickly moves to undo the zipper all the way, leaving you back where you started a few seconds ago. The only thing indicating his presence and touch on you was the small mark of red on your back. A flood of apologies immediately leaves his mouth.”O-oh Jesus, baby. I'm so sorry. I'm real sorry. I-I didn’t mean to hurt ya.”

“It's alright, Elvis. Don’t worry, I’m okay.” You reply, quick to comfort him as if he was the one who had gotten hurt.

“It’s not alright. My lil’ baby’s gotta boo-boo now.”

He crouches down and lowers his head to place a gentle kiss on the red mar that made itself home on the small of your back like a stork bite. The unexpectedness and quickness of his action causes a shiver to move like a wave crashing a peaceful coast throughout your body. But instead of a chilly shiver, it's bundled in warmth, like love sent a lightning bolt reminding you of its presence. Not that you would ever let yourself forget.

“I need to be more careful with my little dolly. If God made ya out of porcelain, I would’ve broken ya by now. Ain’t no doubt about that.”

His soft, tender pecks start to move up your back.

Your breath hitches, “Elvis…”

He whispers against your skin softly before continuing to kiss you, “Gotta make it up to hers.”

“Hers forgives him.” You close your eyes in bliss.

Oh, how much both of you wished not to attend this stupid party. Bedsheets that are beautifully tossed and messy instead of perfectly steamed suits and ties. Warm, passionate kisses instead of cold drinks and equally as cold shoulders. The love marks left on your neck from last night, since covered beneath a layer of foundation, regain their tenderness at this moment. Your body reminds you of what it wants more of, what it desires. Little do you know, so does his as the fabric of his slacks starts to get a little tighter around him.

After leaving a trail of kisses from the bottom of your back to between your shoulder blades, Elvis even more carefully than last time, if that was possible, gently brings up the small zipper all the way to the top using all his concentration to focus intently on not nipping you again. Your focus falls back on the mirror, watching as your body and the dress meet and fall in love. Everything that is supposed to hug, hugs. Everything that is supposed to hold, holds. It’s as if it was meant to be.

“There we go. Atta girl.” You’re unsure if he’s praising the zipper on your dress or you. If asked, Elvis would say both.

Then, your husband looks up to see the finished product of his work in the mirror like an artist would admire his masterpiece. His hands don’t stay off you for long as they are placed on your hips moving up and down in a massaging motion before giving your love handles a soft squeeze.

“Thank you for helping me, E.”

“No problem, honey. It’s what I’m sposed to do. Gotta have my girl looking perfect and you look more than it.”

You turn around for the first time since putting on the dress, assuring him at that moment that all that perfection and body he saw in the mirror was indeed real and not just a dream. Both of your hands cup his sculpted face and you give him a soft, tender, and very rewarding kiss. A small lipstick transfer leaves his lips just a tint pinker than they were before, unnoticeable to anyone but you: the person who made that change happen.

The last step of your personal routine awaited you and that was perfume. A bottle of Chanel Number 5 glistened on the counter as if awaiting the moment and you quickly take it into your hands. Your mind has been trained over the years to know the right spots to put perfume. You spray a little on one of the main pressure points, the inside of your wrist. Before the “getting ready” automatic machine in your brain can rub the now dripping solution into your skin, Elvis takes on the responsibility for you. Your husband swiftly takes your palm-up hand into his and rubs the liquid into your wrist in a soft, circular motion with his thumb. This process is then repeated with your right wrist. When finished, Elvis brings one of your wrists up to his nose, your skin brushing the tip, and smells it.

he hums satisfied then picks up the bottle, examining it. “When did you get this perfume, honey? It smells really nice.”

“Elvis…you bought me that perfume.”

“Oh.”

“You’re already so sweet, I thought those rose scents came with ya.” He says with a smirk in an attempt to smoothly cover up his mistake.

“Mhm, I was born with citrus running through my veins.”

“I’d believe it.”

You giggle and while the laugh escapes your lips, your sight falls on the usual next step of your joint getting-ready routine: your husband’s baby blue eyes and what was at this moment not highlighted around them.

“Need help with your lashes?” You ask softly. Neither you nor he needed to ask technically; both of you knew that this came next in the assembly line of tedious little tasks and that he would say yes.

“I was just about to ask ya,” Elvis replies comfortably and not totally in truth. He knows full well that you, his wife with the beneficial trait of getting the two of you properly in line and ready to go when it came to all sorts of schedules and plans, would’ve gotten to it anyway and frankly, he isn’t in any dire rush to leave. Mascara meant one more stride towards abandoning the warm comfort of this little hotel room.

“I gotcha.”

Elvis looks over you one more time before dragging his feet on the tile and leaving the bathroom to go sit, making himself comfortable in the dark grey upholstered lounge chair positioned at an angle in the corner of the room.

You grab the mascara tube out of your old light pink makeup bag sitting on the cold counter, now half empty due to products being placed all over the counter in a messy organization, and quickly go to where Elvis is sitting in all of his man-spreading glory. You stop in your tracks for a second to look over him. Elvis smiled, entertained by the fact that the purple tube of mascara and your cute wide eyes were the antonyms to all of the nasty stuff running through his mind while looking at the woman standing before him in all of her obliviously sexy magnificence.

His being sat down and you standing was the only time where you were taller than him. He looks up at you through those dirty blonde lashes not yet polished, as if you were the holy grail. An angel before him. A picturesque statue needing to be worshipped and he was damn well willing to kneel before you and give you that praise.

Your hesitation was not only due to Elvis’ seductive aura but also apprehension in thinking of a way to get close enough to his face to actually apply the makeup. The bed was a good distance away and continuing to stand wouldn’t be a good angle for application. There were no other chairs around either. Getting on your knees is always a good option, one both of you enjoy in different circumstances; it's just the rug burn would be a pain…

“Sit on me, baby. Don’t act like you’ve never done it before.”

He continues, his tone nonchalant, “My girl might still be a lil’ innocent but the angels didn’t make her clueless, did they?”

You shake your head with an embarrassed blush arising. “No, they didn’t, sir.”

“You know, by breaking ya in, I’ve put those dirty thoughts in ya head too. Just feel like you’re too scared to act on ‘em sometimes. Ain’t nobody here. Spread ya legs and sit on me. I need your services, honey…your makeup ones and all the other ones my girl gives so well.”

You giggle, cheeks never failing to flush at Elvis’ vulgarity. His subtle innuendos that would've gone over your head just a few months ago before he opened your eyes and made you his on your wedding night. You became one in three ways that day: mind, body, and soul.

Trying not to be hurt by the fact that your husband thought you were too embarrassed to sit on him for a few seconds, an unintentional attack on the state of your womanhood, you do just that.

You spread your legs to straddle him, the tight fabric of your dress trying to work against you as harsh friction on the plush of your thighs as you spread them around him. The fabric after having lost the battle, rolls up your thighs scrunched in the defeat, getting hiked up to an improper length as you adjust yourself on Elvis’ lap with a slight roll of your hips.

Both of you notice how his hips twitched, a bit like a spark, as they met yours. Energy already attracted and apparent in behavior, showed itself physically.

Your lined lips meet his for a passionate but quick kiss before pulling away teasingly. “Sorry.” You peck him again, not sorry in the least about it. “I’m getting a lil’ distracted.”

He laughs before stealing another kiss from those oh-so-tempting red lips of yours. He reflects back on grade-school bible study, this is what Adam and Eve must’ve felt when they ate that apple. “I don’t wanna go to this stupid shit.”

He kisses you again gently as if normal habit, “Just wanna stay here with my lil wife.”

You giggle while backing your head away further, knowing that if you keep this kissing up, it will lead to other events and you’ll never make it to this party. Your mind goes back to the memory of last month’s luncheon and how Elvis’ manager was not too pleased that the singer-turned-actor and his wife arrived an hour late to the event with hickeys and flushed cheeks.

“Cmon’ Elvis. You can have me when get back later.”

“Damn right, I will.” He responds matter-of-factly.

You lean forward, both palms pressing next to each other on his chest, and whisper into his cheek before kissing it, “Now sit still, be a good boy, and let me do your eyelashes all pretty.”

He looks at the mascara in your hand before looking back up at your eyes, his mouth slightly parted, “You’re right, lil mama. I got ahead of myself there, didn’t I?”

“You can say that.” You bite your bottom lip as your hands go to untwist the mascara tube, pulling the wand out slowly and wiping the excess product on the side of the entrance before taking it out all the way.

You hold back a giggle as you think of Elvis’ previous words coupled with the opening of this mascara…he really has corrupted your thoughts.

You gently place the tube down, careful not to make a mess and get the product on anything. Then, you adjust your straddle position as you would on the saddle of one of the horses back home to get more comfortable on your husband’s lap, holding the wand in your dominant hand as both of Elvis’ hands go to rest on the round of your ass.

His sky-blue eyes look straight into yours, holding a deliciously intimate and beautifully intense eye contact as you graze the mascara wand on his light brown lashes, careful not to poke his eye like that one mascara incident a few months ago where you were apologizing profusely.

The sweeping of the curved bristles in an up-and-down motion mirrors the gentle rubbing of his hands on your backside; back and forth, back and forth, with the brush being a little faster than the hands. Both have important purposes and both do their jobs flawlessly.

You accompany your light strokes with soothing whispers of praises and admiration, “Such a pretty boy. My handsome man who I love so, so much. Never loved anyone more.” You hear him respond pleasantly in a warm hum.

You point your pointer finger up and your husband immediately looks up at the beige ceiling above to allow you to coat his tinier, bottom lashes as well.

“Good boy.” You whisper concentrated.

When you finish the willingly made slow process of applying the mascara to your model, his eyelashes have grown a little longer in length and their color has changed from a dirty blonde to jet black, matching his hair and the dying process he first did to it all those years ago.

“All done.” You declare quickly like a toddler finished with their meal.

His eyelashes flutter to adjust to the layer of newly coated polish before his sight rests on your face, giving you an opportunity to admire your hard work.

“Thank ya, baby. You’re the best at taking care of me, aren’t ya? Needed a woman’s touch to finish off the look.”

You twist the cap of the mascara back on and toss it onto a nearby dresser before letting yourself fall more into him.

Your voice comes out as almost a whine as your head rests on his shoulder, “Do I gotta get up?”

“You know I’m not gonna make ya, doll. Maybe we should both take off a few layers and then you can come sit on my lap again. We could have a lot of fun like that.”

His hands start roaming under your skirt but cannot go far due to the tightness of the material, another, now physical, barrier keeping desires away from each other.

You begrudgingly shimmy off of him, like you feel a sense of duty to hosts that you’ve never met to make sure Elvis Presley gets to attend their event timely as promised.

Adjusting the hem of your dress back to its proper length as you get up, Elvis follows suit in getting up from the chair and straightening out his shirt. His mascara was the finishing touch to you two’s getting ready process, like cutting a red ribbon at the opening of a new building.

The air turned bittersweet, anticipation and melancholy almost selfish and uncalled for with the fact that you will have many, many more nights like these and you both know that. For you that doesn’t thin the chill of social anxiety that comes with going to events with arguably the most famous, and perhaps the most recognizable, man in the country. You’ve never talked about these restless feelings with him for it comes with the duty you love so much, being his wife.

His hands go to outline your body shape again, taking you in as he has done so many times before. He whispers to you as he has numerous times in the past. It never gets old, a love so evergreen it can never age.

“You look so pretty, mama.”

“And you look so handsome, Elvis.” You whisper back as if in the middle of exchanging beautiful, not-so-hidden secrets.

These sweet nothings between lovers are cut off by lips suddenly catching on to yours. This being the most intimate and passionate kiss so far tonight, one with enough energy and need to change the tide of your minds and blur the lines of plans already set in stone.

Your hands immediately go up to cup his face, the kiss not yet broken for the desire to have each other is too strong to pull it apart, almost like a magnet. A pure magnetism that feels so right.

His hands, touchy and soft, trace the silhouette of your figure from the cups holding your boobs to the satin that stops halfway down your thigh. His right-hand tugs on your dress’s hem once it reaches it, granted it is not too far down to find in a moment of such passion. The left hand slithers its way back up the sea of red to cup and squeeze your breast through the delicate fabric.

He’s moving all these parts simultaneously, both hands and both lips, but the main focus is always on you: the target of his desires, the common denominator to every one of his moves. Meanwhile, you are struggling to keep up with the quickness of this series of events so all of your energy is going toward the, hopefully never-ending, kiss. You moan into it, your need vocal.

Your padded fingers and perfectly manicured nails, not a chip to be seen since you fixed them last night, leave the sides of his pretty face to run through his hair like water would, your heels clicking on the ground as he backs you up. These rhythmic noises of your kitten heels come to a halt when the back of your calf is met with the wood of the bottom of a bedframe behind you.

You lose your balance: thighs, ass, and then eventually whole body meeting the soft sheets of the bed. They are still messy and undone from this morning. As you lay back you quickly glance at the clock sitting high on the wall next to you, seeming to be ticking faster than normal, and then your enlarged pupils go back to your ravager of a husband. His lips have since left your mouth and have moved to your neck, then down to your collarbone.

The clock reads 7:00 pm, the time the two of you had scheduled in your planner to be the last call to get going. The only sound you hear now is your own heavy breath when Elvis’ lips start to suck the sweet spot on the right side of your neck, you whine out any ounce of doubt you may still have possibly had.

7:02 now and Lord forgive the both of you, you aren’t gonna make it.

-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-

A/N: This took me too long to write for what it is. I was sick for a whole week straight and that just threw me off my newly boarded writing train. This idea came from a wip that it is similar to but didn’t quite fit with (they’re sisters, not twins). I hate to be a tease with the ending, it cuts off unsatisfyingly, but your good sis is still a little unsure of her ability to write smut. I’ll get there eventually and we can rejoice when it happens. I'll come back to it. Also just noticed the second pic near the title isn’t the most “x reader” friendly and as a brown girl myself that’s my bad. Everything aside, enjoy some Grace Kelly in Rear Window.

#elvis #elvis presley #not beta read #so enjoy my madness #that there is no method to #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis fanfic #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x y/n #60s elvis #elvis fans

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