#and yet the silhouette is so demure?

[ginnsbaker]

Bulletproof (2/?)

Summary: A continuation of this (You're the only Avenger who sleeps in a cell). Now that Wanda has offered to share her room, things get... a bit complicated.

Chapter word count: 2.9k+ | Tags: Mild Angst, Sharing A Bed, Mutual Pining, Wanda catches you in a very compromising position, Unresolved Sexual Tension

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Series Masterlist

-

Sharing a room with Wanda Maximoff is not as trivial as it sounds.

The first night, her bed seems almost too big, especially for two people who don't know each other very well. Throughout the night, you’re acutely conscious of every movement, ensuring that you remain on your designated side, even if it means dangling one leg off the bed for balance.

On the second night, after realizing she'd unknowingly snuggled up to you during her sleep, she suggests putting a pillow in the middle–kind of like a boundary, you guess. The two of you share a light-hearted chuckle over the idea, yet a rosy hue stubbornly lingers on both your faces until one of you eventually heads out for breakfast.

Nights turn into mornings and that big bed starts feeling, well, not so big anymore. You both take to this pillow-in-the-middle setup, treating it like some sort of teddy bear you both have a claim to. It becomes an unspoken agreement, almost like a cozy buffer that you both secretly enjoy. Both of you would hold onto it, sometimes playfully tugging it toward your side.

On the seventh day, shortly after midnight, you feel a subtle shift as Wanda’s fingers, which were draped over the pillow, find their way to your waist. It's just a slight touch, but it sends your senses into overdrive. And as the fog of drowsiness lifts, you become acutely aware of every point of contact between you two.

The covers, which up until now felt just right, suddenly start to feel oppressively warm. Turning your head slightly, you can make out the silhouette of her face, bathed in the soft light filtering through the curtains. You're struck by the details—the curve of her cheek, the demure slope of her nose, her slightly parted lips. She's mesmerizing. You feel an undeniable urge to reach out and touch, to feel the softness of her skin, but you resist. 

You think about shifting her hand back onto the pillow, but then, there's this part of you, perhaps the bolder side, that wants it to stay there. So, you let it stay, taking shallow breaths, hoping your racing heart doesn't wake her up.

You pull the covers tighter around you, trying to shake the thoughts, but it's no use. 

All you can think about is the girl sleeping soundly beside you, and the night stretches on endlessly ahead.

-

You were supposed to get your own room, but honestly? It's taking a while, and you're not even sure you want it anymore.

There's something about Wanda's nighttime habits that you've come to love: the way she snores just a bit, the way some of her things would rattle around her when she’s having an intense dream, the scent of her shampoo when she washes her hair before bed, the subtle movements she makes when you know she has a hard time falling asleep. 

And there's that special moment each morning: You always seem to stir just moments before her. Like clockwork, her eyes flutter open, and in that half-awake daze, she’d murmur a “Good morning.” 

Yet, as this unexpected cohabitation with Wanda unfolds, a nagging thought keeps pricking at the back of your mind:

This delightful domestic bubble has an expiration date.

You know you shouldn't get too attached. But you're probably way past that now.

-

Which is why, to seemingly guard yourself, you pester Steve at dinner. 

“So, Steve, any word on my room?” you casually drop the question one evening, trying to keep the tone light. Across the table, Wanda's attention diverts from her lasagna to the conversation at hand, silently watching the exchange.

Steve, looking a tad weary, responds, “Honestly? I'm not sure. And you've brought this up, what, three times today?”

“Maybe if Tony actually replied to my messages, we wouldn't be having this chat every mealtime,” you argue, mindlessly twirling your fork around your pasta.

Before Steve can retort, Wanda intervenes. “If you're worried about overstaying in my space, you haven't. It's been...nice, having you there.”

Your cheeks flame up, a quick surge of heat that’s impossible to ignore. The sudden candidness in her words catches you off guard. For a moment, you're tongue-tied, searching for a response. She, too, seems taken aback by her own candor, her eyes widening a fraction.

“I-I mean, I don't mind…” she says, trying to recover from her prior lapse. She then diverts her attention, a little flustered, burying herself in her plate.

“Maybe we can set up a rota? You know, split the week between Natasha and Wanda's rooms?” Steve suggests.

From across the table, Natasha halts, shawarma in hand, and deadpans, “Since when was my room up for discussion?”

Your focus, however, remains fixed on Wanda. “It's not about that, Wanda,” you reply earnestly. “It’s just... we all need our space, right?”

Something shifts in Wanda's eyes, a flicker of disappointment perhaps, but before you can fully process it, she masks it with indifference. “I'm sorry,” she murmurs, starting to collect her plate with only a few bites missing from her lasagna. “I thought you were in a rush because of... well, me.”

You stare at her, momentarily stunned, with a growing urge to apologize. The dinner table suddenly feels miles long. 

Clearing your throat, you muster, “Wanda, it's not like that.”

She pauses, looking back at you, waiting. 

“I just thought it might be easier for both of us,” you say, cringing as the words don't quite capture your intended sentiment.

Her face tightens further, her demeanor chilling by several degrees. “You're right,” she replies, voice sharp and edged. “It might be easier for you.” 

Without another word, she stands up and leaves.

In the aftermath of Wanda's exit, an oppressive silence descends, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of cutlery on porcelain. Vision, always a touch out of step with human nuances, arches an eyebrow at Bucky. “Is there a particular reason the air's grown so dense?”

Before Bucky can answer, Natasha leans back, shooting you a pointed look. 

“By the way,” she drawls, pausing for emphasis. “My room has an exclusive guest list. Only one name on it–mine,” she says and then nonchalantly bites at her meat wrap, clearly having said her piece.

The room's temperature seems to further drop another few degrees following Natasha's remark. Steve shoots you a sympathetic glance while Bucky suppresses a smirk, amused at the drama unfolding.

Trying to bring a semblance of normalcy back, Sam quips, “Well, at this rate, I might start charging for bunking in my room. Any takers?”

You can't help but force a chuckle, silently thanking him for the attempt to lighten the mood. However, Wanda's departure and Natasha’s dry humor leave you pondering whether sharing a room might have been the better option after all.

-

For two nights straight, you avoid the Avenger's compound. 

Instead, you dip into your personal savings from past missions, booking yourself into a plush hotel downtown. The suite boasts modern amenities and a bed that critics might describe as 'a cloud'. 

Yet, for all its luxury, it feels...empty.

The Egyptian cotton sheets, while soft to the touch, are cold. The lavish bathroom, with its marble counters, feels too sterile. The room, while spacious, feels too silent. Deafeningly so.

Gone are the soft snores, the slight movement of a shared bed, and the comforting scent of Wanda's evening shampoo. All replaced by a void that no amount of luxury can fill. Your heart aches, not for the lack of comfort, but for the lack of connection.

(The lack of a… friend. Maybe after nights of sleeping side by side, it’s fair to think of her as such.)

And as another sleepless night passes in the hotel, you find yourself wishing for the simplicity of that pillow barrier, the steady rhythm of Wanda's breathing, and the tender sound of her voice whispering, “Good morning.”

It's high time to step out of this lavish prison and head back to the compound. 

More importantly, it's time to apologize to Wanda, something you should've done in the first place.

-

Pushing open the door to Wanda's room, you anticipate her familiar, mischievous smirk. Instead, a deafening silence surrounds you. The only telltale sign of her absence is the disarray of her belongings, possibly from prepping for an unexpected mission.

You have been looking forward to seeing her all day, unsure if she'd even welcome you back. Just as you consider heading elsewhere to find her, Vision suddenly steps out from a room further down the corridor.

“Wanda’s not here,” you state rather than ask.

“She's still in the debriefing room. The mission ran long, and discussions have been... extensive,” Vision offers, his head tilt subtle but noticeable, making you very much aware of his ability to read more than just your face.

You run a hand through your hair, weary. “Any idea how much longer?”

He seems to ponder, “At the rate they’re going? An hour, maybe more.”

The day's exhaustion settles on you, making your skin feel sticky and tired. You reason that perhaps Wanda might be more inclined to speak with you if you're freshened up and smelling good. With this thought, you let out a soft sigh, nodding in gratitude to Vision. 

Slipping back into Wanda’s room and absentmindedly neglecting to lock the door, you dive into the shower without waiting for the water to warm up, welcoming its brisk, invigorating sting against your tired skin. It’s surprisingly intimate to be using Wanda's products again after days without them, and you try not to think about how it all feels a bit... like home.

Several minutes later, wrapped in a towel with droplets still clinging to your skin, you pad over to your side of the bed. The damp cold from your hair seeping through the towel sends a chill down your spine, but the softness of Wanda's sheets beckon. You can't resist the temptation any longer and, with a soft thud, you flop down.

The moment you sink into the mattress, Wanda's familiar scent envelops you, a comforting blend of jasmine and something uniquely her. Closing your eyes, you realize just how much you've missed her–not just the shared bed or the late-night whispers, but the girl herself. 

The heart of it all.

Every thought of Wanda makes your heartbeat a tad bit faster. Your skin, slightly damp from the shower, feels hypersensitive against the silky sheets that smell so much like her. Every thread seems to graze your skin, reminding you of the presence you're currently missing.

Your thoughts start to shift, moving past innocent interactions you’ve had with Wanda so far. You’re now wondering if Wanda ever touched herself in this very same bed. If her fingers have lazily brushed against her core to thoughts of you, the way you’re doing now to thoughts of her. You wonder if she likes to tease herself, if she likes to pay attention to her clit or prefers to stuff herself with her own fingers.

You pull a pillow close, not just as a makeshift barrier, but as an anchor to steady the rush of arousal coursing through your body. But instead of calming you down, it sends you over the edge and deeper into your unchecked desires. The pillow is no longer just a fluffy companion; it becomes a stand-in for her–for Wanda.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Especially not on the bed that belongs to the woman you’re imagining as you throw a leg over the unsuspecting pillow. In the midst of your internal conflict, your thighs still part to welcome the plush material as you’re about to lose all sense of control. 

But the universe seems to have its own way of snapping you out of questionable choices. 

Just as you're about to succumb to the overwhelming sensations, the door slams open. With a startled yelp, you topple off the bed, the towel that's your only semblance of decency barely holding on. The pillow, now a poor victim to your previous intentions, gets clutched to your chest in a frantic attempt to salvage some dignity.

There, framed in the doorway, is Wanda. Her eyes wide, an unreadable expression on her face. You've never wished for the ground to swallow you up more than you do in this mortifying moment. Your face heats up, unsure if you could ever look Wanda in the eyes again after this. 

And just when you think it couldn’t get any worse, she speaks.

“Um... did I interrupt something?” Wanda asks, her voice teetering between amusement and genuine curiosity. She's trying, and failing, to hide a smirk.

You, on the other hand, are a mess of jumbled words and embarrassment. “I- I was just... It's not what it looks like,” you say, but the evidence around you paints a pretty distinct picture.

Wanda raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. “Really? Because from here, it looks pretty... interesting.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow for a moment, the very one that betrayed you. “Can we just forget this ever happened?”

She chuckles, her earlier tension from the debriefing room (and the tension with you from days earlier) seeming to melt away in the face of your predicament. “Oh, I'm not sure I can. It's not every day I find someone... bonding with my pillow in such a way.”

Caught in a compromising situation with Wanda taking it all in, you cover your face with your hands. “I, um, Wanda, I apologize," you manage to stammer out, each word dripping with mortification.

She cocks her head, studying you. “It's... alright,” she murmurs, her gaze penetrating and elusive.  In any other circumstance, you might've caught the faint trail her eyes make over your partially exposed form, but right now, anxiety shrouds your every thought.

You bite your lip, the action causing Wanda’s breath to hitch. 

“Can I... could you give me a moment? Just to... get dressed?” you ask.

Wanda nods, her lips curving into a small, understanding smile. “Of course,” She takes a step back, her fingers brushing against the door frame. “Just... maybe lock the door next time?”

You chuckle weakly, nodding. “Definitely noted.”

Once alone in the room again, a ragged exhale escapes your lips. You immediately get to your feet, scrambling for your suitcase to find something–anything–that will save you from the most embarrassing moment of your life.

Outside the room, Wanda leans against the hallway wall, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the cool surface. The image of what she had walked into replays in her mind, sending tingles down her spine. 

She feels the urge to peer into your head, see who’s starring in your wildest fantasies.

If she wants, she can find out. 

But there's a line she knows she shouldn't cross, especially with teammates. Swallowing hard, Wanda decides to afford you the space and privacy to compose yourself.

Her reverie is broken by your voice, somewhat muted by the wall between you both. “I'm decent now,” you say, a touch of sheepishness clear in your tone. 

For a moment, Wanda hesitates, her fingers hovering inches from the door handle. Taking a fortifying breath, she turns the knob and steps into the room. 

“I'm so sorry,” you say as soon the door shuts with a soft click behind Wanda, eyes cast downward. The oversized Pikachu shirt you're wearing is probably the last thing she expected to see on you. Under different circumstances, she might have teased you about it.

Wanda shakes her head and smirks, crossing her arms in front of her. “Apologies for the pillow?”

“For what happened three days ago, during dinner. I never meant to offend you,” you say, still looking down.

Her eyes narrow, adopting a casual demeanor. “Offend me? I'm not sure what you're talking about.”

Risking a glance up, your eyes meet Wanda's, searching for a hint of the resentment or anger you're expecting. Instead, you find a relaxed, almost indifferent look in her eyes. No hint of upset, no sign of offense taken. Her nonchalance takes you aback.

“You know,” she muses, her tone light, “You were so caught up in your thoughts that you stayed away from this room for days.”

“Did I read the situation wrong?” you wonder aloud feeling a little foolish now that it seems you were reading into things too much.

Wanda shrugs her shoulders, her playful smirk returning. “Perhaps you're overthinking things a bit. Honestly, if I was truly offended, I would've said something. As for wanting space,” she continues, her gaze drifting over to the tousled sheets, “I didn't think it was a big deal.”

Swallowing your surprise, a tiny smile forms on your lips. Maybe, just maybe, you've been looking at the entire situation wrong. Maybe the pillow barrier, the shared space, and the soft morning greeting weren't as loaded with meaning as you thought. 

Maybe, with Wanda, things were just simpler.

And yet, somehow, you’re disappointed by that possibility.

It means she doesn’t care if you get your room sooner or later. 

It means she wouldn’t miss you as much as you would when you permanently get to sleep in your own bed.

“So… we’re good?” you ask tentatively.

Wanda simply nods. An awkward silence quickly follows and your attention is inadvertently drawn to the pillow strewn aside, its memory fresh and horrifying.

“Uh, nothing happened, but,” you say, coughing into your fist nervously. “I’ll make sure to wash that pillow.”

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #captain america civil war #the avengers #oneshots #steve rogers #vision

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Even Educated Fleas Do It

A Sarge & lil Mama episode (wedding night)

Warnings 18+ -smut! breeding kink, innocence kink, cream pies, unfortunately historically accurate portrayal of female naïveté regarding sexual acts, male entitlement to female bodies, copious dirty talk, virginity loss. This is mostly fluffy and tender and sweet with a few VERY rabid moments and feral sentences. 20k of smut and it’s surrounding auras…I have a headcanon that Baby Elvis resorts to being a bit of an ass in order to maintain his slipping control, whereas a more mature era of the man he only chooses to be a bastard out of the fun of it

Credits: my supreme thanks to the indefatigable @prompted-wordsmith for editing this mammoth and her few choice additions of sentences, and also to my discord wives: Christi, Ally and Birdy who cheered me on and really made this happen with their feedback, suggestions and enthusiasm. Lastly, to all my darling readers who’s hype for this has carried me through and now we are all saddled with this monstrosity. Y’all are the best, I live off your comments and love. Xoxo, Marina 🌹

Elaine’s fingers glide admiringly against richly black, quartz marble countertops, glinting back at her almost as brightly as the gold mirror and the gold faucets and gold tub–everything is golden up here in the master bathroom. Even the sink is gold plated, she realizes with a giggle, and stares at her reflection in the basin, flushed face and curls hanging about her features as she looks downward, distracted by the opulence and the shininess and the ability to finally breathe. An endeavor which would be aided if she obeyed her new husband—heavens to Betsy, she has a husband!—and took off her wedding gown and girdle.

She chose a simple dress to be married in, long and slender, the style and measurements entrusted to the Smith cousins and delivered by them with remarkable effect. Demure yet elegant, she felt it was a nod to the silhouette of the future, prom crinolines and ball gowns abandoned for a more streamlined effect that set off her waist to perfection, or so her wedding guests told her. And for tonight’s purposes, it had a handy zipper down the back of it that she now tugged loose to her immense relief.

It was a little puzzling, the way Elvis had torn her away from Dodger’s admonishments and hurried her upstairs to sleep, only to then shoo her into the bathroom to undress herself. Some silly part of her thought he might kiss her when they arrived up there alone, maybe dance a little, maybe help with the zipper. But he had looked very feverish and a little scared when he told her she was looking worn out, and then ushered her upstairs as the whole house party fell dead silent below them in their wake. Funny, the whole thing had felt a little funny, and they’d been having such a nice little party after the vows, daddy had been a little weepy and Elvis had looked so handsome and she had to pinch herself a dozen times that this event she’d planned was her wedding.

Her wedding—it didn’t feel real. Not without mama here, she realized, that was the missing part to it all. Mama. Hers, and his. They were both missing them. She worked at the brassiere clasps and stifled the little cry she felt coming up her throat, memories flooding in of the first time she saw Graceland.

Elvis had tore down to the studio in his fancy car, begging any and everyone to see the place he bought for his family. Father had been too busy with Cash but mama was not. So, she and Elaine had piled into his pink Cadillac and let that happy puppy of a boy whisk them away to a world of antebellum dreaminess for the afternoon. Gold, there had been so much gold even then, and Mama had ribbed the boy mercilessly about his decor choices as only Mrs. Phipps could get away with,

“Elvis dear, it looks like a tart’s bedroom up here,” she had teased him in the master where Elaine’s groom was now waiting for her daughter to make an appearance.

He had turned bright red before dissolving into hiccuping laughs that her mama had joined. He hasn’t changed the decor, gaudy chandelier hanging above a gold damask bedspread, gilt mirrors everywhere on the walls with black padded headboards and doors. It was… unique, and a little ominous if she was being honest, although maybe that had been her nerves over him rushing her up here so fast, so…urgently.

“June’s gonna love it, E!” Elaine recalls gushing to him on that first house tour, entirely unsure if June would indeed love it, but certain that anyone would be honored to be mistress of such a place, though that honor had then been firmly Miss Gladys’s right at the time.

Now it’s all hers.

Elaine swallows hard and rubs at the angry red lines on her belly and breasts that show in the mirror from her girdle, thinking of the weight of that. Thinking of how she had been wrong. This—kingdom—wasn’t for June, this had been for her.

Elaine pulls on the silky, shimmery slip he had given her the money to treat herself to, watching it as it spills over her curves and drapes her kindly. The soft baby blue color makes her skin look tan even in the wintertime and her eyes shimmer dark and smokey in the dimmed vanity lights. It takes her aback a little, the prettiness of the picture she sees in the mirror, hair freshly loosened from its pins and looking like it does when he’s had his hands in it. The kiss-nipped red of her lips is no cosmetic allusion, he’d devoured her lipstick right off a few minutes into married life, clutching her to him in the foyer, acting like hiding by the front door made them discreet.

She touches their puffy vibrancy with a small smile, thinking of him, thinking of being loved. Thinking of mansions and gold sinks and graves dug, thinking of the boy outside the door who did far more than fall in love with her. He provided, and he did it with intent. A great deal of intent. Her heart does a flip at that.

It gives her the bravery to fluff herself in the slip and ignore the nervous tremble threatening to keep her holed up in here, her skimpy attire making her blush for reasons she doesn’t know. Such silliness. She looks pretty, and she is loved. She sets her shoulders back and turns the knob.

Elvis has been pacing a furrow in the plush carpet of his bedroom and berating himself for many things, chiefly having shooed his wife away into the bathroom the first private moment they’d had together.

He is an idiot, he concludes, a prize idiot.

He should have trapped her against the door and kissed the daylights outta her, maybe laid her out all romantically on the bed and caressed her like the movies taught her to expect. At least helped undo the damn zipper. But no, no he panicked, and trying to be a good man, he had sent her into the bathroom alone to strip while he talked his heart and cock into some semblance of restraint. He tears at his hair and tosses his suit jacket on the chair and tries to think of what he’s gonna do, how he’s gonna manage this. He had come across Dodger and Elaine in a tête-à-tête and heard the words from his Grandma:

“Make sure that boy licks ya nice and good ‘fore he tries to stick his pecker in—”

and had proceeded to panic and grab his new bride and hustle her upstairs for “sleep”. He’d caught Mr. Phipps’s pleading eyes on the way up and now he felt like a first team all American pervert. Gone was the sweet, comforting weight of the wedding vows, the religious aura the day had carried with it. Replacing that was a deep seated shame for how often he’d wanked to the thought of this night and all it entails.

In his dreams it had been fun to shock the girl by bending her over and putting it in, watching her eyes go wide and her struggle under him to adjust, but that was before he loved Elaine, he thinks. Now he tears at his hair, paces his bedroom eyeing the bathroom door like it’ll open and release a lion, and wonders how he’s gonna cherish her like he should, when his wants and his adoration keep vying for the upper hand. She boils his blood, shoots lightening up his spine and keeps him stiff at all times, and simultaneously, he is warm pudding when she smiles, and bluer than robin’s eggs when she’s sad.

The weight of getting all he ever wanted, the weight of actually having married himself off, the weight of mama’s hope coming true and her buried right under the window—he feels a little unhinged by it all, and he starts mumbling out incoherent prayers for guidance and self control and a capacity to not fuck up Elaine Presley’s first time. Because that’s just it: she’s Elaine Presley now, and he has a duty to the woman he married ‘afore God to make it good, t-to…

The bathroom door opens and the shimmering vision of Elaine and her feminine assets clad in nothing but a silk slip stops him dead in his tracks, his mouth liable to catch flies it gapes so at her beauty. She looks poised even jiggling and nipple perked in a light drape of silk, and he inwardly curses when her initial confidence seems to flag upon noticing the state he’s in.

Fully dressed with just his suit jacket discarded and here she is near naked—it’s not kind, he knows that, and curses again at his self absorption.

He looks like he’s gone a little mad, she thinks, and she can tell he’s been tearing at his hair in that fidgety way of his when he’s working himself up to a frenzy. It won’t do him good, she knows him, knows he’ll start hyperventilating and that always panics him.

It’s this urge to calm him that has her forgetting her bashfulness and crossing the floor to embrace him, his warm and clothed body pressed against hers in a hug he returns fervently.

“Ya look like an angel,” he rasps his praise in her ear and she is so pleased by that, and by the look of awed admiration on his face that makes her forget to blush, too pleased to be coy.

“Do ya have a new bird, Elvis?” she asks him, trying to distract him from whatever it is that has him so anxious she can near feel him vibrating against her.

“Uh, umm, a bird?” he is truly thrown by that and more than a little distracted by the feel of slippery silk curves molding to him in his arms.

“Dodger was saying—”

Dodger was talking about “peckers” he recalls, and is fast to cut her off in a great rush,

“No, no uh, I haven’t got no bird—sides you,” he jokes weakly and fails to add more, just staring down at Elaine in his arms, Elaine who stares back, her expression curious and amused and maybe a tad unsure.

Of course she’s unsure, you fool, he berates himself after finding his way back to steady thought. God, he should… do something.

“Elvis,” she pipes up and her voice is small but hopeful, “can I help you get comfortable?” and she thumbs at the ruffles of his dress shirt.

He feels his flush paint his neck and his body feels like it’s alight, but it’s perfectly reasonable for her to ask. It’s just that he knows her sweet confidence stems from her not even knowing enough to be bashful, and that’s… heady.

“Yeah,” he croaks and squeezes her to him once more before letting her set work to undoing the ruffled shirt he wore, sans tie.

She’s methodical and steady undoing the shirt, even as she flicks those lined eyes up at him, desperate for his assuring little nods and pleased smiles. He takes to stroking her cheek, running his knuckles across the high bones there and over her bitten lips, she kisses them with each pass.

Last button undone she spreads the fabric apart and places her hands on his chest, a wild delight showing on her face as she runs her hands across his pecs and collar bones, down to his belly, swooping up and down his arms, taking the shirt with it.

It falls to the ground and yet her hands continue to glide across his fevered skin entranced by the warmth and the contours. She’s wanted to feel his heartbeat for a long while now. Watching that tattle tale vein in his neck thump was the closest thing she could content herself with all these months. Her hands drift to his neck and sure enough, it’s thumping like a race horse at a gallop.

She excites him. That thought makes her eyes flick down to his trousers, recalling that strange spurt against her backside on the swing. He’d called that excitement, too.

She moves to open the button of his slacks and his belly sucks in with the breath he holds, she can feel it against her knuckles as she undoes it. She rubs her knuckles soothingly against the fine trail of hair disappearing into his waistband, it makes him shudder instead.

So far, everything on display she has seen before at the pool with him, but more, the prospect of more makes her heart speed up and her curious mind whirl. She’s a little preoccupied with all this as she starts to push the pants over his hips and while he doesn’t prevent her, his motion is a bit jerky when he clasps his hands around her jaw and tilts her eyes away from his hips and the curious bulge there, up to his face.

She hears his belt and the fabric thud to the floor just as his lips descend to meet hers, and then she grows distracted by the kiss he melts her with.

“Hey you,” he whispers hot and breathy against her lips, pillowy plushness rubbing together, kiss-slick and scorching.

And he’s right, it feels like finally seeing each other for the first time today. They’ve a decent rapport together when surrounded by friends and acquaintances, a very seamless dance of social politeness and steadying closeness. But nothing compares to the way they sizzle and melt when it’s just the two of them, like their inner selves are finally allowed to make a showing on their faces in the form of dazed smiles and in the slump of their shoulders, the bellies no longer held in nor the sighs longing to spill out.

“Oh, Elvis,” she manages to gasp, grinning and huffing at the proximity, the way her nipples rub against his chest from the crush of his embrace, just a silken layer between them, and it sends electric static down to her very toes.

“Ya happy?” he dares to ask because she is grinning so silly and sweet right there in his arms.

“Terribly happy!” she doesn’t bother with aloofness, her hands kneading his shoulders and he breathes again, recalling that this is Elaine, sweet Elaine who has gentled him back into the land of the living these last few weeks by simply knowing and caring for him, and while it’s a terrifying responsibility to do right by her—it’s also the best thing to ever happen to him. Elaine, here, in his arms, in his room, as his wife.

“Just ya wait till I get some champagne in ya,” he teases, waggling her chin in his hand and she looks surprised and a little excited by that.

“Elvis I-I’m too young,” she whispers, a guilty and hopeful little thing that suggests she is very amenable to champagne.

“You naughty lil thing, I see that hopeful glimmer in’ya eye,” he clicks his tongue and she giggles, “It’s lawful if your husband pours it for ya.”

“Is that so?” she bites her lip and her eyes twinkle up at him, falling easily into the banter, “Then I’d like to try it—since it’s lawful and all.”

“Mhmm, champagne, an’ a record, that’ll set us up jus’ right, I think.” He’s nearly buzzing himself, feels a little drunk even though there’s not a drop of alcohol in him.

“Don’t want ya to have to go down to the kitchen and leave me, though,” she admits, a little shy. His gut clenches at the confession, the way her lashes dip and fan over her cheekbones. He’d get beat by his mama if’n she knew of the unholy thoughts the pout of her lips made him think. He reels himself back to the present with a persistence that few things in his life made him exercise. For Elaine, his patience was boundless, because she doesn’t wanna be alone, or, rather, she wants to be alone with him. The simple acknowledgement sends his heart racing in hope that he’s managing to do something right, enough that she can’t bear for him to even pop down to the kitchen for a minute.

“Guess what, sugar?” he grins while fluffing her hair away from her face and she perks up, that mouth lifting inquiringly, “I got a refrigerator in the closet.”

“No!”

“Yup.” Elvis’ boyish grin grows until it’s a dazzling, proud smile and he begins to back up, she goes with, still clinging to his arms and giggling in excitement as he backs them into the gargantuan changing room.

“Where?” she cranes her neck this way and that, soon spinning in his arms as she tries to spy a refrigerator amongst the rows and rows of custom suits and well stocked shelving.

He holds up his finger for her attention, and gathering all his showmanship, backs away from her until he reaches the built-in cabinets and with a dramatic flourish flings open the wooden door to reveal his mini Frigader.

“No. Way,” she enunciates dramatically as her pretty mouth hangs open in delight and his own heart clenches and-

-God! Elaine! I can give you so much, he thinks, hang in there with me, I can give so much, I'll make ya fall in love.

He throws her a wink before bending over and retrieving the planted bottle and chilled glasses from inside. The fact he’s bent over double in just his briefs only registering when he’s already got his head half in the refrigerator, and her burning stare threatens to light his ass on fire. He straightens up and spins round to present her with his ribbon adorned findings, noticing her blush scarlet and flick her eyes back to his face.

-My, my, Miss Elaine, what a curious little mind you have.

He kicks the fridge closed and closes the distance between them again, handing her the glasses while taking her other hand in his and leading her back into the dimly lit bedroom. She sets the glasses on the sideboard top and goes to put the needle down on the record after he tells her “Ella’s already on there”, while he smoothes down the profusion of crinkle ribbon around the bottle neck in preparation to open it.

Elaine adjusts the needle and gets the record going and soon Ella Fitzgerald croons warmly:

-Birds do it, bees do it

She turns back around and watches as Elvis begins to gnaw on the champagne cork with his million watt, pearly white money-making teeth.

“What on earth are you doin’?” she protests, hurrying back to him. He’s like a rabbit with the thing, she thinks humorously.

-Even educated fleas do it,

He pulls the spit slicked cork away from his mouth to explain in a loathing huff, “Forgot to bring an opener up here.” And he doesn’t want to leave his baby, goes unsaid, doesn’t wanna leave her since she said she didn’t want him to leave.

-So let’s do it, let’s fall in love

Elaine’s lip wobbles into a fond smirk even as she tries to maintain some sternness, “You’ll break a tooth, E!” she warns even as her heart throbs at the sweetness of it.

“Nah, nah I’ll get it, my baby wanted champagne n’ she’s gonna have it,” he insists as she makes aborted little movements with her hands to try to aid him but is unsure of what to do or hold. “Here, hold the end, I’m gonna try’n pull it out, probably gonna gush so, be ready.”

And so Elaine finds herself in a laughing fit, holding onto the bulbous bottom of a champagne bottle as Elvis Presley himself buries his nose in the thatch of ribbons and gnaws the cork loose, like a dog with a bone, yanking this way and that while growling playfully around it.

“This is the silliest thing—” she wheezes even as his jaw’s yanking motion makes her feet slip closer, her light weight losing ground in this tug-o-war until suddenly there’s a pop and down he goes, flat on his ass, cork in mouth, champagne showering him from above.

He’s curled in on himself at her feet, all long tan limbs contorted and white briefs quickly becoming transparent, crunched in half from the force of his laughter and partly to shield his eyes from the alcohol rain. She watches in a bit of a state, though she’s unsure of what kind, as golden alcohol glistens over that heart, pools in every divot of him and even sparkles tauntingly on inky lashes.

“Quick, quick catch it baby!” he waves at her frantically through his wheezing hiccups, “With your mouth, put it in yer mouth!” he explains and she suddenly snaps her attention away from watching his underwear cling to him and brings the bottle up to her mouth.

She chugs on command, her throat working rhythmically and her eyes wide at the new taste, bubbly spillage glossing up her chin and chest and down her slip, a dark trail that makes his mouth dry out with thoughts of other things. She pulls away with a gasp and a wet pop as he struggles to his knees, cupping himself like that’ll detract from his obvious outline, thanking heaven his jitters seem to have kept him half mast.

“Here, it’s fizzy,” she informs him like that’s news to him before bringing the bottle down to his lips and tipping the champagne into his slack mouth. His hands fly out to rest on her hips, steadying himself as she pours the celebratory drink down his throat. “Cheers!” she giggles as he taps out his max capacity on her hips, his breath fully gone and his cheeks bulging with the fizz.

“Here’s to you, Mrs. Presley,” he gasps after his swallow, smiling up at her stupidly sweet.

Elaine isn’t sure if it’s his breathlessness, those fathomless blue eyes looking up at her adoringly or the way he’s proving he’d do anything to please her, but she’s suddenly filled with a burning compulsion to eat him up. And she acts on it, bending down to slot their mouths together, one hand gripping his sticky shoulder and the other still holding onto the bottle neck.

He rises to his feet in an effortlessly smooth motion, hands dragging up the curve of her as he goes until they tangle in her hair, his arms criss crossed over her back and then the real kissing begins, the kind he had figured he’d gentle her into but she seems to have already found a taste for. It’s open mouthed and sloppy and she nearly lets the bottle slip from her hand as she seems to levitate right out of her skin and upwards to some hot and hazy sphere where a pink tongue dances with her own.

And sweet Lord, she loves the way he kisses her, large hands yanking her head back by her hair so he can pour his passion into her keening mouth from above, his arms encompassing her shoulders and pressing her to him, his plush mouth working her up to a frenzy. She squeezes his shoulder, in retribution or encouragement, she doesn’t know which, for the ache he always manages to spark in her belly. Speaking of, his soaked underwear is pressed to her belly and dampening the fabric of her slip so it, too, becomes tacky and drags as he shifts against her, almost like they’re riding waves together, grappling in a gentle struggle for leverage in this caress.

-electric eels, I might add, do it, though it shocks ‘em I know,

She’s a responsive little thing, his new wife, and fiesty in her affection, too. Her nails dig into his back and make him hiss pleasurably and he finds he can’t help but hump the little curve of her belly beneath the silk, wet briefs tantalizingly coarse against his cock. It occurs to him this is a precious moment, for many reasons, but particularly for the fact that never again will she kiss him without at least some anticipation of more to follow. What’s a kiss that goes nowhere? A kiss that devours and consumes and grapples and bites but has no destination? Her whole body conforms to his in an effort to get closer as they sway in the middle of his bedroom floor, but she knows of nothing after this, she doesn’t know it’s leading anywhere. The kiss is all she knows. It’s like she has an incomplete map, one he gets to draw the big red ‘X’ at the end of. He wonders if a body can combust if kissed long enough, if he can make her shatter apart just by ignorant need and a searingly good necking. He pours more energy into plundering her mouth and ignores her whimpers begging for a breath.

Elaine finds her free hand sliding from his shoulder down the plush side of his ribs, tacky with champagne, and thumbs at the soaked waistband of his briefs. It makes him break their kiss at last, near drowned for air and his eyes wild as he rears back to study her face.

“You’re getting me sticky,” she whispers smilingly and watches him lick her spit from his lips with a languid tongue.

“Ya could just say you want me nekid,” he quips, and nearly swallows his tongue in horror right after, holding his breath to see how the joke lands.

Elaine is… taken aback, judging by the way her eyes widen and her cheeks flame bright in the dim light of the bedroom, but she truthfully shrugs and murmurs while staring past him, “I would really like to see ya, E.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” he whispers back earnestly and she flicks her eyes back to meet his before her smile returns and she makes a motion to one handedly strip him before thinking better of it.

She takes another chug from the champagne bottle instead and he chuckles, making a motion with his hands to hand it to him when she’s done. She gives it over and he gulps down the liquid courage while trying to go somewhere else as Elaine begins to carefully peel his soaked tighty whities down his legs. Her yittle fingers make it mighty difficult.

-God, I hope she’s at least seen a penis before, he prays. Or, or actually no. I hope she hasn’t, I hope she has no fuckin clue about any other man, most certainly no trimmed up, affluent, all American, circumcised one.

While he’s busy making his nose burn with the bubbles he’s downing like water, Elaine takes a moment to feast her eyes on tan thighs and the boney cradle of his hips, defined by a lean belt of muscle descending from his abdomen and that faint dusty trail of hair that was pointing downwards to a destination after all. He’s pink and soft and harmless looking down there, very much like the anatomy sketches she’s seen in the medical books. A limp little tail-like thing that hangs between his legs with a sheath of skin covering it, pillowed atop a very heavy looking sack that’s a couple shades darker than the shaft thingy. Maybe men have a bladder on the outside, she ponders.

She finds herself a little relieved, and also stupidly endeared. It’s his privates, she should let him be, they’re not like hers that have a dual purpose of child bearing and peeing. They’re just his soft parts and he’s terribly sweet to let her satisfy her curiosity about them, and so she rises back to her feet with a pleased sigh, having refrained from the stupid impulse of reaching out and grabbing hold of them. Elvis lets out a ragged sigh of his own and looks like he’s trying to read her brain as she presses another kiss to his lips.

“Thank ya,” she chirps and he raises his eyebrows in surprise that this is going so well.

It goes well until it gets weird. And by weird Elvis means his sweet young wife starting to circle him like he’s a damn statue, her hand trailing over his skin and letting out appreciative little noises at the way his muscles twitch beneath her fingers. His ribs tickle and his arms jitter and his back tenses and then there’s that throat closing feeling of her palming the swell of his ass, admiring and entitled as you please. He feels a bit like a prize horse, being eyed up at auction, Elaine the buyer that’s testing to see if he’s a well-bred stallion. Seeing if he’s a good breeding partner, if he’s made of good stock.

Elaine’s appraisal halts at his other side, she’s got a hand gliding up his sternum like the feel of sparse chest hair is equal to the most priceless Persian rug, and her other hand keeps petting the swell of his ass as she presses kisses to his shoulder—oh god help him, he likes it, much as it makes him squirm, this entirely unexpected review of his assets has him standing at attention and hoping she approves. Something else starts to try to stand to attention and it’s through a helpless sort of mortified resignation he feels little Elvis twitch in earnest. The sorta twitch that’ll lead to precum sputtering out soon enough.

She notices. Of course she does, he feels her lips fall away from his shoulder so she can peer over it at the growing developments, and with unerring accuracy she repeats the motion she had just made, expecting a similar result if providing the right equation. His cock is feeling benevolent if a little demure tonight, and he can’t help but flex his hips as the next rush of blood makes the thing move again. Oh damn, he thinks, they’re getting somewhere now, and he’s not yet given a single lesson.

Elaine had long harbored a rather inordinate curiosity about the male figure, her swimming hole adventures and glimpses of mechanics stripped down covered in grease had all inspired a rather alarming curiosity in her girlish head as to what the male form looked like… unimpeded. She thought it silly that there was such emphasis on men’s tastes being visual, on pinups and advertising girls selling dish soap that had nothing to do with the bikinis prominently filled out. For her, Marlon Brando swaggering around in a sweat soaked singlet had done more to convince her to move to a New Orleans tenement than all those skimpy dressed floozies ever had ever convinced a regular ole father of three to buy Lucky Strikes. But to touch? To feel searing hot masculine blood pumping right beneath that terribly smooth skin and the dip and give of his muscles beneath her palm? Her chest aches and her hands move of their own accord, wondrously eager to make him wag between his legs again, like a happy tail swelling and jerking with each squeeze she gives his butt.

“Elvis, you’re so pretty,” she gushes the admiration swirling around and around in her mind and feels the whole long, lean, glorious length of his shudder at the comment.

She’s enchanted with his body, he realizes, he’s pleasing to her, and her hands flutter in a hopeless want to touch him everywhere and it’s all he can do not to seize a dainty hand and wrench her away from this sweet perusal and make her grip him here he needs it. He wants, needs, filthy things from her. And she just thinks he’s pretty. The moan he stifles with his hand is only fuel to her fire.

“Uh—” he begins, figuring he better get somethin about the mechanics of things out before this sweetness turns him feral and the tempting thoughts to just… sneak it in her… take precedence in his brain.

“What’s it doin’?” she interrupts instead, and he savors the feel of her holding his bare waist while he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking steady breaths, forcing some blood back up to his brain.

“I-i-it’s, it’s gettin’ excited,” he figures is an honest start, “F-firmin up.”

“Why?” she asks curiously, sounding ever so child-like, still petting his sides like, like—like he’s her pet.

He wouldn’t mind being her pet. He’s foolin’ himself thinkin’ he isn’t already, she’s just embracing her role with innocent confidence, unencumbered by silly knowledge of roles and shit, like he is.

“Well, uh, it’s, it’s—” he bites his lip harshly before gently grabbing her arms and moving her round to face him, stroking her neck soothingly while keeping her at a safe distance where her silk clad belly won’t encourage little Elvis any faster. “It’s gotta firm up as, it’s, it’s, it’s my key, baby,” he explains gently, watching with burning concentration for any flicker of understanding flitting across her earnest face.

“Your key?” she repeats gravely, that nagging feeling returning that there’s more to this… marriage business… then she’s been told, and she’s about at the end of her patience with being fobbed off the topic. “Elvis—” she goes to appeal for an answer to his generous nature, the lush set of his features above her sweet and sultrily eager as her own, encouraging her that he’ll humor her—

“Elaine, we gotta have a business meetin’,” he declares, effectively cutting her off, and it’s the voice he uses at conference tables with the colonel or with reporters but she knows it’s him scrambling to grab hold of some control. Ever wary of the delicate state of his emotions these days, she holds her peace. “Bout, b-bout marriage,” he clarifies and for the first time since coming up here, a cold shard of fear slices through the gooey warmth of his presence.

“Alright,” she agrees, firmly supportive, squeezing his arms to emphasize that she’s on his side in this, she takes her cues from him. It’s what good wives do, and it’s what all of humanity does when Elvis Presley starts to direct a thing.

Her compliance has the intended result of soothing him, his jitters calm under her hands and the light beam of her encouraging smile. He gives a few small nods of his head as if agreeing with an unspoken suggestion, and Elaine is entirely certain he’s got a self affirming monologue running up there in that pretty head to drown out whatever has him so panicked.

Alight with her touch, with thoughts of her and her lil house and making it good, making sure it takes, of finally having what he’s dreamed about for goin’ on two years now, he feels his knees near buckle and he murmurs hurriedly,

“Let’s sit on the–the bed for a minute.”

Hand in hand, and at a head clearing distance from each other, they mosey over to the canopied wonder that is his bed, decked out in black and gold, tufted pockets of down beckoning for a bounce amongst, and Elaine can’t help herself. Maybe it’s the champagne or a stubborn desire to keep the jubilant atmosphere alive but she slips her hand out of his with a parting squeeze and launches herself into the downy sea of gold.

His stride falters and he watches with a fondness he feels deep in his gut as his Elaine bounces into the bed like a giddy child, her long limbs splayed artlessly and the swell of her ass rippling under baby blue silk, a sliver more of inner thigh visible as it rides up, kicking her footsies gleefully for good measure before she lifts that darling face and grins at him beckoningly through a curtain of chocolate curls.

God he loves her. And this is what he’ll get to see and feel and love for all the coming nights, for the rest of his life. He moseys up to the bed and reaches out, caressing Elaine’s shiny locks back in place, matching her smile in an endeavor to help keep this mood as joyous as it should be. She grabs at his wrist that is petting her hair and pulls him atop her. Weak and wanting, he goes, registering with searing clarity the first feel of his long limbs being pressed atop every inch of her smaller frame, the bedspread tufting beneath their combined weight.

He is burning hot atop her, and so much larger than her own body, she realizes with a thrill that tingles down to her very toes. She resumes her petting of the wings of his shoulder blades, smooth and sweaty beneath her hands and she wiggles beneath the new sensation of his thighs pressed to her own, and his hips cradled by her hips, fitting together effortlessly. It’s delightful and she acts on the urge to tilt his face out from the bedspread and seek more kisses from those cherry red lips of his.

Elaine keeps undulating under him, spurred on by a thousand heady new sensations, slippery as an eel in her silk, and Elvis’s mind blanks at the feel of her eager and squirmy body beneath his. He forgets about lessons and marriage and sacred duties and instead acts on his most natural instinct which is to kiss her back ferociously and buck against the cradle of her hips ‘till his cock weeps for joy at finally being heeded.

As natural as riding a tandem bike, after the initial wobble for balance, Elaine quickly finds his rhythm and grinds along with him in a unified dance for propulsion, feeling something besides his champagne-sticky skin begin to slick up her nightslip.

That’s the wet smear of his excitement, she realizes, and rocks up more vigorously to encourage him. His penis is a throbbing pipe between them, and while she can’t see it, she can feel the thing growing and digging into her belly and she thinks of keys and she wonders, and aches. The whine her groom lets out, once hazily recognizing the fact she’s actually trying to aid his pleasure like a good wife should, is pulled from deep in his gut into her open mouth, sending a triumphant shudder through her.

“Sweet—lord—fuck—Elaine,” he blasphemes into her ear in a pained cry, his hand a mere agent of his cock as it fumbles between them frantically to pull up the hem of her slip.

Her hot breath fans against his face in shocked gusts and if he cracked open his screwed shut eyes he’s pretty sure he'd see her looking a little scandalized, which is why he doesn’t open them. He’ll save that for when he’s balls deep inside her and there ain’t a lawful thing she can do about it. For now he just doggedly hikes up her slip until it’s halfway up her belly and his balls are rubbing amongst the pettiest thatch on a beaver he ever did see. Not that he sees it now, mind you. No, his eyes stay closed and he forces her into another kiss lest she protest, but he recalls the particulars of her cunt like that addled inspection he made of her lady parts was yesterday and—

—her lil house, his promise, his duty! It all comes crowding back to his mind with an icy damper just as her hands glide down to land with a strong and naively lecherous grip on his ass and he—

—he might have made it if it weren’t for that grab. It’s not a good precedent to blame one’s wife for a loss of control but he’s afraid that’s just what it is, a precedent when, heedless of her confusion, he grips her delicate shoulders in each of his hands and leverages up, one pump, two pumps, three pumps amongst the slick petals of her pussy and then, then it’s white hot satisfaction and… Elaine.

Elaine, Elaine, Elaine—oh how I love you, oh how I want you, Elaine, Elaine, Elaine, you drive me nuts.

“Oh, oh wha—oh,” through the ringing haze of busting a nut against her, Elvis can hear her bewildered enjoyment as he spurts and slicks her up real messy, grinding against her pearl with powerful, heedless strokes.

He stops his whimpering moans and sucks in a breath, still somewhere else in his bliss and utterly unmoored, but not so useless as to stop moving along to her guiding hands on his butt.

Her breathy gasps are—they’re everything he’s ever fantasized about, and to make up for blowing his load like a green boy, he keeps up the pace she wants, slippin’ and a’slidin against her, listening intently as her pitch spikes when his cock smudges her clit with his head. She begins to replace each gasp with a noisy inhale.

“Wha-what’s oh, Elvis what’s—” she finds her voice just enough to babble as her head thrashes in a confused protest a few times amongst the golden tufts.

Then her hands clench on her handful of backside before the head of his cock slips in its glide and snags against her untried door. The bitten off shriek of surprised ecstasy she lets out, and the cruel bite of her nails in his butt, the rigid spasm of her thighs beneath his, tells him she’s gotten a taste of the heaven he just indulged in early.

“That’s it, that’s it, it’s nice feelin’, ain’t it?” he preemptively shushes her worries, the ones that gather even now on her brow the minute her pleasure ebbs away enough for rational thought to raise its pesky head.

“Elvis, I—what was—” she pants and can’t find the words or courage to finish her question, she just blushes beneath him instead, and for the first time tonight he can sense her feeling insecure.

“That was actin’ married, baby,” he answers simply, cupping her face and letting his thumbs rub soothing circles in her hairline. “You alright? Did I scare ya?” he whispers, terrified in suspense as Elaine seems to give his question thought, reviewing the recent memory of her first orgasm with typical, analytical detachment.

“It felt… tingly,” she decides, having to acknowledge no harm was done and this sated feeling of her melting into a puddle beneath him is rather lovely. “I liked it,” she decides, then insists as he still looks down at her, chestnut hair falling into his eyes and his worried mouth wobbling like a scared baby’s. “I liked it a lot.”

“Ya liked it?” he perks up, his lip curling in a smile, eager as a puppy, and she remembers him asking her the same thing, in the same eager way, about the grand staircase when he first showed her Graceland.

“Yes, yes I did,” she nods emphatically, ignoring how something seems to hang in the air about them now, something more that prods her to ask, “What now?”

Because “more” feels like a third person in this room and her curiosity has been too long deferred.

“Now we have that business meetin’,” he replies gravely, as if he suspects her of plotting against the meeting and its solemn necessity.

He tries to pitch his voice down in a bid to sound authoritative, but all she can think of are his pitiful little whimpers as he wet her belly. She smirks and reaches up to push his hair out of his eyes. “Yessir, Private,” she teases, immensely pleased with herself when he lets out a throaty laugh and rolls his eyes in response.

He pulls his body away from her, forcing himself not to cringe at the goopy mess he made of her pussy, or the resiliently adhesive string of spunk that refuses to break the connection between them as he pulls away. She is watching his every expression, he knows, every movement, the bat of his eyes, all being used to form her own opinion of this and he is careful not to show any reaction that might have her embarrassed, or worse, thinking the act gross. Sex is nasty, and he fuckin’ loves it for it. And if he can help it, so will she.

He twists off her and rolls on his side, sitting up where his legs dangle off the bed and he flips her slip back down in what he hopes is a subtle but swift enough gesture to be considered gentlemanly. She sits up beside him and folds her hands expectantly in her lap, her legs swinging off the bed beside his own and if he thinks too long about the fact he’s probably dribbling down her primly closed thighs, he’ll go insane all over again.

Get this part done and then you can go nuts, he tells himself, then it’s free reign. Or, well, nearly.

“Elaine baby,” he begins, this time his voice is naturally deep and earnest as it often is when discussing something very important, she recognizes it and gives him all her attention, “Do ya know anythin’ bout what mamas and daddies do when they go to bed?”

Her head is still fuzzy from whatever trickery they just engaged in, the way his hand now descends to her thigh making the pounding between them worse than ever even as the pleasure is sharper, more satisfying than any she’s achieved. It clouds her mind and stalls her reply. She thinks that she could answer smartly that he just showed her what they do, or she could say she knows they sleep, or she could rattle off a buncha scared suggestions that might make her seem a little less lost, a little less dumb about this whole thing. But she trusts him, trusts him to be kind and patient, to want to be married anyway. So she bites down her pride and shakes her head adamantly, not a shred of flippancy left.

“Well, part of bein’ married is makin’ babies, right?” he responds, “And that happens in a marriage bed, or least—that’s where it happens first time ya try,” Elvis explains the best he can, his voice gentle and his drawl persuasive like it had been when he showed her cords on the guitar. “Now we uh, we’ve talked bout your lil house already,” he notes and she nods with sober and locked on fascination, waiting for him to drop a hint of something that will make practical sense, “and I done told ya bout my key. You felt it gettin all firm, yeah? Then sprayin’ ya belly—sorry bout that, jus’ got me so excited, went ahead of myself—well, baby, ya see…” He twists his lower lip with his fingers in one last pained procrastination before getting the rest out in a measured slur, “To make a baby the daddy’s key has gotta go inside the mama’s house a-a-and unlock her.”

He holds his breath and watches this lesson land home on her sweet face. He takes note of each stage of comprehension as it morphs her face. First there’s her squint of concentration, then the eyebrow quirk of confirmed speculation, then the lip bite of second guessing his meaning, then crystal clear compression that seems to freeze her features in one of disbelief until they reanimate in a frenzy of emotion that culminates in her heavily fringed eyes darting down to stare at his recently spent, half mast cock. His key, he corrects himself, and like a damned pet, it wags under her wide eyed study.

“Oh ha, oh.” She tries to master her gasps and they just come out in a tumble anyway, staring at that strangely animate part of him that is nothing like any one of hers. The longer she looks the larger it grows, the sheath drawing back and revealing a tender looking tip, so vibrantly red it matches the flush splotching down his chest. It looks like it’s aches, and she suddenly has sympathy for the eager thing. At her aborted movement to touch it, she sees it sputter out clear fluid, as if weeping for her attention.

A great many bits of hearsay, of anatomical layouts studied, some Bible passages about “goin into her” and a few racy lyrics flash through her mind like star witnesses confirming his account of married life. She suddenly wants to laugh at the absurdity of not putting it all together until the wagging heft of the thing swelling beneath her stare makes her suddenly hope he’s wrong. Or, or -teasing, he’s gotta be teasing.

Oh course he is! Her shoulders loosen up and she lets out a great big sigh before meeting his stormy eyes and poking the soft rolls of his belly warningly, “You had me there!” she tsks and begins to laugh the more she thinks of the idea of him shoving his… his pee pee… up her to make a child.

Elvis doesn’t laugh, he looks suddenly quite alarmed and her merriment dies on her lips, stuttering out at the sight of his earnest face.

“You. Are. Teasin,” she repeats with a pleading diction, “You don’t really -oh gosh y- you ain’t pullin’ my leg, Elvis?” she almost whimpers, her mother’s proper nomenclature gone right out of her pretty mind at the idea of that chubby snake thing inside her.

“I ain’t pullin’ your leg sweetheart.” he swears, no hint of mockery in his voice, “That cream ya felt…coming out, the sticky stuff, i-it shoots up in ya a-a-and fertilizes y-your eggs. I-it’s called making love, baby, cause it’s-it’s makin…love.”

Elaine feels her face growing hot at that visual and would like all these components to make less sense right about now. It all comes together in her logic like a missing piece of the human puzzle, but far from being the Devine enlightenment she was expecting, she finds it’s a sticky, bobbing, whining, gushing, squelching process that isn’t remotely medical or Devine. It’s comedic, and her jaw clenches in protest at the absurdity of it all. God really must enjoy a good laugh, forcing folks to spew and shake apart like idiots just to keep the human race alive.

“Why’s it growin?” She demands hotly, resigned to the logic but quite unappreciative of the fact that the more excited about making babies his key gets, the more likely its growing size will make it impossible to fit inside her.

“It’s getting firm so it can go in,” he defends his offending boner as meekly as possible, eager to get back in her good graces and refusing to listen to little Elvis’ cries of offended honor, “A-a-and so it’ll feel good inside ya.” he makes sure to tack on and notices her incredulous left eyebrow shoot up to her hairline.

“That so?” she asks, utterly sarcastic.

“Yes!” he pleads and her face softens a little at his hurt tone, at his obvious honesty, “Once inside it’ll rub ya all nice like it felt a minute ago. ‘Member that? this’ll be like that just… even better.”

“I-I-I do, I do recall,” she softens at his worried face, realizes he thinks she’s gonna back down from this and curses the fact she’d really rather. Impotent anger rises up in her for a brief flash that she didn’t have more time to prepare for this, that no one told her so she might settle her terrified little belly to the thought of him—

—it’s too awful to be pondered for long and she takes a great deep breath and holds it in the way she learned at the hospital, to calm a bout of panic, staring off across the room at the portrait of Jesus he has hung by the closet door. She thinks about how best to fly away while he does what is necessary, she thinks about babies, she thinks about how pretty and sweet he is. She thinks about her mama, and wonders if the procedure is so awful, why didn’t she and every woman in her life warn and prepare her for it? Now her aunt’s words make sense. Be good and let him do what he needs to. If this is what he needs to do, then she reckon’s she’ll just have to let him see to it.

“Elaine?” he begs her to look at him, his warm hand gently grabbing her chin and turning her face to his like an ornery mule by its bridal. “Elaine, what’s in that pretty head? Talk to me please,” he puts his face all up in her own’s business, hands cradling her face and noses brushing, she can feel the brush of his lips when he speaks again softly, “Ya don’t think God would tell folks to be fruitful then make it awful for ‘em, do ya?”

It’s as if he’s read her mind, her own rationalization on the subject and she gives a slow nod of dissent, “no,” she agrees, and realizes due to her watery voice that she must’ve started crying somewhere along the way. It rankles her, being so skittish, being so troublesome for her groom when she’s not even been married a full day.

Lord, instead of being angry, he’s nuzzling her tear tracks across her face and swearing never ending tenderness to her. Her heart does another flip as his lips trail down her neck, and she warms again, her ache returns and it reminds her of his own. She tilts her head so he can better suck at the soft skin of her neck and casts her eyes down to his lap, finding him still eager. His key looks so desperate and needy, and despite her grievance against its size, her hand darts out instinctively to swipe at the leaking mushroom head like she would anyone’s tears from beneath their eyes.

It has a rather startling effect on her young husband.

Elvis lets out a choked cry and crushes her arms where he holds them, his kiss bitten cry turns into a chomp on her shoulder as the shock of his reaction makes her squeeze his member harder, eliciting a yet greater amount of pleasurable anguish from him. The way the previously dribbling precum gushes over her knuckles is entirely the most heady thing she’s ever managed to feel in her life. That molten warmth in her belly ignites again, and she kisses his own neck in delight at the responses he gives her, even as she drags the flat of her palm up and down his key, taking notes on the way he bucks against it.

“Elaine—” he garbles into her throat and she kneads his neck comfortingly even as she continues to watch the way this new friend throbs and gushes under her tiniest attentions. Like a personable pet or a responsive baby, it’s a joy to have something react to her with such inordinate eagerness.

“Alright, I believe ya,” she whispers soothingly as she thumbs at his leaking slit and strokes down his foreskin, noticing a definite ridge and then a puffy head differentiating the head from the rest of the shaft, “Just the tip has to go in, right?” she surveys the bulbous little head and calms herself. It’s not that big, just awfully wide. She can manage it, for the babies.

“N-no baby.” he stutters into her throat, miserable and worried sick about repeatedly having to be contrary, “S’all gotta go in.”

“But, but you can just spray up once it’s in!” she cries out, laughingly incredulous and a single sentence away from reverting back to suspecting him of playing a trick, “Why’s the whole thing gotta go in when it shoots the stuff a foot or more?”

That’s- that’s a worrisomely valid point, he thinks, but he can only deal with the logic of her hand fondling his cock right now and so he insists, “No baby, it’s gotta go deep, way up in your belly so it don’t get lost with all the cake ya ate.”

“That ain’t gonna get very deep.” she’s rather unimpressed with his length and it brings him right back down to earth with an Elaine shaped thump, “It’s the girth that’s unnecessarily…plentiful.”

“Ya sayin’ God didn’t know what he was doin when he made me?“ Elvis feigns outrage and pulls away to grin at her, to confirm she’s grinning, too.

She rolls her eyes, then that famillair, sweet smile overtakes her face as she flits her eyes all across the lean yet soft, pale yet golden, masculine yet boyish whole of him, -she finds him very good. “I reckon he knew what he was doin’,” she murmurs wryly, her stare dragging up his form, “I just object to the practicality of so few brains and so much—”

“Elaine!” he growls, gripping the back of her neck, “Kiss me, woman.”

She kisses him with the same gusto he’s previously seen her reserve only for football matches on the lawn. She catapults forward and it knocks the wind outta him, lands her solidly in his lap, a smooching, hair tugging goddess of a mad woman, and he scrambles to keep up, to assist the gearshift that just occurred. Zero to sixty it seems. Elaine can’t seem to hold still when she kisses, always leveraging up and wiggling around and it makes for two of them writhing, to the immense satisfaction of his cock that gets wedged between his belly and hers during this heavy make out.

Eventually she seems to notice -Elvis wonders what gave lil Elvis’ position away: the incessant twitching or the gallons of precum dribbling down the front of her gown.

She pulls away from the kiss and looks down, suddenly reaching and straightening his cock against her belly and through the haze of ball tingling appreciation for her touch he realizes she’s measuring the depth against her belly. That thought makes him spurt so violently he’s not sure if he’s cummin’ a lil or just, just gushin’ like he’s never seen himself gush before. Thank God this sweet little girl seems to like the fact he’s a messy, sensitive, uncut hick of a boy.

“We’ve just gotta try our best, hmm?” he stifles his anticipatory giggle at the size comparison to her abdomen and thumbs at her throat coaxingly, “I’ll try’n get it real deep, and you’ll be good and lemme, right?“

She will, for the babies, he already knows that. Knew it the minute she agreed to marry him. It’s why he wants her.

“Right.” she agrees and tries to not make it sound like she’s being condemned to torture, “I’ll be good for ya.” Be good and let him do what he needs to.

“And I’ll make it nice,” he swears adamantly and she nearly believes him, “It won’t hurt much, not at all after the first time, I’ll make sure you enjoy it, baby. Have ya begging for it in a few hours, you’ll see. It’s gonna be nice, remember?”

“Yeah.” Her tone is unsure but she waggles her eyebrows conspiratorially.

Then, before another promise can be made, she bends away from his lap and flops on her back, legs spread, baby blue silk riding up to show her wet curls, hands serenely crossed across her chest, face expectant. “Well, c’mon, gimme those babies.” she eggs him on, somehow keeping the wobble out of her thin voice.

“Elaine, honey, you’re shakin’,” he worries, noticing the visible battle in her body between desire and fear.

“I am a little chilly.” she replies very decorously, and with a liar liar pants on fire smile of assurance.

“Bullshit, you’re terrified,” he murmurs, petting her spread legs that are still partly in his lap, sliding his warm palms up her inner thighs and noting with satisfaction the way it makes her nipples pebble helplessly beneath the silk. She even rocks her hips towards his soothing attentions and that’s perfect, that’s how he’s gonna handle this, just soothe her into it, her entirely absent prudery a great aid. Although this next little detail he’s gonna teach her may push her to the limit.

“Now, ‘fore I go in, there’s a great deal of prep’s gotta happen or else I’d not be a husband, just a mean bastard, you understand?” And he watches closely as Elaine’s chest heaves in relief that she’s got a little more time before the main event. Come to think of it, he should buy her more time, maybe a bath to get her all loosened up and pliant. “How bout we take a bath first, ya wanna take a bath, baby?” he suggests and knows that it was entirely too random a segue the minute it leaves his mouth.

“Not–not right now.” she whispers honestly, her hands still crossed across her breasts and she makes a motion that hikes the neckline a little higher, telling him all he needs to know about her shyness. He’ll let her leave the slip on for now, the fact her cunt is considered husbandly property but her breasts are sacred maidenly assets makes him feral with want. “I’d like to just get this over w- to, experience it,” she does a decent job at damage control of her initial sentiment but he figures it’s understandable to want it over and done with, like a procedure, like a tooth being pulled. “Honestly Elvis, I’m too nervous to enjoy anything till we do it,” she admits, no pretty turn of phrase, just that precious honesty he appreciates so much about her.

Boy does he have a surprise for her, then. He grins and he nods understandingly, “I getcha, baby, we don’t gotta do nothin you don’t want,” he swears, “Just gotta prep ya then we’ll get on with it. Hey, stop shruggin’, ya just might like it.” He pinches her thigh and it makes her giggle, she gives him another unconvinced shrug that he takes as a gauntlet thrown to turn her into a whimpering cock slut.

“I-I’m gonna pull this up a lil,” he narrates gently, figuring it might put her at ease as he matches his words with the action of rolling her hemline up to her ribs. Her soft belly caves in with the breath she’s holding and he lays his searing palm on it, coaxing her to settle for him.

She can feel his calluses and the grounding weight of his broad hand on her womb, and the rightness of it turns her body pliant. That dreamy submission he first coaxed from her to make her sleep after her mother’s funeral -she can feel it coming over her again and settles glady. He’s never steered her wrong yet, and he’s let her keep her breasts modest, a sweet concession she is eager to thank him for with obedient compliance. She focuses on his large hand and the way it’s now petting, no, more like digging gently, with his fingertips into her lower belly, little digs and pulls upwards over and over again. She can feel each tug downstairs in her little house, like his fingertips are tugging at her little button’s string from the outside in. Her head truly sinks back into the gold tufted comforter and she absently palms a heaving breast. This part of being married is lovely.

The awed look overtaking Elvis’ cherubic features as he stares down at the freshly undressed slit between her legs is reward enough for her. Life is suddenly dreamy and hazy, like she’s viewing his rich coloring and decadent face through a stocking over a lens, like the girls do to minimize their pores in photographs. He looks like that naturally, too rich and pretty and lovely to be true, now muddled and smeared from the feelings his hands excite, he looks otherworldly and she lets slip a moan of appreciation.

“You’re so pretty.” she babbles again, unsure if any of it actually made it out of her head. It seems very pressing to tell him, maybe in lieux of the “I love you” he’s dying to hear but made her swear she wouldn’t say till she meant it.

For Elvis, the entire picture of Elaine, melted ivory skin with a halo of chocolate curls and a wisp of sea foam silk covering what he’s dying to see -she is like an erotic painting brought to life just for him to lick and squeeze and split open on a sea of gold. He shudders and keeps his finger tips massaging her giving belly, this ole trick of Johnny’s obviously not half bad, judging by the way she goes boneless and her long legs begin to spread of their own accord, knees bending out and her pink petals beginning to make an obvious flutter beneath the curls.

“You recall what Dodger said.” he asks her very softly, mumbling it into the soft skin of her inner knee as he gets her used to the feeling of his lips creeping closer to the place he’s about to devour, “remember her sayin I was to lick you?” he prods, knowing that bringing up his grandmother is not ideal seconds before slurping at his wife’s beaver, but he guesses rightly that he might benefit from some moral backup for what he’s about to propose.

“Y-yes, yes before a pecker o-“ Elaine’s already a little incoherent as he permits his hand to stray from her belly and scratch amongst their curls, digging and tugging at her outer lips from afar, making them glide against each other in a soft stimulation, like a foreskin getting rubbed over the glans.

“Pecker’s jus’another word for key.” he whispers into the butter soft skin of her twitching thigh and her hips jerk from the tickle of his voice.

“Oh is it?” she manages to laugh, even as it’s a far away little sound, “dear Dodger.” is all she adds.

“So like she said,” he carefully moves himself to a crouch, taking care not to jostle her out of her docile trance, crouching like those mountain cats between her legs, he carefully replaces his hand with his cheek as he rubs his face against her belly -entirely cat like, “like she said I gotta lick ya. See, cause….’‘fore ya use a-a key in a new lock ya gotta grease, it, right?”

Elaine Presley is so bewildered and terribly hungry for something, anything, Elvis could suggest just about any sort of fuckery right now and she’d agree. As is, she thinks she’s read in the Bible about a man kissing his woman down there, a vague reference to pomegranates that King Solomon might’ve thought real slick, but wasn’t subtle. There was certainly more of an illusion made to it in the good book than anything about chubby snakes going up inside a girl. She has no qualms against it, also very few brains at her disposal right now it seems, and she finds it’s nice having one’s mind wiped blank after such a hectic two weeks of planning and organizing.

“S-so I’m gonna lick ya down there, a k-kiss sorta a-“ Elvis is explaining, unnecessarily thorough in a pained, urgent, desperate whisper that he uses when he wants a thing bad but he wants you to think you want it badder and she-

-Later on in life, later on the next day even, Elaine could never quite tell or explain where the urge or the bravery or the biblical amounts of entitlement to his services she suddenly felt in that moment. All either of them had was the memory of her fresh as a daisy self, steering her groom by his hair till he was face planted between her legs, doing his duty. Licking her open, pink tongue wriggling and lapping.

Terrified shitless that somehow, somehow he’d mess up the one thing he was certain he was remarkably good at, Elvis’s skilled tongue had bolted into her wet heat like a colt through the starting gate with a lot to prove. And he maintained that ferocious pace and fervor for a undocumented and unrecalled amount of time. He was not sure how he managed to breathe down there for the hour or more he spent sucking and licking and jabbing his tongue into Elaine’s long dreamed of cunt, living off fumes from the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted, hair tugs of gratitude his only payment and the sounds of shock and awe spilling out of his new wife at every bout of pleasure he tore from her.

The sounds she was making -they were the same as when the two of them went down to the flower festival in New Orleans, while he was on set, where she’d gasped and cried and exclaimed joyously over five street blocks worth of Lilies and Dahlias and the stringy flower bushes Elvis’ didn’t retain the name of.

“So, so nice, oh, oh right there”. This frantically happy compliance, this unabashed enjoyment by a virgin girl smashing his face into her snatch -it was more than Elvis’ wildest, most self indulgent fantasies could have hoped for.

He had noticed in Elaine a peculiar sort of common sense that most people didn’t have in common. If a thing was not harmful or explicitly forbidden, she had no objection to it, in fact, she considered it free game. And bucking her hips up to meet his tongue and utilize his nose against her button -was obviously one of those non prohibited joys of life. And he set about to make it so addictive that she would be collaring him for a lick every day of her life for the rest of their days. His hands slowly gravitated up her belly, squeezing and appreciating the firm give of her sides and up to her breasts that she still guarded with panting lassitude. He didn’t know if he had snuck his hands under hers to knead the firm mounds or if she’d allowed him under of her own accord, and placed her hands atop his in blessing. But either way, he stayed bent like that, hands groping at her tits and jaw near unhinged to swallow her down, his own hips rutting into the mattress, the seams of the bedspread chafing his cock pleasurably.

“Can I have another?” she would ask eagerly after having shook apart and dribbled over his tongue for the tenth time.

Who was he to deny her?

He worked his fingers in gently, but after the amount of spit and slick they had produced together, it was a mere pinch for her when he snuck in first one long finger, then another. Careful to keep her revving, he dallied for a while with just the two, scissoring them and spitting inside the tight little hole until her objectioning mewls turned to breathy sighs again. Working in the confines of her wet heat near drove him mad, feeling how tight she was around just a few digits had his cock aching and groans of his own came pouring out of his mouth, buzzing her clit and causing her to writhe.

He took to curling his fingers inside her, her walls giving under more readily after his patient coaxing and he rubbed the calloused pads of his fingers up and curled untill he found a soft, giving little spot unlike its surroundings, spongey in a way he’d only ever heard about. Her reaction to his touch there was also something that had before only been mere hearsay from the boys on the road. Her hips leveraged off the bed like she was possessed, and through the smash of her thighs about his ears he heard her scream, and perverse determination was entirely to blame for the way he forced his fingers to keep curling as her little house clamped down around them and suddenly his head was being crushed like a melon between her legs and a jet of sweet, Elaine flavored goodness was spewing at his grinning face.

“Sweet Jesus would ya look at tha-“ Elvis heaved in a dozen breaths the minute her legs fell apart again, propping up on his forearms and watching his stunned wife tremble violently, her belly and thighs shaking like they were motorized, her pussy still gushing feebly and her hands patting herself down as if to make sure she was still all there. He’d only ever heard of squirting, and here he was now, half blinded by her spray.

The sight of the teary eyed, mortified yet pleasure dumb confusion clouding her exquisitely clever face had given him no other option. He had to have her, had possess her, had to take, had to fuckin’ take his due. Now.

She was in no position to deny him, shaking in pleasurable shock and splayed out boneless and unsuspecting. Through a tunnel of starry spots she saw his glistening wet face come in to view, hovering over her own, and felt the warm weight of his body settling over hers, famillair and steadying. She tried to raise her floppy hand to pet his rosy cheek, to somehow convey how lovely he made her feel, but her hand wouldn’t respond beyond flopping around a few inches from the mattress like a beached fish. She began to giggle and could not stop, thinking she should stop so he could kiss her: ya can’t kiss a giggling woman as her lips aren’t available when she’s giggling and he’s gonna kiss her —

—he didn’t kiss her, instead he had gripped her cheek and it steadied her enough for the giggles to die out almost as effectively as the sobering feel of a blunt, slippery, heated thing pushing at her entrance.

“No, no, no” Elaine’s mind whimpered in betrayed protest, “no, no it had been so lovely, it had been so lovely, it had been nice acting married.”

Tears that had gathered and spilled from the nerve wracking ecstasy he had forced out of her, now spilled afresh down her splotchy cheeks. Her dark eyes glittered like dazzling pools of hurt, her head tilted to the side in disagreement with his plan.

Of course, of course, she thought, there’s always something more to be asked of a woman, a banquet can be enjoyed but there are always dishes afterwards, you get your pretty breasts but you have to bleed every month for them, you can have your house licked to madness but it’s only so that a hungry boy can more easily split you apart.

No, no, why? it had been so lovely…

Elvis had of course thought about fucking Elaine Phipps until she cried, he sometimes dreamed about her thrashing from too much pleasure her eyes streaming tears and her mouth twisted as she tried to let him finish, as he made her enjoy it more than she thought she had the capacity to. He’d thought of it, but it wasn’t the same as trying to push into a hole belonging to a girl mindlessly whimpering “No, no” beneath you.

Having an innocence kink, Elvis was discovering, was a lot sexier in theory, before stupid feelings emerged and pesky consciences nagged and the shuddering terror of your wife beneath you was abundantly tangible. That was a fantasy best kept between himself and his fist, and rock hard as he was, and nearly unhinged from waiting, he just couldn’t manage to do it this way. That old insecurity, that burning awareness that he had always wanted her more than she had wanted him came crowding into his mind, making his own eyes burn in rejection and fear.

“Shhh, shhh baby, it’s alright’ sweetheart, hey, hey it’s me, me c’mon, look at me.” he had begged her, hands engulfing both sides of her face, “I’m sorry, Elaine, I’m sorry.” it spills out in cry of his own because he doesn’t know how else to admit his long harbored expectations of her, the carnal weight of what he has wanted all this time, and all the wasted years he’d never told her he worshiped the soundboard her yittle fingers so cleverly levered , “I’ve loved you ever since I came back and found ya grown. I’m sorry, I’ve -I-I’ve wanted to have ya for years. You’re the most perfect thing alive. I-I-I just gotta have ya, I just gotta. I-I’ll d-d-die if ya don’t want me, too, honest I’ll die.”

When she looked at him then, looked and truly saw the soul of him stamped on his face -suddenly she saw everything she once doubted existed. He loved her. Elvis loved her and she was at peace.

It was Elvis. Dear ole Elvis, the boy at the studio who liked her sandwiches, the boy who she could most likely find sitting on the couch with his mother talking about his day, the boy who brushed her hair out for her the day they buried mama. It was Elvis, who was gonna give her babies, who’s gonna make sure she never wants for a thing, who is never going to let her be lonely or purposeless again. Elvis who was the most beautiful, exquisitely potent man she’d ever known, laying on top of her, shaking in desire to be inside her. He wanted to be inside her, so badly in fact, that all his power and his verve and his pride were shaking and shuddering above her.

“Oh my darling, you made me feel lovely.” she whispered to him, wanting that said before he split her open and took away her innocence. “Your love makes me happy, so happy. How could I not want that?“

“You want it?” he begged against her lips, he begged to hear it again while grabbing his tip and smudging against her clit, making her jerk and bow up in his arms. A reminder of what he can do to her, what he can give her, why she should be obedient.

“Yes, yes I want it.“ she repented of thinking anything unkind about her husband’s cock that’s gonna water her garden and grow her a family, that’s going to pry her open so children can pass through.

“Alright, ok.” he gathered his wits one last time, terrified to think of how he’s gonna lose all grip on himself once inside her after expending so patience beforehand, “Here's what we’re gon- we’re gonna let you control it.''

His brain pumped out fragmented explanations but he managed to sit up and bring her with him, landing her in his threatening lap, his arms cradling her little self, and he scooted higher in the bed until he was sitting upright, the padded black headboard at his back.

“There, here… we’ll, we’ll get it in like this.” he took to referring to his own body like it was a stranger, heaving in ragged breaths like a snorting racehorse. “At’cher own pace, baby. Ya-ya can…ya can sit on it.” He was no longer bothering to make sense, and thank God she seemed to realize that.

Being naive did not mean she was a fool. The novel concept now explained it was abundantly obvious in mechanics. Elaine grasped the slippery length of him firmly again, relishing the aliveness of it, holding it as she had when measuring him against her tummy.

She bit her lip with savage determination. Babies, he’s gonna give her babies.

Her husband’s face was all lash fanned anticipation, his pouty mouth grimacing in barely contained fervor and his eyes crinkled in a wince of pleasure from her grip. She saw a single tear escape his thicket of lashes and run down his prominent cheekbone, headed towards his hairline. She swiped at it tenderly with a thumb and had her hand grasped by him in response, tremblingly guided to his shoulder.

Leverage, she realized, he was giving her leverage and she raised up with her thighs like she would in the saddle, felt his hand meet her own down there to line him up, the size of his head against her giving her a thrill of horrored excitement.

Gently hovering and squatting, she gentled the puffy, leaking head of him in. The burning little sting of it only served to confirm that Elaine was about to be split apart when the rest followed. Now nestled far enough to need no guide, he grabbed at her other hand and put it in place on his shoulder, their noses touching, their legs bent atop the each other’s, arms encircled -suddenly this embrace made it feel completely essential to Elaine that they be connected in that remaining way. As if he could feel her submit around his first inch, his eyes flew open and a hungry azure gaze burned her up as her hair curtained around their faces and—

“You were made for this.” he reminded her as she whimpered at another little bit of length inserted, “You w-w-were fashioned u-up i-in heaven f-for this m-moment.” and the young man who couldn’t be made to stop wiggling in a Church pew tried to hold still as his drippingly tight wife cringingly lowered herself more, “In the doll factory u-up above, h-he m-m-made this lil house to t-the direct d-demensions t-t-to squeeze me d-dry —oh fuck, baby c’mon! That’s it, m-more come on, take me. Take more of me!” he groaned, his head bowed and watching where he began to disappear inside of Elaine, the culmination of all his madness.

“God Elvis it’s-its already awful.” she admits, staring at the stupid black headboard and registering every pulsing inch and vein and ridge of his rock hard, half jammed penis inside her tiny canal. “I dunno if i can-“

“Aww no ya don’t! No -don’t ya dare.” his snarled and gripped her hips as she began to raise up and dismount -it was only going to make it worse to try again and he was gonna make her finish this for her own sake, “Good wives don’t get off their husband’s cock till he says so. We’re ruinin’ ya for anyone else, babydoll, course it's gonna hurt something awful first time. Gotta see it though, don’t ya lose our progress.”

He saw a vicious emotion flash across her face -and he recognized it. It was the one from the mirror before a show, that wretched look of ambition that keeps him from fleeing from a crowd when all he wants to do is hide and puke his nerves away. He barely had time to brace his back before she was impaling herself on him again with teeth gritted ferocity, seething in his ear something about how she’d rather get kicked by Trojan -her gorgeous quarter horse. It made Elvis think of horses and her thighs working in the saddle and horses and stallions and stallions mounting mares and fuckin ‘em full and he-

“You’re gonna, you’re gonna take me.” he declared inexorably as she whimpered, “You’re gonna do what God made ya for, you’re gonna take my cock.”

“I can’t.” she wasn’t even whining, she could just feel him hitting a barrier and she couldn’t take more. “Please E, be nice, I-I ca- it’s not gonna fit, E!”

“It will, you’re my wife, ya will. You’ll take it all.” he kissed her check while reminding her steadily.

Then he snapped his hips up to meet hers in a powerful pump that tore her right through. She landed flush in his lap, a gush of virgin blood pooling between them, full to the brim with his thick cock nestled inside. Not even a cry let past her lips, just open mouthed shock, as if he’d punched the scream right out of her diaphragm.

Holy shit, his mind supplied, she was the tightest, most spectacularly tight -tightly wet pretty- tight woman. His whole body shook in delight at the wet, moldable grip of her walls, and he held her closer, blessing her for being so perfect, mumbling in between her still clothed breasts that he was gonna ruin her cunt for any other fella.

Elaine recalls just trying to breathe, even while clutching at his shoulders and listening to the filth pour out of his panting mouth, filth that confirmed his confession that he’d had designs on her body long ago. It made her shiver, which rubbed him inside of her and she doubled over into his chest, whimpering at the fullness and the burning sting of her stretched entrance. A thought flashed across her mind that he was mean to make her take all of him, the tip would have done just as well, and now she feels like she’s impaled on a pipe and his hips won’t stop squirming to force it that much deeper. He sounded like he was enjoying himself, maybe even having a vision of heaven buried inside her, and in that alone she took joy and made herself disentangle from him enough to glance down at the marvelous union they’d made.

It made her gasp in awe. She had swallowed him whole with her own body, taken him down to the root, his sack warm and full beneath her petals, absorbed him till there was no longer a he and she in the bed, but merely them. The Presley’s.

“Lord almighty, you’re tighter than hell.” Elvis moaned in appreciation of the absolute restructuring of her privates that he’d just done, gripping her back with his sweaty hands and letting his eyes roll into his skull in ecstasy.

“Tight yes -great balls of fire E, it hurts like hell.” she reiterated, a little petulant over his enjoyment of her wounded kitty, but he could tell even now she was recovering from the initial tearing open. “It’s not, it’s not supposed to -I can’t believe it fit.”

Curious despite herself, Elaine snuck a hand between them and gingerly felt the stretched ring of her hole and the thick base of him where they were flush, dark curls meeting together. He put his hand on top of her own and encouraged her exploration, making her pet herself and making her squeeze him despite the pained whimper she let out each time her pleasure made her please him.

“Jus’ ruinin ya for anyone else.” he repeated and she shivered in his arms, flicking her eyes up to meet his and sensing a beastial sort of claiming in them she had never seen before, “My wife,” he gloried in the title as his hips began to gently rock her in his lap, making her mewl, “my pretty wife, my good wife, look at you takin’ every damn bit of my cock, look at ya makin yourself useful, pleasin your man, ya like pleasin me dontcha? I know ya do, I’ve felt ya shiver when I praised ya before, I feel ya watchin me to make sure I like a thing you do. I know you, ya might not love me but ya love to please me, I know what you want. You wanna please me, always have since I first saw ya. Ya know what pleases me baby?” he tilted her face to his by her chin, her cheeks wet with tears and her mouth panting as he ground inside her deep and hard as granite, ignoring her whimpers -only her eyes showed the wild revelry she was feeling at being spoken to like this, “Know what makes me happiest?”

“No sir.” she gasped, respectful and suddenly aware of how helpless she was in his lap as his huge hands engulfed her plush hips and made her to swivel and grind on him, the motion tugging her lil house apart even more.

“Pleasin’ God by pleasin myself by filling you up. That’s what. That’s what makes me happy” he stated, the look of girlish shock she showed at his language shooting straight to his cock and making him jab up into her body until she clung to his shoulders and wailed, painfully aroused by the concept and terribly hurt by the process.

“Please, please.” she sobbed into his neck as he gripped her ass and leveraged her up and down on his thick shaft, his groans mounting joyously and her body trembling at being used so presumptuously. It’s too much, he’s too much of a man and her womb aches from his thrusts.

“Please use me?” he grinned into her neck wildly, “That wha’ you’re tryin to say, lil one? can’t get it out with a cock in ya, can ya? So yittle I bet I’m clean up through to your throat, ain’t I? My poor lil wifey.”

It was his glutted acknowledgement of the fact he knew she felt like he was spearing her beyond her capacity, yet he wouldn’t stop, loved her too much to stop driving himself into her, making himself fit in her. He wanted to be a part of her so bad he’d grab her wrists and bruise her hip with his grip and snap his pelvis against her own ruthlessly -just so he could be close to her. Just so she would be his.

It had her moan again, this time from something besides pain.

“Elvis.” she moaned out, trying to tell him, to somehow alert him to the fact she was willing and good and could feel her body had begun to give into its natural purpose, she was slumping into his chest, and her pussy still burned and ached but had surrendered to the veiny little conquerer plundering her depths. “Elvis I-I- yes, yes, use me.” she managed and was given a proud and searing kiss in return for her submission. “You’re so pretty.” she said it like it was some dazed explanation for her obedience.

With Elaine’s pussy giving and wet from blood and slick, he knew he could begin in earnest now. So, gently, he tipped her backwards out of his lap again, laying her on the golden sheets and falling deeper inside her as he got back on top, never pulling out through the whole maneuver. Her eyes rolled back as she felt him lay atop her, buried to the hilt, her legs pushed apart to bracket his waist and allow him deeper. She threw her arms around his neck and breathed in like she was about to be dropped on a rollercoaster, some imminent adventure obviously looming as he buried himself deep and got a thorough grip on her shoulders before kissing her ardently.

It was when she was kissing him back and thinking how wonderfully sweet he was that she first felt those famous hips pull back, then drive himself inside of her with shocking precision. It made her cry out, and before she could suck in breath to replace her cry he was pulling out and pumping in again, little gusts of shock mined out of her at each powerful and measured pump and her back began to rub against the bedspread, her whole body seemed to shake from the force of absorbing his vigor.

“Thank me.” he required, aiming to find that spot that had made her spray his face, determined to wipe that pained grimace off her face and replace it with pleasure.

“Thank -thank you?” her tone was dazed and he wasn’t sure if her confusion stemmed from what she was supposed to be grateful for, or if she disagreed. She gripped the comforter, hands above her head and out to the side, absorbing the ripple he drove into her flesh.

“I've made ya a woman.” he reminded, proud and smug as only a 23 year old boy can be when tumbling his pretty young bride in the sheets beneath him, “So thank me.”

She pensively watched him as he swayed above her, blocking out the gaudy chandelier, his hair flopping into his eyes and moving with the cadence of his body, his body was unforgiving and driving into hers with a steady, slow beat, but his face was still desperately insecure, searching for approval and a hint that he was doing well. She loosened one hand from the counterpane and brought it to his cheek. He melted, a huffed out whimper of his own, in sharp contrast to the rigid power of his desire.

“Sweet man.” she whispered, “So good to me, always so good to me.” she assured, and he gave her a wet kiss full of wanting, letting her pet down his neck, over his back, stroking the swell of his flank, remembering the reaction it had elicited in him and figuring she’d thank him once he managed something worthy of it. Which he was very close to doing, she sensed, if he could relax himself. “Elvis,” she nuzzled his nose with hers, propping herself up on her forearms, to look down the length of her belly at the place where he speared her, “gimme those babies, and I’ll thank ya.”

Her daring grin had the intended effect, his nostrils flared as he heaved in a breath and his pupils blew wide, he pried her other hand from the bedding and interlaced it in his much larger one, pressing the knuckles to the mattress,

“I love you.” he swore before gripping her hip and tilting her pelvis off the bed, to the angle of his satisfaction before he drove his hips in with the purpose of finding that place that made her wild, the one his fingers had discovered and got her to spray for him.

He knew he’d brushed it when her face went from sweet compliance with the discomfort and placid curiosity for the proceedings to eyelash fluttering shock.

“E!” she gusted out urgently and a little unsure, unsure that this horrid taking of him could really be morphing into the spine tingling thrill she was now feeling each time he drove in, the tug and ache of his size still apparent but almost serving to heighten the aliveness of her feelings down there. “Right -right there it’s, it’s oh, it’s-“ she hadn’t a word for it, as the feeling was growing in strength and any moment there might be some shift that turned it back to pain, his speed was picking up and it scared her as much as it excited her. Like when he started speeding on the winding roads of North Carolina just to hear her shriek, conflicted between excitement and fear.

“Yeah?” he huffed, shining with sweat and heat above her, his hair darkened and his eyes darkened and his lips darkened and he- he looked so flushed and dark and decadent and she moaned at the sight of so beautiful a creature possessing her, pleasuring himself with her body, like any animal or male would do with a mate. He could have just hunted her down on a forest floor, chosen her for her scent alone, pinned her fist to the ground and her hips up to his pelvis and -it was that primal. She loved it. Like all the energy and raw potency of life he had in him when performing was now being driven into her aching belly. “Yeah? Yeah that’s where ya like it? Tell me how ya like it, jus’ tell me and I’ll do anything. Anyhtin’ for ya, Elaine. I done told ya, told ya I’d make it nice.”

Nice was a pathetic word for what he was making her feel and she found herself wishing she had an extra hand to stifle the sounds that began to wail out of her throat at his unforgiving depth. His own moans and breaths were shuttering across her face and the intimacy of what they were doing filled her with a serene joy she’d only felt on crisp, tea drinking early dawns in autumn. It made her squeeze him closer and she could just feel the comfort he took in it, his whole body melding to hers. Elvis’ slow and long pumps had her adjusting well and the unerring accuracy he maintained when noticing something she liked soon had her clenching from pleasure rather than pain.

“You’re in me.” she stated the obvious with a little shock in her voice, turned silly beneath him as he shuddered and pumped in her, “Oh god you’re in me, and, and it’s, it’s -you’re so good at this…”

There was a kind God above after all, and she let out a giggle at the joy of it, at the joy of taking Elvis Presley to the hilt like she’d been born to do. The pride on his face came through the feral pleasure painting it, his hands beginning to map her own body, feeling the jiggle and give of her as he fucked her up the length of the bed, shock coming across his own features as he registered something new that first made a flash of panic burn through him.

He was in her, entirely bareback. And, well, he knew that of course but suddenly, the mind bending intensity of sensations around his cock made sense. It was the first time he’d been inside a woman without a barrier, no condom to distract from her silky grip, his precum gushing and spluttering, slicking up the way for his cock to drive in, turning their love making into a lewd cacophony of sounds that made the man in him exult. It’s my wife, he reminds himself both jubilantly but also to keep the reflexive panic of going in raw at bay, it’s my wife and I need to give her babies. To keep her I gotta fill her up.

“Look at that perfect face.” he groaned aloud to himself, and he meant Elaine’s “taking-cock” face, which he had imagined a million times, but her open mouthed, eye fluttering, hands in hair image below him was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in all his life, “Look at that perfect fuckin lil face.” he repeated as he forced himself in her all the way, bumping at her crevice and making her let out some form of sob.

“Y-you’re in deep enough?” she gasped out an inquiry, suddenly able to recall what this was all for, accepting of her purpose and close to feral in desire to accomplish it well.

“Ya can take more?” He asked, truly about to lose all grip on himself and wanting her blessing for it, “Gonna lemme get deep, baby? Make me a daddy, hmm? Gonna make me a daddy?”

He sped up with each sentence, her frantic nods and her “yes, yes Elvis, give me more, all of you!” spurring him on till he was driving into her and making those gorgeous breasts of her’s bounce wildly beneath her much abused silk nighty. “Get it deep, please, please get it deep.”

In theory he knew she wanted his swimmer's up past the cake she ate, his own perverted lesson suddenly coming back to bite him with a vengeance as her pleas sent him careening towards his own orgasm faster than he had any intention of blowing. But he was a man, and all his cock heard was “deeper.” And so he drove in deeper and harder.

“S’good.” she continued and her perfect diction was now slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth and nothing but Elvis Elvis Elvis in her view and in her mind and in her body. “Gonna be good, it’s so good I-come on E, gimme those babies, please please, yes, you’re so good to me.” she was looking up at him in awe, her body spasming and shaking so hard he wasn’t sure if she was coming constantly or having one terribly intense build up. The sweet darling certainly had no clue, and that thought made him grip Elaine harder and he felt his mind grow hazy at her praise, “Elvis you’re, you’re so pretty like this!” she cried out, her neck strained as she clasped her hands around his face and stared deep into his eyes as he plowed her, those carmel colored eyes holding an intensity he’d never seen in a woman.

It shook him to the core and plunged him somewhere deep and subservient, the world felt like it was tilting and he was fading to a place where he was a pretty boy and a useful stud and he-

“Fuck! Elaine you-“ he wanted to tell her she couldn’t, she couldn’t say such things to him, it would turn him mindless, he knew the symptoms. He’d no longer be the strong husband she needed but her goddamn slave, a whimpering pathetic mess. He was going to come.

He pulled out abruptly, and as if his cock stuffing her pussy was filling the whole of her with strength, like a doll with batting. she deflated against the bed in confusion at the sudden halt and withdrawal.

“Baby?” she questioned him in a forlorn whimper, her entire consciousness begging for more as he patted her thighs soothingly and fought to grapple his sanity back in place. He couldn’t slip and turn ‘little’ tonight, he simply wasn’t able to do that to Elaine. He stared down at her freshly gaping little hole and swore he didn’t mean to be an ass, but he was just a man, and she was his wife to do with what he wanted. She wanted his babies, and she didn’t know better than to let him do whatever it took to give her that. And right now, he couldn’t handle the adoring looks and innocent dirty talk pouring out of the mouth of a virtuous girl he had long harbored such obscene intentions for. It turned him very desperate and perhaps a little mean.

“Forgive me, mama.” he muttered when leaning over Elaine and kissing her hard before he gripped his bride’s delicate waist and flipped her onto her knees. “It’s better for breeding this way.” he gritted out at her confused gasps, palming her ass where her slip had ridden up to expose her. He lined himself up with her pussy and watched with savage enjoyment as his girth slowly stretched her pretty pink rim beyond all seeming capacity and her following whimpers were music to his ears, her trill of confused enjoyment as he slid to the full, the cutest thing imaginable.

Immediately she missed the sweet intimacy of his embrace, the pleasurable sight of his face above her, also. And this angle, this method, it was deeper and tugged again at the petals of her house that had just gotten used to his usage. She thought to object, to tell him she didn’t like it this way -he had told her to tell him what she liked. She assumed, hoped, that stood for what she didn’t like, as well.

Elvis is a good boy, she heard her father say in her head, Elvis is a good boy -even as this good boy lined his inordinate organ up with her sore little place and thrust inside again. She was going to have to tell him she didn’t like it this way.

That is, until she lifted her head from the sheets he had tossed her in, belly first and face down, and noticed the mirror hanging opposite them. In it she saw a perfect view of her own face, a face she knew but hardly recognized, so…matured…was it in the gilt reflection. Her face was flushed and richly colored and her mouth gaping like one of those steamy movie posters where the woman has succumbed to the man’s embrace-and god knows whatever else it was the man was doing to her below the waist where the posters always seemed to cut off. The man was snapping his hips to push himself inside the woman, that’s what they were all doing. Now she knew, and she watched enthralled as Elvis mounted her from behind like a damn stallion, his broad hand gripping her shoulder and yanking her back against him as he snapped forward, the other fiddling under her hemline until he found her little button and began to play.

Nevermind, she thought, focusing on trying to breathe as he began to set a demanding pace again, pain and pleasure in this act equal parts for her as she propped up on her forearms and watched him watch what he was doing to her virgin hole, -nevermind he can keep at it, she decided.

His calloused fingers were petting and swirling and tugging so perfectly in her little nub in time with his strokes she began to happily anticipate the next thrust, rocking back on her own accord, feeling the bliss build again but this time stronger than what he had given her before with his mouth. In the mirror she could see how the strap of her slip had fallen off her shoulder and now lay partway down her arm, her gaping neckline now exposing a whole breast showing how it jiggled obscenely with each of his movements. It made her cheeks burn.

Elaine tried to right the strap but holding herself up with one arm made her nearly wobble face first into the sheets again and it made him lose his rhythm and suddenly it was entirely too good like that, face in the bed and hips propped up, and she needed that hand to stifle her shrieks of pleasure as he pounded into her without a hitch at the new position.

“Ya like it like that, hmm?“ he gritted out as she folded and screamed beneath him, speeding his fingers up on her clit as her thighs began to clamp shut. “God look at these hips, anythin’ but cradlin’ babies would be a goddamn waste of ‘em.” he squeezed at their plush width while yanking her back on him again and again.

“T-t-they’re gonna hear me.” she wailed once, and he realized she meant the guests downstairs, that once she realized that he wasn’t going to stop just because her pleasure had her in a place where she could no longer be in possession of herself, she had begun to fear for their reputation.

“Let ‘em.” he growled, taking his wet hand from between her thighs and running it up the length of her bowed spin, relishing the way she was drenching his thighs too, “They all know what I’m doin’ to ya. They knew what you were signin’ up for, even if you didn’t.” that thought made his balls tingle and he knew he close, that and the fact Elaine’s had her pretty little face barely propped up enough to watch them in mirror, watching as he plowed her from the back in tear stained, shocked, pleasured obedience to his wants, “Whole world’s gonna know what a good wifey you are, soon enough. They’re gonna see ya swellin and fillin out and they’re gonna know how good you are for me, how well ya take me, how much ya enjoy splittin’ yourself on my cock.”

“Oh God!” she screamed at the thought and at the thrill of his praise and buried her face into the golden bedding in abject submission and ecstasy, no longer able to compute the image of her dear, sweet Elvis mounting her body and snarling in pleasure in the mirror as he used her to chase his relief.

Elaine, to his lust clouded mind, had the prettiest ass on earth and it filled his hands perfectly, and her overstimulated shrieks and mewls and squeals sounded every damn bit like a Disney Princess. And somehow, that thought really did it for him.

Elvis hadn’t given it a lot of thought before, mind ya, hadnt spent time contemplating what it would be like to make Snow White touch her toes while getting skewered or how it would be to push Cinderella’s sweet face into the sheets. But he was pretty sure that if one of those doll-like little ladies had ever been made to take cock after true love's kiss, they’d sound rather like the squeaking little thing writhing beneath him right now.

He jabbed harder just for the fun of that, just for the enjoyment of the fact he was balls deep in a virgin cunt about to blow his load inside a woman for the first time ever. His jabs and swivels and fucks made she squeal more, clinging to the foot of the bed, no rich alto moan left in her with every inch he made her take.

She sounds like Tinkerbell, if Tinkerbell ever had the sweet misfortune to be loved on by Elvis Presley. He grins at the mirror, grins at the bowed figure of his little wife, gives a passing prayer of thanks for this perfect woman he is gonna spend the rest of his life loving in this way.

Take this, Tinkerbell, he thinks excitedly, ramming home once more and feeling himself drain inside her at last in long, pulsing, gushing spurts.

She knew that feeling, she realized in a daze. Yes she had felt it just this night when they were writhing against each other but -this hot gizer of warmth shooting inside her… the porch swing. He had wasted his seed in his pants on the porch swing. He wasted so much wanting her without telling her, it makes her heart ache for him. She spreads her trembling legs apart and tries to wiggle him in deeper, pushing back onto his key as he shudders to a halt, trying to be of help for him, to get it where it needs to go. No more waste. No more pining. It makes him sob and groan as she milks him, her sweet boy returning as he drapes over her back, a boneless weight before gently rolling onto his back and taking her with him, still impaled. A stopper of sorts, to keep it from leaking, from wasting.

There is not a single part of her body that does not tremble, nor of his either, they cling to each other, fully equal in post-coital vulnerability now and try to remember what world they belong in. His hands cradle her lower belly, pressing her close to him and swiping his thumbs along her spine, just as she pets over his arm and nuzzles into the hollow below his throat. She’s so touchy, caressing him and squeezing him like she needs the contact as badly as he does, and it’s exactly what he always wanted, hoped, didn’t dare ask heaven for but he’s got it. She’s here, she’s his.

“You’re my wife.” he marvels, and he is referring twofold to the act that just made her so and he means it wondrously by the way she lov- cares- for him so well. “You make me so happy.” he says against her lips.

“Thank you.” she whispers, cracking open her eyes to see him soft and gentle right there beside her, “For choosing me.”

“Didn’t have a choice.” he croaks, “Never has been a choice with you, I had to have ya, was more your choice than it ever was mine to lemme be yours.”

“You are mine now, aren’t ya.” she muses and he sees the way that thought sparks some life back into her heavy lidded eyes.

It’s good to belong to someone, he thinks, comforted as he brings his mouth down to hers. “Yeah, always, always gonna be yours.”

He kisses her long and slow and she returns it, her body sated beneath his caresses in a way his masculine, virulent one could never be when laying beside her, buried inside her still, newly laying claim. It is a gentle rocking when he begins again, quite helplessly, to move inside her, and she is so busy tugging at his cropped hair and nipping at his lips that she doesn’t seem to notice that they’re swaying vertically until he draws her leg over his hip and begins to drive up again in earnest, her moans a sweet melody she pours into his mouth. It’s quiet this second time and unrushed, and she has grown used to the ache, he thinks he should tell her soon to use the restroom, but he’ll have to take his fill again first.

He wonders when he’ll find the time to tell her to go between telling her he loves her. She asks him if they can do this often.

“Bout as often as we can manage.” Tumbled out of his lips happily.

“And how often’s that?” she urged him breathily, her eyes losing focus they were so close to his own.

“Enough times to lose count, Laney.” he promised, “Gotta fill ya up, best we can. Gotta be diligent.”

There was no soaring crescendo to this session, he merely clutched at her harder on one lazy upstroke, her fingernail had caught his nipple and zapped him straight to heaven like a thunderbolt to the frenulum. And then she felt him spilling inside again. Warm and hot and soothing the battering of her walls. His fingers took hers and pulled them down between her legs to pet the damage again, smearing him around like ointment on a wound. They had acted married twice now, she figured. They’d done marriage twice. The second she had liked even better than the first as he held her all the while, even though no searing height had happened to her.

“When you were with other girls,” she whispered into his chest later as they dozed between bouts of kissing and cuddling, “this isn’t -you didn’t…” she faltered for a moment before lifting her face to gaze down at him with warmth and gentle pleading, “-you didn’t do this with them, did you? You don’t act married with them, right?”

Perhaps most men would have chosen to lie. Elvis had no need despite his experience and his reputation. He had, a dozen or a hundred times, wrapped himself in latex and put it in a dozen or hundred women, some he cared for genuinely and some who were life preservers in a sea of lonely travels, but he’d never acted married. He’d never done this sort of intimacy before. He figured he was practically a virgin too, in that sorta way. In making love with the intention to bind himself, trap himself forever to one single soul. It ought to have been terrifying, that commitment, but feeling himself drip out of Elaine into the cradle of his hips he just felt right, like he was home. Like he’d just given himself to someone who actually wanted him. “No honey, I didn’t act married with any of ‘em. You’re the only one who gets my seed. I swear, really I do, now or ever.”

She could tell he meant that promise, and now he’d taught her how to express herself in this new language, she thanked him the only way she knew how, by gleefully rolling atop him again. It was a language she realized she was seeking most of her life, ever since anger and joy and want had flared in her and had been summarily instructed to be curtailed.

Propriety. Mildness. Rise above it all. She was good at the art of it all, and had been praised for it. Yet here was a man who coaxed vehemence out of her, taught her to inflict it on his body, who found pleasure in this grappling, wrestling, messy way that made such sense to her now she had found it.

I could love you, I’m going to love you, I’m very much in danger of loving you, was said with each swivel of her hips and lick of her tongue down his neck. “Oh Elvis.” sounded sweetly in his ear as he bounced her like a doll in his lap and made her fall apart.

Elvis had kissed her temple as he panted his breath back in again. Kept himself plugged in as long as possible till he shrank to nothing and slipped out. His destructive cock a now harmless, wet little thing that she cooed at in a most embarrassing way for him, but he was too happy with her laying on his chest to protest the curious fondling she gave his sensitive cock.

“This new house by Fort Hood, the one that agents of your’s got us,” he had murmured huskily while swigging from the chilled bottles of water retrieved from the mini fridge -with Elaine riding on his back to the closet and then the bed again, refusing to be apart, “it’s got a split layout, ya see. Top and bottom floor’s got a kitchenette, might not be the easiest for cookin’ but it’ll give us -space.” he assured, and she bit her lip imagining what he’d want the privacy for. “Wouldn’t ya rather a lil privacy ‘stead of a big ole countertop? I-I-if not I-I can-“

“Sounds perfect.” she sighed dreamily, thinking about making him meals and him coming home to eat them, gallant and lean in his pressed uniform. “You’re real handsome in your uniform, ya know that?” she figured it didn’t hurt to admit it, her man seemed to thrive off compliments from her, and he never did seem to get a big head from them. Except for the other little head that twitched and swelled at any compliment at all.

It was getting late, or early more like, and as she felt his interest grow yet again, Elaine played at denial. A silly, jokingly, little sort of thing where she wriggled away from his grabby hands and tried to make it out of the bed -headed to god knows where, the champagne bottle or the record player or downstairs, she didn’t know as she had no real intention of fleeing. But being seized from the back by her husband and playfully thrown back on his bed, made to sprawl out on the corner of the mattress , her legs hanging apart and her pathetic little slip still hanging onto her modesty for dear life, it was rather thrilling the way he had muttered,

“Oh no ya don’t, good lil wives don’t run.” and put himself back into her overused body, relishing her moan at his first thrust in and the fucked out compliance of the grinning girl beneath him. “I wanna see my pretty wife’s tits,” he asked as he watched them bouncing and jiggling with each absorbed fuck, “C’mon baby, be good and lemme see those pretty pillas of mine, you won’t deny me will ya? Come on, baby, so pretty, so round, gonna make ‘em blow up soon enough, whole world’ll notice ‘em. I wanna be the first to see ‘em before it. Up we go, lemme, come on yittle one, thas it, lift it up.”

He watched as this woman of his who was currently impaled on his cock blushed and smiled and bashfully pulled up her slip till her buttermilk soft mounds were bare, pink nipples pebbled and a scared, hopeful look on her face as her slip bunched at her clavicle.

“Goddamn, I’m a lucky man.” he had groaned and not missed her relieved smile. Then playfully flicked the slip up and over to hide her bright red face before folding himself enough to suck on a rosy little nipple while pistoning in and out. Soft, pliable flesh giving beneath the weight of his jaw and the nudge of his nose.

It was bizarre to Elaine, her sight obscured by the slip, her breathing hampered by the same, sound and feeling her chief senses this time. Just the sounds of him enjoying himself alone had a warm feeling curling in her chest and her belly, too, his hums and groans sending delightful zaps through her previously respectfully ignored nipples. His hands running up and down her ribcage, sometimes seizing her waist to pull her on him, sometimes fluttering over her diaphragm to feel himself moving within, nearly up her lungs he felt.

She felt as if she had finally been given privacy in which to truly feel and enjoy this, veiled by her own last shred of modesty, she let herself feel -and what she felt was astounding. She felt cherished. And she felt ravaged. And as if no one was here or anywhere on this earth to judge the way she screamed in delight, she yelled it and heard him answer her:

“that’s it, lemme hear ya” his teeth snapping at her nipples as he talked around them with his movements causing him to miss, sparking a fresh wave of noise to humidify the satin covering her face,

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

She chanted in happy panic as her legs drew up on their own, up and up and trying to close against the delicious onslaught, only to realize too late that it made the fit even tighter, the friction even stronger, the glint in her husband’s eyes wilder. He pinned them to her chest, with a single hand, to keep them out of the way. Slapped at her clit instead, made her scream in a way he didn’t think she was capable. Thought about doing it twenty years from now, thought about how he’d have the rest of his life to make his Tinkerbell scream. He slapped her there again and this time no scream, just a hissed in breath that had no exhale, her whole body clamping up in rigid ecstasy, tightening so strongly he couldn’t even keep his thrusts going to help her through.

Almost alarmed by her lack of breathing, he thought to pull at her slip, up and over her head till her face was visible again -she looked as if she were in some great agony, and his smug heart flipped at the sight, before leaning down to kiss her.

He was all chestnut hair aglow, wicked dark eyes and sweet lips, hovering down into her hazy view and her body wasn’t her own anymore, the damage had been done and the cliff she was teetering on gave way beneath her sanity when his lips met hers, his warm chest rubbing against her spit chilled nipples. For the second time that night she sprayed him, and through the eye rolling, rapturous tingle of it she heard him asking if she was “coming.”

“Oh goddamn, goddamn look a’that, oh fuck me sideways that’s hot as hell.” he blabbered, pulling out just long enough to wiggle his cockhead against her petals and force another jet out, coating his own abs with it, relishing the way her belly shook and her legs clamped together straight in the air, her hands clawing at the slip like she was trying to fight her way out. “Sweet Jesus you’re so sensitive.” he praised, pushing back in despite her hiss, and the way her feet tried to plant themselves on his shoulders to push him away. “Gotta lemme back in darlin’, I got another deposit to make.” he joked, loving the way she was clawing and wiggling away from him on pure, over fucked insinct, red painted nails dug deep enough to rip into the gold bedding. “Come on, be good, be good for me, lemme in baby, lemme in , doin’ so good, so good I know you’re so damn full, just a lil more, lil more. Don’t want any to go to waste do ya?”

He was wicked for using those magic words to make the shaking girl open up and let him in again, but he made up for it by the kisses, he felt, and in praise, and promising her if she stayed good she’d have those babies. Careening headlong towards another orgasm of his own with the sounds she was making and the lewd squelch of how wet she was down there, downright squelching with all his contributions and her own slick, he swore she was everything he’d ever dreamed of. She smiled at that.

“I’m gonna come.” he promised her almost in a beg, pleading for her to understand why he sped up and started to pound her again in earnest, erratic thrusts.

“W-whats coming?” she whined, her eyes screwed shut and her thighs shivering beneath his shoulders, “Y-you’re already here…”

The more he drained his balls, the more his mind seemed to leave him as well, all catered sentences and prim vocabulary gone straight out the window with his last shred of self restraint. “This-is-comin-“ he punctuated as he drove himself in, then felt his balls draw up and try to offer up residual bits of spunk but nothing seemed to come out. Served him right how white hot and painful it felt, sputtering dry inside her. He hoped she didn’t notice the deposit was a blank check. Also hoped she didn’t hear the pathetic whimper he’d let out as lil Elvis heaved his last attempt at it. By the way she was humming and petting at his hair, cradling him gently as he sagged atop her on the corner of the bed -he was afraid she’d heard and felt it all.

“Why’s it called that?” she whispered in his ear, and he wondered that she had any energy at all.

He burrowed his face deeper into her neck and mumbled, “Damned if I know, darlin.” he thought on it a little while longer while also thinking of the drip, drip, drip of their mess melting between them, “Unless it’s cause it makes ya feel like you’re havin a ‘come to God moment’, ya know?” he suggested and laughed when he felt her poking his cheek. “Do ya- do ya like it when…when ya-“ he couldn’t manage it now in the gentle afterglow, starting to get a chill after all his sweaty exertion cooled and left behind clammy skin and pooled secretions, feeling how naked and soft and lonely he was suddenly upon feeling sated for the first time tonight.

“Can we really do this as often as we want?” she asked instead, and her tone held no dread in it, only hopeful excitement. Suddenly the lonesomeness was gone again.

He felt her hands stroking his back and down to his ass again and he had giggled happily, not able to hold back his relief. “Yes, darlin.”

“Gosh.” she mused, petting him still, “To think I-I didn’t know about this and now it’s…” he propped up his chin on his hands to give her an inquiring look, begging her to finish, “it’s all I wanna do now.”

“That so?” he quirked his eyebrow and she flushed and began to shake her head, her tone pleading:

“Oh, not now, not right now -oh, please, please E, I’ll die if ya do, give me a minute.” she laughed and kissed him again.

“We should sleep.” he mused, half asleep already, pillowed on her boobs, his legs still technically still standing him upright as his upper body lay across the bed, across his new wife. “And bathe.” he realized.

“It’s very sloppy.” she agreed, and the thought of how uncomfortable she must be, stuffed with a half a dozen or more cum shots roused him to action.

He picked Elaine up bridal style and carried his now gloriously naked woman into the en-suite bathroom, seating her on the chilled marble countertop and grinning at the way she melted, spineless and used against the mirror, a soft smile lighting her dear face.

She liked watching his long lean, boyish figure, hard in some places and soft in others, strangely inviting in its combinations, ripple and flex as he bent and turned on the tub faucets, snagging gold embossed towels off the rack.

E.P. they read, gold thread glowing on the black cotton.

E.P.

For the both of them. It could be for either of them, it probably had been in his mind when he’d had them made, stocked his home full of monogrammed luxuries with her future initials on them E.P. --and all the while she had been fretting of dying a loveless old maid.

She laughed happily and found she couldn’t stop, catching sight of his embossed robe, hung on the door with the same initials. E.P. She was wanted, she was so very wanted here with him. It made her slide her jellied legs off the counter and hug him ferociously from behind, pressing kisses into his spine, and the freckles that smattered his shoulder blades.

“E.P.” she whispered and he got what she meant, turning round and grinning at her.

Once in the bath she dozed in his arms, near suffocated by bubbles and relishing his embrace, the warm water and his massaging hands soothing the ache between her legs.

“We haven’t washed the babies out have we?” she asked, groggily staring into the receding bath water as he tenderly toweled her off once stepping out of the tub. “I-I-I want those babies.“ she insisted and it must’ve been the lateness of the hour or the sheer amount of muchness she had been subjected to tonight but her lip started to wobble at the idea she’d carelessly risked her hopes down the drain, swirling away with the last of the bubbles. “Elvis I-I- didn’t mean to rinse them out!” she wailed, near hysterical with fatigue.

He tried assuring her but she wasn’t easily pacified. “I-I could give ya more.” he finally offered timidly, entirely uncertain either of them were capable of enduring another round.

He was toweling off her calves as he said it, pressing kisses to her knees and noticing the tremors in her thighs. To his shock she dropped to her knees beside him on the bathmat, eyes half mast and nearly insane looking in their fatigued determination,

“Please, please give it another try.” she nodded before spinning around on the bathmat, shakily swift and presenting him with her shapely ass.

‘Better for breeding this way’, came back to mind. God she was a quick study, and he prayed for strength and some shred of self restraint in indulging her. Instead, he found himself burying his face between her cheeks and licking at her devotedly, afraid they may have washed her slick away and worrying the burn of entry would be too much for her, fresh out of the tub and swollen from overuse as she was. No woman had let him do it this way, his face near buried in her bath warmed ass and his tongue kitten licking at her slick hole, but Elaine bore it with decorous appreciation, entirely unaware of being anything but eager in her responses, her spine arched and a rosy cheek pillowed on her forearms. Her yittle hand came down to pet Elvis’ diligent head as he worked between her legs.

“That’s it, I love it, E, like that, I love it when you…” she was mumbling in a slurred litany of praise he gobbled up ravenously, just like he did the shuddering little trickles of sweetness he coaxed out of her. “I’m -I’m, yeah yeah-“ he felt her grind down on his face as she shook again, and then it was as if the top half of her body nearly melted into the mat, just his hands keeping her ass in the air. “Please put it in.” she whispered, her hand still down there between her legs and reaching for something else of his now, her tone so soft and polite, like Cinderella asking for cock.

He aimed his cock into her waiting hand and watched with barely suppressed desire as her palm rolled over the rip and her nails gently raked across his veins as she moved to grip him and point him where she wanted him. There was a lewd sucking noise this time when he went in, like her body was finally trying to swallow him willingly, and he saw her head toss on the mat, dainty fingers woven into gold shag and her neck craned back to see him as he pressed in deep. Her face was flushed deep red and the makeup had worn off and she looked so innocent, so young beneath him, a single curl plastered dark and wet against her cheek from the bath. He’d unmade her, turned her back to her simplest form. He snapped his hips, lost his mind, noticed happily how her hand went to her hip and joined his there. He held onto it like a handle and jerked her back on him again and again, her cheek rubbing against the mat and her teeth sinking into her other fist to hush her cries. Those cries of hers, maybe something was very sick inside him that he liked them so much but he did, he did and he worked hard to draw more from her just as he dreamed of this, dreamed of her fluttering pink hole trying to take more and her eyes rolling back from the fatigue of it, her body unable to deny him.

“My poor belly,” he thought he heard her whimper, yet unsure he reached down and pulled her fist away from her mouth, it pushed him deeper in, bent her more starkly, speared her cervix, “Oh god, my belly, my poor belly.” she kept saying for sure this time.

“You alright, Lany?” he draped over her and brushed the damp strands off her face, her face that was red and splotchy from sensation and blood flow. She gave him a whimpering nod.

“You’resodeep” she accused him even as he felt her squeeze and shake around his girth, her mouth gaping for a brief moment at the unexpected little pleasure. “My poor belly.” she said it over and over again and he couldn’t stop. It was more just a bewildered mantra to comfort herself, as her mind betrayed her and wanted him but her body was so well used that was she was just…taking it

“You poor little thing,” he cooed, making sure to move slow and deep in a way that had them both shaking and stepping into madness, bent all over her bent frame himself, “you’re takin’ my cock so well, so obedient, never was a more righteous wife, never was, you’re a goddamn wonder, that’s what you are. I’ll thank God for ya every day.”

His praise always soothed her and he kept it up, not even sure what he was saying anymore as he chased his own release, focused on the bent little thing beneath him and the way it made her waist look minuscule in this position, her pink face, too. At one point he saw tears instead of bath splash on her face and as he felt himself begin to spurt he shushed her the best he could with the first thing that came to mind:

���Don’t cry Tink, please don’t cry.”

The nickname tickled her consciousness like a feather on the neck, some goosey thrill that tickled up her spine and added to the satisfied throb between her legs as he splashed hot and thick inside her.

“Tink?” she thought she had asked him, bewildered and charmed to have been christened. Maybe her words got lost in the bath mat.

He did not answer her, must’ve not heard her at all, but picked her up with his own shaking arms and like a couple of bambi's they toddled into the massive bed, throwing themselves under the covers quite unceremoniously. He tried to swat at the lamp as if that would turn it off, and realizing she was the more capable of the two -he seemed almost insensibley drained by that last encounter- she leaned over his chest and pulled at the lamp string, dousing the glow that surrounded them, only to realize dawn was splashing a violet haze through the crack of the window curtains.

“Good morning, Mrs. Presley.” he had teased softly, noticing the dawn too, his head tilted on the pillow to watch her shut off the lamp.

“Good morning, husband.” she murmured, wriggling on top of him as he held her fast, arms locked over her back and her head pillowed on his chest.

This cuddling was familiar, this drowsy holding of each other until he stilled and fell asleep, an art she had perfected since his mama died. But now she was the woman in his life, and strangely now that the hunger had been glutted and abated, they entwined around each other like babes or twins in a womb, this naked closeness the most natural of assurance in the world. Something Elvis had been missing since his brother had left him, since Jesse entered the world before him and chose not to stay and endure it with him, fell into place.

My sister! My spouse! -King Solomon had called his lover, and Elvis had felt that supremely odd when snooping through the Song of Songs as a boy. But now he knew -too many roles did she fill to be confined to one, and Elvis felt tempted as Elaine fell asleep atop him to whisper, “my brother, my spouse!” into her hair.

Sometime later, when deep unconscious, dreamless sleep had possessed them and held them fast, but not a long enough time for Elvis to be remotely cheerful about it, a obnoxious clanging sound broke in on their peaceful repose. Elaine jerked awake atop him with a startled little squeak and he put his hand to the back of her head to shush her, encouraging her to lay her cheek back on his shoulder. The noise resounded again and this time he was lucid enough to determine it was coming from outside the bedroom door.

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

Elaine huffed and rubbed her tired face into his chest, his sparse hairs there tickling her nose and making her sneeze. That made him laugh and with neither able to keep up the pretense of sleep, they raised their heads and looked towards the door with matching, raised and unimpressed eyebrows of displeasure.

“If this is the boys idea of a practical joke,” he growled with sleepy morning grit in his voice, “they won’t be boys much longer.”

“Will ya put them in boxes and give them to me?” she inquired and he realized with a self satisfied smirk that her melodic voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming he’d made her do the night before.

“Heavens Mrs. Presley,” he marveled, “ya sure have gotten comfy askin’ for things -I like it.”

“I could think of a thing or two I want right now.” she bit her lip and her eyes slanted hungrily and some scared part of him that worried she wouldn’t want this as much as he did got buried teen feet below the earth, locked away forever.

“Breakfast?” he acted dumb even as she propped herself up on his chest and gingerly tried rolling her hips along his thickening shaft, hissing at the soreness of her own petals.

The sheets falling away from her and pooling round her hips like some goddess that had condescended to come down to earth and make use of her spied after Adonis, Elaine was ethereal and happy and Elvis sank his head back into the pillow and watched her, wishing to pinch himself but the roll of his foreskin against her bud told him it was real. “Breakfast and water, breath mints and fresh air-“ she listed while speeding up and causing his cock to begin to weep and slick her way along-

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

“What?” he yelled fearsomely at the door and she shivered in spooked delight at his temper.

“I’m comin’ in wi’ breakfast,” came Mary’s unmistakable drawl through the door and to his horror he watched the gilt knob begin to turn, “y’all’s best disentangle yo’selves cause I done waited till two in the afternoon to feed yous, and I ain’t taking chances for waitin’ any longer-“ Mary stepped into the room about at the same second Elaine accomplished a dismount and roll that the would have made the marine corps proud, diving beneath the covers, only a bride sized lump to be seen by the cook as she came in with a heavy laden tray, her ingenious cowbell left behind in the hall. “Lawd Mr. Elvis, you’re wearing that loved on look just nicely, if you’ll lemme say so.” she admired his marital blush and scratched shoulders as only a proud auntie could, “Miss Elaine, you best come outta ‘der, I got bagels and cream cheese, jus’ as you like.”

“Oh Mary, you didn’t!” Came Elaine’s moan of appreciation beneath the bedding and it was altogether too close to his pelvis for Elvis’ sanity, “You’re much too good to us, you know that?” Elaine wriggled till just her head peeked out and bestowed on Mary a smile of such adoration the lady forgot the ache in her arms from carrying the tray upstairs.

“Yeas, well, wouldn't do to have y’all’s dying of malnourishment.” she huffed bashfully patting Elvis’ beet red cheeks while unconsciously setting the trey in his stiff lap.

He groaned. In appreciation for the eggs and burnt bacon, Elaine had to presume.

“Don’t you take your fill again till you’ve taken your fill, you get what I mean?” she wagged her fingers at them, first at Elvis, then at his bride as if she was second guessing who here was the more likely instigator, the groom seemingly meek and the bride grinning altogether too widely than was proper. Delighted, Mary couldn’t help her matching one, “Eat up.” She nodded, backing away while eying them suspiciously, as if at any minute they might overturn her carefully prepared victuals and begin to maul eachother anew.

“Wouldn’t think of letting it get cold!” Elvis assured her adamantly and to prove his point, stuck a bagel into his bride's mouth before getting into the eggs himself.

Satisfied, Mary left them and shut the door. They heard when she picked up her cowbell and the retreating sound of her footsteps down the hall assured Elvis it was safe. He moved the platter off his lap as if it were scorching him, flinging the offending sheets off his erection and patting his thighs, jerking his chin at a wide eyed Elaine.

“I’m a very talented man, I’ll have ya know,” he told her as she settled in his lap, his chest pressed to her back, “I can feed and fill ya at the same time.”

“So,” she began genially as she wiggled him in and got comfy, sucking cream cheese off his fingers and taking advantage of his compromised blood flow, “Is Tinkerbell gonna my nickname?”

Elvis choked on his bacon, and proceeded to cough into a pillow case. “I’ve no idea what you're on about.” he denied.

“Hey,” she grinned at him without wavering, “if you can enjoy splitting me in half, I can enjoy a nickname that outs ya for bein’ a lil nasty about it, hmm?” and she chucked his chin.

She -she had a point, Elvis supposed. “Sure, Tink, whatever you say, Tink.” he droned.

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#elvis fanfiction #sarge and lil mama #elvis x you #elvis movie #elvis fanfic #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis imagine #austin butler elvis #austin elvis imagine #austin elvis fandom #austin elvis smut #elvis smut #elvis x oc #elvis x elaine #elvis one shot

[gasolineghuleh]

Oh pleeeeease write more Mary stuff!!!

Love the way you write him

The green fairy ist just 🤌🏻

Have some Goore!

“I always get stuck with the fuckin’ short straw, man.” Mary throws his suitcase onto the full sized bed and it springs open, unleashing a week's worth of dirty laundry onto the floor. He groans again, loudly, bending over with an exaggerated motion to pick up the laundry. You can't help a small tinkle of laughter that slips past your lips and you clap your hand over your mouth in an attempt to contain it. Mary whips over to look at you, one finger outstretched. “And you, Miss-I've-never-even-touched-myself-because-I'm-so-godly, can keep your hands to yourself tonight.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” you say with your hands held up, backing away slowly. “My only intention is to sleep. And don’t act like it’s my fuckin’ fault that the hotel has no doubles right now.” Toeing your way out of your shoes and kicking them over to the wall by the television, you and Mary lock eyes. 

The rest of the band, happily sequestered in their own rooms, are oblivious to the quiet love song unfolding between the two of you.

By the time you lay down to go to sleep, both of you feel like static, bodies humming in a way that could only be described as the buzzing of an amplifier cable. You roll onto your side, facing away from him in a demure attempt at vanity. Wearing only a t-shirt and panties to bed is bold, but you didn’t pack any alternatives, expecting to be sleeping alone for the trip. The bed dips behind you as Mary lays down carefully, stretching himself out inch by inch in a blatant attempt to be respectful. 

“Just lay down, Goore. It’s a bed, not a hot tub.”

“Except that I’m gonna be in a hot tub if I fuck up, here.” Mary grumbles some more to himself as he settles down, eventually laying on his back and blowing out a pent up huff of frustration. 

“What.”

“I can’t sleep on my back.” His tone is slightly petulant and you can’t help but giggle a little.

“Then roll over?” you suggest, with an accompanying eye roll.

“I… can’t sleep on my tummy, either.”

“Your tummy?” This time there’s a definite twinge of mockery in your voice. Mary laughs a little at himself and you find your cheeks growing pink— THE Mary Goore, laying next to you and chuckling? It’s enough to affect your own tummy.

“Yeah, my tummy. I can only sleep on my side… on my right side.” 

The room seems to shrink with this admission, the air between you two thick with an unspoken tension. There's an electricity in the atmosphere, like the charged moments before a thunderstorm breaks. Mary's admission, so innocuous and yet so intimate, draws you closer into his orbit, the space in the bed suddenly feeling too vast.

“Well, then,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, “roll onto your right side.” The words hang in the air, a challenge, an invitation.

He hesitates for a moment, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. Then, slowly, he shifts, turning onto his right side, facing your back. You feel the movement of the mattress, the subtle shift in weight as he settles into a more comfortable position. The moment he stops moving, the room falls silent again, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing.

The silence stretches on, a canvas for the thoughts racing through your mind. You're acutely aware of his presence just inches away, a warmth radiating off him that you can almost feel against your skin. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. Thoughts of his hand landing on your side and skating down to the edge of your panties, pulling them to the side and then-

The bed dips slightly as Mary moves again, and you feel his breath on the nape of your neck. It's a soft, tentative touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity down your spine. You're frozen, caught between the desire to turn around and the fear of what might happen if you do. His body beside yours feels like a live wire, and you’re afraid of making too big of a spark.

“I’m trying not to make this weird,” he mutters, almost to himself. His voice is a low rumble, filled with a restraint that you know is costing him. Mary attempts a laugh but it’s weak, and he readjusts himself on his pillow, trying to settle in and be comfortable.

“You’re not making it weird,” you whisper back, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice. There's a pause, and then you feel him inch closer, the gap between you narrowing until there's barely any space left. His breath is steady, a calming contrast to the rapid beat of your heart. You want to turn around, to face him, but something holds you back—a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“Am I weird now?” he asks quietly as his hand comes to rest on your waist. There’s no agenda there, no pressure. A silent acceptance of an odd situation.

“Never.”

“Mm.. how about now?” Mary leans closer, pressing his slightly chapped lips to the nape of your neck and kissing you softly. “Or now?” His arm slides across your form until it’s tucked against your tummy, pulling you gently into his grasp. “I need to hold something to sleep.” 

“Mm, I see. Am I good body pillow, then?” You intend for it to be a joke, but the sudden heavy breathing behind you and the rasped response further shrink the room.

“Better.” Your heart skips a beat at his words. It's a confession, raw and unguarded. Slowly, you turn, facing him. In the dim light, his eyes are deep pools of emotion, reflecting something you've felt but never dared to acknowledge.

The space between you is now nonexistent, your faces just inches apart. You can see the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, a hint of the mischief that first drew you to him. The desire in the room is palpable, a tangible force that wraps around you both.

“Mary,” you start, but the words trail off. What do you say in a moment like this?

He responds not with words, but with action, closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours, gentle at first, then with a growing urgency. The kiss is a storm, a clash of emotions that has been building since the moment you entered the room. It's fear, it's longing, it's the thrill of something forbidden and the comfort of something deeply desired.

Mary’s teeth slip across your lower lip and you gasp, deepening the kiss with one arm slung across his shoulders. He smiles into the kiss, nipping at your lips with a grin before pressing kiss after kiss to your cheeks. When he buries his face in your neck, kissing and nipping as he goes, you hear him say something muffled against your skin.

“What?” you ask, tugging at his hair gently until he comes up for air from the space between your breasts.

“Am I weird now?” 

#fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost bc fanfic #lorraine writes #reader x mary goore #mary goore

[littleeyesofpallas]

Not to be a weirdo and go all anime tiddy detective(again...) but I've been seeing my awkwardly salvaged Gigi/Senjumaru post getting notes, and among other issues i have with how that post wound up I do feel like I didn't actually articulate my characterization of Senjumaru's design very clearly.

Kubo's got certain sensibilities about his character design. Usually i get fixated on his love of dramatic "crazy face" and the fandom at large fixates on that one big breasted body type he knows the fans love, but he also has a pretty robust cast of modestly proportioned girls. That being said, he walks a line on that, and is very deliberate in making sure to always remind everyone that his small breasted characters do still have a noticeable chest. It's a little weird but it's pretty specific because you'd think it would be easy enough to let their silhouette flatten out for the sake of simplicity, or speed, or just because sometimes a camera angle won't naturally emphasize the bust, yet time and again he stays consistent on it in a way that predicates intent.

Also worth noting in the context of things here, Isane sort of implicitly binds on account of otherwise conflicting omake details vs her strict canon appearances. Unohana implicitly binds due to her traditional style of dress that fundamentally includes flattening out the chest silhouette. AND YET in the face of those facts they're still drawn to show distinct curvature to the chest line. Rukia, Hinamori, and Shino are all generally infantilized as a part of their design aesthetic, Rukia passing as a 15yo, Hinamori being demure and doll-like(ala her name), and Shino being part of an expressly younger generation than the heroes when she's introduced. They're still drawn with noticeable breasts: moreover there is every opportunity to just entirely lose their silhouettes to the featureless blackness of the shinigami uniform, and Kubo goes back in with the white ink anyway. SuiFeng and Hiyori actually both nearly dodge this by wearing clothes that do actually obscure their body shape, but then Kubo seemingly compensates for that modesty by giving Sui Feng her sideboob outfit when she throws off her haori(and its apparent attached sleeves?), and giving Hiyori almost out of place cleavage(well, that and almost constant midriff shots)

Point again being that these are characters with distinctly small breasts, for whom one should imagine no one would be up in arms about being drawn without some subtle bumps in theri chest line, and yet Kubo still does not miss the detail...

So with that intentionality in mind, the fact that he then went out of his way to... I don't want to call it "cleverly"... but eh... """cleverly""" avoid drawing attention to Giselle's chest by putting her in an oversized top, and even changing its design around the sleeves, and subsequently part of her silhouette(she was slightly curvier, and her outfit was less fluffy in her early appearances?), as her "reveal" chapter got closer, becomes a noticeably meaningful choice. In particular in proximity to the "reveal."

And you know who else he seemed to have taken similar care in how he drew? Shutara Senjumaru. And granted, as i prefaced this whole post with facetiousness, not as insulation but as disclaimer, this is a ridiculous angle of approach. it's a ridiculous premise. the evidence and logic underpinning every step of it is dumb, but in spite of any of that, Shurata's silhouette jumped out and grabbed me from her very first appearance. The line from her neck/shoulder down to her waist is unlike how he's drawn any other flat chested/small breasted shinigami. And that comes in conjunction with the rest of her aesthetic:

She is dressed like something between a Geisha: high class personal entertainer, a Tayu or Oiran: a high class prostitute, or a Kabuki actor who could likely be playing a character styled after or explicitly in the role of either.

Obviously her most striking feature is the bizarre headdress, which appears to be made of kanzashi[簪]: a rather broad category of hair accessories typical of geisha and oiran.

She appears to be wearing two exaugurated pins to create the shape of a crescent moon with what look like they would be the sort of hanging elements of a bira-bira kanzashi; meaning that each of those vertical bars hanging from the underside of the moon would be free to swing back and forth from a connecting link or chain(s).

The radiating golden bars from the top I assume would be a kind of hanagushi hair comb, again with obvious exaguration given its size.

And the under hanging radiance being something like miokuri.

It also gives off super distinct vibes of an art movement that I hate that I cannot for the life of pinpoint right now... I want to say it was Spanish colonial(???) that used to specifically carve halos in this style, not as a round solid disc, but as a series of geometric rays... I hate to say that the thing I always think of is how Death Note borrowed it for its pseudo religious imagery. (although I guess the French did it too a bit during the reign of King Louis the XIV, but i always associate it with the mexican art of catholic saints, but I'm not even sure if I'm thinking of the right thing.)

In any case those are motifs or themes that we never get to see explored. boo...

Shutara is however kind of unexpectedly underdressed for a super powered clothier. Her one exterior cloak thing is as bas I can tell not anything real, even ignoring its defiance of gravity. If she were an oiran you would expect more layers, and the distinctive thing i don't know the name for that they hold in front of them and conceals their hands... She does however have the unmistakable oiran raised shoes.

And finally her makeup is a little vague but with relative consistency she's been depicted as extremely pale, which strongly suggests white makeup, typical of unfortunately all three aesthetic culprits, thus not actually narrowing the reference down at all.

Taken then with her theme of clothes and costuming in proximity of theater, the power of clothes/costume and thus presentation and roleplay, Kubo's super distasteful conflation of Giselle's transgender identity as some kind of "disguise" or "deception," kabuki using onnagata --male actors specifically trained in female role performance and upheld and even coveted at times throughout history as an apex of femininity, even above and beyond that of ciswomen-- the fact that Senjumaru is just straight up a masculine name, etc...

Like i said in the other post about all this, which i'm reluctant to even link back to, without any further elaboration it's impossible to say what this actually means for shutara as a character, and any inworld logic that applies. I don't think she is supposed to be a literal actress, like she has some personal history of professional theater training and performance.

That feels like it should be obvious. But understand that while all of this was a pain in the ass to try and lay out explicitly, it's something that, knowing all these disparate factoids already, I didn't actually have to think about at all when I first saw Shutara. I just clocked her as a queer woman immediately. It felt super obvious.

But now for my due diligence.(i actually totally thought there woudl be more of it at first...) Because as confident as I am in my theory, even I can recognize that it is not without holes. For one, entirely outside this pattern is Liltotto, who is actually very consistently drawn without the otherwise ubiquitous indication of AFAB breasts I point out otherwise. And she is certainly given no particular trans coding the way I associate with Gigi and Shutara.

i was going somewhere with this and i forgot... i think i though there dbe a bigger string of tangents to go off and when there werent my brain just kinda fizzled out without drawing a conclusion...

#no im not tagging this one #no one really needs to see it #its just me griping about my old posts #instead of editing them #because my compulsion is fickle in its methods #okay no i lied #bleach meta #if only so itll actually show up in my archive correctly later

[rionas-path]

Chapter 5

The Imperfect Retelling

XXXVIII. The goddess let the air stay still, with only the faint, warm wind Of early spring brush along the undergrowth. Her story; she knew, Could give away details abundant. Her goals, thus: to skew This tale yet believable remain. Dilute – chiefly, skimmed Shall this story be. Choosing wisely her beginning’s spring, The events known to every man, be it poor or mighty king. All this to either bore or irritate and most, to rescind The questioning doubt which took root in Ríona’s mind whirlwind.

XXXIX. “Of spring rains and summer storms, one could dream eternally… A tale of time and of passage, bereft of peace, of mind. Two silhouettes did merge as their shadows had intertwined-” Annoyed and defeated, Ríona let out a breath cheerlessly: “Perfect, thou art of no help as usual…” and began to take Her leave, standing up from the cobbled bench. No wish to partake In Aurianne’s game of mockery. In response, she quickly Hit back with a remark both grating and nonetheless motherly:

XL. “Patience, my dear! Though thou seem’st to think thee know’st all, Thou know’st not where this tale of mine leads.” Her aura seemed to pass Across onto the other shoulder, continuing to amass Her narrative: “Two silhouettes came from that blessed hall Of the Innerworld’s Void on that faithful day. Now ancient, long Forgotten history – save for this old, astute mind’s song! We had always been meant for greatness, but they did us stall In those times of Amber’s Domain, when we were but a thrall!”

XLI. Content with the spirit’s meanderings Ríona was not And swiftly jumped in again: “Get on with it, please! For the love Of all that is holy!” The continuous interjections of The youth were partially the goal which the goddess sought. To safely skip and omit what she pleased, but withal annoyed She’d act: “Ah! Again, with thy interruptions! Thou destroyed A poor and frail spirit’s tale! Have it thy way!” Thus, the plot She did not want to proceed, abjured and inwards she did trot.

XLII. “Wait, no! Please linger still for I’m sorry! I shan’t be a child No longer and shall listen to thy tale but please don’t go!” Cried Ríona and thus, the goddess relished the moment so And promptly gave her rules of engagement to leave her tale undefiled: “Thou shalt not interrupt henceforth! I shall tell my tale to thee, And upon any hitch or halt my tale shall stop. Agree?” The youth merely shook her head in accord without a wild And errant spoken word. With swiftness she perched on the bench beguiled.

XLIII. “Let’s not remain unhurried and carry on. My fabled rise Assured was not!” the goddess rendered her words in succour. “In early years of my existence, my life painted in demure Light of a wondering wisp, gliding on meadows below clear skies Of the Inner and Outer worlds. A fledgling spirit, full of ardour; Much like thyself; but lo! For one shall find their world grow harder Once all the rules are revealed, far removed from the fables’ cries That erstwhile were pledged! At times life’s change is slow, then ere thy eyes!”

XLIV. “I revelled in those hidden, closed off corners of the land, Those nooks and crannies which laid unfound for vast stretches of time. Thus, I quickly became the patron of hidden groves. Not prime But a lesser sylph, which gave boons and gifts to a daring brand Of folk – Those bold enough to seek my blessings’ benefit! Oh! The meanderings of life are fickle; no elegist Am I; alas, to sing a psalm for my sanctuaries grand! Vast were atrocities; both by flow or by someone’s hand”

XLV. “A cave in here, an earth’s shake there; floods which ravaged my spaces, So carelessly hid them and then dismantled. No more did they bring My flock the comfort they deserved! No more did they to me sing, And no more did they decorate them with their murals and graces!” The goddess’ passion grew as she reminisced of those times Which were now but a mere echo in a pond of long forgotten rhymes. Taking a few moments of peace, attempting to find the traces Of where her chain of thoughts was traversing and turn them into phrases.

XLVI. “Thus, with but a few remnants of my essence; at dawn of people-folk, I learned of deeply hidden secrets without an origin In natural virtues. They hid deep beneath and deep within The hearts of men, women, child or elder. ‘Twas there I could stoke The growing fire, spread my wings, and weave my web of lies. But think not my path was clear! The fire’s touch was under a guise Of false accord and tyranny gave chase; and to invoke His prideful rule, Krouth challenged all… and all he did provoke!”

XLVII. “‘Twas he who made lives of us patron goddesses misery. He made us concubines of his celestial court and clan And under his command, we toiled and travailed for the mortal man, Never permitted to do as we pleased with our powers of witchery. This drudgery; thereupon, tainted our hearts and souls with hate And mind mist! His reign interminable, his lust one could not sate! So ravenous for power was he, he strode t’wards me blindly As a fool, when I laid there waiting to indulge in my trickery!”

XLVIII. “That night a tyrant fell to his knees and begged for mercy, Alas, such goodwill was never on the cards! His burned bridges Finally caught up to his fiery fate! Oh, his cries were like riches Taken from the highborn and given to the peasants!” Her spree Of sharpened words as a deluge, atypical of Aurianne. In a split second, she quickly found control and recalled her plan. But I digress, his fall became my rise and the rest? History. Curious, dost this lore sate any of thy mind’s inquiry?”

XLIX. This tale left Ríona of words bereft, awestruck and bemused. Lost in her thoughts, bedazzled at such lost lore none would find Even in deepest of dreams. Not a single question was left on her mind Leaving the pair in a meditative silence. Unmoved, They stayed on that garden bench where many an afternoon had been spent And whilst the young lass couldn’t hide her glee, the goddess sent Herself into a mood of complacency, as she refused To believe her slight slip up could ever be against her used.

#riona's path #fantasy #dark fantasy #poetry #epic poetry #poem #epic poem #literature #writing

[sun-aries]

Otherworldly (TP Zelink smut)

Hey everyone!

This Zelink smut takes place in my story Broken Mirrors and Their Reflections, chapter 29, in the Twilight Realm. If you haven't read the story, that's okay, it can stand alone. I reworked it so I hope you guys enjoy :)

Leave a request if you like!

In a world with no solid ground, Zelda was his gravity; in the frigid air, she was his warmth and in the shadows, she was his light. Link wasn't exactly sure how he ended up back in the Twilight Realm, but in that moment, it didn't matter. There was nothing but the soft movement of her lips on his and the keen noises laced on her breath.

Much to his reluctance, Zelda drew back, just enough to shed her dress. The thin black cloth slid off her body like dewdrops off a petal, and once it cascaded to her ankles, she stepped out of its ring of fabric. She turned to face him then, and his eyes were immediately drawn to her figure. He sucked a breath through his teeth.

She was beautiful.

Her silhouette was embossed with an ethereal glow, illuminated by the window behind her, where the sky was perpetually heather and the wispy clouds leisurely coasted by. Pale skin was peppered with goosebumps, and he ached to enfold her in his arms and keep her warm. But for a moment, as he took her in, time seemed to tarry.

Her breasts were bare, round and pert, the peaks hardened and flush against the paleness of her skin. Admittedly, his eyes lingered there, taken, before dropping to the dip of her hips, to the black panties concealing her from him and then to her thighs, subtly and yet demurely brushing against one another.

It wasn't clear how long Link marvelled at her, but she waited until his eyes found hers again, and for another moment he could do nothing but swallow. Zelda was a beacon, blinding and beautiful, and he was a moth. He'd chase her forever, knowing that he might get burnt and willing to risk it at every turn.

Slowly, they stepped up to each other, their foreheads falling together as they shared in a breath. While his hands wrapped around her waist, her hands found his neck, her fingers splaying over his jaw line - a tad stubbly from so long in the countryside, searching for her - and her breath trembled as it seeped from her lips.

Moved by the thought, her brows furrowed and she leaned forward to capture his lips again, wanting, needing, and Link responded in kind. Her tongue dipped between the line of his lips and met his, and the silky wetness of the touch made their stomachs leap in unison.

Her hands fell to his waist, tugging blindly and a tad desperately at the white cotton shirt that they'd gotten commissioned for the reception, now yellowed with use, snagged and stained, and tried to pull it free from his pants. It didn't take long for Link to figure out what she was doing, and his breath caught, both delighted and flustered by her eagerness.

Zelda's brow was drawn in concentration, her straight and dark hair pouring over her shoulders and falling around her face. With a small smile curling his lips, his hands came to either side of her face to tuck the strands behind her pointed ears. As he drew back, his hands brushed along her jaw, a delicate, wispy touch that pulled her gaze back to his.

It was a wordless reminder that he was here - that there was no rush, and with a shaky breath, she was able to untuck the stubborn shirt. Careful with his injury, he lifted his arms to get it all the way off and to the floor with her dress. She dragged her hands down the length of his arms, easing them down to his sides, before she coasted to his waistline.

Zelda's hands were soft - softer than his could ever be – and every inch she traced made his stomach curl pleasantly. Far steadier now, she was diligent in loosening the knot, and it allowed her to ease a hand into his trousers. The moment her hand curled around his member, Link exhaled, suddenly realizing that he'd been holding his breath.

He'd spent his entire time apart missing Zelda and worrying about whether she was alive, that he hadn't allowed himself to miss her this way. It wasn't until her hands were on him that he realized how much he needed her.

A small, nearly imperceptible smile flickered on her lips when his hands settled on the small of her back. The touch encouraged her, and she moved to undress him properly; soon the last of his clothes dropped to his ankles. With nothing restricting her, she stroked the length of him in one swift movement, and it sent a shudder down his back.

"Zelda…please." His voice was soft, and their foreheads rolled against one another as he bowed his head. "Let me take you to bed."

The simple request released a swarm of butterflies in her belly. She leaned in, her cheek softly brushing against Link's as she whispered in the hollow of his ear, "Take me then."

With a swift, yet heavy breath, he drew back, eyes meeting her lips before his mouth did. He kissed her over and over, each stroke echoing the last, and she enfolded her arms around his neck, if only to get closer. His hands travelled to her rear, hoisting her up and carrying her to bed without breaking their kiss.

But Zelda noticed his kiss get a bit clumsy when his footsteps stopped, and his hand left her to blindly pat around for something. Her eyes fluttered open in time to find him tugging the sheets free from their tidy fastening. There was a sheepish smile on his face when she looked back at him. "I don't want you to be cold," he admitted.

The surprise in her face was replaced by adoration and she laughed. "You've been keeping me plenty warm." The red on his cheeks grew brighter and Zelda smiled proudly as he laid her down. He wasted no time mounting her, throwing the sheets over them and pressing his lips to hers.

With sweat coating their skin, resiliently built up against the stubborn chill of the room, Zelda's breasts sinfully slid against his chest just as the flat of their tongues met, and it tore a broken moan from his lips. One of his hands curled around her jaw, just over her elegant chin, and the gentle and yet demanding touch made her gasp.

Their eyes met and it was instant: the wave of fire that crashed between them - a red heat bathing their skin and swirling in their cores. Link swore beneath his breath, a sinful promise, holding her gaze before they fell to her lips. "You have no idea how much I need you, Zelda." His voice was husky, as if he'd just woke from a deep slumber, and it lit every nerve in Zelda's body.

"You have me. Wholly, I'm yours." She swallowed, and her own eyes fluttered to his lips. "Do with me what you will."

His jaw set, eyes darkening. In choppy movements, Link's hand moved from her jaw to splay across her neck, then her sternum, while the other landed firmly on the pillow beside her. Their eyes simultaneously followed its journey while Zelda took a deep breath, perhaps deliberately pushing her chest further into his touch.

Obediently, his hand slid between her breasts and his eyes shot back to hers. A breast slid into his open palm, kneading into the soft, warm skin, and when her mouth fell open, so did his. Following his hand's path, he dipped his head to lather her chest with loving kisses.

The warmth of his wet mouth was a stark contrast to the chill in the air, so much so that she imagined steam rising off her skin. His tongue swirled around her firm nipple before he took it into his mouth and suckled. Zelda cried out shockingly loud in the silence, her dark hair mussing as she tossed her head against the pillow. It pulled a needy groan deep from his chest as he clenched the pillowcase in his free hand.

Zelda hadn't even realized how much she needed him between her legs until his hand veered from her breasts and slid the rest of the way down. His fingers ventured into her panties first, sliding down the seam of her body, and he felt her heat before he even touched her wetness.

Having her arousal so palpable, and feeling it for himself, made his member twitch in his pants. With a supressed groan, he dipped his fingers into her before sliding back, diverging, and spreading her wetness to either side of her clit. As the place that brought her most pleasure, he revered it, so desperate to hear her moan and feel her legs quake that he could think of nothing else.

His slick fingers were swift and thorough, rubbing her in circular motions even as Zelda's thighs tightened around his wrists, holding him firm as she grinded into his hand. Link's body rolled with hers, nearly forgetting that he was using his hand rather than his member. Her voice spilled out in moans and cries, her mouth open and eyes shut; with all his senses locked in on her, he drank in every moment of it.

He was desperate to give the orgasm she chased as she rocked into every diligent touch. And then, her body tensed; moments later, her voice drew to a high pitch, and he'd be damned if he didn't know what that meant. "Yes," he breathed against her. "I want to see you – I want to watch you come."

She cried out, her voice echoing off the metallic walls as her hips canted off the mattress. Her legs shook as she held herself still, holding onto the pleasure of her orgasm as if it were tangible. Link's breaths were heavy, his fingers still between her legs, wanting to draw it out as long as he could, even as she spasmed in the throes of it. But it inevitably slipped away from her and she collapsed to the mattress, exhausted.

Link peppered soft kisses over her cheek and neck, and she took a shuddering breath as she tugged on his hair to raise his lips to hers. Open-mouthed, she kissed him, sapped but still searing, and she murmured against him, "All of you." Another kiss, then, "I need all of you."

He inhaled sharply, brows furrowing, and broke apart only to ask, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she begged. "Please…if you do too."

Wild desire swirled in his dark blue eyes and yet they were fixated on her, bearing into her with a ferocity that would always be her undoing. "More than anything." Her hand unfurled from his messy hair to slide to his cheek, and her thumb ran over his bottom lip, swollen and red.

Zelda smiled before reaching for her panties and sliding them down, and the little effort caused Link to come to her aid. When they were off, she was the one to guide his member to her. Her hand alone was enough to make him start, but it was nearly over for him when the tip of him touched her wetness. White flashed behind his eyes, causing his head to spin and forcing him to grab her wrist.

The intensity of his desire took them both by surprise, and though it was slightly embarrassing, Link was quickly soothed by Zelda's comforting touch. Her fingers threaded into his hair, still damp from his bath, as she shared in the intake of his steadying breaths. When the tension subsided, he opened his eyes to find her small smile.

Gradually, he sunk into her, and her pleased sigh was immediate. "Link…"

Her slickness was searing against his member, her tight heat burning hotter than the richest caverns of Death Mountain. Eyes clenched, Link wrung his hands in the pillow on either side of her head and leaned his forehead against hers. His hips moved on their own accord, rocking into her with slow, careful movements – he didn't quite trust himself to go any faster without losing control completely.

Perhaps it was that he'd missed her so, or perhaps all his fear of losing her had manifested into desire now that she was back in his arms, but either way he was insatiable, thirsting for her like he was without a drop of water atop Gerudo's mesas. The bitter cold of the room was nonexistent: there was only heat – slick heat enveloping his member and effervescent embers alit beneath his skin.

She'd felt the same, as though fiery inferno swept the room, threatening to engulf them both in its unrelenting flames. Each measured thrust rammed a spot deep within her, causing stars to flash beneath her eyelids, and she arched her back in a desperate need for more. "Link, please… I need…I need - faster, please."

He was in such a dire need of her that hearing Zelda's plea, fumbling as it fell from her lips, was more than enough encouragement. With sweat dribbling down his temples, he started to pick up speed, each thrust just a tad faster than the last. Her response was immediate: a desperate drag of her sharp nails down his back, and he bit his lip to try and hinder his ravenous groan.

As she arched her back, her soft breasts stuck to the firm wall of his chest, and he delighted in her hardened nipples pressing against him. Link grabbed one of her thighs and raised it higher against his hip – a tad roughly, for which he would later repent - and opened her up more. Zelda whimpered.

"Zelda," he whined, pitiful and desperate, but he couldn't find it in him to very much care in the moment. He leaned down to press a kiss against her lips, only partially able to focus on the movements of his mouth, but she slipped her tongue past his lips, and his hips stuttered as he slid his tongue against hers, tangling and teasing, until he rediscovered his momentum.

Mouth against mouth, hips against hips, their bodies rocked together, causing the mattress to sway and creak beneath them. His head veered off into the crook of her neck, disappearing further into the sheets to smother her with messy kisses.

Meanwhile, his hand moved from her thigh to the curves of her round breast. He breathed in deeply through his nose, drinking in her heat, smelling her familiar milky scent now laced with sweat, and rose his eyes to hers just to see her lashes flutter and her brows curl upwards in pleasure.

"Zelda….Zelda…Zelda." He repeated her name like a mantra, saying it like he'd been saying it for eons.

Her whole body clenched, drawing tight once more. "Link – I think – I will-" He hung on every one of her feverish words, but she paused, her breath hitched on her manners.

"Say it," he urged, and she whimpered. "Tell me, Zelda, please…"

Arching her back, she threw her head back and cried, "I'm coming…!"

He groaned loudly. All at once, all the heat from the room gathered to their bodies and coiled down to where they connected, crashing down like waves of fire. Zelda's passage tightened around his member and Link's sight went white as he bore down in her. Time tarried once more as they came together, their bodies pressed together at every point and coupled in every possible way. There was nothing but one another and their soundless ecstasy.

Link's entire body was trembling, his arms struggling to keep him in place despite his physical strength. As her pleasure abated, Zelda fell like a feather, her body sinking into the mattress, head arcing onto the pillow, and mouth slowly falling shut.

It was then that their eyes met, a wild and yet adoring look in Link's gaze while he panted heavily. Her face softened, looking heavenly and peaceful as her small smile returned. "Come," she said, her dulcet voice drained. Her arms enveloped him, slinking around his shoulders as her hands cradled his head. "Lay with me, love."

Without question, he withdrew from her and collapsed at her side, settling into place as she eased his face to her chest. A soft sigh left his lips as he melted in her embrace. Her comforting scent clung to her soft, dewy skin and it enveloped him, soothing him to sleep more soundly than he had in weeks.

#aries writes #BMTR #tp zelink #tp #twilight princess #zelink #smut #zelink smut #tp link #tp zelda #princess zelda #zelda and link #twilight princess zelda #twilight princess link #legend of zelda #link #zelda #loz #loz tp #loz twilight princess #twilight princess zelink

[limeade-l3sbian]

i have...conflicting feelings on the female sumo painting. i will say i am enticed by seeing strong women with relatively natural-looking physiques. however, i am off-put by the fact that i was instantly aware that this was produced by men for fetishistic purposes, even without looking at the original post or the notes (which make it clear the source of this is a vintage bdsm magazine). bear with me, because i know you probably only reblogged it because it is pleasing to see strong women (i don't fault you for this at all, i wholeheartedly agree).

if i put aside my own sexuality and love of strong women, the conflicting feelings remain, however. this is because the content of the painting is coincidentally feminist, but the intent of it is fundamentally antifeminist. this may take a moment to explain.

for starters, sumo is a "male-only" sport. there are no professional leagues for women in sumo, at least not in japan. as far as i'm aware, all women's leagues across the world are considered "amateur," and women being sumo wrestlers at all, even if they're only "amateur," is still considered controversial anyways. sumo is deeply tied to shintoism, which is highly influenced by buddhism--both view women as "polluted" by menstruation, sexual intercourse, and childbirth. as a result, women are not seen as "pure" enough to participate in a sport that includes religious aspects like sumo.

secondly, sumo wrestlers are heavily benefitted by having large builds. despite popular belief, sumo wrestlers aren't obese--the fat that they have is different from that of someone who is obese (obese people have a lot of visceral fat, sumo wrestlers have very little). but, by all visual definitions, they are fat. this is because having greater mass is hugely beneficial in sumo.

a brief digression on the art style, before i continue. it appears to be, or at least be inspired by, ukiyo-e. in this art style, women are almost always depicted as the japanese standard of the "ideal woman": demure and slender, with any curves of her body hidden away by her clothing so that she would have a sort of "rectangle" or fully obfuscated silhouette while standing.

continuing on, combining the last two paragraphs into a single point: these women are blatantly not as heavyset as a good deal of sumo wrestlers (look up "female sumo wrestler" to get an idea of how they look, in terms of build), and that could easily be considered sexist. the idea that these women (who, by all means, look to be an average, healthy weight and build for women) are heavyset enough to be sumo wrestlers is quite disturbing and misogynistic, indeed. however, these women are also worlds away from the demure and slender women of ukiyo-e, making the image feminist, in that regard.

i feel this happens somewhat often around the world-- men producing fetishistic art that could be reinterpreted as feminist, but certainly isn't. or, perhaps, men fetishizing the very idea of female liberation. i believe this is because there is a way of thinking some men have, where they feel more comfortable having the ability to reframe things such as female power, dominance, strength, nonconformity to restrictive roles put upon women by patriarchy, and liberation as "sexy," or otherwise to their (male) tastes, because it means that even female liberation is in service to men. to heterosexual male "masochists," this "service" is explicitly sexual. in this way, these men are among the most vile of misogynists. they are men who do not wish to, or genuinely cannot, conceptualize the idea of women as something other than "something that exists only to benefit and please men."

there is something deeply uncomfortable about this concept, and yet i have seen it in action. men fetishizing female strength, men fetishizing lesbians (not just "two feminine women being sexually involved," but actual lesbians and lesbianism), studying lesbian culture and behavior, men fetishizing gnc or outright butch women, and so on. some women may be fooled into thinking these men are "allies" because they appear to value female strength and liberation, but the truth is that these men only value these things as much as the breasts of a woman a catcaller has shouted "nice tits" towards. the idea that even female liberation is fetishized (by men) is a truly repugnant one, showing just how thoroughly men view us as objects that exist only for their needs and pleasures.

i apologize that this was so heavy, when i assume you just wanted to reblog a picture that fascinated you. there is no particular intent in this message aside from perhaps discussing the topic at hand. i want to make it absolutely clear that i find there is no shame in you being interested in the image (as i was, as well), and i am not trying to convince you that it is evil or should be removed from your blog. despite its origins and intent, it is still a nice image that depicts women in an interesting way that i value, both as a feminist and as a lesbian. to be honest, i'm not quite sure how i expect you, or anyone else for that matter, to respond to all this. i'm not certain how i feel when taking all of this into account, either.

I respond the way I always do. Kicking my feet as I read through your message on my stomach and saying, "She's so smart. ☺️"

#ask

[nohrianseneschal]

Something Borrowed ch. 18 WIP

When Corrin was a little girl, Camilla often played ‘dress-up’ with her. More accurately, she used to indulge the whims of a girl who fawned over her, seeing her aloof exterior not as a warning to stay away but as an invitation to marvel and admire. 

“Camilla, your hair is so long and pretty!” she would say, her eyes widening to take in the full view of her. And Leo, an unwilling participant, would hold up outfits still in hangers, brandishing them like a curtain to hold in front of his sister. He was so small then, that even when she was sitting, he had to step on a stool to reach her shoulders. And Corrin would stand across from both, her chin perched on her palms as she contemplated whether the outfit ‘matched’ the mood of the day.

There’s something poetic about it, Camilla thinks to herself. To be the maid of honor, in charge of helping Corrin get into her wedding gown. Briefly, she entertains the silly idea of asking Corrin if she remembers those days of dress-up.

“Corrin, your boobs have gotten bigger!” The vulgarity comes from Felicia, who, standing opposite Corrin, is desperately trying to cinch the bodice tight over the bride’s already snug torso. 

“Oh my god, they have!” Elise joins in, pressing her temple against Felicia’s so they can both have an equally partitioned view of Corrin’s cleavage.

In the background, Camilla bites back a remark or two. She figures drawing attention away from Corrin’s rapidly changing body will only backfire, so she feigns ignorance.

“Really?” the bride returns, exaggerating a clearly fake laugh with more composure than usual. “I hadn’t noticed… I hope the dress still fits?”

Felicia gives a heave before finishing up the final fastening on the back of her dress. “Oh it still fits, a little more snug than it was a month ago, but it fits!”

“Enough Felicia!” Flora chides, approaching from behind them with the veil. “It’s time to put this on,” she says, turning to Corrin with a slight smile tugging at her lips. For someone who disapproved of Corrin's choice of husband, Flora seems oddly happy. Or at least, there’s a serene sort of calm to her wistful expression, one that belies acceptance and genuine happiness for her friend.

Meanwhile, Sakura is on the floor, straightening the hem of the gown. She doesn’t add to the conversation, but even standing over her, Camilla can sense the hint of a smile on her lips. They’re all there, happy for Corrin. The very air in the room vibrates with their joy.

As they continue dressing her, wrapping her in the rich fabric of satin, lace, and silk, Corrin falls into a listless silence than before, lost in the thrall of white that envelops her. There’s a dizzying sense of encroachment as they wrap the satin bow sash on the small of her back, cinching her waist. With the bodice secured, the skirt falls like a cloud of chiffon cascading over her legs — a ballgown silhouette that lends to Corrin a more majestic and ethereal beauty. Against the sunlight, the whole dress sparkles, showing off the tiny prismatic crystals woven into the lace pattern of the fabric.

When the last button is buttoned, and the last bobby pin pinned, the bridal party all take a step back, slyly glancing at each other as they sink into a reverent yet eager silence. 

Corrin slowly steps off the podium, inching closer to the large mirror propped up for the occasion. Her dress shuffles loudly with her movements. Lace rubbing against lace. Chiffon chafing against chiffon. Satin trailing in a long train behind her; her gown a sea of white pooling in a perfect circle, covering the Persian rug that lines the antique floorboards. 

“Well?” she asks, demurely averting her gaze from her own reflection as her fingers fiddle with the ruched lace flaring out from the waistline like a sheer petticoat. “Do I look okay?”

Camilla inadvertently laughs. There’s something amusing about the banal way in which Corrin shyly asks for approval, as if they’re merely trying on a dress while shopping. “What do you think?” she asks, giving a slight shake of her head when she catches Corrin’s little whimper.

The girls join in for an effusive answer.

“You’re GORGEOUS!”

“Oh my god I’m crying!”

“Everyone will be crying once they see you!”

“Wah, Corrin! This is so beautiful… You are so beautiful!”

Their voices blend together in a raucous medley of compliments and besotted sighs, their faces radiating with awe. 

And as they gush and fawn over her, touching what they can of her dress and helping her daintily arrange her veil, Camilla stands back. She leans against a wall, her arms folded against her chest. A familiar sting renders her eyes tender, and a shakiness squeezes at her throat. The tears want to come up, but they won’t. Sadly, Camilla can’t find it in herself to cry.

#my fic wips

[dioriysus]

the marionette and muse

she speaks into air with a vibrancy ever so disturbing. a decor

that captivates and takes hostage 

a victim that does not heed. 

an embrace she gifts twines with the sweet warmth 

of summer and, it is sewn seemly to her crown;

mops of yarn that snares sunlight like treasure, 

gracing me like consolation. having being baptised in hues golden;

they beckon to be adorned like jewels

with soft rays of lament, yet, it is indifference

that traces her silhouette, the most intimate binding to her form.

my demure brings with it furry moss,

a mobile state of dubiety i am shadowed with. it radiates and

past my peripheral into my unseen. a rendered 

marionette by swathes of cavity, i, 

siren to onlookers for their penchant and charity. 

i have not known indifference in these passing times

like dust of street flown by the wind, i deny to exist

until i am observed.  

#poem #bpd

[gocatchem]

‘  as  bad  as  it  seems ,  there  is  good  and  you  will  find  it .  i  promise .  ’ //kukui

A MILLION LITTLE THINGS.  //  @fatesrot feat. professor kukui.

          HE CLOSES HIS EYES WITH A DOWNCAST SIGH,   rubbing his grime covered neck with a tattered black glove, looking wearily at his fellow professor and managing a demure smile. Kukui meant well  ( he always did )  but optimism was a luxury for the prepared, and never in his wildest dreams could Professor Willow have prepared for the devastation that Primal Groudon and Kyogre brought with their long-awaited reappearance.

   “Thank you,”   he whispers a tone too gruff, eyeing the water bottle in Kukui’s hand while he reaches to take it, opening its cap and letting the searingly cold water gush down his throat. A few seconds later and the bottle is capped again, gently handed off to its original owner.

   “Well, I believe we have a few more things to attend to first,”   the Professor quips without any of his typical zest, turning his gaze upon the length of the ocean boardwalk not yet covered by cooled-down lava. “During the Reemergence Protocol, Team Rocket’s explosion allowed them to ambush The Trainer and steal the Shadow Registeel I gave them for safekeeping. More importantly, thousands of Pokémon have been displaced far from their natural habitats. I haven’t even read the reports for the human numbers yet, and on top of that, Candela is…”

   No. He wasn’t going to finish that thought, though the exhaustion wrings his bones regardless as some deep corner of his mind recalls that familiar silhouette standing tall and defiant amidst the fiery backdrop of Slateport City. It had all happened so fast. And judging from the hand that now rests on his shoulder, it seemed like the Alolan Professor was also somewhat aware of his unspoken fear.

   Professor Willow looks back to his fellow professor and opens his mouth, staring dumbly when the words don’t come out. He softly closes his lips, clears his throat in a muffled manner and ignores his own glossing eyes as he speaks again.

   "—-Candela is still out there somewhere. You have to help me find her…      please.”

#.ic #ayy i've still got it #anyways here's your pokemon go angst

[laurelier]

.

#up way too late again bc sleep evades me #and harry is harry skdkfjkfkff i stayed up late enough to see the pics begin to roll in and i was done for ffsddffff #so we’re gonna #tag rant #about the seeming emergence of this fun silhouette thing we got goin on. or: the one where #meg yells about harry styles and his big pants again. #i love the idea of uniformity in his tour fits i kind of hope that sticks around #but i keep looking at pics of him in tonight’s particular outfit and kind of ln’s as well and i’m really really #struck by how conservative they are in terms of coverage. like his chest is out sure (a lil) but those pants are loose as fuck bro. #and how bright and attention grabbing they are in terms of color and pattern #but also so simple and clean like just cream pants lilac shirt. red pants striped shirt. even pink pants pink glittersparkles there's not #many moving parts to the fits they hold attention but they're not busy or chaotic all of which is certainly purposeful tension #and purposeful contrast. it's like. the clothes are loose and substantial enough for people not to focus first on his body #there are peeks of his body that you notice later but the clothes demand attention first they're just like. kind of commanding? there's #so much fabric and they're so richly colored #and they're loud and beautiful enough to invite people talking about them exactly as we are doing and always do #and yet the silhouette is so demure? #it’s like he’s exhibiting the clothes almost. like LOOK WHAT IM WEARING LOOK HOW BEAUTIFULLY MADE LOOK AT THIS FABRIC ITS STUNNING #and of course he's wanting us to look at him not just the clothes right he's harr after all but idk something about these outfits #suggests to me a desire to be looked at more softly. and ofc not to speak for him never to speak for him but it #almost seems like he's trying to get us to see *him* dancing and glittering in the clothes before we see the body that's wearing them. #and i don't feel like it's the first time he's asked for that through clothes either #and not to like. i don't want to project too much of my own shit onto harry here but. #keeping the same silhouette with shifting colors and also having that silhouette be basic and simple and high coverage #feels like a move i’d make if i wanted people to focus on me in place of *~**me~~** the fabricated outer shell version and well #at least to me that feels really congruent with certain lyric changes and the way he seems to just. want to be known. #not consumed through sight and visibility but known. #OR MAYBE I'MJUST TALKING ABOUT ME AGAIN skdfjksjfkjsd who the fuck knows #tw body image

[bastart13]

I’ve had a lot of fun recently coming with with female mercenary characters for TF2. I really liked where the concept art was going with making them all individual characters rather than simply “if the characters were women”

The design style is fantastic for distinct simplicity so I tried limiting myself to basic colours and shapes to make these

and I’m pretty confident they pass the silhouette test!

Character names/bios under the cut!

Heavy

Name: Marie Jarrett

Age: Mid 30s-40s

Height: 6’5

Nationality: American (Hawai’i)

Bio: Raised in Hawai’i, growing up she developed more and more drastic measures to fend off the tourists swarming her home. Land mines, electric gates, guard dogs, none could stop them for long until she picked up her trusty minigun to send her message. But even still, she hears the click of cameras in the night.

Eventually, she left her home to explore the world. Enthralled with the image of seeing different wonders across different countries, she’s always disappointed. She’s travelled every continent and still finds nothing that lives up to her expectations. No place, no person. She’s outgoing and open to new experiences, only she usually hates them.

Mercenary life is a great opportunity to earn money, see sights, meet new people and kill them after they don’t meet your expectations. She hates New Mexico and takes every opportunity to destroy the buildings and insult her employer’s tastes. She finds some people she tolerates within the mercenaries as she hasn’t yet visited where they live. However much she hides it, she has a deep, instinctual fear of the Engineer.

  Soldier

Name: Linda Smith

Age: Early 40s

Height: 5’10

Nationality: Canadian

Bio: Canada’s perfect woman… or so she claims. The star of war propaganda posters and clearly decided for the role because of her great tactical assets. She’s there to motivate people into the fight. To spread the glory of Canada and inspire her allies. She believes she has higher orders than anyone else she’s working for (ignoring the fact she hasn’t heard from them for a good few years) and is determined to follow them to the letter. She may have lost the letter but she remembers it good enough.

She represents the ideals of Canada: polite, friendly, apologetic, and pacifistic. None of these are contradicted by how she throws around rockets. That’s not what Canada means. She’s superior to everyone around her and graciously educates them on how to improve through example. She loves her French and British allies and will kindly tell the Americans how to be better.

She’s motivating and actually fairly competent, it’s just that competency might be misdirected. She’s damn good at rocket jumping, shooting her shotgun, and supporting her team, it’s just that you really need to get it in her head when she’s meant to be doing it.

Scout

Name: Patricia “Pat” Herald

Age: 50s-60s

Height: 5’4

Nationality: English

Bio: In her years, Patricia has learnt fear… and she’s learnt to laugh in its face. She wakes up at the crack of dawn, ready to leave at the drop of a hat, boots polished and laced the night before. Her years have taught her that with a gun and Jeremy by her side, she can survive!

The postal route of Appleby-in-Westmorland.

She’s been chased by geese, dogs, cows, elderly ladies, and when her postal route had her delivering post during the war, she developed a taste for blood. Nothing will stop her from delivering her post on time. Every day before 6am, every postbox will have their letters and parcels. One chucked across barbed wire, another house jumped over a river, another house miles into the country with dogs on her heels, she WILL get there and she’ll get there FAST.

But after a couple of decades, she needs a change of scenery, and the Gravels wars are just the holiday she’s needed. With her trusty black and white cat by her side (ignoring the yowling and scratches) she reckons it’ll be great time to enjoy herself.

Quotes: “Oh, hello, Human Jeremy.”

“Bloody fucking Ethel! Building her house out in the country… surrounded by bloody hills and rivers!”

Pyro

Name: Nikephoros Papadopoulos

Age: Late 20s

Height: 5’11

Nationality: Greek

Bio: Survival of the fittest. Nature gives and nature taketh away. If you’re not prepared for that, well, Pyro is more than happy to teach you the lesson. They embody the old values of the Greek gods: f*ck or fire. She indulges her every whim and unfortunately for the people around her it often involves arson.

One year for the Olympic games, she was given the noble title of torchbearer. On complete coincidence, the Olympics shifted to primarily water sports. Underwater sprints became the hot new trend!

She’s merry and chatty, never missing the opportunity to talk to other people about herself and her world view. She can’t wait to spread her gospel to help other people improve themselves (though she always gets a laugh out of those who go out screaming in the flames). She can’t help it if she has a sadistic side.

Engineer

Name: Mikawo Kojima

Age: Early 20s

Height: 5’0

Nationality: Japanese

Bio: Japan’s early-rising industrial revolutions in technology are best exemplified in Mikawo, a young upstart determined to rise to the top, learning everything she can and building the best of the best. Unfortunately, she’s never been the most creative but when you happen upon other people’s blueprints and happen to construct them first, what does it matter who came up with the “concept”?

At first, she appears to be every bit the quiet and demure young woman people expect, only when silk hides steel, that steel is a massive automatic sentry gun. She’s motivated by a distinct contempt for the people who get in her way. Especially those who try to be better than her. She enjoys the flexibility of English, especially the cusses, and she has no reservations about swearing up a storm, even if she still refuses to give a straight rejection, preferring instead to give a small “I’ll think about it.”

Quotes: “This GUN is fair use on your head!”

Demo

Name: Qingzhao Zeng

Age: Late 40s

Height: 5’3

Nationality: Chinese

Bio: The Zeng family has a long-standing family trade in demolitions and explosives, traced down the line all the way to the Song dynasty. Luckily, Qingzhao has sisters so, you know, it’s not all that important. She doesn’t even have to stop smoking and drinking. She hasn’t blown herself up (that much) so clearly, it’s working. Precision is for other people to worry about. She’s apathetic to a T, having seen everything. Measurements come from the heart. A pinch of gunpowder there, a splash of paint there.

Her family has a deep-seated rivalry with the DeGroots. Long ago in ancient China, a Zeng matriarch woke up in a cold sweat, a message from the stars to let them know of their Scottish rivals. Due to being a continent away from each other, the families have actually met each other only a handful of times, but the hatred needs to be kept up because, what if?

Turns out, Qingzhao has met Tavish even before finding employment under the Mann brothers. One drunken night, the two of them had a short, whirlwind friendship, sharing secrets and declaring each other to be their best friends. Luckily for them, they both forgot the night, merrily hating each other as tradition dictates. However, headaches and flashes of this terrible night haunt them both. Could they really get over centuries of hate and become friends?

Absolutely not.

Sniper

Name: Ansa Aaltonen

Age: 27

Height: 6’2

Nationality: Finnish

Bio: Snow. Sugar. Cocaine.  Her life is run by many white powders. Ansa is a professional sniper, with a sharp eye and a steady hand… when she isn’t also high as a kite, lost in the snowy wilderness of Finland and screeching to the sky. When you’re up in the dark and cold, you need something to give you a little pep in your step. It just so happens Ansa liked having a bit more pep than most.

She’s there for a THRILL. There’s nothing better to get your heart pumping at 200 beats per second than a good headshot, embracing the chill, and a hit of sugar. She no longer feels the cold or heat or even pain, shrugging it off until she collapses. It just makes her feel alive. She’s efficient, fast, and determined to get her kicks.

She has an unusual taste, living off fermented fish and tree bark. To most people around the Finnish wilderness, she’s nothing more than an urban legend, but she’s very real and she’s looking for some excitement, happily found in employment in the Gravel wars.

Spy

Name: Yvonne Pleshette [Real name N/A]

Age: 30s

Height: 5’8

Nationality: American (California)

Bio: The silver screen calls to his woman and she’s happy to answer. She trains herself to act in every possible role she can, having a wide range of accents, body languages, and backstories. To truly test herself, she gave up her identity long ago. Lately she’s been going by the name “Yvonne.”

The world of Hollywood is cutthroat and full of backstabbers so she learnt to cut throats and stab backs. While some people tell her the terms are metaphorical, nothing else has given her more roles. Living the mercenary life is simply gathering research for her roles (and earning some much-needed money in the process).

She presents herself as a classic film star, despite being a minor name at best, mostly because she’s always changing it. She has high standards but a cheapskate personality. She’s a bit of a bitch, happily criticising others, especially if they’re working with her. What can she say? She’s a diva.

[Slutshames other spy]

Quotes: “Ugh, actors these days, they know nothing about getting into character. They still have names.”

“’AHHHHH—’ Wait, no. Once more from the top. Scream in agony.”

Medic

Name: Susan Monks

Age: 30-40s

Height: 5’7

Nationality: American (New Jersey)

Bio: The American Healthcare system. Is there a more glorious sight? The exploitation of pain. The money. The debt. The fear it strikes into the entire population it’s designed to help. To Susan, there’s nothing better. She squeezes every last drop from the people she helps, working on a purely transactional lifestyle. She’ll never help someone unless she has all of their insurance information and the payment secure in her bank, and god forbid she ever accept help. It’s not like she can afford her own prices.

She’s very self-aware of her own corruption and proud of it, though she refuses to be exploited in the same way, suspicious of anything “free” but also doing her best not to pay for anything.

That said, she doesn’t much care for how good a job she does. In her eyes, asking for surgery is one thing. Asking for successful surgery is another. She has a variety of skills in both cosmetic and military medicine. She just wishes the license board would stop sending her “malpractice” letters. Ugh, stick to your own business. “Disappearing” all their messengers is becoming a pain.

Quotes: “Why get someone else to do something for you when you can scrounge a way to do it yourself?”

#team fortress 2 #team fortress #tf2 #fem tf2 #tf2 heavy #tf2 spy #tf2 scout #tf2 medic #tf2 sniper #tf2 engineer #tf2 soldier #tf2 demoman #tf2 pyro #character design #art #i'm very happy with how these turned out

[inknopewetrust]

Scene of Love // The Darkling x Reader

Summary: The moment Aleksander realizes he’s in love.

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova (The Darkling) x GN!Reader (Shadow and Bone)

Word Count: 797

Warnings/AN: None. P.S. running out of Aleksander gifs that include just him so if you are a gif creator... hint hint.

Quick Links: Masterlist // Request Guidelines

Beyond the Little Palace laid a pond.

The pond was small, the color of sage, but reflected the sun as it shone above. Its alcove covered by heavy yields of trees; every one different. Their barks bending or white, leaves turning from green to an alluring array of autumn shades.

The cove was the color of the golden sun.

From the distance he kept, Aleksander reveled in the silhouette of you.

As the water nearly glowed, your face had been turned aside. A slight overturn on your right shoulder, Aleksander found himself incapable of looking away. His gaze set, drawn to the creature before him that illuminated with the light. Your distinctive features ornately carved by the beauty of the early afternoon, drawn to life by a slight movement of your lashes fluttering, the tilting of your head upwards toward the sun. A brilliant shining diamond amidst a sea of natural occurrence.

Your head jutted over your shoulder, etching him into your vision with a coy, demure smile before shifting forward once more.

It was so simple, so easy to imagine the joy you emitted.

Aleksander had forgotten what that was like. How it felt to be free of burden or task; his duty to his goal was too great of an accord to focus on something as benign as love. Aleksander had resigned himself to a life of distance, of apathy and sorrow. Needs met and fulfilled by passing faces to never be thought of again, reticent to the defining moments of life missed. Aleksander had never allowed himself to love—until you.

You were everything he was not. You were kind, good. A warm heart and hand to hold when days carried that burden too heavily; a forgiving smile for the mistakes he had made in the past. You learned from him, talked with him, understood him like no other. The blame of his choices were not scolded onto him. The one he loved did not act superior to him or ask to be treated as less. You were an opposite equal: someone who demanded the same respect and status but held hands instead of breaking them.

Your heart was amiable.

The way your eyes shone in the light of the golden forest, he wondered how they could gaze upon him with an affectionate lust. He was bad. A clichéd villain of type, while you provided his good. Yet you remained standing as he drank in the sight, relishing in your own mind how his eyes ranked over your form over and over in complete adoration—even if he hadn’t vocalized it just yet.

It was a rather simple concept, love. The action was difficult. A process of understanding another’s faults and convictions, truths and hardships. In the end, Aleksander would realize he needn’t know any of those things about you to love you. Love didn’t have to be complicated. It could be as simple as admiring another from a far and falling in love with their minute movements and playful gaze.

It was enough to make the heart pump faster. Enough for his words to cease and grow forgotten in his memory. His palms perspired further, his stomach feeling lighter and tougher at the same time. Hypothetical, banal butterflies filled its space with a realization that he had never felt such a way before.

Aleksander was in love. He was in love with you and while he may not admit it aloud in a few moments or months ahead, he would never forget the second he realized the feeling was real. It wasn’t a children’s story or fairytale to expand upon with lies, it was absolute. A near palpable emotion that invaded every sense and smell. Everywhere he turned, you were lingering in his vision or nose. The scent of your body, the trail of your fingers or eyes, the romance that flowed freely from them; easy to give, to maintain and protect, although he hadn't ever realized it.

How easy it had been to give his heart away when the right one stood lengths away, your own heart already given and captured by the shadowed man aside the trees.

As the emotions breached the stone-cold fortress around his heart, Aleksander forever engraved the sight before him as the sun encapsulated his reason for further existence. Purpose flowed with love, surged his desire to protect and ensure a prosperous future. For a man who had convinced himself he was not suitable for love, not worthy of feeling the very vulnerable emotions that accompany it, Aleksander had found it. Locked safely in the golden woods beyond Os Alta, a memory secured in his heart and mind eternally.

Aleksander may have lived many lives, had many names, but he would only ever have one love: you.

Darkling Master Tag (CLOSED):

@mrs-brekker15 @aleksanderblack @mizelophsun11 @aleksanderwh0r3 @alltheloztboys

#darkling x you #darkling x y/n #the darkling x reader #darkling x reader #darkling shadow and bone #darkling fanfic #darkling fic #the darkling #darkling #darkling x gn reader #aleksander morozova x female reader #aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander morozova #aleksander x reader #general kirigan #general kirigan x reader #shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction #shadow and bone #ben barnes x you #ben barnes x reader #ben barnes #darkling x female reader #gender netural reader #x gender neutral reader #gn reader #x reader #x gn reader

[blzzrdstryr]

Galatea

Yandere(?) Albedo x gn!reader

Wordcount: 2410

CW: Panic attacks, hallucinations, slight dehumanization.

...and his creation was so beautiful: silent and non judgemental, pure and demure, it would endure any of his whims of love and passion.

Albedo looks calm as usual as he scoops the honey from the beehive, even though he doesn’t wear any protection; Bees are angrily buzzing nearby, but otherwise not attacking him. It would look strange to you if you didn’t know the answer: insects are not real. The alchemist created them, turning pure slabs of carbon, water and organic matter into tiny fuzzy bodies, as you watched the scene with wide eyes, one moment and a non-living becomes living. He commented on the whole process and while you tried your best to listen to him there were so many scientific terms and jargons in his speech that after some time you zoned out, preferring to observe the birth of insects instead.

There are bones and flesh and organs growing and fusing together. They writhe and convulse as blood starts to fill them. Whose body is it?

“Is this for examination too?”, you remember that Albedo was collecting honey several days ago, albeit in much lesser quantities, and when you asked what the alchemist was doing, he said it was for comparative analysis.

“Well, you could say that” alchemist looks at the full jar and closes the lid, “Previous analysis showed that this honey has the same compounds as the natural one in the same proportions and isn’t dangerous for consumption”. You nod, urging him to continue - even though Albedo isn’t the chattiest person, you noticed how talkative he becomes when you ask him for explanations.

“Smell and taste are usually dependent on the composition, but there is always a place for exceptions, so I decided to conduct another experiment, one that needs your help”

You raise eyebrows - alchemist, despite actually enjoying your company, usually didn’t disclose much of his work :“Is that so? How can I help?”

Small smile appears on his lips, subtle and controlled, “I want you to taste it”. He looks happy.

You have seen that smile long before. You can’t remember where.

You hate sweets, but there's something stopping you from declining. It's bone-deep and chilling, woven into every fiber of your flesh. You can’t get out the needed words, even if you wanted, with your lips somehow shutting tight at the mere thought. There's something stopping you from saying "no" to Albedo and you assume it's gratitude.

***

The honey turns out to be as sickly sweet as the one from the real bees. You frown, as you take another sip of tea, trying to wash down the saccharine taste from the tongue. Albedo sits in front of you and scribes something in his notebook, throwing occasional glances at you from time to time.

“It seems that we’ll need to keep this secret from Klee” you muse, no longer tasting the nectar on your tongue.

“Why so?” he asks, still writing - his handwriting is too small for you to see from this distance. You could stretch your neck to have a better glimpse, but it would be rude to do, so you refrain, curiosity still nipping at you.

“Well, you know what a big sweet tooth she is, and if she learns that your bees don’t sting...”

“But they do sting, just not me”.

“Why?”

“Bees were created with my will, so they just can’t. It’s against the nature of alchemical creation to oppose its creator”

You hum, processing the new information and guessing how far he would teach you that in your own alchemy lessons. You are far behind Sucrose or Timaeus in your studies, still stuck on basics, but Kreideprinz doesn't look displeased or bored with you. In contrast, mentoring you is something he really likes, judging by the rare smiles he allows himself to show. He proposed to teach you one day and you couldn't find it in yourself to turn him down.

You thought it was strange at first how the recluse seemed to favour you, but then as you familiarized yourself with a man you realized that he liked all things unseen and unheard before and your selective amnesia must be the one.

There are large gaps in your memory, but you can remember some small moments - peeking into a cave and plunging deeper into a forest out of curiosity, spending hours in the library, completely captivated by the book before you, feeling satisfied from finally solving an advanced math problem.

None of the memories include people.

It's an identity forming memories, Albedo theorized when you shared your concerns, experiences shape who we are, [First], and maybe that's why you retained them, they define you.

Were you as reclusive as him then?

A bit later you see what Albedo was drawing: a familiar bird and decapitated head. You are disturbed - how does he know my dreams?

***

Mondstadtians are weird, it’s the first time you leave Albedo’s lab and side, deciding to take a quick stroll around the city and look around. Some look at you with wide eyes, as if you just grew a second head before their eyes, some shamelessly whisper things to each other.

The knight that was assigned to look after you for the duration of the walk is no better than them. He also treats you like some sort of oddity, with all that persistent glances and hesitancy to interact with you.

What kind of person old you were to prompt such a reaction?

Walking along the streets of the city you can't remember any of it. Books that mentioned amnesia and other memory related issues stated that visiting once familiar places can help with overall recollection. Walking along the streets of the city you can't recollect any of it, memories slipping past your fingers like water.

You can’t remember the blue cloudless sky above, or the deep clear lake of the same shade or the gentlest breezes playing with your hair. You can’t recall the bright red roof tiles, or the giant windmills that dwarf other buildings, or the statue of the anemo archont overseeing the city. You can't think of once being among the other idle citizens, of praying and worshipping Barbatos, of participating in the windtrace or Ludi Harpastum. There’s emptiness where a familiarity should be, a dull ache rotting and festering at the back of your mind - I don’t belong here, I never did.

You don’t feel like a part of Mondstadt, not even a single part of you does. There’s an invisible yet unbreakable wall separating you from other people. You can smile and chat and be all polite and nice, yet there’s always a certain coldness and caution others treat you with. You want to be both accepted and left alone, feel loved yet be distant enough to avoid any emotional hurt.

Of course, there are people who managed to get close to you - Albedo and Klee, with the former one being your official caretaker and mentor and the latter being as bright as the Sun, you doubt there’s anyone that couldn’t fall under little girl’s charms, except acting Grandmaster Jean.

That must be why you act so warm towards them, why you decide to bare your soul and feelings towards them, no matter how scary it can be. That’s why you play with Klee, engaging her in less destructive entertainment than the fish blasting and that is why you never refuse Albedo in any of his requests, be it a quick walk on a sunny day or assistance in his experiments.

***

A familiar dream.

You see a giant owl, it's yellow eyes piercing right through you. It's a majestic creature, with snow white fluffy feathers and razor sharp talons. Bird looks at you with all knowing eyes, and then spreads its wings, soundlessly flying in your direction. You dodge it, still marvelling at its grace, as the bird continues its way to the giant head laying behind you.

You turn back still tracing the bird's flight, eyes then turning to the bodiless head. It has the face of an aged man with wise eyes, it's lips move silently chanting. There's something hypnotizing in the chant - listen to me and you will now, listen to me and I will tell you, listen to me and you will learn things that he doesn’t want you to know.

You take a step, hand outstretched to touch it. It burns your skin, and the world around you darkens, all sounds stop and soon enough darkness consumes the bodiless head too, leaving you all alone.

A memory comes.

You're absolutely naked and shivering with Albedo hovering above you. He says something but you can’t understand the words, liquid(?) in your eyes and ears. You hear Sucrose and Timaeus in the background too and how excited they sound.

You turn your head, catching the sight of slabs of pure carbon, bottles of water, pieces of lime and ammonia solution and the rest of organic and inorganic matter lying around you.

There are no thoughts and feelings - you are nothing but an empty vessel that needs to be filled.

"Timaeus, bring the blanket" It's Albedo's voice, “Sucrose, check.. [First]’s temperature. I will observe them”

“[First]?”

“It’s a fitting name”

The memory ends. You wake up.

***

You wake up to Albedo sitting near your bed. It's not a rare occurrence with him frequently checking up on your health, but the memories of previous dreams make you almost jump when you see his silhouette again.

"Uhm, hello?" you still sound husky from sleep.

"Apologies for coming here, I heard your whimpers and decided to check if everything was alright". His face looks as impassive as ever, but there's a concerned tone in his voice. He must be extremely worried then.

"I..” you start but then trail off, unsure what to say. Is the revelation that you dreamt even true? Aside from the strange coincidence and sense of isolation that loomed over you, becoming a bit unbearable with each day, you had nothing to prove your nonsensical conclusion: you are not real.

“I saw a dream, of me lying among the lime and carbon and water” Albedo gives you an intense stare, eyes and expression completely unreadable: “it wasn’t just a dream, was it?”

A moment passes and then another and you feel even more stupid with each second to just come to that conclusion, not to mention saying it outloud. And then the most unexpected thing happens: Albedo nods.

“Yes, yes it happened to you” he suddenly sounds tired, as if he admitted a dark, dark secret, that it arguably is. A shock goes through you, as you start to gasp for air - it’s one thing to speculate and guess, it’s completely different to hear a confirmation.

You can’t exactly remember what happens next - you think you broke down right there and then, as alchemist awkwardly tried to comfort you. He was explaining how and why he created you - he thought that your creation would give him answers he was looking for, solve his internal conflict, and then he started to wonder how different artificial life is from the natural one and that’s why he decided to give you memories.

It was hard at first, he says, to push back the existing ones back and replace them with new. Make you believe that you were born too. Memories were his favourite thing to do, he had a theory you see, that people are majorly products of their environment, and he wanted to prove that with you. That’s why he decided to mold you into a person with traits he usually finds valuable.

In the end you found yourself nursing a hot tea mug with a few drops of calming concoction dissolved in it. Albedo is lingering around in his own disquieted fashion, as you rethink your whole life - can it even be called a life anymore?

You glance at the alchemist fretting around you, frowning, and unsure what to do, the warmth and happiness you felt upon seeing him replaced by disappointment and confusion. Albedo isn't the one who you thought him to be, Archons, you're not the one who you thought yourself to be!

Suddenly the way all others interacted you became crystal clear - they treated you like oddity because you were one. You remember Klee and how she always seemed to love calling you her "bestest special friend". No way they don't know of your origin. No way they will ever treat you like a person.

There's an ache when you think about Klee also turning away from you; She is a sunshine personified right now, spreading her kindness and enthusiasm without even trying, but who knows what will happen once she grows up, will she have a problem with her peers because of you, or she'll adopt the general public's opinion of you? The thought is almost enough to send you into a crying fit again. You want to run far away.

"I want to travel" you finally say, there's no way you can integrate into society when everyone knows what you are and will always see it before who you are. You want to run away and start anew somewhere far, so the rumors will never reach that place and no one will look at you with that wide eyed stare again. You say what you think about this whole situation.

"Please, don't" he says and you of course stop, legs no longer listening to you, "I understand you are distressed right now, but running away isn't the solution"

"But I will never be able to truly connect with anyone, they know it, of my birth, right? The whole city knows about it, right?"

"I know that you want to feel loved, I… We are the same - before your creation I felt the same loneliness, I couldn't bond with anyone save for Klee, but interacting with you was far more pleasant than expected. Relationships are needlessly tiring and I never understood why people focused on them so much, yet now, looking at you I can understand them. I love you, [First], you are perfect".

You still again, now stunted by his words and sudden love confession. It's all so sudden and strange and confusing and you are too tired and too shocked to deal with this, so you decide to distance yourself. "I can't love you in return"

"But you will"

"Why do you think that?"

"It's against your nature to oppose me in anything"

Note: Galatea is an ivory statue created by Pygmalion, who later fell in love with it. The head in reader's dream is decapitated Mimir, a figure in Norse mythology who is known for his knowledge and wisdom. His decapitated head was reciting secret knowledge and giving counsel to Odin.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere albedo x reader #Yandere Albedo #Yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #Yandere #Albedo #Yandere x reader #Honestly it's not very yandere #My sleeping pills don't work again #my writing

[gureishi]

Smutty Seven + 18 with a female reader?? Hehe

Hehe indeed. Thank you for the request, darling anon! There are a million fics about this sort of scenario, but I wanted to write one so bad, so now there are a million and one ;)

breathe, darling, breathe in deep

Saeyoung X Reader, E, Words: 2322

cw: outdoor sex, light gagging (hand over mouth)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It is the way he rolls up his sleeves that does you in.

The room is lit by amber-colored lamps and hundreds of real, flickering candles—a touch of which you are particularly proud. From across the vast, glittering space, you watch him. He is laughing, and when he laughs, his face is lit by a sort of otherworldly glow that makes your breath hitch. He is talking to a small group of guests, commanding their attention with remarkable ease: when he wants to, he can shine so bright he’s almost blinding.

And, even as he talks energetically, he is rolling up the sleeves of his black button-down shirt (so casually, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it). His fingers are nimble and clever and the candlelight strikes the muscles in his forearms. Your stomach does a flip.

“…a lovely idea, dear,” says a voice—closer and louder than the sound of his laughter—and you drag your mind (kicking and screaming) back to the older woman beside you.

“Oh,” you murmur, demurely as you can manage—not even sure which element of this particularly elaborate party you are being praised for. “Thank you.”

The woman beside you smiles kindly, gesturing at the broad wooden doors, cast open so as to extend the party from the banquet hall into the garden. Ah: and it is this that she is complimenting; these doors are normally closed, but you asked for them to be left open so the room would smell of fresh night air and gardenias.

It is subtle—but the scent of flowers on the air makes guests cheerful, and cheerful guests make larger donations. It took some trial and error, in the beginning—but nowadays, you can plan a successful charity party practically in your sleep.

She asks you about the flower varieties, and you do your best to explain (thanking your lucky stars that you’ve got a brother-in-law who knows a thing or two—or more—about flowers). As you speak, you look out at the garden—and can’t help sneaking another glance toward the opposite corner of the hall.

Saeyoung is running a hand through his hair—which is parted neatly tonight, the way he’ll only do it when you ask nicely. As if he feels your eyes on him, he tilts his head—the tiniest gesture. He sees you.

He winks.

A shiver runs up your spine. His arm muscles practically shimmer in the candlelight, and his clever fingers mess up his styled hair just enough that you’ll notice. He knows, you think, exactly what he is doing.

Your toes tingle.

Two can play at that game.

Knowing that he’s watching now (wondering how you’d doubted even for a second that his eyes—in spite of all pretense—were on you to begin with), you give the woman beside you a dazzling smile.

“Would you like to see the garden?” you ask her. She smiles right back, and you toss your hair triumphantly. She tells you that she would be delighted.

So you lead the way, straight through the middle of the ballroom. Your dress is silky smooth, and all it takes is a little wiggle for one sleeve to fall artfully over your shoulder. You don’t look his way as you pass—but you feel his eyes on you: thoughtful; curious; captivated.

You linger in the doorway, letting the moonlight do the work for you: highlighting your silhouette, casting your body in a sort of soft shimmer. Another guests joins you, and you dive into an account of the history of this piece of land—which has been related to you by the manager of the venue at least once a week for the past three months. The facts have become ingrained in your mind—so you talk lightly, only half-listening to yourself.

Meanwhile, you reach back to gather your hair up in your hands. The garden air isn’t hot, but it is warm enough that no one so much as looks twice as you lift your hair, exposing the back of your neck.

No one but Saeyoung, of course—whose gaze you can feel viscerally now, searing your skin. Ah, you think—now it is hot. You pull your hair forward, over your shoulder; one of the women is laughing at something the other has said and, not even having heard the joke, you join in—hoping your voice sounds natural even as your toes curl in your shoes.

You can’t help another peek. Oh: and he is transfixed.

A few others have joined the group of people in the far corner, but he isn’t speaking anymore. You have his full attention, and his eyes are fiery; you give him a tiny smile, as if to say I dare you.

“…would like to see that,” one of the women is saying. Your fingertips dance over the slit in your long dress. With a gesture that you hope is subtle, you flick your skirt aside—and the thin fabric flutters around you, exposing your thigh to the night air.

Your heart is racing.

You can never hear his footsteps, even after all this time. He walks like a cat, light and silent—but you sense that he is coming for you. You grin in spite of yourself; the women, oblivious, ask if you would like to explore the garden with them.

“Go ahead,” you murmur. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

With polite smiles, they are off. There is a gentle breeze: it dances in your hair and plays over the bare skin of your leg, your shoulder, your neck.

You count your heartbeats: one, two, three—

And then there is whisper, low and rough, in your ear.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he growls. His hand lands on your hip, and you can’t repress a little shiver. Your skin sizzles where he has touched it.

“You started it,” you whisper, still looking out at the garden. He shifts closer, and you can feel his warmth as his body presses up against yours. He is tense, you think—wound tight like a spring.

“I rolled up my sleeves,” he hisses. “You…you…”

“I what, sweetheart?” You turn, then, and the look on his face catches you off guard. His eyes are dark, his pupils huge—and he looks absolutely ravished, though you haven’t so much as touched him yet.

“Since when?” you ask, your face flushing. He shifts uncomfortably and it takes all the willpower you have to keep your eyes on his face rather than checking if he’s—if he’s already—

“That dress,” he mutters, his eyes boring into yours, the heat from his body making you squirm. “In the candlelight, and—”

You grin. You knew the candles were a good idea.

“Does this mean I win?” you purr, giving your hips the tiniest little shimmy. He shakes his head as if he can’t get his genius mind to think straight.

“You always win, babe,” he murmurs. His other hand drifts up to your waist—and you are conscious, all of a sudden, that you are standing in the doorway, in full view of both the candlelit banquet hall and the moonlit garden.

You cast a glance to the side, trying to discern just how much attention you are attracting. He seems like he’s lost his sense of place altogether.

“So do I get a prize?” you whisper.

“Oh god,” he groans, his voice shaking as he tries to keep it low. You bite your lip.

“Breathe, baby,” you say. You run a hand up his arm and he takes a quiet, shuddering breath, shifting his weight back and forth like it’s taking all his restraint just to stay still. “You’re in luck.”

“And why’s that?” His voice is so rough; electric heat pools in the pit of your stomach.

“Cause you married a party planner,” you tell him. “And the thing about party planners is we pay attention.” Before he can respond, you grab his hand, pulling him through the doorway into the fragrant garden air. He follows unsteadily; you lead him down the stone-lined path, carefully sidestepping the group of guests clustered around the rose bushes.

“Pay attention to what?” he asks weakly. Once you are past the little group on onlookers, you pick up the pace; he matches you easily.

“The history of the venue,” you say, laughing. “The ground plan. Nooks and crannies.”

You turn abruptly onto another, smaller path and he takes a shuddering breath.

“No way,” he says slowly. It is dark here, and there is not a soul in sight; you glance at him—there is a wicked grin spreading across his dizzy face.

“You trust me?” you ask. He holds your hand so tight.

“With your own life,” he murmurs, “which is infinitely more important than mine.”

You reach the end of the path and kick off your heels. He follows wordlessly as you dart through the grass, through a thicket of trees, and—at last—behind a small, rundown shed.

“Here?” he asks. But there is raw need in his voice, and his eyes shine like golden stars in the darkness.

“You want me?” you ask him. You flip your hair over your shoulder and cock your hip and he groans.

“Do I—?”

And then he is on you, his hands gripping your hips, his lips crashing feverishly into yours. He is walking you back, back—you feel the wooden shed against your bare shoulders and throw your arms around his neck. He lifts you, his hip rocking almost frantically, and you wrap your legs around his waist (infinitely grateful that you chose the dress with the slit in the skirt after all).

You slide a hand between your bodies and undo the top button of his pants. His erection strains, already, against the soft fabric and he hisses as you graze it with your fingertips.

And then his hand is on your thigh, creeping up your skirt—and your head falls back as his clever fingers find your underwear. You are so hot, already, so needy, so desperate for him—and when you feel his finger move against you, you moan into the night air.

“Quiet, princess,” he purrs, his fingertip fluttering. Your vision blurs.

“Make me,” you say.

He laughs darkly and presses you harder into the wall of the shed. With your arms and legs tight around him, he lets go of you entirely and—one hand still fluttering against your underwear—claps the other forcefully over your mouth.

“How’s that?” he whispers. His low voice swims with lust, and your thighs shake as you squeeze them tighter around his hips. You nod furiously.

Leaning back against the shed, you take one trembling hand from his waist and unzip his pants, tugging at his underwear. But you are pressed against him so tightly and the angle is wrong and you can’t quite—

“Let me help you with that,” he murmurs. He takes his hand from your mouth to pull his underwear down—and, with a sort of wild longing, you run your fingers along his length. He bites back a low moan, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Now,” you hiss. “Right now.”

You are so very close to the edge of freefall and the sight of his desperate face pushes you ever nearer. He adjusts, shifts in your arms—and his breath is ragged, and his face is full of wonder—

He thrusts into you, and you come apart entirely.

His hips rock into yours and your your body shakes around him. You float on the flower-scented air, your lungs full and your body weak and your muscles vibrating as you let yourself be carried away. He finds a rhythm and you melt into it with him, your eyes shut, your hips shivering.

He rocks you back into the shed—hard—and you bury your fingers in his hair and succumb to the sensations; he shudders, so you lean forward to graze his earlobe with your teeth.

“That’s—” he hisses, struggling to focus on you, “—not playing fair.”

You take his cartilage into your mouth and bite down and he loses his rhythm, his thrusts becoming erratic—his hands bruising your hips, his breath harsh and uneven.

“I want you to,” you whisper, and he lifts one hand to your jaw; you look into his burning eyes and he dissolves.

Your hands tug at his hair and you hold him tight; for a moment, he stops breathing entirely.

He shivers—gasps for air—falls still.

“You—” you pant. “We—”

He kisses your jaw and lowers you ever-so-gently to the ground; you wobble where you stand and he wraps an arm around your waist.

“The party,” you whisper.

For a moment, he is quiet.

Then he laughs—oh, and his laugh is beautiful, clear and bright as the stars, and you laugh with him: leaning into his shoulder, tears in your eyes.

“Do you think,” you gasp through your fit of giggles, “everyone knows?”

He grins lazily down at you.

“The guests? No,” he says, with confidence. “They wouldn’t notice if a rocket ship landed in their midst as long as the champagne is still being passed around. But our friends—”

“If they know us at all,” you say. “They shouldn’t be surprised.”

His eyes sparkle.

“Nothing wrong with an evening stroll in the garden with my beloved wife,” he says, throwing you a roguish wink. You lean into him.

“Never change,” you say. His expression softens and he presses his lips to your shoulder.

“I am who I am,” he tells you firmly. You tilt your face upward to catch his lips in a fleeting kiss that tastes like nighttime.

“And who’s that?” you ask.

Saeyoung smiles.

“Yours,” he whispers, “of course.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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#mystic messenger #saeyoung choi #707 #saeyoung x reader #707 x reader #gureishi writes requests #anon #after it all #spicy spaceship

[theartofimagining13]

The imagine with Sebastian being boyfriend and oscar the art teacher with a thing for girl with bf is giving me feels, i need more of this

I only have this scene in mind:

“What are you still doing here?” Your art teacher Oscar asks when he walks into the empty classroom and you’re the only one there.

You’re sitting in front of an all-white canvas. Not a single drop of paint on it yet. There’s a million thoughts in your head, a million ideas but you can’t seem to pick a solid one and bring it to life. To make things worse, your mind goes blank at the sight of him.

He glances at his watch then at you and cocks his head waiting for an answer. He somehow looks annoyed. All the time. He terrifies you. He can be such an asshole sometimes, he’s been so to everyone in that class; everyone except you.

“The… figure study is kinda giving me a headache.” You confess with an honest but demure smile.

Oscar stares at you and then glances at his watch again. All the students are gone or outside waiting to be picked up, and yet you’re there.

“Let’s see.” He says while grabbing a wooden stool from the corner and placing it behind you.

He shamelessly sits with his legs wide open and you stiffen at the closeness between you. His whole presence seems to cast a huge shadow over you. It embraces you somehow. Overpowers you. Oscar grabs your wrist, dips the paintbrush in black paint and guides your hand along the canvas.

“Sometimes…” He begins. “You just need to fool around a little bit.” You notice how he’s helping you paint a simple silhouette. “And little by little… your idea will solidify in your mind, and then you’ll be able to replicate it on the canvas.”

And just like that, with a few brush strokes, he painted a perfect woman’s silhouette, and you can now imagine the rest of the details it needs, maybe even starting from scratch and give her a different posture. You smile at how easy that was while you were racking your brain.

“When was the last time you had an orgasm?”

His question shatters the silence and causes your smile to fade. You’re suddenly too aware of how close behind you he is. He basically murmured that in your ear. Your head snapped towards him and you lost control of your hand so it was about to leave a diagonal brush stroke across the whole thing but Oscar stopped you by gripping your wrist tighter. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared into his eyes over your shoulder and realized how the tip of your noses were an inch away from rubbing against one another.

You blink. Was he staring at your lips for a split second?

“Excuse me?” You ask in almost a whisper.

“You’ve been too tense lately.” He speaks as if he was just talking about grocery shopping and lets go of your hand. “That’s the last thing an artist needs. You’re too uptight. You need to loosen up and relax. Stop overthinking your ideas.” He’s almost scolding you now. “And I’ve seen you with that boyfriend of yours.”

“Sebastian…” You say but it’s more of a reminder for your own sake.

Oscar just gives you a little smile. He’s definitely staring at your lips.

“Well, this isn’t about him.” He clarifies. “Clearly you can’t count on him for that…”

How does he know? You’re paranoid now. The last few sexual encounters haven’t been that good. At least not for you. You’re looking for something else. Sebastian seems too vanilla lately. You stare your teacher’s hands. They look strong. For a split second you imagine them on your bare skin. Like you’ve been doing for days now during class. Even in bed with Seb, and the remorse is what’s been preventing you from letting go.

“There’s no shame in that. We’re human. We have needs. You’re an artist. You have even bigger needs.” He murmurs.

Your heart is racing. If he’s the artist, the one you’re learning from, you wonder the size of his needs and how he satiates. You fantasize in the blink of an eye; he fucks a lot, he fucks hard. Women are his canvasses in bed and you’ve seen what he can do with a paintbrush. This man must be an animal in bed.

Oscar suddenly bursts your bubble by standing up and putting distance between you but sitting across from you in a relaxed manner.

“So, I’m giving you a very specific assignment today.” He announces. “I need you to touch yourself.”

You feel out of breath even though you’re sitting down. The way he’s looking at you is making it all worse. Before you can even think about an answer, your cell phone rings. Sebastian’s calling which means he’s probably outside to pick you up.

You just scramble. You grab your things and Oscar opens the door for you.

“Do your homework.” He orders while staring into your soul as you walk past him.

You’re beyond flustered. He knows that if you do such homework, there’s no way you won’t be thinking about him.

~A.Wölf.

#What a bastard he is. I love him #Oscar Isaac #Sebastian Stan #Anon #Tumblr #Ask #Writing in the asks