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uyuartik · 4 months

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bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader)

tags: slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT, mentions of oral sex (fem and male receiving), mentions of fingering, piv sex, dom!obi?, i really don't know what to write here it is just filth and it is gonna get filthier

a/n: HII! so i became haunted by historical!obi au's and spent six months writing a short series... this is the first chapter out of three, so i hope you stay tuned for the upcoming one (it is FILTHIER than this and about 19k words)

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

enjoy!!!

word count: 5.4K

chapter one: see you tonight?

“…Fuck, just like that-“

That voice. Yes, that’s how you ended up here, you think, as you roll your hips, feeling the exquisite contours of Obi Wan’s cock stretching your walls and pulling pleasure out of every cell in your body, and possibly from your soul too.

Ehem. Lord Kenobi.

And truth be told, that’s not exactly how things led here. Of course, his rich voice and the manner in which he used it were notable factors. The way he camouflaged his remarks under sweet quips never failed to make you giggle into the next day, and regardless of the topic (ashamedly, it was mostly about the other people in the room, and their rather obscene behaviors), the comments he made always reflected the intelligence behind it. He played the serious bit perfectly too, even though his reverent sentences carried some poetry, never pompous, yet deep enough to convey its origin and the realness of his sincerity… That’s why you started spending hours with him at balls in the first place. Ten minutes alone with him, undoing all the prejudice you had against the man. All the rumors about him were proven wrong, or at least, half true. And you liked that remaining part of the truth.

Only after that, came the subject of his charms. Not quite surprising, considering that there was no lack of handsome faces around, but a lack of brains in them. Or a true heart. You hated the hypocrisy of it all, and it was a blessing to find someone who shared that sentiment. Not to mention the benefit of him deflecting any unwanted company.

Likewise, he must've thought the same about you, thus your current position. It was obvious that both of you two had similar standards, even in these lewd matters. People didn’t call him a heartbreaker because he pursued a lot of women, but when he did and it came to an inevitable end, they were the shell of whom they used to be, like a person could be mummified by the absence of the joy he charmed people with it. And you, you weren’t the type to have somebody just because you could. No, you looked for a special connection, a click, and when you got lucky and found one among the countless candidates, you treasured it. Now, even the word click sounded wanting, there were sparks present between the two of you, a considerable, good dynamic you two had built, and that made everything just better.

You were almost sad thinking this was a one-time event, already knowing this is a moment you'll remember your entire life. (You weren't gonna push your luck on getting caught.) If there were such deals, two of you keeping it to each other forever in this aspect of life, you’d have signed that contract in a blink.

“Thought you said you were tired.” He breathes out, clearly an effort, yet the smug grin on his face leaves no room for doubt or pity.

“I’ve been sitting all day.” That’s how travel works in carriages, after all. “I think stretching my legs, is what I need.” You emphasize by raising yourself higher and slowly sink back down a few times, a motion that pulls moans from both of your mouths.

Travel. It took you half a day to reach your aunt’s estate, and you were fairly certain you wouldn’t attend the ball that is currently taking place. Then, you realized there was no way your gracious hostesses would see you tonight, you were forced to enter the saloon. It would be a quick in and out, maybe greeting a few more people, no dance, with the very valid excuse of I’ve been on the road all day and I am quite exhausted ready on your lips at any interaction. This was why you didn’t even bother to put much effort into your looks, opting for a change of dress, and nothing more. No jewelry, no retouches to your hair. After all, it would just add to your part if you seemed slightly off.

Somehow, it turned out to be a regrettable decision, when numerous eyes turned to you as you took a step into the room, and even longer after that. Maybe not every head turned or the music came to an abrupt stop, the sprouting silence broken by collective whispers, but it happened, subtle yet enough to make itself known. You were given the same treatment for years at this point, but there was no getting used to it. Color that had been settling in your cheeks seemed to be permanent, at least for the night, not leaving your side as you took your place among your relatives. The expensive fan you were gifted by- God knows who, you were in no mood to remember it now, did nothing to relieve your suffering.

And, countless other greetings don't help either. You fastened the movement of your hand, curling your lips into a forced smile. You could truly get tired from all these repeated words and gestures.

"I'm afraid I forgot to bring my dance card." You said again, to the third man who came with the same offer, Duke Caldo, all true except the part "forgot". You left it, willingly, just in front of your vanity mirror. The mirror which you desperately wanted to see yourself in right now, away from the ball.

"A great pity." The exclamation didn't come from him, though.

Your fan dropped from your hand and closed itself when it hit your wrist, dangling from the loop around your forearm as you heard that voice, no introduction ever needed. Perhaps, not even his voice was required, for there was always that unexplainable change in the quality of air in the rooms he occupied, like he was casting a spell on those around him, trickling magic dust with every step, a rare perfume. You wouldn’t use such metaphors if it wasn’t for the simple fact that your body always figured out his presence before your mind, catching a sense of that hypnotic essence. You often realized all the hairs on your arm standing up, or a tingling sensation in the back of your neck, breathing getting a bit harder, only to quickly locate him in your eyesight.

"Lord Kenobi." It is said in a contemptful respect, a greeting and a goodbye. “Goodnight, my Lady.”

You didn’t even bother to mutter a proper response, and frankly, the Duke didn’t wait for one either. So, all your focus can be reserved on the man in front of you.

You raised your arm as if intending to extend it so he could complete his small tradition of placing a kiss on the back of your hand, like he has done every time your paths crossed, even multiple times a day (that’s exactly how you noticed it was more than a simple salutation), (honestly, you liked it, his daring movement revealing a lot about his nature), only to flick it to reopen your fan. The gentlest gust of it licking your skin was more than enough now, making it all too pleasing to watch him save himself with a deep bow of his head, the annoyance quickly turning into a satisfied grin, like he didn’t expect anything less from you.

“That looks even more beautiful in your hand.” He pointed at it, but his eyes wandered all over your body. You did the same, though there was little notice, his usual beige suit far too familiar. Your focus was always on the fact that he looked so good in it, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, or his defined arms exquisitely pronounced over the fabric.

Right. So it was his gift. Why did you ever entertain other possibilities?

You weren’t going to disappoint him by mentioning it is only here because your panicked maid accidentally packed the first item she saw, for you never took anonymous gifts. You didn’t need the attention they brought.

"And I couldn't thank you enough for it. I can practically name it my savior tonight." You answered, making a show of lavishing yourself in the stream it creates.

"My only source of pride is the fact that it perfectly blends with the rest of your attire. Now, I can proudly say I know your taste."

Classic Obi Wan. Even his compliments, far from usual, borderline scandalous. He's been peppering you with them ever since the start of your friendship and you were never immune to them. You outright enjoyed them. Especially now, they didn’t help the simmering tingles forming at the depths of your belly, amplified by weeks of solitude. “Only a part of it I’m afraid, but you’ll learn the rest in no time, don’t worry.”

“Can’t wait.” He grinned and scanned the room for prying eyes. Finding none, he made himself more comfortable by your side, hoping to spend the rest of his night with you.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” You admitted, somehow managing not to sound like you’re overly joyous of that not happening.

“I could say the same about you.” Was that excitement, or disappointment in his voice? Was he planning of politely ravishing other women, when you were not present to entertain him? Something told you those were not among his intentions, the smile on his face too honest, his twinkling gaze focused solely on you.

You tilted your head and curled your lips. Touché. “It is nice to attend the ball your acquaintances are throwing, even if you arrive late. But for you, sir, I'm afraid people will actually think you're looking for a wife."

He rolled his eyes. There was a hint of offense in them just at the mentioning of the subject, but the playful type, not the exasperated type he uses for others.

"Curious. The diamond of the season is also here. Isn't it strange that she still hasn't found someone, it's nearly the end of the season?" You inhaled sharply, dramatizing further. "Do you have something to do with it, Lord Kenobi?"

He scoffed, the impossibility of it reflected in his voice. "The diamond of the season?-"

"I thought you deserve nothing less." You explained, but he interjected.

"I'm only interested in one diamond." He said, initiating intense eye contact.

It was your turn to scoff, and run away from his gaze. "I was never the diamond."

"Only because you saw how better you were than the rest, and fled just before the start of the season." His eyebrows were raised, begging for a denial.

"I had planned that trip months ago." You simply stated. "And I came back halfway through summer, didn't I?"

"Just like now."

"Do I need to remind you who you have been spending time with since June?"

"And where were you coming from tonight, ending your visit of- how long was it?"

"I am fond of traveling. Balls and banquets can entertain someone so far. " You shrugged, "Lord Kenobi, are you trying to say that you missed me?"

"I could never claim otherwise."

That was true from your perspective as well. All these years of constant traveling, and this year was the first time you missed what you left behind at home, even during the buzzing, pretense-filled months. None of it seemed that intolerable, and somewhat fun, if you dare to admit. You knew this impression was his doing, and now after your while spent apart, the feeling came back tenfold, almost making you squirm over such loose confessions.

That was it. That was the turning point of the night.

“Truth be told, the night is going much better than I dreamed of, and I almost regret forgetting my dance card.” You raised your chin, and sent him a look. “Would you be so kind to help me find it?”

You could basically see the gears turning, a fire behind his eyes, fueling the desire growing in the depths of your belly. His gaze was piercing, even after he’d long decided, the truth known to both of you. Your heartbeats must’ve been visible, you imagined, and felt it skip a beat as he licked his lip. “Lead the way.”

Now that’s, how you ended up here.

However, as you look down at his face, the story gets blurry, perhaps outright loses its importance, abandoning your mind. His hair is tousled, a rebel strand in front of his eyes, and moves with every bounce. Your hands are too busy to hold onto his sweaty chest, slightly tugging on the auburn fuzz. You wanted to do that ever since he took his shirt off.

(Then again, you’re not sorry for the amount of time you couldn’t, drowning in him. The moment you felt his expert lips on yours, all your will to protest anything had died. Later, as his fingers joined the show, you quickly realized you were fine with what he gave, but he, ever the gentleman, let you prevail.)

It is a sight. And the moans that fall from his lips surpass the delicate melody the musicians are playing downstairs in every way, which can still faintly be heard. (You never thought an orchestra would accompany you during this, but here you were. It is a detail you’ll remember with a smile while looking back at it, but now, you couldn’t care any less.)

“You’re taking me so well.” He starts to thrust his hips up slightly, meeting your rhythm, but never overtaking it.

“I know.” You giggle, but the reaction he’s taken notice of is your fingertips digging in further, and your walls fluttering around his cock.

When you start to falter a bit, perhaps due to the fatigue settling on your muscles embarrassingly not long after his words, or his mere presence clouding your brain, his fingers that have been resting on your thighs slowly ascend to your hips. The fingers drenched in your juices, another element that has the coil in your belly tighter. The next few strokes, with his guiding hand, touch something deep inside you, and your jaw hangs open.

“Fuck…” is the only word you can mutter, and he chuckles at it.

“Is that so?” He mocks, but brushes your loose ringlets with a single hand, and caresses your nipple on its way down. The latter shows his true disposition, and that drives you to be more vocal, if you weren’t already.

“You feel… so… good.” You can hardly say, as your puffy clit drag against his skin all so deliciously like this.

He twitches inside you at the compliment, and you throw your head back with a whine. Despite the fact that he would kill to see your face, he doesn’t push, enjoying the state he’s putting you in with his voice. Every praise that falls from his lips earns him a melodic moan, along with the feeling of you tensing and relaxing, always responding to his call in one way or another.

You’re one step away from being a doll at his bend, though you couldn’t care any less, not when you are this close.

He likes it, very very much. Yet, not enough to silence his wishes of how to ruin you, in the best way.

In a blink, you find yourself on your back, and him on top of you. That’s not the first thing you see, though. It is his hand, lifted from wherever it fell, catching your chin to turn your head to him. Sounds of panting are all there is, no movement, no words, not even your rapid heartbeats drumming in your ears seconds ago as if the world stopped for a second.

His thumb caresses your lower lip, and you let it slip in. God, you can still taste yourself. The revelation has your objections at the change dead, your face twisting, yet he tsks thrice, capturing your attention.

“Let me see those eyes.” Obi Wan commands, and you have no choice but to oblige. “You look so good beneath me.”

Somehow, his words have you flushing and squirming as if that was the most inappropriate thing happening in this room. Funny, how he breaks your will, and you let it. Against all the talk of your friendship, until an hour ago, you’d have lashed out at an equivalent demeanor, even said in affectionate terms. (Any other way is simply impossible, anyway.) But, that hour proved itself to be much precious, and now with that glossy gaze, snatched right from the brink of climax, you focus on the doting aspect, how he cannot get enough of the image of you.

You start to writhe, the new emptiness inside you unbearable. “Touch me, Obi Wan…”

He's not proud of the way your begging has his cock leaking, though that hardly stops him. He lives for mutual pleasure, even just yours at the moment, yet you look so pretty like this, grasping the sheets.

"Like this?" He slides his thumb further into your mouth, relishing the feeling of your tongue swirling around it immediately. Or course he wasn't expecting you to suck him off if you didn't want to, nor would he ever ask for it, he can't help but imagine the feeling, his hips rolling in seek of stimulation.

You shake your head, and his finger is freed with a pop. You frown as the sole contact you have with him is lost. It is a warning sign for him, the fragility of your dream-like state, a reminder of how he has to do better, if he wants to take control. As a gentleman, he wanted to give you everything you desired, but since it was your first time together, a terra incognita, he had to be sure of your limits, so he followed your wishes gladly. The wishes which were masterfully balanced versions of both of your needs. The same problem troubled you too of course, but you were a quick learner, a connoisseur of his taste in no time. The fact that it was very similar to yours was an exciting discovery, certainly a pleasant one, and was a great help, so great that it almost felt like cheating. While he took no issue with your tricks; the urge to take you on his terms, the compulsion to show you how he wants to cherish you couldn’t be suppressed any longer. He had to let you know.

He leans in closer, his arms bend as yours find his shoulders like a habit, “Like this?” He murmurs, right before brushing his lips against yours, effectively swallowing your whine. Though it was a sound of protest, all complementary sentiments die when he nips at your lower lip, and you open your mouth, lost in the sensation of his tongue licking yours, and his sweet essence. In contrast to his other needs taken good care of, he hadn’t taken enough of the feeling of our mouths joining. God, he spent hours imagining your mouth, curling into every shape as smart words spilled from it, enhancing his fascination with you. It fires the flames of haze further, even if he’s not actually properly touching you. Your hand roams his neck, then etches itself into his silky hair. You’ve done that a few times now (and found his response most addicting), but it is hardly satisfactory compared to the amounts you dreamed of doing during these last couple of months. You saw him prim and proper mostly, not a strand out of place, making you marvel at its excellence, and the itch to mess it up growing stronger each instance, a stark contrast to your surroundings. Also, there were times the infamous piece fell in front of his eyes, and sometimes even more disheveled than that, riding a horse, enjoying sports with his friends, and once after a bath, when your family visit started a little earlier than planned. You were always admiring the way it reflected light, creating almost a halo around his head, especially in sunlight. It is the first thing your eye is drawn to whenever you’re in the same place, a beacon of sorts. You never thought you’d be this amazed by hair, yet the moans he produces when you tug on it, add to your astonishment, and you’re not sure if you can look at it again, without being reminded of this moment.

He breaks the kiss as for you to catch your breath, for he has long kept you away from it. Still, he continues to pepper you with tons of them, scattered all across your jaw and neck, in search of that sweet spot that has you cursing. It is not a serious journey, in fact, he does more than press his lips against your skin properly, tease you with his open mouth, drag his tongue along the taut muscle, nip and outright bite, once.

“No marks-“ You protest. Futile. You should’ve warned before he started to nibble, way before he sank his teeth, but it has happened after all, and you can already feel blood settling on the sites of his attack. “What I am going to tell my maid now?”

“The truth.” He retorts. “Of how you led Lord Kenobi into our bed, and did dirty, unspeakable things with him.”

That earns him a harsh pull at his scalp, and a pat on his shoulder. He meets with your glaring gaze, and cheeks redder than a minute ago. So, he’s still on your good side. Barely.

“Apologies, my dear.” He takes the hand that smacked him, and places a peck onto your palm before placing it back. You can’t break the eye contact as he does so, something about his appearance, perhaps his position, or the charming contours of his face, or the way he deals with your anger keeps you from kicking him out. Caressing your open legs, he massages them ‘til they relax afresh, squeezing at the soft flesh. You hiss when his movement nears your inner thighs, thanks to his beard, and the climax it brought you. The gesture hints, still, there’s the matter of fire burning in your belly. “Couldn’t resist, you know me. Let me make it up to you.”

He wastes one more second to carve this image inside his head, then fulfills his promise. He likes the way you tremble while you wait, a whimper leaving your mouth at him taking his cock into his hand and stroking it a few times. God, how you wish that was your hand. Damn your stubbornness, and demand for compensation. You put extreme effort into staying still, releasing a shaky breath when he places the tip at your entrance.

Remember when he said “ruin”?

He doesn’t push it in, instead letting it slide up your slick folds, and tap against your clit. You nearly jolt at the touch, yet again tasting bliss, even if it is in mere drops. He repeats the action, and you sob, digging your nails into his shoulders. Maybe you’re the one leaving marks now, but you don’t care. Eye for an eye you can say, in retrospect.

“You’re so wet.” He can’t stop looking into your glistening core. He also can hear it, the squelching sounds echoing at his every movement. He knows you can too, that it calms your nerves, though they act up for different reasons. “All this for me?”

Unfortunately, you are late to realize he doesn’t take your moans for an answer. You can’t help it, you are unable to form words. Even if you gather the strength, they die out at your throat, especially under his piercing look. Fuck, he loves how cockdumb you’ve become for him.

He takes pity on you then, dropping his cock to briefly rest on your opening, and forces his fat tip in.

Your back arches, a throaty sound filling the room. He shushes right next to your ear, in an effort to calm you down as he slips the rest in. It is as if you’re taking him the first time, like you weren’t riding him moments ago.

“Fuck-“ That’s the only reaction, the only answer he needs. You fall back into the sheets, the first time he rolls his hips, and sets a new rhythm, a slow one to kindle the flame once more. Your hair probably getting tangled from the way it’s rubbing against the sheets, and your legs are split wide open. You feel every vein and ridge moving against your walls, the slight resistance disappearing in no time. His chest brushes against yours, and combined with the warmth of his breath, so close to yours, it’s easy to let go of your worries.

This is why you ended up here.

“Faster!” While he already feels great, it’s not the exact pattern to provide that sweet release, not in the timeframe you hoped.

“I want this to last, dear.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. A part of it due to irritation. Being subjected to that response before, he snickers to see you’re still you, even when you’re literally fucked out of your mind. As he does so, his lips skim yours. You take it, greedily, one hand first on his neck to ensure he stays, then to his unruly tress, aspiring to compel him into the middle ground. That earns you a few groans, yes, but his will doesn’t seem to falter even a little bit.

Perseverance, is a mutual quality, as you already know.

You slowly release the grip you have on his head, emphasis on slowly. It goes unnoticed, thanks to your timely bite, the same assault he once carried out. You don’t waste the access to his tongue, sucking on it. You’re not sure if his moans are increased in number, or if it feels more because you swallow every single one of them, but the fact that his beard starts to prick your cheeks harder gives you an idea.

Your free hand falls into sheets and slithers across the length of your body. Just a little more- you’re almost about to touch your –

His fingers wrap around your wrist instantly, dragging it up, a little further away from your face. You twist your neck, a wail coming out as you reject his kiss.

Only to be met by the sight of that said fingers running up your palm, and interlock themselves among yours.

Your breath hitches, for reasons unknown to you.

“Ah- ah -ah.” He tuts, though there’s not a hint of disappointment in his voice. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

You can’t believe one physical contact, and his words, are enough to carry you to that previous peak. Your pussy contracts around him, beyond your control, an indication of your closeness, nothing compared to before.

“Ngh- that’s it.” He encourages, “Just relax and take it.” That’s more sincerity than you’ve ever heard from him.

It goes on and on for a while, him doing exactly what he promised to do, and fulfilling his wishes in the process. He already knows this could go on ‘til morning, and he still wouldn’t be completely satisfied, longing for your presence the second he leaves the bed. Still, he continues, pushing himself to his limit, and that’s getting quite harder when you clamp on him that hard. He feels his cock leaking, begging for that sweet end.

When his arm that’s not supporting his weight travels down, caressing your hip before pressing his thumb to your clit, finally, you reward it with a whisper of his name, a sound he won’t dare to forget. Your back arches impossibly higher, and he has to lean back, abandoning his other hold.

Your limb stays in the spot he left it.

He curses at the realization, perhaps its effect mirroring yours when he first initiated the contact. Fuck, how are you so perfect? He snaps his hips harder, and circles his thumb, feeling it throb.

“Obi Wan-I’m c-“

He loves how your words are cut with the need to scream that you gulp down, only resigned to breathing as your face contorts with pleasure. “Cum for me, love.”

Your moans blend into each other, as he cannot stay still at the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight. He holds your trembling thigh, fondling the soft flesh, adoring the way it spills from his grip. He doesn’t stop ‘til they settle again once more, and even a little longer than that, pulling out in the last minute to cover your belly with his spend.

That act keeps you from turning to your side, and feeds the desire to hug the sheets, a soft but firm ground for your senses to return. You're not complainant of it anyways, you have a far better view in front of you, defined muscles undulating with each heavy breath, glistening due to the light coat of sweat covering them, lips puffy and slightly flushed with blood, as well as his cheeks. You always thought he was devilishly handsome, but this, this is something else. The world should consider itself lucky, or it would bend to his will just from his looks. Or unlucky, for the honor is bestowed upon a handful of people.

He believes he's blessed with the sight upon him, too. Still holding onto your thigh, he delights in spontaneous tremors that possess it. If he looks closely, he's sure he can see the faint mark he left. Your hair is sprawled around, much in contrast to the delicate up-dos you and every noblewoman fashioned, its most natural form, and the intimacy of it definitely causes a small breakdown. You belong in a painting, depicting goddesses and nymphs, a grace outside the limits of time and culture. Your droopy lids and tired pull at the corners of your mouth fill his chest with pride and more adoration, like after his every successful attempt to elicit a reaction from you. It happens often, thanks to the understanding that grows between the two of you, but every example is still treasured in in his mind.

“Well, I don’t know any better way to spend the night.”

You giggle. “I agree.”

“We should’ve done this before.”

Your lifted brows are the perfect answer. Like it’s that easy.

But he has a point, too.

In the comfortable silence, he gets up from bed, a sigh at the roar coming from downstairs, drowning the music. That’s still going, huh? You watch as he wets the nearest towel, and returns, cleaning the mess with unexpected gentleness that it almost tickles. There’s no aim to steal one more touch at his movements, no personal gain except an easy conscience, and even that is a stretch because it’s most natural to him, his understanding of tenderness.

“Well, thank you, sir.” You sit up, with a yawn, and scooch backward to your pillows as he retreats to give himself the same treatment. “And my nightgown, please.” You point to it, and amusingly follow his subtle headshake, and efforts to hand it over. He hesitates for a second at the last minute, considering rebellion, a last joke. You see it, and snatch the fabric from his grip before he can tighten it. He can feel it sliding over his skin, the light material flying. You slip it on, aware of his voyeur. with a victorious smile cut too short as exhaustion creeps into your bones. You’re no different, in any case, settling into the fluffy pillows, curiously examining each piece of clothing he puts on from afar, the unwritten rule of his habits, his hidden glances at your mirror in a feeble pursuit to tame his messy hair. You’re willing to be charged guilty for that.

He stalls, though, you can feel it after a while, around the time sleep clouds your vision. How could anyone blame him for not wanting to leave, carve your picture to his mind, and calm his yet again straining cock at it?

“You should be going. Servants are going to be wandering these corridors for orders, soon.” Your heart winces at the warning, because he's not the type to need it, or disregard you to put you at any risk. But your cognation runs thin, and he needs to know the dangers he might face.

"True. Right. You're correct." Is that a stutter? "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Lord Kenobi.

"Glad to be of help in stretching your legs."

The cushion falls short to exactly hit him, but the sentiment is clear.

In the morning, you uncover the reasons behind his diversion.

Bastard signed every slot in your dance card.

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babyblue711 · 25 days

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Loyalty

Aemond Targaryen (HOTD) x Alys Rivers - Part 1 Summary: Alys reflects on her time at Harrenhal under the reign of the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen. Words: 2.6K

Chapter Warnings: NSFW, Dubcon, Sexual Content 18+, Smut, War Things, Typical Westeros Misogyny A/N: I fully realize not everyone is an Alys fan and that is perfectly fine. Perhaps once the show airs, I'll change my opinion too. But, as of right now, this is fanfiction and, therefore, my fantasy. I personally tried to humanize Alys, which I hope you all will see. As always, I love reading your thoughts, comments, and reblogs! 😘 And - No tag list since I don't know who will be in to Alysmond. 💙 Beta read by the Queen herself: @arcielee 💙 Beautiful banner gif by the one and only: @myfandomprompts

The prince was insatiable at times.

Sometimes he was gentle, sometimes rough. Though she never knew what she was going to get, the news from the battlefront and the state of affairs of the kingdom often foretold the sort of night she could expect from the Prince Regent.

With the weight of the green faction firmly resting on his shoulders, periodically he would be consumed by raw desire; he was fueled by passion, fueled by rage, fueled by an innate need to dominate and control, as certainty was a rare commodity given the unpredictable nature of war. On those nights, his touch was borderline cruel, harsh and demanding, and she would brace herself, anticipating the forcefulness with which he would claim her, feeling a mixture of pleasure and pain as their bodies collided. She didn’t know how to tell him ‘no’. She didn’t think she could. She needed him just as much as he needed her… or so she was leading him to believe.

But at other times, he would approach her with a soft touch, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns along her skin, his words filled with warmth, just like the first night they spent together. Those were the nights when she had felt cherished and safe, enveloped in his affection and care. She couldn’t ever remember a time where any man of higher standing had ever worshiped her in such a tender way.

Presently confined within the ominous black walls of Harrenhal, tonight she is suffering the prince’s wrath. The recent tidings are dire: Kings Landing has fallen into the hands of the enemy, igniting the red hot rage of the dragon. She knows Aemond feels solely responsible for this significant blow to their cause, for leaving his family unprotected as he seeks out his greatest foe, terrified of what is happening to those he has left behind. Tonight, he uses their intimacy as a conduit for his pent-up emotions, unleashing his fury upon her in a desperate attempt to find temporary respite from the anarchy gripping the Seven Kingdoms and the chaos of his own soul.

In the dimly lit chamber, the air is heavy with tension and the scent of burning candles. Pinned to the bed underneath him, his long fingered hand is wrapped firmly around her throat as he thrusts powerfully, hips snapping into her with a brutal force, a look of utter madness in his lone purple eye. His grip tightens on her throat as his unhinged gaze flicks from her bouncing breasts up to her face.

“Why couldn’t you have told me about this before?” he demands with a harsh growl that echoes off the stone walls, his fingers digging into the delicate skin of her throat so that she can barely breathe, let alone articulate an answer. She chokes slightly, wrapping a dainty hand around his wrist, begging with her eyes for him to soften his grip, which mercifully he does so she can speak.

“My prince,” she gasps as he continues to rut into her, “My visions do not work on command…” She attempts to explain but anger clouds his face and his grip tightens once more on her throat, cutting off any further speech. The Prince Regent does not want to hear her excuses. His desperation and anger is evident in every movement, in every harsh word, in every mark he leaves upon her body. She clenches her jaw and tries not to whimper as his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her neck and breasts, afraid weakness will spur him on further; mentally, she tries to disassociate from what is currently happening to her. She is fully aware that he sees her as a means to an end, a tool to gain an advantage in the chaos of war; she purposefully has supplanted herself in this position, just as he is her mechanism for survival in return.

She knows deep down that she cannot fulfill his demands; her gifted visions do not bend to her whim or will, and she cannot control what they show her. To admit this to him would mean certain death, and so she bears the pain of his grip, the forcefulness of his thrusts, and the weight of his expectations, all while concealing the truth that she cannot deliver what he seeks.

With a guttural groan, his hips stutter as he spills deep inside of her, his fearsome eye closed in some semblance of bliss as he reaches his peak. Without acknowledging any need for her pleasure, he tucks himself back in his pants and departs the room in silence, his rage barely satiated.

Alys lays upon the bed, her chest rising and falling to catch the breath withheld from her while caught in Aemond’s iron grip. She shifts slightly into a more comfortable position, feeling the slickness between her thighs and, despite his brutality, she quietly hopes for a silver-haired babe, further securing her own position and a testament to her worth.

She wonders if Aemond does not think she is capable of having children and, therefore, is much less cautious where he spills his seed. Her moon’s blood is late, but that is not unusual for her, though she still thinks it is too early to tell if they have been successful yet. She rests a hand on her lower belly, willing her womb to quicken, something that hasn’t happened in years.

Exhaustion tugs at the corners of her eyes as she rests, waiting for her soreness and aches to lessen so she may get a few hours sleep. Sighing deeply, she stares into the dying flames of the fire in the hearth and reflects on the last few months of being caught up in this accursed Targaryen civil war. Life with Aemond is, at least, a little better than when Daemon ruled these halls. The Rogue Prince had been a formidable presence, his sharp eyes saw through her facade of obedience from the moment he landed astride his fiery red dragon. She had never underestimated him, knowing that he would not be easy prey to be fooled by her own ambitions.

But when Aemond descended from the heavens upon his colossal, ancient dragon, Alys suspected the young Prince Regent to be a lot more volatile, and thus, a little more vulnerable than his formidable uncle. Aemond was desperate to prove himself in the ongoing war, his ego inflated by the fact that he commanded the largest dragon in existence. His mere presence struck fear into the hearts of warriors, who readily bowed before him as he issued commands with an air of undeniable authority. Yet, beneath his bravado, Alys discerned a deep-seated fear—that of failing his family and being perceived as a disappointment.

Recognizing these traits, she decided to try to leverage this to her advantage. She harbored no ill will toward the prince; in fact, she had developed a fondness for the young man during his stay at the fortress. But she knew that sentimentality had no place in the games of power and politics that defined their lives; the world was cruel, especially to lowborn women, and no one in her position would turn down such an opportunity to wield the influence that came with being entwined with a Targaryen Prince.

It still took considerable effort to gain Aemond's trust, considering his sharp intellect and initial tendency to see her as nothing more than a lowborn woman with limited utility. However, upon learning that she had some experience with the healing arts, he tasked her with tending to the injuries of his soldiers, which she executed without fail.

It was one fateful night that the prince called upon her for help with his own affliction - the vicious scar that marred the left side of his beautiful face. She concocted a poultice aimed at soothing the damaged nerves around his missing eye that was causing him some discomfort that particular night. Witnessing the visible relief on his face once she had applied it, and taking advantage of being alone with the prince for the first time, she seized the opportunity to subtly offer strategic information, mainly concerning Daemon's previous tenure at Harrenhal. Aware of Aemond's desperation for any advantage in the ongoing war, especially for any knowledge that had to do with his uncle, Aemond clung to anything she could tell him about Daemon and his war strategy. She was aware of just enough information to be deemed useful and what she wasn’t aware of, she may have elaborated just a bit, as the prince would never know. This gesture swiftly elevated her status in his eyes, securing her a place in his inner circle sooner than she had even anticipated.

But it wasn’t only Aemond she had to charm; she also understood the importance of gaining favor with Ser Criston Cole, the Hand of the King and Aemond's second in command. Although she suspected that Ser Criston could occasionally see through her intentions, she had a knack for manipulating him too.

Late one evening, after he had a few too many cups of wine, she prophesied his future, whispering words that she knew would resonate with him as they gazed into the flames of the fire. Men in positions of power and influence loved to be told exactly what they wanted to hear and Ser Criston was no exception. Soon, both he and Aemond would come to depend on her clairvoyance much more than either should, but war often strove men to desperate measures and she delicately played this hand when she had no other choice.

Another aspect she did not expect to contest came a few weeks after Aemond and his army came to stay at Harrenhal. It was Aemond who turned their relationship into something more physical; whether it was brought on by boredom or loneliness, she’ll likely never know, but she certainly had not anticipated becoming the Prince Regent’s bedmate. She remembered the night well, the way his fingertips grazed her wrist lightly as she poured him more wine. The intense look of his eye was…different that night, a primal look of longing coupled with a smoldering desire. The bulge in his pants was obvious and it was clear what was intended from her that night.

Worried to displease the prince by refusing him, she settled on her knees in front of him as he sat by the fire. She held his gaze as she slowly unlaced his breeches, pulling his thick, veiny cock from the confines of his trousers, and began pleasuring him with her mouth. Wetness had formed between her own thighs as she sucked him with abandon, enjoying the way his sharp face contorted with the gratification she was giving him. When he shot his seed down her throat, she expected that to be the end of it… until he asked her to show him how to pleasure her in return.

She could perfectly recall the earnest look in his eye as she stared at him with bewilderment; it was highly unusual for a man to be concerned with a woman’s pleasure, let alone a high-born royal like himself. After a moment’s hesitation, she willingly agreed to his request and they spent the night exploring each other’s bodies; she taught the prince about the bundle of nerves located above her entrance and the special spot buried deep inside her cunt. He was an excellent student, mastering her body quicker than she thought possible. His expression was hungry with intensity when he watched her unravel underneath him as she succumbed to his touch, and she knew this gave him a different sense of power over her body. She encouraged this, fully committing to being the prince’s loyal servant in all things, further gaining his trust and, in return, his protection.

She lost count how many times she came that night during their passionate lovemaking, and her hopes ignited further when he shot his seed deep into her cunt. Since then, he had called upon her almost every night to visit his bed, torturing her deliciously as her velvet walls clenched around him repeatedly, milking him dry as her cries of ecstasy filled his room. Afterwards, she would pray to the gods to bless her with his child.

However, she was beginning to wonder if she had played her part just a little too well. Unfortunately, the prince, gaining confidence in their arrangement, had started to abuse his position of power, more often than not just using her body as a vessel for only his pleasure. Her disappointment was palpable; he had shown so much promise and she thought she could teach him to be different, that he would continue to treat her with respect.

But such wishes were not to be, as dark thoughts of the first time she had suffered the prince’s wrath resurfaced. On that fateful night, after a particularly fearsome thunderstorm culminating with bad news of the war beyond Harrenhal, Aemond and Vhagar had descended from the storm-stricken sky in a fury, his dragon’s wings clapping louder than the thunder itself. As was customary, she was summoned to his chambers. Lightning flashed as she entered his dimly lit room, illuminating his countenance —a hauntingly beautiful sight. But as she caught sight of his murderous expression, dread filled her gut and she knew she was about to face the consequences for whatever misfortune had transpired.

Afterwards, he seemed to emerge from a trance, apologizing to her as he gazed upon the red marks from his fingers on her neck, the bite marks on her breasts, the bruises that littered her body. She was dumbstruck once more, never had a man shown remorse for hurting her before. As their tryst continued, their passionate lovemaking became rougher and more animalistic, her own pleasure forgotten at times as he used her body as a means to his own end, but she made the best of it, knowing that to bear his child would outweigh her suffering and reward her tenfold.

Back in the room, these memories of Aemond lulled her to sleep as she curled in his bed, warm and comfortable from the smolder in the hearth. The reprieve was short lived as she was roughly shaken awake, startling at his harsh touch.

“Wake up,” Aemond says gruffly. “We’re leaving.” He refuses to answer any of her questions, throwing clothes at her and telling her to get dressed in a hurry. She has no choice but to obey, noticing he has given her breeches to pull on as well as several warm layers, including riding boots and soft leather gloves.

The moon shines brightly in the nighttime sky as Aemond takes her by the hand, leading her outside the gates of Harrenhal where the immense form of Vhagar looms in the distance. Alys pulls back on Aemond’s arm, terrified, slowing her pace, her unusual attire dawning on her as it is obvious that the prince means for her to fly on Vhagar. The energy that emanates from the massive dragon is unlike anything she has ever felt before. This was an intelligent being that could not be tricked by pretty words or prophetic visions that danced in the flames, for she was fire incarnate herself.

Feeling her tug on his arm, Aemond whirls to face her, impatient, furious. Vhagar rumbles like thunder from behind him, disturbed by her rider’s erratic energy, but makes no effort to move as she waits for him to mount her.

“Aemond…” Alys starts to sputter, “I - I don’t think she’ll let me ride...?” Terror clutches at her throat as she tries to stress to him the dire warning in the pit of her stomach, but he only smirks, taking hold of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, his breath fanning her face.

“Vhagar does as I command,” he says confidently as if this could assuage her fear, “but I am going to need your help with something else.”

>>>> Part 2

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #ewan nation #alysmond #alys rivers #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x alys rivers #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon hbo

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scoonsalicious · 2 months

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Unwanted: Chapter 27, Unhinged - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of violence, human trafficking.

Word Count: 949

Previously On...: You watched some home movies of Jade in her Hydra facility. It was... disturbing, to say the least.

A/N: Rock me, rock me, rock me, Sexy Jesus! He died for our sins, you gotta believe us! Seriously, Hamlet 2 is a gem, and now this song is stuck in my head forever.

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

You and Bucky were silent as you closed your laptop. What could one say after watching a person you knew, personally, rip through a group of people as though they were wrapping paper on Christmas morning? There were no words.

After several long minutes, Bucky finally spoke. “After seeing that,” he said, “I think it’s all the more reason to make sure you don’t leave this safehouse unless you absolutely have to.”

“Yeah,” you said, devoid of all your previous fight. How could you argue with him about your safety after having seen that?

Bucky looked at you in surprise, as though he had expected you to challenge him. He nodded curtly. “Good,” he said. “Alright. We need a game plan. Did you come up with any leads about that Chloe girl that we can follow up on?”

You sighed. “Yeah,” you said, opening up a new tab in your browser. “So, Chloe mentioned her family was having money problems. I was able to figure out where her mom and step father do their banking; I thought we could take a look at their accounts, see if there’s any unusual activity that might point to them getting a share of her auction price. Then maybe we could trace the deposit back to whoever did the sale.”

“You think her parents knowingly participated in trafficking their own kid?” Bucky asked in horror. “Pocket, that’s dark.”

You avoided looking at him as you opened up a backdoor into the accounts in question. “You’d be surprised what people are willing to do when money gets involved. Not even a mother/daughter bond is immune from that kind of greed.”

Bucky’s gaze on you was almost tangible in its intensity. “I’m sorry. It’s so hard for me to envision a mother betraying her child like that; sometimes I forget you had to live it.”

“But you told Carthage about it,” you said softly. “At the mission debrief. When she said trafficking was below our paygrade.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky turned your chin so you were facing him. “I told her that human trafficking was something you and Nat both cared very deeply about stopping; that’s it.” He frowned. “I don’t expect you to believe me and that’s okay, but I would never divulge your past to anyone. Not when I know how few people you trusted with that information. I just wanted her to stop acting like it was some kinda game and to treat it as seriously as it deserved to be treated.”

“Oh,” you said after a moment. Something in his words rang true, but there was still the lingering doubt that he was being honest. “Don’t worry about, Barnes,” you said, studiously avoiding eye contact as you breached the bank’s security system. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

You could feel him staring at you, and you didn’t need to be looking back to envision the look he was giving you— the one that let you know he thought you were full of shit. Fortunately, he allowed your lie to pass without another word while you continued to breach the bank’s system.

“Okay, I’m in,” you said after a moment. Bucky got up and came to stand behind you, looking at your monitor over your shoulder.

“Anything?” he asked.

You scrolled through Chloe’s stepfather’s transaction history. Liquor stores, smoke shops, some escort services. “Real classy guy,” you murmured. And then, you hit it: the night Chloe had left the club for good, there was a substantial deposit made to the account in the amount of $250,000.

“Holy shit,” you whispered. “I figured he might get a cut, but I had no idea it would be that much.”

Bucky let out a long, low whistle. “If that’s their finder’s fee, I can’t imagine what the final sale was for.”

You were furiously copying down the depositing account’s information. “I’m going to send this info back to Nat,” you told him. “See if they can reverse-search it and find out where the money came from. Once we know the source, we might be able to break into their systems, get info on who won the auctions. Maybe some of the other girls are still alive…” Your voice trailed off. You were too jaded to allow yourself to hope you could save all of them, but if you could save even one…

Bucky began moving toward the apartment’s front door, grabbing his leather jacket from where he’d hung it on a hook.

“Where are we going?” You asked him, closing your laptop and standing up.

“We aren’t going anywhere,” he informed you as he put the jacket on. “I’m going to go have a little chat with Chloe’s stepfather, see if there’s any additional information he’d like to generously offer us. You are going to stay here, locked securely behind the door and not opening it for any reason until I get back.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the images of Jade moving through the Hydra compound, slaughtering everyone in her path rose to your mind. You nodded. “Yeah,” you said. “I’ll stay here.”

“Thank you.” Bucky released a relieved sigh, then walked over to you, kissing the top of your head. “If anything happens, call me, and I’ll head straight back. If Carthage shows up, there’s a gun in the bedside table. Aim to kill.”

“Obviously,” you told him. “I’ve only been fantasizing about it since I found out about Russia.”

“I’m being serious, doll,” Bucky said. “Now that we’ve seen what she’s capable of, I don’t want you taking any chances.”

“Yeah,” you said as you walked him to the door and opened it for him, “I was being 100% serious, too.”

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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teyamsatan · 11 months

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Ok, so I need to get this off my chest because it’s been weighing heavily on my mind. I’ve never properly addressed this because I honestly think it’s not something that deserves the traffic, but my entire feed has been overwhelmed with negativity and it’s genuinely making me want to not be on here anymore.

1. I age up my characters. No, that absolutely does not make me a paedophile. You don’t like it, the door’s right there, the block button’s easily accessible, i tag my fics, you can block tags, there’s so many things you can do.

2. Throwing words with such horrible and serious connotations around as a hyperbole is not quirky and doesn’t make you interesting, it makes you an asshole who diminishes and undermines real world problems to make yourself feel better about literally the most inane of non-problems.

3. If you have time to give a shit about someone you don’t know on the internet who finds joy in some artistic relief, you haVE TOO MUCH TIME!!! I’m curious how many of you actually have any concern or involvement in anything regarding actual paedophilia, that concerns actual kids, actual real life people.

4. If you do indeed believe that someone who ages up a literal fictional tall blue alien is a “paedophile”, you genuinely, genuinely need to go out and touch some grass, BUT what absolutely KILLS me is the absolute unhinged hypocrisy: you want to think you’re better than me, you denounce my work publicly, and then FOLLOW ME and reblog my Jake smut (?!???!?). Like this actually blows my mind. So in your eyes, i am the scum of the earth, i deserve to die and go to jail cause i am “sexualising minors”, but THEN you’re ok with it when you get off to my smut that you do agree with. HOW?! You must be so flexible cause that’s some impressive mental acrobatics. Congrats!!!

5. YOU CANNOT PICK AND CHOOSE WHAT YOU’RE MORALLY SUPERIOR ABOUT!!! Pls get that through your head. If you can forgive “deviant” behaviour when you’re horny and need a Jake fic to get yourself off to, honey baby, you’re just as bad, cause you’re proving you’re willing to bend your morals for your own pleasure and selfish needs. Like PLEASE BE FOR FUCKING REAL!!!

6. This is for my readers and readers of fics in general - if you like what we write, please, please show it. I have seen/talked to several of my mutuals who want to take a step back because of so much negativity that outweighs the support at the moment. If you want to keep being able to enjoy this content, please show your favourite writers some love, especially at this time.

7. And for my mutuals/besties, please, please don’t get discouraged. I know it’s hard, and it sucks, and it’s so disheartening, but i am here to talk and here to stay, and we can get through this together. It would hurt me so badly to see genuinely talented, beautiful, creative, kind people be driven away by some lowlives with nothing better to do than bully people. Stay strong and know I’m always here for you.

This is the first and last time i will be addressing this. I will not be engaging with these people anymore, and i will be using the block button incredibly liberally going forward. Remember you’re responsible for curating your online experience. You don’t like/agree with something, FUCKING BLOCK ME. I BEG YOU.

That’s all. Stay safe and good luck, my loves. I love you. Xoxoxox

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whoishotteranimepolls · 3 months

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My observations part 2 there's been some developments

There have been some new developments in fandom behaviors and trends that have changed since my last post about this and since a lot of people have liked it, I'll give the curious people an update before I forget

I have noticed something about the Trigun fandom. I thought you all were just ride or die loyal however, if it's wolfwood holy crap! You guys give the unhinged trio a run for their money. Do you know how many times I've seen unhinged comments about his Catholic titties. And why is the Catholic part so important that it must be emphasized every time? Otherwise you all are still ride or die no matter the character. But I have found a streak of unhinged crazy that I apparently missed the first time around.

I know someone mentioned they wanted to see the Fairy Tail fandom mentioned so I will mention you. So are you alive Fairy Tail Fandom are you okay? Your characters do get requested with some frequency and some of them are pretty iconic but you guys just don't do anything except if it's Gildarts v Shanks. Because how many rematches are we on now because people like that specific matchup just so they can post the meme about Gildarts being Shanks from Temu. Otherwise characters don't do all that well. But I will say one thing. You guys are giving one piece a run for its money when it comes to cursed matchups. However, I'm sure it's a good thing. Remember people are very annoyed with that fandom on my blog

Soul Eater. What has gotten into you guys? If it's Stein the fandom is worse than the unhinged trio. Any other character? I never know what you guys will do

Fullmetal Alchemist you guys have finally exposed you're crazy! Her name is Olivier Mira Armstrong and the unhinged things said on those polls. She is now one of those characters I now question should I mark this as mature content because apparently some of you want to be stepped on by her amongst other things. Remember people I read basically everything that is put in the tags. And for those who doubt her power, as of me writing this, she's tied with Senshi in their poll.

The unhinged trio is still just as bad as ever for those who are not aware, that's the nickname I gave to Jujutsu Kaisen, Dorohedoro and Black Butler because those three fandoms collectively are just nuts. However, the unhinged trio may get a lineup change soon. So I'm going to break down the three of them since I've noticed some specific things about you guys so let's get into that

Jujutsu Kaisen I will give you one thing. You guys are creative when it comes to slutty nicknames I think that's the best way to put it. They're hilarious! I'll give you that. However, I think some of them have scarred me for life. So if you want to know why some of these slutty nicknames are getting shared in the poll reblogs it's because of you guys. But the nicknames some of them are unhinged. However, never change. Jujutsu Kaisen fandom your entertaining. If not, terrifying sometimes. However, without a doubt, this fandom belongs in the unhinged trio. You are the gold standard of the unhinged trio. Your feral unhinged madness cannot be matched by any other fandom.

Dorohedoro I'm wondering if you truly belong in the unhinged trio because I think your craziness only applies to Noi and not to the other characters. So I'm curious to see how this plays out over the next few weeks because as far as I'm aware there's only Three maybe four characters in that show Noi a blonde chick a blonde dude and a lizard. So we're going to see over the next few weeks if you all truly belong in the unhinged trio because there are some other fandoms that definitely are gunning for your position

Black Butler I also wonder if your craziness is fandom wide because you guys don't seem to care if Sebastian is in a poll, but if it's Undertaker or Grell holy crap the levels of insanity. So again, I will be testing to see if you truly are worthy of your spot in the unhinged trio

And I think the Senshi polls meme/trend has kind of died down. I haven't found a request in the inbox for a while and he has officially lost to Noi from Dorohedoro by a large margin and may lose but it'll be close to Olivier Mira Armstrong from Fullmetal Alchemist apparently we found his weakness strong, powerful women.

I hope everyone has enjoyed my second entry into my poll analysis series You can find part one here

#poll analysis #not a poll #fandom culture

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bunnakit · 1 month

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my stand in ep 2 thoughts, feelings, etc.

alright i wanted to write this up nicely but it took me... two hours to get through the episode bc i kept stopping to write notes, so i'll do my best i guess.

weird thing about me is when i watch shows and write notes for these posts i always write the notes on napkins? i have like 5 different notebooks in arms reach at all times but i really like scribbling on a napkin for the true unhinged effect.

anyway blah blah reminder i'm just a silly dude on the internet, idk shit about dick, i just like to say shit, don't take me too seriously.

also please DO NOT leave novel spoilers in my reblogs, tags, or replies without some kind of warning label. please? it seems to happen with every show i write meta for and i LOVE that people get hyped but there's no way for me to avoid it when it's in my notifications like that.

some before the actual episode stuff; after learning last week that some of the kinnporsche people worked on this it really becomes apparent, especially in the style of the intro.

the music choices also seem a bit reminiscent of kinnporsche (and a little bit of not me) which i really enjoy. it feels kind of familiar and comforting.

immediately i loved how soft this episode started, the slight stubble on each of them, the way joe speaks so softly as if afraid to shatter their little bubble of peace, etc. i also love that the show doesn't skirt around the topic of sex and the fact that sometimes sex is awkward and clumsy, especially with a new partner and doubly so when it's your first queer partner.

and then the peace was shattered with ming kissing his back yet again. ouchies.

"will tong be at the set?" he's just not even trying to hide it. he basically said 'yeah ur great and all but tong????' but DAMN if poom isn't the absolute king of microexpressions.

at this point i can't really tell if tong is being a spoiled prince (derogatory) or if he's tired of acting in general? judgement withheld until a later date.

and then we jump into this actress being a parallel to ming and OOF OUCHIES MY ORGANS. she's a fan of tong but has to "settle" for joe - just like ming. and yet joe takes the time to be kind, to soothe her worries and put her at ease, because he has a heart of absolute gold. "it's her first movie but she was left to drown by the male lead." it's ming's first love and he has been left to drown in it.

mek's acting is really endearing. this is my first exposure to him (ive seen some of his social media and really like what he stands for as a person) and i'm instantly drawn to his performance. he also pulls off a great balance of adorable/sexy.

OOH THE SHOW SAID BISEXUAL OUT LOUD. A WIN FOR THE BI'S WE LOVE TO SEE IT.

i personally find ming's jealously hilarious. what a little caricature of toxicity.

anyway, it seems to me that if ming could get over his feelings and enjoy what he has in front of him he could be part of and enjoy a very sweet family, as it does seem tong IS giving him love, just not the exact flavor he craves.

the cut to joe's training made me laugh. little oat lore dump but my bio dad was actually a stunt man for movies (which is another part of why i was so excited for this show) and i can promise you nothing like this was part of it. what do i know, though, maybe things have changed since the early 2000s lol.

(no, they're probably not any movies you know, aside from maybe wild wild west [1999]. he mostly did westerns, historical docudramas, and historical fiction.)

ANYWAY AGAIN. with this little glimpse into ming's home life we get to see that he's very accustomed to doing what he wants and getting what he wants, which makes a lot of sense when applied to his almost obsessive behavior regarding tong - and now joe. i did absolutely LOVE linin and her sassy independence (minus the 'i can buy anything i need'.)

but... girl... did you just spray perfume in your mouth?

your actions are strange and unsettling. i like that in a woman.

ugh getting into ming venting his frustrations on joe's body. listen. liiiisten. while toxic without prior discussion... i'm into it. it may or may not be one of my favorite tropes in fanfic. toxic and unhealthy as fuck and i'm here for it.

AND THEN DAMN POOM THOSE NOISES. ACTING FOR YOUR LIFE BBY -- and the SNEEZE AT ORGASM LMAAAO oh i hope that's a running bit for some comedic relief.

because we then make a SHARP pivot into "then stop me" and there's so much potential for pain and self loathing there, for joe to think "i can't blame ming, i didn't stop any of it." i'm sat.

a little side bar, but i'm enjoying the fact that while there is discussion of topping and bottoming as a narrative device there really aren't any stereotypes here. i think on a surface level people would think "oh joe is the top" (pit babe style) and the show said no actually he isn't. love that for us.

"you can even move in haha jk" but the thing is, not jk, because joe would do that for ming - for anyone - bc that's the type of person he is.

[i had to stop and have a lil snack here]

hold up is this wut out drinking with them? OH SHIT IT IS. OKAY. it didn't give us much but at least it's a little connection to him finally. we knew joe knew him from his first life, just didn't really know how.

"i missed you" and when was the last time someone missed joe? not who he's replacing or the space he's filling, but HIM?

love ming's goofy ass locking the door and going inside just so he can make a dramatic ass appearance like he's 'the other woman' or some shit LMAO.

"what's in you to make me jealous?" quite possibly the worst dialogue tree choice ming could've picked.

[joe's emotional well being -45]

[everyone hated that]

"don't be so full of yourself" something joe has never been a day in his life. "you're just a stand-in." he knows. it's not something he ever forgets.

but after all that toxicity we have ming back home, seeking out joe's food for comfort, and we finally get to see him interact with his sister. i LOVE that she knows the importance of being a little silly as a treat, one of my biggest life mottos. we also get to see more of how ming is surrounded by love that he misses out on bc of his own wallowing and self sabotage.

oh, the homoeroticism of sparring with your bestie.

[everyone liked that]

oop- joe is wearing the shirt ming borrowed while sol is wearing a shirt with the word 'fantasy.' i'm good, i'm fine, gwenchana, gwenchana.

ough. sol with too many eyes on him and none of them sincere and joe with nothing but sincerity to offer but remains invisible. oof ouch.

enter ming with more religious imagery to match last week's cross scene. something something the sin of greed? confessing your sins? coveting - idk man, i don't have any religious trauma, my family let me just do my own thing.

but with ming knowing joe's true feeling every toxic thing he does is going to be 1000x more painful and i'm here for it. bring it you fucked up little guy.

"we can't mess with each other's privacy" don't mess with MY privacy. "you can't mess around with anyone else" emphasis on YOU, not we.

and then it's driven home what a romantic joe is, both with his workout heartbreak poetry and this little lady and the tramp noodle moment. this man, again much like pit babe, wants to be domesticated so bad.

and i know we all have hated on ming, that's the point, he's been a caricature of a toxic relationship spelled out in neon letters --

but when was the last time ming laughed with someone like this?

ok im exhausted, i'm falling into bed to read fanfic, but i'm absolutely in love with everything this is doing so far. i haven't written anything as in depth as this since last twilight (pre-betrayal) so it's really nice to feel insane again.

#bunn meta #my stand in #my stand in the series #poom phuripan #up poompat #mingjoe #mek jirakit #clairedaring #usersasa #<- again let me know if you want to be added to my tag list - if you don't have a tracked tag i'm happy to ping you in the replies

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years

Text

Pink Scarf - PART 17 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: SEXXX. Verbal Abuse. Assault, both sexual and physical. Blood. Violence. ANGST. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 10k

A/N: PREPARE YOURSELVES, cuz this is an INTENSE roller coaster ride, y'all. Also, PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. I'm not gonna say much else, other than this is a beast and I cannot wait to hear the unhinged responses after. And thank you for your patience!

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there!)

“You need me?” you question him, honestly taken aback by the sentiment, even though he has said it before. It’s just still so hard for you to believe that a man like this needs a woman like you. Running your fingers through the soft, damp hair at the nape of his neck, you look at him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, baby, I do. I really do,” Elvis says, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you close. His head buries in your neck, in your hair, breathing you in.

“Show me,” you whisper in his ear, surprised by your own boldness. But his declarations have you some kind of way and that coil is still like hot coals smoldering in your belly. You feel his body stiffen against you, knowing that he is even more stubborn than you and doesn’t want to give in to you just yet.

You run your hands over his exposed chest and under the deep V of the fabric, grazing over his nipple with your fingernails. He twitches and jumps under your touch, despite his efforts to stay neutral.

“I need you,” you breathe, pitching your voice up the slightest bit as you look into his eyes. And you do. You desperately need him, in every way. If you could crawl inside of him, you would. You need to believe his promises are true, that he will take care of you and be everything you need. You need him to show you.

This must read on your face, because he cannot seem to mask his response this time, his azure eyes widening and pupils dilating.

“Take care of me,” you say, your voice nearly a whine.

That’s the ticket. “Fuck, okay…yeah, let me take care of ya,” Elvis breathes in your mouth as his lips find yours, your sins forgotten for the moment, if not forgiven completely. His lips devour yours and your hands can’t get enough of him, starved from before when he had you tied up. They roam over his chest, wind around his neck and into his hair before scraping down his back and clawing at his waist.

Elvis pulls back for a moment and surveys the space in the room. You can see his wheels turning, then how his lips curve up in a smile as he figures out how he wants you. He leaves you hanging for a moment as he pulls a chair right in front of a huge, floor length mirror. Sitting in the chair, his legs spread wide, he beckons you to him.

“Come sit on my lap, baby,” he purrs at you, and you immediately obey, settling on one of his strong thighs and burying your head into that deliciously long neck of his. The salt of his sweat stains your lips. His strong scent surrounds you, magnifying your need for him. You suddenly feel very small in his arms in addition to that need. He seems to sense this, letting you first cuddle into him a bit before winding his large hand below your jaw and peppering kisses down your neck.

“Gonna be a good girl and do as I tell ya?” Elvis asks, his voice low and gravely as he grabs your chin.

You nod. He truly fucked the fight right out of you before, over there against the wall.

“That’s my girl. Now turn and face the mirror for me,” he says, guiding your hips to swivel in his lap. He pulls your dress up and over your waist, leaving you in your lacy panties. You feel a little self-conscious looking at yourself perched on his lap like this, your cheeks a flaming shade of red. You are very close to the mirror, too close. But you watch as your eyes go wide when he grabs your inner thighs, spreading them open with his large hands while sliding his strong thighs in between to keep yours apart.

The lacy fabric of your already-soaked underwear strains as he massages your legs from your knees to your hips. The groping shoots fire through you and you press back into his lap, encouraging him to continue. When he ghosts over your core, it steals your breath away, and you are so incredibly ready for whatever he has to give you.

“Let get these off,” he says, tapping your clit over your panties and causing you to jump with the sensation. Nearly frantic, you shuck them down and off with lightning speed, along with your heels. Elvis chuckles, spreading you open even further when you sit back in his lap. Your muscles strain with the stretch, but you don’t care.

“Be a good girl and put your feet up on the mirror for me,” he instructs, and albeit confused, you do as you’re told. “Nice and wide for me, honey. Yeah, just like that.” He scoots your hips down a bit as you adjust and cradles your upper body with his, his head resting over your shoulder, looking at you both in the mirror. You are completely exposed and utterly vulnerable before him once again.

“Now look at that,” he breathes almost reverently, “You’re stunning, in every way.” You both watch in the mirror as he runs his fingers down your face, your jaw, then over your body. You shiver in his lap, earning his famous lopsided smile in return.

Elvis gets more serious as his fingers reach your core. “But ain’t this the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in your ear, running his pointer finger ever-so-lightly over your folds as you watch. The combination of sensation and the visual you are not used to seeing has you squirming in his lap, aching. He locks his other arm around your pelvis, pressing you against him and immobilizing you.

“Be good, baby. You promised,” he says in your ear, and you watch yourself nod furiously, stilling. He commences his lecture. “I wantcha to see what I see, baby. Look at how pretty and red you are for me like this, all slick and swollen and needy,” he says, watching intently, hungrily, as his finger grazes your lower lips, up one side and down the other. You whine and grip his arm for purchase, feeling like he is calling all the blood in your body to gather in your cunt. It feels heavy and pulsing, burning with need for him.

Elvis brushes up to your clit. “Hmm, one of my favorite little spots,” he hums, circling it softly, making you keen as you lean back into him. Then, obscenely, he uses his first two fingers to spread your lips apart. “Christ, baby, look at that,” he says, voice filled with lust and awe, “You’re fuckin’ weeping for me.”

Your eyes travel down to your exposed hole, and sure enough, you are literally dripping with arousal, both yours and his. It glistens as it gathers, a slow, eager little drop sliding out. You cannot stifle the low moan that escapes your lips at the erotic nature of this little show, your pussy buzzing with heat and want, on display for all to see.

Elvis senses you need more, and he lets your folds wrap around his long middle finger, dragging it up and down through your slick as you watch.

“Oh, god,” you sigh, thankful for the friction, your hips automatically rolling for him.

“Touch yourself, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” he says, moving your hand over your mound and guiding your fingers in slow circles over your clit before he returns to rubbing in between your slick lower lips. The wonderful combination makes your eyes flutter closed and your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Nuh uh! Eyes open!” Elvis nudges you, and your eyes pop open. “I want you to watch yourself come, baby. I need you to see what I see.” He smiles, and it’s almost boyish in its mischievousness.

It’s not going to take much, considering how primed that coil was before you even sat down, and how strangely erotic this whole scene is. How it’s making you feel lightheaded and buzzy and hot all over. You begin to work your clit furiously, watching as Elvis runs his fingers over then through your sopping, swollen folds. When he dips one long finger, then another into your weeping hole while you watch, the string of curses that leaves your lips is utterly filthy.

Your senses are overloading, which you imagine was his intention. The sight of you swallowing his fingers so needily, so readily, your arousal shining, the wet suckling sound coming from your cunt as he expertly works his fingers in and out of you pushes you headlong to the edge. Coupled with this and your barrage on your clit, you hit your climax hard with a loud cry, pressing your heels into the mirror with such force, you’re afraid you might crack it.

“Look, look, look, baby,” he pants, forcing your focus back to him, back to what he’s doing to you. “Look at how you flutter around me!” He’s right; you watch, mesmerized as your hole clenches at his fingers through your orgasm, and fuck if that isn’t amazingly hot.

You whimper at the sight, shuddering and panting at the exertion. He chooses that moment to curl his fingers, pressing that special spot inside you that is only his, and another wave of pleasure shoots through you so strongly that you lose your breath. You crest the hill again, stars shooting through you, forgetting that you ever came here to break this off, to run away from him.

There is a wild, desperate look in your eyes that you’ve never seen before as you writhe against him in your ecstasy, keeping you fucking down onto his fingers even though you are sore from before. You can’t stop the waves that keep crashing over you, engulfing every inch of you as you watch it happen before your eyes.

And Elvis looks gorgeous, those blue eyes flashing with his magnetic sexual energy, his pouty lips open and pink and panting right along with you. He is hard again, his length pressing into your spine through his suit as you furiously roll on his fingers, and you can feel him begin to shudder underneath you. You know he gets off on watching and this is quite the show. You rock your hips more deliberately now, feeling the length of him slide between your ass cheeks, and he groans.

“Am I gonna make you come in your pants, E? Gonna make a mess for me?” you mewl seductively, wanting to push him over the edge, too. “You like watching me get off on your fingers, don’t you?”

“Jesus, baby, yes,” he moans, “but I need to watch you come again. Come with me, honey.”

You’re not sure you can. You are overstimulated and over stretched and near hysterical with pleasure. Your heart is thrumming so fast you can barely breathe.

“You can do it. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you, baby. Watch me take care of you,” he pants heavy in your ear, his eyes glassy, unable to take his eyes off your pussy. He moves his hips in tandem with yours now, then without warning, slides a third finger inside you.

Your eyes are glued to the mirror, seeing just how well you take him. You automatically adjust to him, and he works you as only he knows how. You work your clit and grit your teeth as you feel that coil poised to spring again.

“E-El-El-vis…F-f-fuckkk!” you cry breathlessly, coming completely undone around him again.

“Oh, fuck, honey…GodDAMN!” he groans into you simultaneously as he slams his hips up with a violent shudder that matches your own. You can feel the heat pulse under you, dampening the fabric of his suit.

But you continue to shake and shiver on top of him, your orgasm ripping through you, stealing everything you have left, draining every ounce of energy from your reserves, which isn’t much considering the insanity of the last 24 hours. You sense much too late that your body cannot keep up. Your heart is too fast, your breathing too labored, and your muscles too weak.

You shouldn’t be surprised, then, when your body goes limp, the blood drains from your head with a cold rush, and the world goes dim and then black.

“Y/n! Y/n! Jesus, Satnin, c-come on baby, w-w-wake up!” you hear Elvis’ panicked voice from far away, but you are so very tired and just want to sleep, thinking maybe it’s a dream.

…no, no! Oh, God, don’t—please don’t go. I-I lo…The faraway echo of long-ago words in this too familiar panicked voice fades away like a dream. You slip back into darkness.

It’s the piercing fear in his voice when he calls your name again that has you finally coming back into yourself. You blink a few times, willing the world to come back into focus, confused.

“O-oh, shit. Oh, t-thank God,” Elvis breathes. He is right above you, his eyes bright and flooded with fear, near tears.

“Wh—what happened?” you murmur, feeling buzzy and strange, and like things aren’t moving fast enough.

“You scared the shit outta me is w-what happened!” he looks down at you, now placed on the couch, his eyes quickly shifting from fear to anger. “You—you just fuckin’ collapsed!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember what happened. You’d come here to break up with him, to tell him you were leaving…then you argued. Then you fucked. The mirror.

Oh, god, had you passed out from coming too hard?

You start to giggle at that, uncontrollably.

“Baby, what the fuck? It’s not fuckin’ funny!” Elvis fumes, leaning over you.

That just makes you laugh more. “I came…s-so h-hard I p-passed out!” you hiccup out.

“That’s not normal!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air.

Another peal of laughter at the absurdity of it rolls through you. He’s not wrong, but whatever is happening to you seems to be overpowering your sense of self-control.

“Are you on something?” he asks suddenly, grabbing your jaw to get you to focus. He looks over you carefully and then a flash of horror comes over him at what you assume is the thought that he’s somehow taken advantage of you.

“N-no, of course not,” you finally manage to get out. You are shivering now though, and suddenly freezing. “S-something’s not r-right,” you finally chatter out.

“No shit,” Elvis mumbles, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. “Baby, when was the last time you ate?” he asks.

You blink at that, trying to run through the last day in your mind, but all the days have been running together. You honestly don’t know.

“I-It’s been at least a day, I think,” you finally eek out. “Maybe l-longer?”

“’Maybe longer?’ Goddammit, y/n, you can’t just go without fuckin’ eating!” he yells, getting up from the couch and storming over to the phone at the other end of the room. You hear him ordering someone to bring food immediately as you attempt to sit up, but your dizziness has you lying back down quickly.

Yeah, well, maybe if I wasn’t in a constant swarm of emotional and physical upheaval for the last week, I would remember to eat, but who’s fault is that?

Elvis slams down the phone and paces back over to you. “When was the last time you slept, y/n?” he angrily asks now, his eyes a churning gray-blue, as he pulls your dress down modestly and throws one of his plush robes over you.

“Um, on the r-roof,” you get out.

“Christ, that was barely sleep,” he mumbles, obviously frustrated as he continues to pace the room. “You have to take better care of yourself, y/n!” he erupts.

You recoil a bit but are touched by his anger, knowing it is fueled by concern. But you are also annoyed because it isn’t all your fault.

“Well, I’ve been a b-bit busy,” you manage.

“Not that fuckin’ busy!”

He’s not getting it. You shake your head, tears coming to your eyes.

“Th-this is part of the problem, E. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, I’ve been so s-stressed, I don’t know which way is up…” you shiver out.

He halts. Your words must be sinking in because the blood drains from his face and you’re suddenly afraid he might pass out.

“This is because of me,” he finally says. The way he phrases it, you’re not sure if it’s a question or statement.

“It’s not—” you start, not wanting him to spiral more than he already is.

“Goddammit, you’ve been tellin’ me you’re strugglin’, and I been yammerin’ at you to trust me to take care of you and then I did the opposite. Shit,” he curses. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Elvis deflates onto the couch next to you and pulls you into his arms, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids.

You are too tired to respond other than to brush the errant tear that runs down his cheek with your thumb. You wish you could see this sensitive side of him more often.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m gonna get some food in ya, then I’m sending Jerry with you upstairs so you can rest—”

You open your mouth to argue.

“There’ll be none of that,” he hushes you. “There’s no way you’re doin’ the show tonight. And Jerry’ll get you woken up before we come up after the show, and everybody’ll be none the wiser.” He gives you a stern look.

There’s no point in fighting him or telling him how his plan could go wrong. You’re still confused exactly how things with Jack are going to be handled or if anything Elvis said while fucking your brains out earlier was going to come to fruition, but you’re not in the frame of mind to try and solve that this minute. So instead you just nod.

The food comes, somehow all of your favorites. He knows my favorite foods? runs through your mind, but you are too hungry to dwell on it. Then, as he instructed, you head upstairs with Jerry, who without judgement, sends you into Elvis’ suite to rest. You think your mind won’t possibly let you sleep, but between the food and your exhaustion, you drift off before your head hits the pillow.

Circle G Ranch, February 1967

You wake up early, your eyes blinking out the dull winter morning light streaming through the window. Well, it’s not early for normal standards, but in Elvis’ world, most haven’t even gone to bed yet, you think, looking at the clock. You being awake now is likely due to the fact you couldn’t keep up with the partying last night and had excused yourself much sooner than usual to go to bed.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are. Being at Elvis’ newly acquired ranch in Mississippi has been a welcome change of scenery yet is still a little disorienting. You are used to Memphis, and even occasionally California, but this place is new for you all.

Completely dissatisfied and not having any semblance of control with his career, Elvis recently decided that he wanted a place in the country, a place where they could all come to relax and ride the horses he’d bought for all the men and their wives. A place where they could work the land and have a little fun. And you wonder if he just wanted to feel a little normal for once, thinking that a ranch would do that for him, that it could give him the control he so desperately craved. That maybe it might bring him some of that happiness and zest for life that had been bled out of him for all these years, turning him into someone you barely recognized.

So, Circle G Ranch was purchased, and you’d all arrived to take in its splendor and fresh air. And it was working. Elvis seemed happier here than he’d been in a very long time, the sparkle beginning to return in those expressive eyes of his. And when Elvis was happy, everyone else was allowed to be happy too, theoretically.

You think maybe all that horseback riding and fresh air is part of the reason you were so tired last night. Turning over, you notice that Jack hasn’t come to bed. Your heart sinks, though out here in the middle of the country, it’s not like he can get in too much trouble. It’s just likely the guys are still awake.

Either way, there is an emptiness in your chest that misses your husband. Each time he leaves with Elvis, less of the man you knew returns. You are hoping that some leisure time on the ranch will help him, too. There is less temptation out here, and more opportunities for you two to spend time together.

Unfortunately, he has not been very receptive to that so far, opting to hang with the guys more than you. But considering that he has been drinking more, part of you is glad for it. If the last couple of years have shown you anything, it’s that Jack is a mean drunk, just like his father.

With that thought, you decide to get up instead of dwelling on things you cannot change. As you get dressed, you hear the door of the trailer slam.

“Jack? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” he replies belligerently. The tone of his voice tells you immediately all you need to know. Your heart speeds up as a warning discomfort blooms in your chest. You steel yourself before walking out into the living area.

“Morning, sweetie. Want me to make you some breakfast?” you ask in a light and easy voice. If nothing else, food might help sober him some.

Jack’s response is a grunt in the affirmative, and then he shoots you a glare, his brown eyes dull but cutting all the same. You have no idea what you may have done to upset him, but he is obviously not happy with you. The tightness in your chest increases and you force a smile, not wanting to set him off. If you act like everything is fine, he might forget what is bothering him. It happens that way sometimes and is generally the best-case scenario when he’s like this.

“Okay, I’ll get that started,” you smile, and he settles with a huff on the couch. Scurrying off to the kitchen, your smile falls and you get to cooking as quickly as possible. Steak and eggs, you think. That’s his favorite and will help clear his head.

Your mind races as you cook, trying to find a reason for his ire. You dissect every moment from the day and night before but cannot pinpoint anything in particular that you might have done to make him upset. This has you feeling uneasy, on eggshells. If you knew what you’d done, you could apologize and make up for it before things get out of hand, but it occurs to you that he might be too far gone for that anyway.

Lost in your thoughts, it takes until you smell the meat smoking to realize you may have cooked it too long. You are hoping he is too drunk to notice. With renewed focus, you plate your breakfasts and walk to the tiny table.

“Soup’s on, babe!” you say in a cheerful sing-song voice. Part of you cringes inside to hear yourself like this.

He grunts off the sofa and stumbles to the table, plopping down with a screech of the chair. You keep yourself from wincing at the sound, wanting to stay as sunny as possible as you begin to cut into the meat. You’re unable to keep from looking up at him to check his body language, his affect, as he begins shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth without so much as a word to you.

You pick at your own breakfast, your appetite low because you feel so on edge. You can sense the tension in the room and know better than to speak at this point.

“What the fuck is this?” Jack grumbles, throwing his knife and fork clattering onto the plate.

You look up quickly, your heartbeat skipping. He’s fuming now, his eyes bloodshot and narrowed at you, his scar an angry red with the flush on his cheeks. You don’t have time to piece together whatever has happened before he continues, his voice shaking low with anger.

“First, you embarrass me by taking off in the middle of everyone having a good time last night. Everybody asking, ‘What’s wrong with her, is she okay?’ blah, blah, blah,” he says with a mocking venom that sends a chill right down your spine. “And now you can’t even make me a decent breakfast. Can’t even get that right,” he growls, pounding on the table.

The table rattles and you start to shake a little, frozen to the spot. You realize that maybe Jack is more than just drunk, that maybe he took something on top of it that has him worse than usual.

“I…I’m sorry, I was just tired from all the activity yesterday, and I can make you a new—” you sputter out quickly, but still unable to move, trapped in his furious gaze.

“I don’t wanna hear your fuckin’ excuses, you stupid bitch!” he screams, exploding out of his seat, the chair toppling over behind him with a clatter. “What I want is a fuckin’ steak that’s not cooked to death!” he roars, then picks up his plate and hurls it over the table near your head. You barely have time to register what’s happening, leaning out of the way at the last second on pure instinct, and the plate careens into the wall behind you with a crash, sending food and ceramic flying everywhere.

Your brain misfires and your heart leaps to your throat, the terror in your veins pulsing through you so intensely that all you can do is turn and run. You have to escape because you don’t know what he’s gonna do, he’s never thrown anything at you before, and he’s yelled, yes, but not done anything to hurt you, and oh, god, you have to get out, get out, GET OUT.

You fly past Jack, his rage too consuming and his senses too dull to catch you as you go, and you are out the door of the trailer in a flash, not stopping to see if he’s following you. No, all you can think is you have to get away, you have to escape, and you fly through the rows of trailers housing the other men and their wives. Your heart slams against your ribcage, fueling your body forward as you sprint down the dirt road towards the barn in the distance. Your socks stick to the cold ground as you run but you don’t care—all you need is to get to the horses. You’re not sure why, but you just know that if you can get to the horses, you’ll be safe.

You run and run, only hearing the crash of the plate in your ear, feeling the splatter as it shatters behind you. Only hearing Jack’s screams, “You stupid bitch! You stupid bitch!” You don’t even register the tears burning down your cheeks as you finally reach the barn, flinging open the door with what little strength you have left and frantically looking in the stalls for the horse that Elvis gave you.

Moonbeam. You finally see her near the other end of the barn, her gray and white coloring standing out in the sea of darker equines. You skid to a stop in front of her. Knowingly, as if she can sense your distress and your need for her large, calming presence, she turns and pokes her head out of the stall, nuzzling your tear-stained face.

“Oh. Oh,” you gasp, completely out of breath from the exertion. You cling onto Moonbeam’s strong neck, her coat soft and warm under your shaking arms. Your chest heaves, desperately trying to take in air. If you could, you would jump right on Moonbeam’s back and ride as fast and as far as you can, but she is not saddled, and you have no idea how to get her ready.

The light tap on your shoulder sends you flailing into the stall door with a shriek.

He’s found me he’s found me he’s found me, is all that runs through your head, though if you were anywhere near logical, you’d know that Jack was in no state to chase you all the way to the barn.

“Hey! Hey, y/n, it’s okay! Honey, it’s just me!” You turn toward the warm, familiar voice and are met with concerned deep blue eyes, a far cry from Jack’s bloodshot and brown glaring ones.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to huff out as you look at Elvis, your muscles starting to burn and shake. Your heart is still beating too fast.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” Elvis says worriedly but gently, looking over you, seeming to sense how on edge you are. He goes to touch your shoulder, but you reflexively shirk backwards, knocking your elbow into the door with a thud. He quickly backs away a step, putting his hands up in a non-threatening way.

You suddenly slam into the present moment, realizing that you must look insane. Your hair is windblown, you are makeup-less with tears streaking down your face. It’s the dead of winter and you are without a coat or shoes, your socks dirty and torn and bloody from your sprint. You have food splattered down your left side, and you are gasping for air like you’re drowning.

“Y/n, I need you to tell me if you’re okay,” Elvis says, quiet and calm, as if talking to a spooked horse.

You glance over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Jack could stumble through the barn door at any moment. Wide-eyed and frantic, you look back at Elvis. You realize he’s between you and the door and that gives you some comfort. Jack would have to get through Elvis to get to you, and while you know you’re not in your right mind, you are completely certain that Elvis wouldn’t let Jack hurt you.

With this relieving thought and your adrenaline beginning to wane, you suddenly feel extraordinarily tired as well as embarrassed that Elvis is seeing you like this. You realize he’s waiting for an answer, but you cannot speak. You don’t want to bother Elvis with any of this, so you nod your head, bobbing it up and down quickly.

Elvis tilts his head and looks at you perceptively. Of course you’re not okay, and Elvis reads it all over your face and appearance. You finally give up under his watchful gaze, shaking your head. It falls back against the door behind you, and you choke back a sob. Your exhausted body shakes with cold and the remnants of your fear, and you slide down the door, unable to support yourself any longer.

“Oh, shit, okay. Honey, it’s okay,” Elvis coos at you, stepping quickly to your side but not wanting to touch you and invade your space, lest you freak out again. Instead, he slides down the door with you, letting you lean into him for support. And you do. As you reach the cold, straw-covered ground, you lean your head onto his shoulder, his warmth radiating comfortingly into your side. You begin to shiver.

“Here, baby,” he says, taking off his thick coat and wrapping it around your shoulders. Immediately, you feel calmer, as the heat and his distinctly Elvis scent of musk and Old Spice, coupled with the woodsmoke from last night’s campfire surrounds you like a blanket.

You both sit in silence for a while as your body comes back down from the fear of Jack’s outburst. He’s yelled at you before, even called you names, but he’d never gotten so close to actually physically hurting you.

He must’ve been on something, you think. Jack would never hurt me.

I should’ve been more careful with the breakfast. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve stayed up last night with him. The thoughts run through your head, as though if you examine them enough, you can possibly avoid setting him off in the future.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elvis asks quietly, sensing the wheels turning in your head as only he can.

Humiliated, you shake your head vehemently. Elvis does not need to know the specifics of your marriage. He does not need to know of your failures.

But part of you wants to tell him he’s created a monster.

Without Elvis, Jack might never have gone into the bottle. Without Elvis, he wouldn’t be taking other shit that makes him fly off the handle at any moment. Without Elvis, without Elvis, without Elvis…

You are too exhausted for blame and anger right now, though, so you bury it instead. It is what it is.

Elvis doesn’t push you, though you can tell he wants to know everything. You can practically feel that he’s quelling some deep instinct to protect you, his muscles tensing and releasing, his jaw working. But maybe he begins to piece it all together himself because he remains quiet. You are safe now, and that’s what matters, right?

And perhaps it is your heightened emotions, but you suddenly crave the nearness of the man who used to be your best friend. The man that, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, time and circumstance somehow stole from you when you weren’t looking.

So you lean into him, into his strength and sensitivity and his unique power to draw you to him, even when part of you wants to blame him for everything. Even after all these years of confusing behavior and emotional distance, you can’t begin to imagine your world without Elvis Presley in it.

And now you sit here on the cold floor of a horse barn in the middle of the Mississippi countryside in the dead of winter, wondering how in the hell your life became this.

Jerry wakes you gently with a whisper and a poke on your shoulder but you startle anyway, pulled out of the dream violently with a gasp.

“Sorry, y/n, but everyone is on their way up soon. EP told me to wake you,” he says apologetically.

The room is dark, and you are still exhausted, but you are somewhat grateful to be pulled out of that dream-memory. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and a sick feeling in your stomach. You can’t help but chastise yourself for letting Jack grovel the way he did after he’d sobered up that day, for how you forgave him so easily because it certainly was not the last time he went crazy like that on you.

“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll be right out,” you say blearily. You blink the sleep from your eyes and stagger into the bathroom to make yourself presentable.

Anger at Jack festers like an open wound, but the dream has also reminded you of your anger towards Elvis about all of it. That makes you feel uneasy, especially coupled with that nagging feeling that he is hiding something from you. You don’t want to feel angry at Elvis, but some of his actions over the years have contributed to your overall dissatisfaction with your life.

You didn’t fully realize until now how upset it had made you that he just stopped being your best friend one day. You still don’t understand all of it, though you feel like these unearthed memories are trying to get you there. But it doesn’t change the fact that both he and Jack abandoned you in different ways. And this pisses you off.

Fucking men, you think, touching up your makeup and straightening your dress. Your unease deepens when you realize you are going to face the group very soon and you have absolutely no idea what Elvis is going to do or even if he will do anything. Is he just going to pull you to his side and tell Jack to go fuck himself? Is he going to act like it never happened at all? You’re not sure which is worse.

Your stomach churns and you desperately need to talk to Elvis before he does something stupid. Panic rises, but you slam it back down, willing yourself to just be normal for the time being.

Be normal. What a laugh. As if any of this is remotely normal.

Steeling yourself, you head out to the living room just as people start walking through the door. Sandy finds you immediately, giving you a concerned and questioning look. You can’t tell if she’s surprised to see you or not, but you turn from her, still annoyed that she ratted you out (even if it was in an attempt to help you).

As the room fills and bustles, something is itching at you, poking at the corners of your mind. You think maybe it is paranoia. It feels as though Red keeps shooting knowing, snide looks your way. You can’t help but examine everyone around you, searching for signs that they know. You squirm in your skin, unable to get comfortable.

It doesn’t help that Jack slides in behind you when you aren’t looking, wrapping his arms around you a little too tight. He reeks of whiskey and cigar smoke so badly you choke. “Where you been, treasure?” Jack asks a little too pointedly, suspiciously, as if he knows something is up. Your heart plummets and you resist the urge to push him away but can’t help but try to worm your way out of his clutches as Elvis strolls in the room.

Elvis’ intense eyes find you immediately, and you watch his jaw clench as he keeps himself in check. You manage to slip out of Jack’s grasp and Elvis relaxes a bit, distracted by one of the guys. It seems like he doesn’t want to make a scene over the two of you in front of the group, which has you breathing a sigh of relief.

What doesn’t have you relieved is that Jack is once again all over you as everyone finds a seat. You feel trapped as the conversation begins to flow, wanting nothing more than to go hide in Elvis’ room, far away from the fumbling hands of your husband. His hands are heavy on you, creeping up your thigh, drawing circles on your shoulder with his fingertips. It used to be a comforting gesture, but now it feels possessive.

He knows. Maybe Red already told him, you panic. Your heart gallops in your chest and you try not to lose it.

No, don’t be an idiot. He wouldn’t be this quiet if he knew, right? Jack is a few drinks in at this point, and the more he drinks, the louder he generally gets. Though based on his hands, you think that he is feeling something else altogether.

You can feel Elvis’ jealous eyes bore on you as Jack touches you, but you are caught between a rock and a hard place. If you shirk your husband’s advances to obviously, it will seem strange and garner attention, but if you don’t, you fear Elvis will give you both away. And you aren’t ready for that, not before the two of you come up with a cohesive plan.

If you are going to leave Jack (no, when you leave Jack, you remind yourself), you certainly don’t want to do it in the middle of an afterparty with the whole gang listening in.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” you finally whisper, excusing yourself with a forced smile, needing to escape Jack’s clutches. “You need anything?” you ask.

“Oh, I need something alright,” Jack breathes sloppily in your ear, attempting to be seductive and failing. But it has an edge to it that worries you.

“You’re hilarious, babe,” you say as sweet as you can while standing to make your escape. Jack takes the moment to grope your ass and you can almost feel the wave of irritation coming off Elvis from across the room. “I’ll get you a drink,” you sputter out, sliding out of Jack’s grasp, shooting Elvis a quick, warning glance to not do anything stupid. Then you scurry away as fast as you can without seeming strange.

Instead of heading to the kitchen, you make a beeline for the bathroom, desperately needing a moment away from all the eyes you feel are on you tonight, wanting things from you that you cannot give.

Fucking men, you think again, closing the door behind you.

To your shock, it doesn’t close. Jack pushes in and your heart drops into your stomach. The look in his dark and muddled eyes bodes nothing good.

“Hey, treasure,” he slurs with that disturbing edge to his voice, grabbing your waist and pulling you in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss. You try rather unsuccessfully to not cringe at the feel of his lips on yours.

Maybe he’s too drunk to notice, you hope.

“I thought you were going to get drinks,” Jack says suspiciously. He locks the door behind you, warning bells exploding in your brain for a multitude of reasons, one being Elvis breaking the door down, another being whatever Jack expects of you.

“I had to pee first, babe,” you say as evenly as possible, “Now get so I can!” You playfully swat him on the shoulder, as you’ve done a million times before in your life together, but this time is different. This time, Jack’s chocolate eyes blacken as he grabs your wrist.

Your breath catches, and your heart starts to speed up as Jack’s hand tightens. “Honey, you’re hurting me. Let go,” you whisper.

His dark eyes rake over your body with what you think is lust, but it is tainted with something frightening. “Oh, I think you came in here because you wanted something else,” he says, backing you into the vanity. “You know, some of the guys are saying that you’re stepping out on me. Can you believe that?” His head buries in your neck, his lips dragging roughly against your skin.

Fucking Red.

“W-What? That’s ridiculous,” you manage to eek out, trying to lean away from his touch, but there is nowhere for you to go. Your heart is in your throat, but before you can say anything else in your defense, he’s changing the subject.

“You’re wearing this scarf again?” Jack questions because it impedes his barrage of his mouth on your neck. He unties it and you watch the pink and black silk flutter to the floor.

“It goes with my outfit,” you reply. You attempt to push him away but get nowhere, his broad chest stubbornly immobile. “Seriously, Jack, I need to pee,” you whine now, hoping that will do the trick. Every nerve in your body is on alert as he kisses your skin, as he presses into you. You can feel the bulge in his pants growing, poking into your pelvis.

Every fiber of your being wants out of this enclosed space, a space that only a moment ago felt like a refuge but now feels like a prison. You don’t want this, and if Elvis finds out, there will be hell to pay. But Jack is too far gone to listen and too strong for you to move.

Jack picks you up easily and places you on the counter, his hands pushing the unyielding fabric of your dress up your thighs so he can spread them open and step between them. It feels cold—nothing like the warmth and passion you felt when Elvis did the same thing earlier.

“I told ‘em, ‘Not my treasure. She knows her place. Besides, who else would want her anyway?’” he laughs cruelly, grinding into you. The words cut, as he intended, and you become fully aware that you are in trouble. Your stomach rolls, nausea consuming you.

“Jack, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to do this right now. You’re too drunk,” you protest, pushing your palms into his chest to try and put space between you.

But he seems to take your protests as being coy, or perhaps he just doesn’t care, and chuckles darkly into your neck. “Didn’t stop you from sucking my dick the other night.” He lathes his tongue against your collarbone, causing an icy shiver down your spine that he interprets as positive, smiling on your skin. His hands roam to your back and unzip your dress.

You squirm, but it only serves to assist in his attempt to undress you, his hands roughly pulling down your sleeves and bra straps.

He stops abruptly, to your relief. “What are those?” Jack asks, suddenly on edge, his tone changing completely. He pulls back from you and for that you are grateful but confused.

“What’s what?” you reply as he stares at your chest, his eyes narrowing, the lust being replaced fully by anger.

Jack is on you in a flash, too fast for you to register what’s happening and then he’s yanking down the front of your dress, your bra, exposing your breast.

“Jesus Jack! What are you doing?!” you shriek, trying to pull away as he manhandles you, but you have nowhere to go.

“What the fuck are those?” He pulls you roughly off the counter and spins you around to the mirror, pointing to the series of purple welts on your breasts.

Oh, fuck.

“I…uh…I…,” you sputter incoherently. Your brain misfires, too panicked to think of anything clever or even anything at all. There’s no logical explanation for the dark bruises other than them being what they are. Your mind flashes back to the other night, how Elvis had claimed you, his pouty mouth suckling your skin roughly as he’d fucked you into oblivion on the couch.

You hadn’t even thought to cover them with makeup, since Jack hadn’t seen you naked in eons.

“You stupid fucking slut! Who are you screwing?!” Jack screams, ballistic, swinging you back around to face him.

You’ve never seen him this angry, his face and scar turning beet red, his eyes like daggers. But this reaction is rich coming from him, which triggers your own anger as much as your fear.

“Really, Jack? You barely come home and when you do you smell of cheap perfume, but me, I’m the slut?!” you yell back at him, your body shaking all over, as you pull up your bra and dress. You certainly hadn’t planned to do this here, now, but you’d known in your heart for days that this was coming.

The vein in his forehead pulses dangerously, and he looks like he truly wants to hurt you. He grabs your wrists painfully as you try and zip up your dress. You’ve never seen him look at you this way, even in his worst moments, and it send a shudder of fear through you. “You’re my goddamn wife! Nobody touches my wife!” he yells, his spit flying in your face, ignoring your reasoning completely, too far gone.

Then, he unlocks the door and yanks it open so hard it slams into the wall with a crash, and then pulls you into the hallway, dragging you behind him.

“Jack, stop. You’re hurting me!” you say, trying to wrench out of his iron grasp. “What’re you doing? This isn’t the place for this,” you hiss frantically, scared of what he might do or say next.

Jack manhandles you into the living area where people are conversing and laughing at someone’s jokes, and roughly pushes you into the middle of the room.

The laughter dies out quickly as all eyes turn towards you.

Your heart pounds in your chest and heat burns your cheeks. You are furious and scared and now embarrassed, the back of your dress undone in front of everyone. You watch as Sandy’s eyes widen, immediately gleaning what’s happening, and she starts to stand, but Jerry grabs her arm to stop her.

You rub at your raw wrists, but you don’t turn to look at Elvis, who is behind you. That would give it all away, and for now you at least have control over that.

“Who is it, huh? Who are you fucking? All of them?” Jack shouts at you in front of the group, pointing aimlessly at the men. There are confused and alarmed glances on most faces, though Sandy, Jerry, and Red all attempt to cover their knowledge with surprise. Some are better than others at concealing it, but Jack is too busy looking at you to see them.

“Hey, man, cool it,” Elvis says from behind you, trying to be nonchalant and deescalate the situation, but you can hear in his voice the effort it’s taking him to be calm.

Jack whirls you around roughly by the arm to face Elvis, as though he’s trying to shame you at court in front of the king. Elvis looks at you, unable to hide his concern and budding fury completely, and you shake your head the smallest amount, for only him to see, telling him to lay low and not give himself away. You may be fucked, but this can still be contained, at least until Jack has calmed down and not everyone is watching.

“This ain’t your problem, EP!” Jack yells. It’s as though the most obvious has escaped Jack’s rage-addled mind, since he’s not even considering Elvis when he’s the biggest threat of all.

But one doesn’t yell at Elvis. Not without repercussions.

“The hell it isn’t, not when you come in here drunk and hot like this, fixin’ to ruin everyone’s mood,” Elvis warns, standing slowly. He’s not yelling yet, but his eyes are starting to turn hard and dark. Elvis can be incredibly patient, but if his temper turns, it won’t be pretty. And he was already done with Jack before this wretched display. The tension in the room thickens to a heightened degree, leaving everyone on edge.

So hot with fear and embarrassment and anger, you think you might burst into flames right here. Your heart is thundering against your ribcage and you can barely breathe. Your legs itch to run, but you are surrounded by prying eyes, trapped between the two most important men in your life.

Jack is incensed, fuming, and not backing down. He’s gearing up for a fight, which is bad. His grip on your arm tightens and you can’t help but wince. You watch as Elvis takes a step towards you both and you shoot him a look to stay put.

“Jack, stop this,” you say as calmly as you can. “Let’s just take a breath and talk somewhere else and let the party go on.”

Jack’s chest heaves and he turns on you. “Shut the fuck up, you whore!” he snarls.

Then his fist brutally collides with your face.

Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion after that. The pain is instant, radiating through your cheek and your jaw, up into your eye socket. The metal of his rings snag at the corner of your mouth and scrape your face. Shock and disbelief course through you as the air rushes out of your lungs and hot tears spring to your eyes. The momentum of his strike sends you careening to the floor, and you manage to throw your hands out to catch yourself just before you hit the carpet.

A stunned silence falls over the group.

He hit me. He fucking hit me, you think in disbelief, through the pain, through the ringing in your ears.Jack had never, ever laid a hand on you before. You reach your hand up to your face, and it comes away bright red, bloody, your lip split. You can’t hold back the choked, shaking sob that escapes your lips.

Everything explodes at once.

The roar that comes from Elvis is like nothing you’ve heard before. The anger he’d shown you is but a fraction of what you see now as he crosses the room, a menacing bull after a matador. He strides so quickly and fiercely with those long legs of his that Jack barely has time to register what is happening before Elvis punches him square in the jaw, then rapidly again right in the nose. You can hear the sickening break of it which turns your stomach. Or maybe it’s your own pain doing that, you’re not sure at this point.

Elvis doesn’t even say anything, so blacked out with rage that he can’t even speak. You watch from the floor as Jack stumbles back and his eyes widen in shock, then confusion.

“EP? What the—?” Jack starts to say, holding his nose as it starts to bleed down his face, but before he can get it out, Elvis has him by the throat. Those long fingers wrap around and begin to squeeze as Elvis walks Jack back into the wall. Shocked, you watch from the floor as Jack’s face begins to turn red and he begins to sputter, clawing at Elvis’ hand and arm. True fear begins to play over Jack’s features.

Suddenly, the guys are all yelling and rushing around you. Sandy’s hands yank you up and back out of the fray, and you feel dizzy, swaying on your feet. You’re not sure how, but she manages to get you on the couch, zipping up your dress in a flash, and then examines your injuries.

“Are you okay? Y/n, are you okay?” she asks frantically, but with the commotion in the room and the fuzzy white noise in your head, she feels a million miles away. Your eyes are locked on the insane sight in front of you, freezing you with shock.

The guys are desperately trying to pull Elvis off Jack, but his hand is like a vise around Jack’s throat. He’s strangling him, truly choking him because you can see Jack’s face start to go purple and his eyes begin to roll back.

Three of the guys are on Elvis’ back now while Red chops at his arms, trying to break his hold on Jack’s throat unsuccessfully.

Oh my god, if Elvis kills him, I’ll lose them both and it’ll be all my fault, you realize.

You rise to your feet, ignoring Sandy’s protests, ignoring the dizziness and throbbing in your head, and you somehow, through pure will, push yourself through the throng of men to Elvis’ side.

“Elvis! Elvis, you have to stop this,” you say firmly, staring into his beautiful, terrifying face. His eyes are black and unyielding, almost unrecognizable. His jaw is so clenched in his murderous fury that you think he’ll crack his teeth. You’re not even sure if he can hear you because he doesn’t give any indication that he can, but you have to get him to stop.

“Baby, you can’t do this. You’re killing him. You can’t kill him. Satnin, I can’t lose you and if you do this, we’ll both be lost,” you murmur, pleading in his ear for only him to hear, hoping against hope it gets through to him.

You watch Elvis blink a few times, as if waking briefly from his trance, his shoulders relaxing just enough that when Red slams down on his arms again, they give way. Jerry pulls you backwards with a yelp, as Jack coughs, sucking in deep, rattling breaths as he slumps down the wall.

You do not go to him.

Elvis’ lapse in rage is short lived, for he sees Red and turns on him quickly with another roar, throwing brutal punches. You see on Red’s face that he knows exactly why Elvis is coming for him. A few punches land hard, and you hear more of the crack of flesh on flesh. You can’t help but smile a little inside at Red getting what’s coming to him, but horrified at yourself, you push that thought right out of your brain.

But there is a reason Red is Elvis’ bodyguard. He’s tough and scrappy and much more prepared for a fight than Jack was. You can see he doesn’t want to hurt Elvis but blocks and dodges some of his punches more readily. Four of the Mafia surround Elvis now, grabbing his arms, his waist, holding him back from Red, holding him down.

Elvis struggles against them and lets out one last terrifying primal cry before they get him subdued, pushing him to his knees. His chest heaves as they continue to hold his arms, his chin lowered, those lethal blue eyes peering out from under the black hair falling in his face. They still home in on Jack and Red, who are licking their wounds at the other end of the living room.

Adrenaline courses through you, your heart threatening to pound through your ribs, the blood rushing in your ears, as you watch four men have to hold down the man you love to keep him from killing the men that hurt you. And you aren’t entirely sure how to feel about that. A small part of you is frightened by this side of Elvis, how he is gone so deep into his rage that the man you know is barely there at all. And you can’t help but feel responsible for this turn in him.

But another part of you feels vindicated and relieved and almost proud of his defense of you. Part of you swells with so much love for him that you want to fall to your knees and kiss him as if your life depended on it.

“You sonofabitch. You fucking wife-stealing asshole,” Jack rasps out bitterly at Elvis, cowering on the floor with Red and a couple of the other men surrounding him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” some of the guys cry, having to hold Elvis back from going ballistic again. His glare at Jack is so fierce, you think the look alone might kill him from across the room.

But you don’t stop to find out because you wrench out of Jerry’s grasp and somehow make it over to Jack before your brain catches up with your body. You don’t even have time to think twice before your hand pulls back and slaps open-handed across Jack’s cheek, the smack reverberating in your ears and stinging through your hand and up your arm.

But you don’t care.

Silence falls over the room once more. Jack stares up at you wide-eyed, with shocked indignation.

“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” you seethe, now fully infuriated that the man you once loved had hurt you so badly, in so many ways. “You lost me a long time ago, and Elvis had nothing to do with it, you cheating, lying, drunken bastard!” You lean over into his face, your voice low and biting, “And don’t you ever, ever, lay your hands on me again, or next time I won’t stop him from tearing you apart.”

You watch the mixture of surprise and contempt and fear play over Jack’s features for a moment before stepping back. You look back at Elvis and see his lip curl into a sly grin.

And then it all hits you at once. All your mistakes. Everyone staring at you in shock. Your dirty laundry aired out for all to see. The blood and pain bruising on your face, your head pounding, your vision hazy. The mortifying violence that has occurred in your name. Your lover almost murdering your husband.

Oh, god.

Suddenly, vertigo hits you hard and you are so dizzy that the room swims and sways in front of you. The bile rises so quickly that you don’t even have time to process what is happening before you are hurling your dinner onto the shag carpet.

Something is quite wrong, you realize. All your anger and doubts and regrets and love drain from you with a tingling coolness, and everything and everyone feels very far away, their cries muffled by the pain in your head. Then you fall into a dark oblivion, leaving the pain and consequences of your actions far, far behind, and you wonder fleetingly if it was all worth it.

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