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#lana del Rey imagine

essy2014 · 10 months

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Blue jeans// H.S Instagram imagine

inspired by blue jeans by Lana del Rey . (I did take some direct lyrics from the song so all credit to the writers of the song, Lana del Rey, and anyone who had anything to do with the song, I take no credit for it)

images : Harry styles & Lana del Rey

HS.updates

HS.updates- recent nes have been saying that the beautiful woman above (Lana del Rey) may just be dating out beloved Harry styles.

liked by lanadelrey, Harry styles, Liam Payne and 78,138,832 others

borntodielana- miss Lana her self??!?!

firstlastkiss- HARRY PULLS!!!!

lanadelrey-

lanadelrey - thanks @ Harry styles for the 10/10 photography

liked by Harry styles, Marinaandthediomands, and 29,868,548 others

Harry styles- course babe

longlive- 😧😧

harry styles

Harry styles - I will love you till the end of time ❤️💋

liked by lanadelrey, HAIM, Niall Horan, and 893,638,131 others

Niall Horan- 😁😁😁😁😁

Harry styles- shut up Niall.

lanadelrey- boys stop. no fighting. at least not in Harry's comments 🤫

lanadelrey

lanadelrey- it was like James dean. for sure 💋😘

liked by anne.twist, skyferreira, Louis Tomlinson, and 98,648,775 others

anne.twist- well aren't you guys just the cutest.

firstlastkiss- anne!?

anne.twist- 👋 hello

Harry styles

harry styles - my date 🌹

liked by MVT, Halsey, Zayn Malik, and 978,638,738 others

lanadelrey- 💋💋💋

Zayn Malik- 👍

hanadelstay- Zayn😂😂

lanadelrey

lanadelrey- he said he had to leave to start his life over. I was like " no please, stay here , we don't need no money, we can make it all work" and he still left. boys. 🙄.

liked by HAIM, Taylor Swift, HS.updates, and 976,648,838 others

borntocry- did Harry styles break up with her

summerlove- I hope not 🥲

HS.updates

HS.updates- they're over. 😭

liked by 979,748,393,

Lana+harry- nooooooo

A FEW YEATS LATER

HS.updates

HS.updates- Lana and Harry's first time together since the break up.

liked by 938,729,899 others

Carmencarmen- brooo 😭😭

firstlastkiss- I'm crying.

#2014 grunge #harry styles #sweet creature #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles instagram #harry styles imagine #harry styles is beautiful #harry styles interview #harry styles icons #lana del rey #lanadelrey #Lana del Rey and Harry styles #lana del Rey imagine

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hapinesbuterfiy · 2 months

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jj maybank's girlfriend ୨୧ ˚ .

bikini box next to her door. her initials etched into the seat of jj's motorcycle. bubblegum flavored vape. coca cola. polaroid camera. messy hair. "how to disappear" by lana del rey. cherry flavored plumping lip gloss. stick & poke "j.m." tattoo under her left tit, done by jj. pogue princess. ribbons tied onto her jean shorts. sarcasm. jj's hand around her neck is her favorite accessory<3

#💌#jj maybank #outer banks #jj maybank prompt #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x you #jj maybank fluff #moodboard #aesthetic #lana del rey #coquette #trailer park princess #rose's moodboards 𝜗𝜚 ˚ .

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sobashuu · 8 months

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The Chief Justice is on the other side of the trial for once and Wriothesley seems to find him guilty

#imagine lana del rey music here #my art #Genshin impact #neuvillette #wriothesley #wriolette

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omenics · 8 months

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Calming down Alucard during a breakdown. Having him comfortably snuggled against reader's chest while a warm quilt cover them both, and she just rubs his back and lets him cry on her :(((((

𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

› ..a lovers comfort. — I LOVE YOU SM TYSM FOR THIS!! also so sorry its so short anon </3

Perhaps your touch was not enough to calm him, but you held him nonetheless. Your arms cradled his head to your chest, chin upon his head as a heavy quilt lay upon your bodies. He was cold, terribly so, but the heat of your supple flesh gave him comfort.

His tears stained your nightgown, seeping through to your breast. His arms held you tight, wrapped around your waist as his shoulders shook. A hand was entangled in his hair, the back of his head cradled by your palm. Your other hand rest between his scapulas, rubbing a soft, tender touch into his skin.

“Shhh.” You murmured, pressing a long kiss to his crown.

The weather weeped with him, rain pelting on the windows of the castle, thunder booming to echo his soft gasps. The sky lit a few times, illuminating a stormy blue sky. You knew he would apologize a thousand times the next morrow, asking for forgiveness that he did not need. He was a silly, silly man sometimes. He asked for your pardons of silly things, apologizing for ruining your nightdress with his tears, apologizing for his vulnerabilities.

But none of that made you hate him. None of that made you love him any less.

When he craved your comfort, you gave it to him. When he needed your touch, you gave it to him. When he wanted anything, you were there to offer it to him. For a thousand years he could be selfish, asking for your undivided attention, for your constant comfort, for your tender touches; and you would deliver. No words were needed to comfort his tears, only your warm, soft touches. Through his cooler temperature, your fingers sent heaps of warmth through his body, full of a lovers comfort.

#› ..signature spells !#ty lana del rey for the title #alucard x reader #alucard castlevania x reader #alucard tepes x reader #adrian tepes x reader #castlevania x reader #castlevania imagine #alucard #alucard tepes #adrian tepes #castlevania

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444rockstargf · 22 days

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"heard that you like the bad girls." | spencer reid

video games. - lana del rey

⊹₊⋆ synopsis: when the black cat meets the golden retriever.

fill out the taglist form!

female!reader x spencer

word count: 1.2k

contents: opposites attract, spencer being a sweetheart, fluff, not proofread

it had to have been a cruel joke played by the universe when you and spencer were assigned to work on a job together.

your interactions with him had never gone past glancing at him as he passed by or blankly nodding at the factoids he spat at 100 words per minute. he was a self-proclaimed genius, equipped with intelligence that many could only aspire to obtain. so it didn’t make sense to you why it was always as if his IQ got slashed in half whenever he spoke to you.

spencer was a sophisticated individual, particular about everything from the way he carried himself to how each chestnut-brown strand of his hair was laid. while you were the polar opposite. you went with the wind, going wherever the night took you. your attire consisted of dark colours and you put minimal effort into making yourself look professional, though you suppressed your style just a little to help it meet the nonexistent workplace requirements. even with your lack of interactions, spencer could tell you had a bold personality. and he longs to search and explore every part of it.

the first step he took in getting to know you was offering to give you a ride to work. as usual, you were running late. he’d said that he’d be at your place by 7:30 and you watched the long arm of the clock tick to 7:29. you slipped on your dark brown sweater, letting it rest on top of your pleated black skirt. you hastily put on your dark tights, finishing off the look with your black doc martens. you looked at yourself in the mirror, making sure you didn’t look as crazy as you felt you were going.

as the clock hit 7:30 the doorbell chimed, perfectly on cue. you quickly grabbed your bag, dashing down the stairs until you reached the front door, seeing spencer through the lens of the peephole. you let out a soft breath, taking in the 6 feet of elegance that awaited you on the other side of the door. the bright morning sub made his hair appear to be made of one million pure gold threads, his eyes turning into soft pools of honey.

with a deep breath, you opened the door, greeting him with a warm smile. he met your eyes with warm eyes and the softest smile you’d ever seen. he stared at you, not saying anything for a good moment until you cleared your throat to catch his attention. he ran a hand through his hair, blinking himself out of his smitten daze.

he couldn’t get over how much he wanted to know about you. you were attractive in a frustratingly effortless way, like you just so happened to roll out of bed looking like a goddess. he had gotten lost in your gaze again, finally coming to his senses after another long minute. “g-good morning.” you laughed softly as he stammered. “morning, doc.” you teased, never having bothered using such formalities before.

he went to extend a hand toward you before thinking that he was moving too fast. “shall we? my car’s in your driveway.” you nodded, walking out the door and shutting it behind you, making sure to lock it as you and he strolled over to his car. he opened the door for you and you hopped in, slightly flattered by his chivalrous gesture. he got into the driver’s seat next to you, stealing a quick glance in your direction as you buckled up his seat belt. he’d never been able to take his eyes off of you, but the feeling got even more intense when you were this close, your scent filling his nostrils. he started up the car, pulling out of your driveway.

you yawned, rubbing your eyes as he began to drive down your street. he raised an eyebrow. “tired?” you nodded. he began to speak again, his eyes lighting up in the way that they usually did whenever he went off on irrelevant tangents. “for optimum health and function, the average adult requires around 7-9 hours of sleep to function properly during the day. but studies show that 60% of women fall short of that goal.”

you laughed a little, amazed by how quickly he could pull the facts out of his head. he pulled out of your street, driving in the opposite direction of the workplace. “how about we head down to that coffee place across from your house? i saw it when i was coming earlier.” and he absorbed knowledge like a sponge. you smiled. “yeah, that’d be great. thank you, spencer.”

you could’ve sworn you heard him squeal when you called him by his name. you pulled out your mirror, fixing up your hair as he pulled into the parking lot. “i’ll be back in a minute, okay?” he walked into the cafe before you could respond. and he hadn’t even taken your order. you were willing to bet a large sum of money that he’d draw an assumption on how you liked your coffee. you took it black, no cream and no sugar. but no guy had ever guessed that right.

you flipped through the radio channels, searching for something good to play. you assumed that you’d be waiting for him for a while. but he walked out of the shop before you could even settle on something to play. he hopped back into the car, holding two large coffees in his hand. your eyes were wide. “that was quick.” he nodded. “i ordered ahead of time. i had a feeling you wouldn’t be used to heading to work this early.”

you rolled your eyes, accepting the cup he held out to you with a smile on your face. you took a slow sip of the drink, eyes growing with surprise as you tasted the familiar, bitter mixture. he was watching you with a stupid little grin on his face. “no cream and no sugar, right?” your eyebrows inched up on your forehead. “how’d you know that?” he shrugged, putting the keys back into the ignition. “i see you everyday. it’d be a shame if i didn’t know how you took your coffee.”

you felt a sizzling sensation spreading in your cheeks. you turned away slightly, watching the atmosphere change as he drove away. the car fell silent, something you’d never expect from spencer. then he opened his mouth to speak again. “h-hey, i’ve been meaning to ask you something…” you tilted your head to the side, curious at what he had to say. he took a deep breath, trying not to sound as awkward as he knew he was. “all this work stuff is pretty hectic, like all the time. but you seem… i-i dunno. you always listen to what i have to say and never act like i bore you. s-so… i was wondering if you’d like to try out that new restaurant that opened after work…?”

he regretted asking as soon as the word came out, but you were grinning from ear to ear as you heard him speak like a normal, nervous guy instead of the genius he was. “you asking me out on a date, spencer?” he swallowed hard, quickly looking over at you. “i guess you could put it that way…” you stayed quiet, watching as he squirmed in his seat. you found that you liked getting him all riled up. you lifted up in your seat a little and pecked him on the cheek, his face immediately flushing with crimson. “pick me up at 7:30. don’t be late.”

you and him both laughed at the irony of that statement.

author's note: i need to rewatch criminal minds. i've completely forgotten everything about it

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dixonschoppers · 21 days

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HE AGED SO FINE BUT HIM YOUNG IS JUST AGHBHHSHSNS 😫🫡😝

(not my gif😜)

#norman reedus #curling my toes #lana del rey coded #my man my man my man #princess treatment #daryl dixon #daryl imagines #the walking dead #daryl dixion imagine #norman reedus imagine #daryl image

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imnameimswrld · 3 months

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╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐚 || 𝗠𝗩𝟭 ꒱꒱

━━ ❪ . . . max x driver!reader ❫

━━ ❪ . . . description : in which a simple can of cherry cola changes the whole dynamic of a pair of rivals relationship ; ❫

━━ ❪ . . . rivals-to-lovers imagine ❫

━━ ❪ disclaimers : fluff, kissing ❫

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

past...

"Hey Max, could you grab me-"

"The day I bring you a Cherry Cola, L/N, is the day I succumb to your charms," my brows drop at the twinkle in his baby blues that always appears when he knows he pisses me off.

"And that day," his smirk causes an annoyed eye roll to feature in my gaze. "Is not today, Y/n."

🍒 🍒 🍒

present time...

"Hey, where's Y/n ?" Mick all but rushes out to one of the engineers in the Alpha Tauri paddock, Charles right behind him, both boys sporting deep stress lines in their foreheads.

Although highly confused, the engineer still points to the back with his spanner, and in a flash the two boys are sprinting through the ruckus. By the time they shove opens Y/n's door, both are panting, Mick using the door for support as Charles leans against the doorframe beside him.

Tired, but the sight of you, in one piece with a cup Ramen in hand as you lounge on the sofa in your room, rains sweet relief over them.

"Oh merci mon Dieu," the one in red looks up with his hands clasped in thanks, trudging in with a huff as Mick shuts the door behind them.

You furrow your brows and hit pause on the Netflix show playing on your laptop. "Uh...hi ?"

Mick and Charles flank your sides, the former removing your laptop so he could sit a little closer. Their gazes feel strange today, as if inspecting you, trying trying read whatever could be running through your head. It was making you lose you appetite.

"Is there something wrong, guys ?"

"Not sure, you tell us Y/n." Mick counters, tilting his head at you, making you reel back and into your leather couch.

"You guys are being weirder than normal-"

"We hears about the announcement Y/n !" Mick shoots Charles a look, their plan of coaxing the situation out of you now long gone. "You're going to Redbull ?!"

Now your appetite is completely gone.

Setting your half-eaten cup of ramen in your lap, your drag a warm hand through your hair, sighing heavily. You assumed everyone on the grid knows now, instead of just the few people that attending the Redbull meeting just a few minutes ago. The news only hits the public next week, which gives you some time before the heat packs on from fans. Everyone will most probably be stunned since most people thought the person that would be at the current Wordl Champions side would be someone like Alex; who's won more races in their F1 career.

Instead, they chose you. Why, Christian hadn't been all that specific except for "Your potential is a striking quality you possess, Y/n,".

"So what's got your two so worried ?" you ask, a slight accusatory hint to your tone. Not that you'd think they would, they're your best friends, but there's always that underwhelming feeling of the guys on the grid not respecting you as much as they would a man.

"We were worried Max got to you first."

"Thought he would chew you out for going from his rival to his teammate." Charles adds, his fingers sweeping a few strands of your hair from your eyes and behind your ear.

Max...

He's been your rival since your Karting days. Every race you'd be neck-in-neck with him. That only really changed when you joined F1, and since then you've been far behind since his car was just always better. The rivalry turned bitter when he'd rub his success in with smirks and taunts. Then, bouncing from Haas to Alpha Tauri, your chances were looking up. Your car wasn't as fast as Redbull's, but it gave you a fighting chance. Still, you were always just short of a podium, everytime.

But something changed. Last week, you stood on the P3 podium, your first ever in your Formula 1 career, and the cheers... it was all so surreal. In the celebrations of spraying champaign that momentarily hindered your vision as chunks of droplets coated your lashes, you felt a pair of strong arms round your waist and spin your around. Charles laugh reached your ears and you joined, before he set you down and pulled you in for another tight embrace.

It was then, for the first time ever, that you caught sight of a smile on Max's face over Char's shoulder. A real smile. And it was for you. You'd never received anything but smirks and verbal jabs, and vis versa really, but a genuine smile ? You could've sworn you imagined it – until later that day, when you were alone in your room in the paddock, toweling your damp, sticky hair. There was a soft knock to your door, and you granted access, still widely attacking your hair with the towel.

"Y/n."

You froze. There was an unrecognizable tone in his voice, not his usual mocking one. Dropping the towel, you stare at the blonde, blue-eyed man in your doorway. Max's eyes flick up, and there's suddenly a humorous glint in them. You then realise how outrageous your hair must've looked.

Bringing a hand up, an embarrassing tint painting your cheeks, you do your best to smooth down the chaos. A strange noise leaves Max's lips, and when your eyes whip to look at him, he's...laughing.

Another thing you've never seen before.

"Uh, earth to Y/n."

A knock following Mick's words pull you from your deep thoughts, and all three of your heads turn to stare at the door.

"Come in."

Slowly, the swings open, the hinges groaning slightly. The doorway reveals a oddly nervous looking Max.

You could feel the boys on yours sides stiffen, and Mick sits forward slightly, his shoulders tense as he stares down Max. It's quiet, no one saying anything, and you take the opportunity to roam your gaze over him. It always annoyed you how drawn to his looks you were. His baby blue eyes always shining in the light, his blonde hair always seeming so soft to touch.

Dropping, you eyes widen at what his hands hold. A soft, almost inaudible gasp leaves your lips.

"Y/n, can we talk, please ?" Max's voice is the softest you've ever heard it. It's impossible to deny.

"Yeah," Mick rounds his head to stare at you the same time Charles does, but you send them both reassuring smiles. Nodding in okay, both boys stand, still very hesitant. You do a better job smiling this time, showing that you had no problem being alone with the Dutch. That seemed to make their shoulders less tough, and slowly, they make the leave. You don't miss the skeptical glare Mick hands Max on his way out.

Once gone, Max closes the door behind him, and you indicate with a hand towards the empty spot next to you. His smile doesn't reach his eyes like that day on the podium, but obliges. The feel of his presence so close makes your breath stutter, and your heart beat just a little faster.

You do your best to meet his gaze, but the glossy red can in his hands just steals all your attention.

Max doesn't seem to know what to say, as if he just came here completely unprepared. His thumb tags softly against the can, and the action allowed you to read the words on the can.

Another gasp, and your gently pulling the can from his hold. Turning the cold can in your hand, you fight back a smile.

Cherry Cola.

You look up, and your breath catches when Max is a lot closer than he was before. His eyes shine with nervous, pupils bouncing between yours, and your parted lips.

"Max..."

His gaze burns into yours at the sound of his name being so softly uttered from your lips. A nervous bundle of your own settles in your stomach, so you break his gaze as you open the can of Cola in your hands. You can feel intense eyes follow your every move, all the way to while you set the can against your lips and tip it for a sip.

The sweet, sugary cherry taste coats your tongue, and a delighted hum sounds in your throat. Max's eyes are fixated on your now wet lips, staring eagerly. You're too afraid to cross that line yourself, and you sit still, silently praying that Max takes that leap for the both of you. He's hesitant, until the urge is just too strong and he can practically smell the cherry on your breath.

He needs a taste.

Your breath gets stolen completely when a pair of soft lips enclose around yours, tongue prodding for entrance in a instant. Wrapped up in all that Max is you grant entrance, and the way his tongue dominates your mouth, tasting everything it has to offer, an involuntary moan escapes.

If it wasn't for the same sound Max let's out, you would've been embarrassed.

Strong hands grasp your cheeks, warm on your skin, and no part of you wants to pull away, until a thought pops into your head. Max's lips are chasing yours when you pull away, the smell of cherries thick in the air between the two of you.

"I thought you hated Cherry Cola."

Max's stares at your lips for a moment, before gazing up into your eyes. The softest look you've ever seen in them now lives there.

"And yet, trust I'll be drinking it more since it'll be reminding me of this moment."

#f1 imagine #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen f1 #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #lana del rey

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iluvjacobelordi777 · 4 months

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Oops...

[Josh Futturman x Female Reader]

POV: You and Josh are bffs, but a seemingly normal visit to his house takes an unexpected turn...

Warnings: Masturbation, pnv, mommy kink (????), idk just like pure smut (plus Josh being a needy, whimpering bottom 😜) ((sorry guys I had writers block so this is like the worst thing I’ve ever written))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Josh have been friends for years. Your houses are next door to each other so you hang out every day. One of you will walk over to the others house after school and spend the rest of the evening there. Even on weekends you'd hang out all day. So your decision to walk over this one Saturday wasn't out of the ordinary.

You show up to his house and let yourself in with the copy of his key that he gave you. You call out his name, only he doesn't respond. He was supposed to be home alone all day. Suddenly, you hear a strange noise coming from his room.

He must be playing a video game or something. You whisper to yourself, walking towards his bedroom

As you lean into his room you see that his eyes are closed. His hand is moving fast, his pants are at his ankles.

“Fuck... y/n-” He moaned.

You froze. Was he thinking about... you????

Holy fuck. Shit... SHIT!

You start to back out of the doorway and try not to make any noise, but end up bumping into the door. He looks up at you in shock.

“Y/n… Jesus… I thought you had plans today what are you doing here… God damn… Did you have to barge in here like this?” Josh grumbles, covering himself.

"Well... I had my key copy and I just thought I'd come say hi. I'm so sorry I-"

"Let me know next time don't just-"

Just say it just say it just say it

"Do you want me to help you? You know... finish?"

Josh’s jaw dropped. “You… Are you for real?”

You had been friends for so long, but there had always been something there. Some kind of unspoken tension pulling you together.

"Yeah... if you want"

He swallowed his pride. “I mean… yeah- yes, please.”

You walk over to him pulling off your jeans and leaving them on the floor, your shirt is next. You straddle him on his chair and he quickly removes your bra, massaging your bare breasts. He kisses your chest and neck. He keeps looking up into your eyes, like he's pleading without saying a word.

The only thing separating your heat from him is the thin layer of your underwear. You grind on his lap, making him moan.

"Please... fuck. Just let me... inside," he whimpers.

"Ok, ok."

You take off your underwear throwing them on the floor and slowly lower yourself down onto his throbbing cock. You both moan as he sinks into you. He begins to thrust into you helplessly, hitting your g-spot with ease. Your clit rubbing against his pelvis as you ride him. It doesn't take long before he's a whimpering mess underneath you.

"Fuck... mommy. Please-"

Woah. You had been called mommy before a few times but this was different. Hearing him say it so helplessly felt different. It felt great. HE felt great. Who would have thought Josh of all people would make you feel so good?

"You're doing so good, baby, keep going. Almost there."

He pushes into you with ease, your bodies fitting together like a puzzle. His big dick pushing up into your cervix as he grabs your waist to keep you steady.

He whimpers and moans, so close to finishing. All it takes a few more sloppy thrusts to put you both over the edge. You clench around him and he twitches inside of you. His cum spilling out of you as you ride out your climaxes.

Breathlessly, Josh says, "Shit... well that was unexpected. I guess now we have to have a whole 'what are we' talk and try not to ruin our friendship and stuff so you know, thanks for that."

You smirk at him. "Oops"

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noradegrantz · 18 days

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Be My Daddy

CEO! Anakin x fem! reader

౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

warnings: sexual content, implied smut, age gap, fingering, sex, established relationship

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

this fanfic is inspired by Lana Del Rey’s unreleased song “Be My Daddy”

I really hope that y’all will enjoy this! <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

You were young, carefree, in your early 20s and shining amongst everyone around you.He was in his early 40s. Anakin Skywalker. The guy every woman in town craved. The way he was so strong, nice, kind and most importantly, yours. Yours forever.

You see, he was a business owner. You met him when you went in his company to get a job, not knowing what would follow after just chatting with him, the CEO of the company, while he waiting in line in a nearby cafeteria to grab something to eat and your usual coffee. He was waiting in line behind you. The worker handed you your coffee but as you turned around to go out you overstepped and accidentally spilled it on his new tie.

It was blue, like his eyes.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry-“

you turned to look at him, he moved his gaze to your face. He looked at your face and smiled. Then grabbed a napkin and whipped it a bit.

“It’s alright, don’t worry, it was an accident sweetheart”

He smiled at you

You looked down and awkwardly muttered

“H-Have a nice day!”

slowly you left the cafeteria and walked out while blushing. He was beautiful you said to yourself. You moved the thoughts aside though since you had to be in your job interview in less than ten minutes. You quickly walked towards the building. You stepped inside and a worker asked you if you are here for the job interview. You replied yes so she lead you outside of Mr.Skywalker’s office. You hadn’t rlly checked his background. The only thing you knew is that he was the CEO.

You were waiting for about fifteen minutes until his assistant told you that you could go into his office. You walked inside and instantly froze. It was him. The guy from earlier in the café. You felt embarrassment wash all over you again. He noticed it.

“Oh Miss, please have a seat. Are you still upset about earlier? Please don’t be, I’m okay!”

He gave you a warm smile which made you feel better. You moved closer and shook hands with him.

And that was how you started working there. You quite literally passed the interview with just showing him your biography. The rest of the time he just chatted with you about random stuff.

Moving on to 6 months later, in his apartment. Laying on his bed naked, with your legs still shaking from the orgasm you just had. He kept fucking you since the moment you stepped in from work.

He kissed your forehead

“My pretty baby…always so good for me..”

You quickly fell asleep and right after you did he did as well.

The next morning you woke up. Feeling so sore. You moved the bed covers to your chest so you could cover it. Slowly moved your body to sit properly on the bed. You looked around but he wasn’t next to you or anywhere in the room.

You worriedly asked

“A-Ani..? Are you here”

His head instantly popped out of the bathroom in his bed room.

“Hey angel, you’re up. Good morning!”

He said as he slowly walked towards you and gave you a kiss on the forehead.

“Did you sleep well baby? Are you feeling any pain? Let me know if anything hurts, okay?”

He said as he put a strand of your hair behind your ear. Then he sat on the bed. You got on top of him. Sat on top of his lap as the bed covers fell off you, once again exposing your naked figure to him. He put his hands on your hips. You started kissing him passionately as you slowly moved your hands to his hair. You started making out with him. He grabbed your breasts and lightly squeezed them. A soft moan left your lips as he did.

“What was that doll? Are you needy? Is my baby needy?”

He playfully said.

“Daddy…please touch me…more”

He moved his hand towards your aroused womanhood. He played with a clit a bit and then inserted two fingers inside. He moved his fingers slowly and after a while his pace got faster. You squirmed as he kept abusing your needy hole.

“D-Daddy..! I’m so close..”

He smirked and said, in his low husky voice.

“Go on Baby, come on my fingers…my beautiful girl..”

He kept praising you till you came and then collapsed on top of him. Once again, his fingers truly did wonders. He kissed your head as you were shaking on top of him

“That’s it doll…always so perfect for me. Always perfect…”

you muttered through deep breaths from your previous orgasm.

“you’ll always, be my daddy..”

Thank you for reading !

here’s the song in case you wanna listen to it <3

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marinas-drafts · 6 months

Text

Honeymoon

A Sky High Lovin’ segment, the swingin’ 60’s

Summary: If weddings are for the bride then it suggests that Honeymoon’s are for the groom -a stupid cliche you had dismissed until your dashing groom proves a little inexorable in his intent to “educate” his new bride on the long Learjet flight to Honolulu

Warnings 18+: (sex, dubious consent) I am about to possibly over exaggerate these cautions but I find it necessary, particularly for anyone who is used to reading my work because this is by far the most dubious consent piece I ever ever written and the theme is entirely narratively sympathetic to entitled husbands and female objectification. So, as it’s me, of course there’s love and tenderness but it’s also got -repeatedly denied requests to stop during sex, innocence kink, possible male enjoyment of a recent virgin’s discomfort, nasty baby talk, worry about a man being unfaithful if you deny him, talks of teaching you how to take him, (possible grooming?!) assumed husbandly entitlement to a wife’s body, archaic views on gender roles… y’all, I ripped off Pricilla and went full Lana Del Rey and glorified breaking a woman into her husbands tastes, like, that’s the theme and it’s reveling in it so, enjoy but heads up 🌷🎀🌷

Repost here from my main: @precious-little-scoundrel

There’s something very salacious in the simple act of walking across the tarmac amidst a swarm of reporters clicking away with their cameras, ready to print the image of your little figure pressed against his side, images for all the world to look at and know what occurred to you last night.

What you two did. How he made you his. On your wedding night.

He made you a woman, his woman and the whole world knows it now. There’s something so damn dirty about this, even -or perhaps because- of how traditional it is. The ring sits with a comforting weight on your finger as he holds your hand, and your belly aches from your husband drawing his pleasure from your virgin body, your thighs trembling as you try your best to keep up with his long strides in your kitten heels. It’s so proper, it’s everything he ever wanted, and it makes your cheeks burn beneath the generous layer of makeup.

He looks painfully handsome and happy this morning, impeccably polished in the bright sunshine and you wonder at his duality. The way he can clean up and regain his proud suavity when last night you had seen him mussed, tremblingly tender and near unhinged in his passion while consummating your union. A dab of pomade, a double breasted jacket and his wife’s little hand in his -he’s utterly in possession of himself now and is the fuckin’ American dream incarnate right in this moment.

He’s very proud as he introduces you to some of the familiar press faces, and very gallant as he guides you up the few steps into the Learjet, broad palm searing your lower back and you wish you two could have remained tangled up in sheets, honeymoon and travel arrangements abandoned indefinitely. Just you and him floating together in a sky of crisp sheets and tangled limbs.

The photographers crowd in after you, soaking up the shy way you cuddle in close as he tucks you into his side, sympathetic to your own desire to be alone but too happy to begrudge anyone a glimpse at his little prize. Uhem, bride. The amount of satisfaction he finds in you is palatable to all here, his arm around you holds you close and grounds you even as his face splitting grin proclaims that you were a tight but obedient fit last night.

Your eyes burn you’re blushing so hard and that makes him grin harder and it’s pavlovian that smile, you can’t help but grin back, harder and crinklier than his and that stokes his joy further and soon y’all are giggling over memories the photographers will never be privy to. Those are yours, frantic and tender and aching.

Even the ever hungry photographers are glutted by the loved up display you give them, and soon they are departing and the plane door is shut. Then it’s goodbye America, off to Honolulu.

The tiny jet crew and the couple of boys from his paired down entourage settle into their seats as the jet roars down the runway and lifts off, effortless, soaring and sleek. Beside him you are restless, shifting and jittery on the leather seat, though he is gratified to see the demure way you cross your ankles and the ladylike poise of your spine even surrounded by the comparative privacy. His perfect southern Belle, whose every thought and action and word is to reflect well upon him and keep his name from disrepute, he couldn’t have chosen better. Your mouthwatering submission last night proved it.

You squirm again. Maintaining the modest coverage of your pretty little shift dress, the one accented with navy bows that coordinate with his suit, requires you to keep your upper thighs pressed together tightly, squeezing the bruise of your freshly opened little flower as it pulses distractingly, as if in flustered shock at its sudden required usage. Throbbing, sticky and hot.

“What’s my lil lady doin all that fidgetin for, hmm?” he asks you, tone solicitous but his eyes glint, “Plush leather seats not soft enough for my baby’s bottom?”

You startle and blush, just as he knew you would, and it’s adorable really, the way you can still be bashful after months of foolin and despite the recent intimacy of the night before. And it’s downright precious that you are so sore and achy after he had been so painstakingly gentle when he took you. You had no clue how sweet he’d been, the amount of self sacrifice he had shown in his languid slide and shallow thrusts, tender kisses and gentle grip. Resolutely holding back the absolute wreckage he could unleash on your poor, widdle unsuspecting cunt.

“Just excited.” your body vibrates as you shake your arms to highlight your explanation, gesturing to the wide blue sky out your window and the decadent interior of the jet.

He grins down at you and kisses your cheek, reaching for the seatbelt fastened at your lower belly and he flicks it open with his thumb, the heat of his hand branding you like an iron for the brief contact. “Lemme show ya round then, baby.”

He folds your hand in his again and weaves you down the aisle between the padded seats and towards the back of the plane, the occasional stray crew member meekly ducking towards the cockpit. You two pass the music lounge with its built-in piano and electric fireplace, then the kitchenette with its circular bar and spherical burst of lights coming out of the wall like cascading planets, back towards the little bedroom. You marvel at the designs, the colors, the unabashed wealth of it all floating thousands of feet above solid earth.

Happy and giddy you tuck into his side and he holds you close, arm snug around your waist, satisfied to show his little wife all he has to offer her.

“Y'know,” he serves as your guide, supplying details and anecdotes, most of which you already know but would listen to, enraptured a thousand times to keep him free and easy with his conversation, “Frank n' i didn't really get along when i first started out. ‘Said my music was brutal n' ugly. But we get along now. met 'im in person right after i met you. Reckon' ya rubbed off on me 'cause now we're good friends n’he lent us this jet to defile as we saw fit." his tongue pokes between his teeth, amused at himself and you find there is something cutely self-deceptive about his rare fits of humble bragging. “He’s got a mirror down here, nice big ole Broadway style vanity with it, bright lights n’low counter.” you’re far back into the plane now, he holds back a dividing curtain and you step into the little hallway dressing room right in front of the inauspicious bedroom door, “Frank uses this setup to primp before goin down the ramp to meet fans or shovin off for the next concert, reckon it’ll serve for the lesson I wanna show ya.”

Curious as to his plan, you look to him, both his image reflected in the huge, bare bulbed mirror and his own dear face beside you, more than a little pleased to see what a striking couple you make in the reflection, with his tailored suit and your chic smock, an IT couple without a doubt. It makes you feel pretty, wanted, a little proud maybe. That you won out of all those other hopeful girls. He sees your pleased expression in the mirror, the way your hip cocks and your expression morphs to your best kittenish smile. You’re preening. You think you’ve made it, think you’re at the summit of what life can offer and he may be partial but he thinks you wear smugness rather cutely. Makes him wanna shake ya up, rumple you a little, remind you who gave you all this. That your new image and importance and identity are due to being Mrs Presley.

He scoots up behind you, wrapping his arms around your belly and pulling you close to him, his chin settles atop your head. “Likin what you see?” he asks slyly, staring at the reflected image that will be on every magazine and newspaper tomorrow, the King of Rock n Roll and his perfect little darling who thinks she’s a woman now that she took cock once.

He runs his hands along your body, broad palms gathering then smoothing out puckers and rolls in the fabric of your dress as he follows the curve of you, breast to thigh and back up, then back down, further this time. He squats a little behind you and his clever fingers hook in your hem line and begin to draw it up, little by little exposing more and more leg in the mirror.

“Oh, no I-“ your hand flys to the apex of your thighs, pressing the fabric against you and keeping a covering there as his gathering has pulled your dress nearly to your little secret place, “what are you doin Elvis?” you ask, a little unsure and bashful of him exposing you in this somewhat public place, even if the crew is nowhere to be seen and the curtain is drawn.

It’s obscene to rumple up the perfect couple, all the starch and pomade that make Elvis Presley and his new bride the envy of the world. And it’s worrying. He does not know you omitted underwear today, the feeling of the fabric chafing and holding in the heat of your tender pussy too much to bear while maintaining a proper face on the tarmac.

“Gonna show ya somethin,” he repeats, eyebrow quirked at your “no” and the nervous way you are almost cupping the last few inches of your dress over your private parts.

He keeps ahold of the fabric he’s gathered up so far and takes to running his knuckles up your side soothingly again, till he notices there’s no band or catch on your hips as he glides up.

“You hidin somethin from me, honey?” he asks, already knowing the answer and the reason for your flaming cheeks, “Keepin secrets from your husband already, denyin him his right?” he tuts and your pretty coal rimmed eyes fly open in denial as you shake your head and pull your hand away. “That's more like it.” He nods approvingly, and ever the showman he waits a minute, building the suspense as his hands continue to map out your clothed body as your breathing quickens. In the mirror both your eyes zero in on the barely hidden triangle between your legs. Then with a flourish and flick of his wrist he swoops the hem up and a rush of cold air hits your exposed pussy. You slump into him and await his verdict. “Darlin, what’s this?“ he asks you gravely, his eyes very dark in the mirror and there you are, pristine up top and entirely bare below, it’s -vulgar. Vulgar and salacious with a fully suited man behind you shaking his head in disappointment that you’d be so careless on your first day as Mrs Presley, risking flashing the photographers or the flight crew because you were too delicate to stand a little fabric. He expects more of you, and he knows you know that.

You mix your explanation with your apology, looking like an eager to please little foal on shaky legs, and he accepts it with another tut and a hum as he rolls your dress up methodically until its bulk is beneath your armpits. The shame you feel in being so exposed is your own fault, your own doing, you know that.

If you’d obeyed you would currently have some demure scrap of silk covering you in the full glare of the showbiz mirror. But now you are bare to his blazing eyes. Your handsome new husband inspects you closely in the mirror, his ringed fingers trailing over your hips and over your belly, swooping up your ribs and tickling the underside of your breasts. Back down he goes, hands gliding and palms warm and broad, spanning much of your abdomen in his reach, down and down till he is petting your mound. Your arms dangle listlessly at your sides, entirely unsure what your part in this is, except to submit to whatever he wishes.

“You say your lil pussy is tenda, hmm?” he understands your motive now, and coos solicitously over your discomfort, even as he smirks at the notion you’re sore from that pathetically gentle love making. It snaps something primal deep inside him, or at least, he thinks that’s what made the decision for him, the decision to enlighten you that last night may have been real nice, but it weren’t typical. He can’t have a wimpy wife, he knows you’re made of tougher stuff, just needs to be coaxed out of you. “A little discomfort ain’t no reason for ya to risk showin the world Mrs. Presley’s goods, is it?” he observes and you nod in abashed agreement.

“No it isn’t,” your tone is fervent and you are so eager to make amends, “I’m sorry Elvis, I wasn’t thinking, I’ll do better.”

“I expect you to.” he says, not unkindly but you gulp and nod anyway, unmoored by his effortless authority. “Now, let’s see about this lil owie, hmm? Spread your legs for me, c’mon wider, that’s a good girl.”

You moan as his hand engulfs you’re throbbing heat, cupping the wounded little place and pressing it firm but gently with his palm. He can feel the thud of your heartbeat down there and the sticky proof of your excitement at just being near him. There’s heat pouring out from you too, a lotta heat. Half of it arousal no doubt, but it’s angry down there like a woman gets during her menses. Puffy and sweltering against his palm.

It’s gonna feel indescribably good around his cock.

“Now we’ve opened ya up,” he explains softly in your ear, “she’s gonna get all fussy down there if she’s left empty for too long.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror with a worried look, unconvinced that emptiness is at all the cause of your discomfort. You feel like something got rearranged down there and needs to be left to mend itself in peace. Preferably in a hot bubble bath. The one luxury this floating palace doesn't have.

“You trust me, don’t ya?” he asks your fretful expression proddingly, “Don’t want ya to close back up all th’way. Go too long and then we’d be starting from scratch each time, you understand baby?”

That does make sense. You swallow your fear and shake your head agreeably. Why shouldn’t you?

He was so tender last night, so romantic and gentle and chivalrous. He had kissed away all your fear and worry into the fluffy bed, sending you careening into bliss and flinging you up to the stars before gently pressing in when you least expected it. It had hurt then, sure, a little pinch and an uncomfortably full feeling he helped soothe by tilting your hips with a courteous pillow beneath them.

Making love had been nice, unexpectedly nice.

And better yet had been the sight of your gorgeous groom, shaking in effort to hold back his vigor as he worked himself in and out above you, gentle and kind, slowly losing a grip on his decorum and letting out sounds of pleasure and praise. There had almost been a whine on his lips as he stalled suddenly and clung to your shoulders and spilled inside you, cementing your union. It had made you feel gloriously happy, and a little smug to see him come undone from the feeling of being inside you.

He earned your trust.

“I understand.” you assure him, the little kisses he is pressing to your neck making you brave. You’d like to see him come undone again. If that means he has to go inside you again then you’ll accept that. Maybe he was right last night, maybe it’ll be even better today.

“That’s my good baby.” he praises you, pleased and handsome over your shoulder, “Gonna turn you into the best little wife the world has ever seen.” he starts to drag his fingers through your bruised petals and you make a ugly little grimace at the soreness before seeing how unpretty it looks in the mirror, consciously changing your expression to demure acceptance. The shiny pink of your lipstick highlights the baby doll serenity of your gentle smile.

“Take me to bed, please, Elvis.” you try to play along with him, desperate to show him your excitement and desire to please.

“Aww now, we’re not goin’ to bed this time, darlin, we’re gonna have a lil lesson so you ain’t in the dark bout marital duties and all that.”

You stiffen in his arms, confused and wary. He keeps nuzzling at your cheek and neck. You had anticipated that there might be adventurous trysts once married, sure. He had proven himself fond of messing with you outside the bedroom during your courtship, fingers playing with you under tables and in hotel elevators. You had prepared for him gently making love to you on a picnic blanket under a Hawaiian moon. Maybe in the tub, or heavens -perhaps the kitchen if he was ravenous. But you’re concerned now that you haven’t grasped his entitlement fully, you’re still trying to understand what he means by “lesson” and why he led you to this vanity. You have a shaky feeling that your embarrassment at being flashed in front of the mirror is about to pale in comparison to what he has planned.

His hand goes from petting your sticky folds to rubbing and swirling, calloused fingertips worrying your bud till you’re nearly keening in enjoyment. He hasn’t looked you in the eyes in a minutes. You keep watching his face as his expression goes from intent to hungry, watching himself fiddling down there with your pink petals as he gets you primed. Primed for the two insistent fingers that plunge into you with no warning. It’s easier this time, having had a coke bottle up there, even just once, did the trick, his fingers meeting far less resistance than last night. He’s made his mark, claimed ya and stretched ya. Never the same again.

His movements burn for you, tugging and persistent as they are and you wince, can’t help it with the way his elegant digits are caressing your sore walls at a foreignly fast pace. You hope that maybe not looking at the rough act will ease your discomfort, like looking away from the needle poke when giving blood helps you keep from getting queasy. The sounds though, wet and squelching, are unmistakable despite the hum of the jet's engines. You watch his face, hoping he’ll look up and meet your eyes, but he’s transfixed by the sight in the mirror of his fingers disappearing into you.

“Gimme your hands, baby.” his sudden instruction startles you as you had flown far away in your mind, trying to reconcile the conflicting amounts of embarrassment and arousal you feel under his heated scrutiny. Who knew married life would cause such a upheaval inside?

“Yes sir.” you present them palms up, and he jerks his chin,

“Now baby, listen, you’re gonna replace my hands while I get myself ready, alright, gonna keep my progress for us. C’mon, hand on each side, pull your lips apart, gonna spread your snatch nice n wide so you can really see the mechanics of the thang. The act.”

The act? What act - you figured if this was going to happen to you at the vanity he would spin you around and set you on the counter, take you kindly as you sat. He had licked you in a movie set bathroom like that one time. Your brain scrambles in confusion and panic, supplying the only familiar acts and positions you’ve tried so far. A man can’t take a woman standing, he can’t, it wouldn’t fit, or at least, it wouldn’t be nice, surely and he wouldn’t be anything but nice-

“Now,” he’s speaking up again, “squeeze your arms a lil, gotta keep your dress nice and clear of the exhibit, ok?” he snickers at the way your dress is bunched beneath your underarms.

You make a respectful noise of acknowledgment, too nervous to say more. Your folds are puffy and slippery beneath your numb fingers as you pull your labia apart like he instructed. This feels new, keeping clothes on while being intimate. It feels…irreverent and dirty somehow. Just like standing here, your whole reflection lit brilliantly and his eyes still glued to that place between your legs.

You watch him pull away from behind you and start to methodically undo the buttons of his double breasted suit jacket, sliding it off his lean arms and folding it carefully over a towel rack, “Ya see, darlin,” he explains, as he undoes his cuff buttons and starts to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, “it's only proper you know what it looks like when we're joined together. I’ve got no desire to keep ya in the dark bout somethin God says is a good thing. This isn't the olden days, I don't mind having an enlightened sorta gal. So long as you don’t turn into the bra-burning sort of enlightened.”

He meets your eyes then as he gives you a look from under his lashes, admonishing you to stay away from such nonsensical, feministic, man-hating company as his deft fingers pop open the button of his slacks and he pulls himself out, weeping, thick and ready. You had no idea he was already so fully excited, your legs begin to tremble anew. He looks larger like this, somehow, all poshly dressed and admirably sauve in the mirror as his cock juts out of his tailored slacks, a single indecorous vulgarity marring his pristine Ken Doll image.

You flush red hot at the sight of him

lazily pumping himself as he saunters back to you, his hand yanking and pulling to chub himself up and then a thumb swirling around the uncut tip. He’s leaking and messy already, a profusion of precum wetting his hand and you give a silent prayer of thanks that at least he will add to the slick, hopefully ease the slide.

He doesn’t waste time with romance, he takes his place again behind you and this time you feel him sliding between your cheeks and then your legs, the feel of his open fly and belt against your bare butt. Due to your obediently spread lips, it’s perfectly visible when he slides through your folds and pokes out the other side, a pink, blunt, oozing cockhead playing peek-a-boo in your garden. He bumps your clit again and again with it until you are huffily shivering in his arms.

“Elvis are you really gonna-“ you can’t bear the suspense of it, you have to ask him his intentions, if he really means to make love to you standing up.

“-really gonna fuck my new wife in front of this state of the art mirror?” he laughs, thinking he knows what your quibble is, “Goddamn right I am, be a crime to not avail ourselves of the experience.”

He punctuates his enunciated vocabulary with rough thrusts against your bud that have you shaking and coming…just a little. Just enough for him to be sure you’re ready to take him.

“Fuck me?” you repeat in a panicked whisper, “B-b-but I’m your wife, Elvis!” you object, wounded.

He gets confused, stalling with his hand as he lines himself up with your freshly excavated entrance, “Whadda ya mean, honey?” he asks kindly, reaching around to tilt your chin towards him, but you sense that there’s an impatient edge to it.

You tearfully explain to him how your mother and other women have told you very explicitly you that men don’t fuck their wives. They make love to them. You are very adamant regarding it, and he ought to know better.

“Why baby, that’s the single greatest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” he declares in fond amusement, smooching your tear stained cheek and resuming his rutting through your folds, “You gonna trust some ole ninnies over your husband? Baby, I gave ya a real nice wedding night cause I love ya and you’re my special girl and I thought it your due, but I ain’t gonna be saddled with a wife who can’t meet my needs when I need a quick fuck, ya hear me? Case in point is now, my dick’s about to fall off from all this chit chat.”

You suppose there’s a great deal about marriage that is far more complicated than movies and books and Sunday potlucks led you to believe. It’s hard balancing how to please your husband as you ought with retaining some dignity that will make him respect you. You can’t imagine Elvis ever not respecting you, it’s too ingrained in him and what he wants isn’t to humiliate you, it’s what he needs to be satisfied. And you so badly want to keep him satisfied, you know deep down you’d do unspeakable things to keep his attention on you, perhaps that is where your shame comes from. It’s less about his expectations and more about the fact you’d throw away all your mother’s teachings before causing him to go elsewhere for comfort and acceptance.

You turn your head to him and pucker your lips for a kiss of acquiesce, which he obliges. His hand is still firm on your jaw as he deepens it, and it’s heady and passionate and loving and -he’s breaching you suddenly. A squat and flex and tilt of his hips and then he’s snagged your hole and he is pressing up and up and up and you whine into his mouth as his foreskin rolls back in your canal, an extra friction against your raw walls.

“Elvis!” you beg, breath caught in your throat at the burning sting of him as your hand flies up to clutch at his arm, secure around your hips, “its it’s-” you flounder with a word to adequately describe the delicious pain of it as he goes deeper.

He mouths messy and moaning at your neck and you can feel his belly shaking against your lower back, his cock twitching at the feeling of getting dipped in your silky channel. It makes you cringe in discomfort.

“You’re so goddamn perfect and warm as anythin,” he praises in a slur of kisses and moans as he flexes up and up.

The farther in he goes the more it loses any snuggly quality and instead feels rather like getting slowly impaled. You shift your stance in front of the mirror, legs spreading of their own accord and eyes squeezed shut in concentration at just trying to breathe. It goes on forever and you start to try to go up on your tip toes, to get away from it, from him, to lessen the fullness and the deepness of his assault somehow. He persists. You try to scramble up him, leveraging your weight on his forearm till your little feet are nearly off the jet floor.

His answering chuckle vibrates your back, “Looks like you’re tryin to learn how to levitate, honey.”

You scramble harder in a vain attempt to get taller, to elongate your poor vagina somehow, to keep him shallow

“T-that’s all I can take, Elvis” you try to tell him when he’s only over half in.

It's an honest declaration, to your hyperventilating self he feels impossibly big and certainly every bit as deep as it felt last night when he took you discreetly beneath the sheets in the good ole fashioned missionary position.

Your eyes widen as he doesn’t stop, just goes on and on and on, as your breaths get more panicked, shallower with each inhale, on the verge of a panic attack until he stalls and starts to pet your belly and kiss your cheek in an effort to bring you back down. “Breathe babydoll, breathe for me. Calm down, satnin, you took this all last night. you can do it again, I knows ya can.”

You've long ago started to whimper when he didn’t listen, half in pain and half in fear that he isn’t stopping, that he isn’t being as nice as he was last night. Why isn’t he stopping? oh why, why, “I can’t, I think I’m not made for it.” you wail as you writhe helpless in his arms, a pounding ache between your legs and a strange flutter in your chest.

“No, no, don’t say that baby, please don’t say that, you’re perfect baby, just perfect.” he pleads a little frantic, rubbing his lips along your cheekbone to collect your tears, “Only need a lil breakin in is all, this won’t always be so rough. I’ll fix ya honey, I’ll make it better. Don’t you go objectin’ to the heavenly proportions God gave ya, or what he gave me neither. We were made for each other.”

Hearing the tender worry in his voice soothes you, even more than his comforting touches, knowing he isn’t indifferent to your struggle, he just wants what’s best for you as any good teacher would. You take a breath, a large breath and it feels like it made him sink deeper somehow. You bite back a sob.

“You can do it.” he says in your ear, his voice shaky from how badly he needs to be moving inside you, “Please baby, let me in, I’m hurtin’ real bad, if you could just see lil elvis you’d feel so bad for the poor guy. Let him in, you can take it, let him in, let him in his lil house. That’s it, that’s it just a little bit more.”

The man lied. There was nothing “little” about the more he gives you when he bucks up that last bit and buries himself fully inside, balls snug against your butt.

“Oh, i’hurts.” you moan, tears leaking through your clenched eyes, smearing your immaculate cat eye. “hurts -I-I can’t, Elvis.”

“You can.” he declares firmly, trying so hard to stay in control, to gather the last shreds of his gentlemanliness, “More like -you *are* doing it. Look, come on. Baby! I said look! Open those eyes and watch how well you’ve taken me.”

You pry your clumping lashes apart and slowly your eyes drag from the reflection of your faces pressed together, down to your breasts where his hand is crushing a velvet bow in his grip, down your belly to to his forearm barred around your hips. Down to that place where you join.

“Where’d lil Elvis go, hmm?” He teases like you’re playing hide and seek, and you let out a watery laugh, rolling your eyes at his babying tone, “Where'd he go, darlin? Oh, there he is,” he pulls out a tiny bit so the pink veiny length of him peaks out from between your lips, “there he is -wait where’d he go?”

“Elvis. Stop. Stop, that’s so dumb.” you beg through your sniffling giggles, the fiery stretch of him temporarily forgotten.

He laughs at your embarrassment and pulls out further this time, then snaps his hips back up to the hilt of him, drawing a pained cry from you “Who’s my bestest girl, hmm? who’s that? Shhh, shhh, Das you ain’t it? Look at’chue, doin so well. I need ya to stand straight baby, let those heels touch down. I mean it, plant your feet, don’t cry about it, no reason to cry, you gotta relax.”

You’ve heard him use the same tone of voice when helping Red’s puppy get a burr out of its paw. Pitifully you obey him, planting your feet and it feels like you’re riding a telephone pole, the way he’s stiff and unyielding, deep inside you, plumbing the depths of your belly.

“That’s more like it.” he hums in throaty appreciation of the snug fit of you, “Alright now, ‘member the job I gave ya?” he reminds gently as he starts to thrust slow and deep, watching as your face crumples in grief, “Hold yourself open baby, it’s very important you watch this, I need ya to understand you’re perfect for this, gotta let go of ma arm, c’mon now.” he pries your grip from his forearm and brings your hand back down to your puffy heat, “Spread yo’self.” his accent deepens as your body struggles to take him, clenching around him in an effort to expel him, and only serving to make him moan in bliss. “Look a’that.” he marvels, sounding utterly worshipful of the way the glistening pink length of him slowly comes into view, then slowly disappears -absorbed inside you, your painfully stretched little hole fluttering hopelessly at each dragging inch of him.

“It still really hurts.” you observe childishly through gritted teeth, your pained body fighting the fuzzy headed arousal you feel while watching the obscene display of him sliding in and out of you for a few languid grinds.

“That’s cause you’re so tense, loosen up baby, -actually, here.” he shuffles you forward and you make a reckless sound of disgruntlement at the feel of him shifting inside you with each baby step, “Here, knee up here.” he hooks his hand beneath your knee and props it up on the counter, somehow making this worse and better all at once with the new angle.

“Ow, oh god, you said it would get better.” you accuse, biting your lip in savage self reprimand after it. Foolish girl, to risk making him unhappy and frustrated, stoking his wandering eye.

“It will, dammit, it will. I'm gonna need you to hang in there and play with your lil button till it does, alright? Bout to burst back here with all this startin and stoppin.”

“Ok.” you whisper, feeling a little more steady with the firm counter beneath your knee, opened up a little for the intrusion of him.

He pats your hips and presses an appreciative kiss behind your ear, nearly drunk off your sweet little struggle to be good for him. It makes his heart soar and fills him with wild wants, makes him reckless, and a little mean somehow, like crushing rose petals to gain the scent.

“Now, I know I made love to ya last night, darlin,” he pets the bulge of his cock in your belly and you shudder in anticipation, “cause that’s what weddin nights are for, but now you’re a wife proper you gotta learn how to take cock without so much whinin and clingin, alright? Made ya a woman, didn’t I? so do me proud, act it.”

With this emboldening commission he presses one more kiss to your neck before pulling out before driving in, hard. And then he does it again, and again and again at a pace you’ve seen him maintain on stage but never, never imagined him using with you, against you, it feels like.

You shriek and your knee slides further apart with the violent rocking, trying with terrible desperation to find solace and feminine satisfaction in the guttural groans and huffed out praises your husband vents as he takes what he needs, flaming eyes glued to the mirror and the place where he plunders you.

You are really trying, it just hurts so damn much.

You know you’re lucky, you cling to that even as he spears your cervix again and again with gusto that suggests your panicked clenching is the best damn thing he’s ever felt in his life. You’ve heard from other women, older women trying to counsel you, prepare you for what lay ahead, that some husbands didn’t even bother trying to make sure their wives were slick enough. That the dry drag and burn of a man can make the stretch truly unbearable. It keeps you grateful that the lewd sounds now causing you to blush are testament to the flood of slick down there. It keeps you grateful meek even as you wail and smear your makeup with your gasped out shock.

He should slow down, he should moderate his thrusts, cherish his wife. He can see you’re struggling and panting and crying and somehow it’s all just a drug to him, the gorgeous little dolly he crafted so perfectly this morning looking utterly overwhelmed and defiled by his cock. It’s enough to make a man lose his bearings and forget his mama’s teachings on how to treat a lady.

The beast won’t be tamed. And so Elvis Presley begins to babble a stream of apologies as he exerts all the energy of his able body in fucking his young wife, like the deeper and harder he goes the more likely his lil swimmers will have the chance of making themselves a nice comfy home in your sweet womb:

“oh goddamn baby I’d stop if I could, but yer squeezing me like a vice and I just…I just can’t stop baby, be good, be good, don’t cry on me, be good for your husband, baby. You’ll get used to it, we’ll train your pussy baby, just gotta get through these early stages. Early stages and it’s, it’s normal, just a lil skittish is all, ain’t no way god made me want you this bad just for you to be cold. Ain’t no way, I can feel it when you’re dancin to my music, you want it deep, you crave it deep, you were born hungry. Oh goddamn, yes, yes, fuck yes, baby, I’m sorry I’m sorry, yes, keep squeezing me like that …….”

It is not talent on your part, this clenching that has him snarling in rapture with his eyes rolling back in his skull, it’s pure creature instinct, whether trying to expel him, bring him deeper or milk him fast so this agony will end, you don’t know. All you know is that his force is terrifying and you’ve never seen something quite as erotic as the pristinely polished beauty of his face morphing into ravenous determination.

Your panic flares one last time, unwilling to allow yourself to coast into enjoyment of this filthy usage without a fight. “Please, Elvis please -enough!” you gasp, even as something seems to have shifted inside you, a tilt or a nudge, whatever it is, it’s a spark of something dangerous.

“Listen here now,” he pants in frustration, one of his hands leaving your hip to fly down to your clit and rub it viciously, “i don’t have a particular hankerin to pin you down over the tabletop, face down ass up, and make this marriage work but I will if I have to. So be a good girl n’ quit all your whinin, show me some of that grit you show when I’m teachin ya on the mats. Don’t wanna make me do nothin rash, but I ain’t gon’ have my honeymoon ruined cause my wife is insistent on bein’ an obstinate lil’ brat!” his voice his shaking with effort, “now, open ya self up!”

It spooks you, this inexorable side of him, white hot lightening ripping through your nerves. Suddenly you’re alite. Scientists might be quick to give credit to the clever little rhythm his thumb strummed over your clit but till the day you die you will swear it was instinctive obedience that had you spasming and then gushing, suddenly relaxing and drawing him in, pliant and eager. Subdued at last.

“Aww baby, oh baby that’s it, oh thank fuck,” he gasps in relief as he feels the change, “I’ve gotchu, you know I gotchu always, gonna help ya get over that damn hill, gonna drop ya off that cliff gentle like.”

His movements are not gentle, if anything they speed up, but his hands cradle you, his mouth caresses you and he places his own knee beside your own, glued together everywhere except for the snap of his pelvis. There is a razor's edge here, in the sensations his body is drawing from yours, and it is an edge upon which you wobble, tipping now towards pleasure, then pain, then back again to pleasure. It confuses and overwhelms you, makes you moan and keen and beg like an animal in heat, the jet crew and all your ladylike deportment forgotten.

“Oh dear god Elvis, I- oh, oh, please don’t stop!” you’re suddenly shouting in a shocked beg, something irreversible building and this isn’t your standard *nice job buddy that was swell* orgasm approaching, it’s one of the *well done sir, I think I just died there for a minute* variety. It’s shaking, and thrumming and burning up your entire body, suddenly making lyrics to his well worn songs take on an entirely new meaning.

“Lordy mama, tryin to let the whole plane know I’ve broken ya in at last?” he teases, finding it heavenly the way you move with him now in an easy give and take, the smacking of your bum against him and the happy slack of your mouth driving him to madness.

Gone is the suave man of myth and envy, here is an animal instead, mounting and mauling and claiming you with ferocious devotion and you take it like a jerking rag doll, whining in need where you were once whimpering. He’s proud of you. If he had breath to laugh he would at the way you suddenly look dazedly disbelieving in the mirror right before your body seizes up and pleasure annihilates all your senses.

Your legs give out and you slump, having only the vaguest awareness of the fact he’s beginning to grunt and cry out himself, using you like a writhing receptacle, coming unglued behind you as you begin to melt on him like butter. There ain’t much thought or chivalry to the way he grabs at you, a hand beneath each knee and folds you in half, split open in front of the mirror as he ruts every last drop of satisfaction into you. He hears himself hollering as if through a tunnel, something that the fight crew, if asked, would paraphrase as being “oh goddamn, you are more perfect than anything.”

You are numb and pounding down there, the last frantic usage of your pussy an ordeal you endure with cock dumb acceptance. The way his face draws up and crumples shortly after, and then slacks in bliss -it is the single most violently arousing thing you’ve ever witnessed. Feeble as your energy is, you feel a surge of feminine pride at the way he mumbles and moans and finally shakes to a stop.

“That’s it, oh you’re so beautiful.” you moan, watching as his hair falls into his bleary, slow blinking eyes as he comes back to the surface, “And you’re mine.” you sigh, content.

“Mhmm, yours.” he coos, jostling you a little on his cock and he snuggles closer somehow, you think you feel his seed start to dribble out despite the sizable stopper inside you, “Well, bless your heart darling, I’ve got ya folded like a camp chair. Ha!” he gently folds your legs back down, pulling out of you with painstaking gentleness on the way down, “That weren’t very gentlemanly of me, was it?” he teases.

You sway dangerously once placed on your own two feet and you don’t even have the chance to fall, he never lets go before he realizes what’s needed. He picks you up and sets you on the counter, you pool back against the mirror, boneless and debauched, legs stuck bow legged from such a long ride and a vividly puffy pussy leaking his seed onto the counter. He tucks himself back in with still shaking hands. He won’t be fully back down to earth till Honolulu’s runway, he thinks. Just in time to carry you off the plane. And begin it all over again.

Married life, he could get used to this.

“It was perfect, you’re perfect.” you slur earnestly as he returns to you and unzips your dress, hauling it over your teased you hair, baring you fully as you sit on the counter, kicking feet thumping against the cabinets in your patten leather heels

“Nah…perfect -that would be you, Mrs Presley.” he kisses you deeply, before taking you in his arms bridal style and carries you into the bedroom, conscious but uncaring that you’re leaking all over his pristine shirt sleeve.

This next part oughta involve washcloths or wet wipes. But that would require leaving your sweet arms and facing a jet crew that just heard him railing his tender young bride.

Yeah, he’ll just use his mouth.

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog@aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo

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hapinesbuterfiy · 2 months

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. ୨🪩୧ ₊˚ 🍒 ʚ ♡ ˚ 🎀 +

lets talk about rafe x fangirl!reader...

you love being a fangirl and all of the late release nights, hundreds of dollars spent in merch and concert tickets, and the constant hours of waiting in ticketmaster queues that came with it. having an insanely rich and obsessive boyfriend who would spend millions to make you happy had it's perks!

it took rafe a while to get used to your antics, never did he ever think he would be waking up at 2am to queue for a concert, but who else would be accompanying his girl? certainly not anyone else, he wouldn't have it. at first, he attempted to persuade you to buy actual seats instead of pit tickets with the "proactive person" approach. "are you fuckin' crazy? you're meanin' to tell me that you would rather sleep on the filthy fuckin' streets outside the venue waiting for hours when i could just buy you an entire box of seats? you're fuckin' insane." he stomps around your bedroom while standing above you, unable to fathom the lengths that you're willing to go to for a good view at a show. "rafe it's not the same you just don't get it! i need to be at the barricade there is literally no point in going if lana del rey can't watch me sob in front of her while singing pretty when you cry." he rolls his eyes at your remark, shaking his head in disbelief while sucking in his bottom lip. "yea—yea fuckin' barricade my ass, you shithead. lucky i wouldn't fuckin' make you go alone." you perk up, kissing his cheek in excitement. "thank you!" you've got him wrapped around your pretty little finger.

you're passionate, to say the least! why would you spent countless nights sobbing to grainy eras tour live streams after taylor swift plays your favorite songs without you there alone when you could be doing it with rafe by your side? he thinks you're insane for crying over a song, giving you his best fake sympathy act each time it happens, which is practically every time she has a concert because her entire discography is yours. you try your best to make out words through your sniffles and sobs, "i hate taylor swift so much. why would she bring gracie abrams out to play i miss you i'm sorry without me there?" you continue to choke on your sobs and manage to pull yourself even close into his chest. "she's so mean i hate her rafe." he tries his best to console you but can't help but laugh at your disheveled state and the snot coming out of your nose over a song, he is rafe, after all. "baby— i don't know what to tell you. maybe she'll like play it again when you see her, i don't fuckin' know." he wipes your face with his thumbs, as he continues to laugh at you reaching out for his phone to take a video of you so he can make fun of you later for it.

you practically control the aux cord in his jeep, as his girlfriend it's basically your job to make sure he has good music taste! plus the same future songs that he plays over and over again are starting to become unbearable. "so this is thank u, next, it's literally ariana's best single like i swear i would not be the same person without this song it's so me core." he parts his lips in frustration, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "the fuck do you mean that's so me core? are you tryin' to say somethin' here?" he tries to pretend that he isn't enjoying it but you can hear him mumble "thank u, next m' im so fuckin' grateful for my ex." your eyes light up as you land a playful slap to his shoulder "see i told you it was a good song, you're too stubborn!" he completely disregards you, turning the volume up even higher so that you stop chirping in his ear.

you're a handful and a tad bit loud, but rafe secretly enjoys putting with your shit. you're his princess and if that meant he had to book an entire trip to italy just so you could go see harry styles for the last show on love on tour just to make you happy, he would be doing so!

#dividers by @plutism #this is the most self serving thing i have ever written #𓂃 ꔫ 💌 hapinesbuterfiy #rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron oneshot #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron fanfiction #fangirl #taylor swift #lana del rey #harry styles #ariana grande #gracie abrams

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444rockstargf · 23 days

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starting to write for mgg as well now!

"you wanna make the switch?" | spencer reid

in my feelings. - lana del rey

⊹₊⋆ synopsis: from a geeky genius to a drunk-eyed, sweaty mess...

fill out the taglist form!

female!reader x sub!spencer

word count: 606

contents: blowjob, teasing, implied overstimulation, praise, drabble, not proofread!

it was almost funny how quickly you could flip spencer’s switch.

you knew all the right buttons to press. the way your tongue slid up his rock-hard shaft, swirling itself around his tip before making its way down again. the bedroom echoed with the sharp hisses and deep groans from spencer, a contrast to all his wisecracking bullshit. your boyfriend bit his lip, suppressing all the moans and whimpers that threatened to break free. the torture had been going on for hours, the hypnotizing motions of your mouth putting him into a deep trance.

he tossed his head back as he exahled a shaky breath, his hand glued to the back of your head in a failed attempt to slow down your pace. you took his cock into you throat, inhaling through your nose to create suction as his chestnut-brown doe eyes gazed right back down at you. “c’mon, angel… i-ive been good, would it hurt to just let me…” he was cut off by a deep groan emerging from his throat as you took him all the way in once again, your uvula fluttering against his pulsating tip.

you would’ve smirked if your lips weren’t occupied. you pulled your mouth off of him, spitting on his tip and giving him a few lazy strokes. his body quaked from the stimulation. “i-i… b-baby, i dunno i-if i…” a smile tugged at your lips as you watched how he struggled to enunciate his words. you put on a fake pout, tilting you head to the side as you squeezed his cock even tighter, causing him to bite his lip to suppress all the lewd noises that threatened to break free. “what was that, spence? i didn’t catch that.” you batted your eyelashes all innocent-like, watching him crumble apart filling you with a sick thrill.

“i-i can’t take anymore..!” he was gripping the bedsheets until his shaky hands went white. seeing him struggle made burning heat pool in your core as you slowly touched yourself through your panties. “aw, why not, baby? you’ve been doing so good for me all night…” you sat up from in between his legs, crawling onto his lap and bringing your lips to his ear, your warm breath hitting him right in the canal. “i know you can cum a few more times for me, right?” the base of your hand slapped against his balls, your thumb ghosting the tip each time your hand came back up.

beads of sweat glistened on spencer’s forehead, cheeks flushed with a soft shade of pink. you could tell it was taking every cell in his body to keep himself together. your spoke once more, your voice laced with a touch more authority. “you can take it, baby. i know you can.” he swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek as he nodded, wanting nothing else but to please you in this moment.

you spread your legs onto either side of him, tracing his tip along your clothed slit as he looked up at you, lip quivering as if they were begging for a taste of your soft lips. you pouted again as his hips began to buck into your fist. “you’re such a pretty boy, y’know that..?” his teary eyes lit up ever so slightly at the praise in your voice.

his tip bubbled with thick precum as his chest rose and fell with each breath. he held back the tears that threatened to pour from his eyes as he took a deep, shaky breath, resting his chin in your cleavage. you nodded in approval, a smile lighting up your face as you kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

“that’s my boy…”

author's note: i am not ditching the rory community! just wanted to see how writing for an ew character would go :)) please leave comments and let me know what yall think! (lmk if this was shitty)

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