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butlervol6 · 1 year

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god the love i have for these characters and this story, every update delivers on everything you could possibly want. i’m SO excited to keep reading and, if you haven’t yet, PLEASE start you absolutely won’t regret it!!!

A Whole Man is Hard to Find (An Elvis/Austin Au Fic)

|Chapter Ten: Don’t care if he’s guilty, don’t care if he’s not, he’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that I’ve got, O Lord, O Lord, I’m begging you please -don’t take this sinner from me

Summary: An Elvis AU taking place on a riverboat casino in the 1870’s, you’re welcome to imagine either Elvis or Austin’s portrayal

Warnings: 18+ talk of past violence, smut m.oral receiving

Notes: I cannot thank you all enough for your patience but even more so for your continued enthusiasm for this story. This chapter gave me hell to write, partly because I have so much planned for the future I just want to skip ahead and get there. But your love notes and screaming and encouragement have all aided me in truly giving these two rascals the development they deserve. Each time you checked in or messaged or commented helped an immeasurable amount to help keep the writing muse alive. Hope y’all enjoy.

Chapter Ten

Conversation was made, somehow, between the three of you, Captain Presley, Colonel Parker and yourself. And you thought it said something about the state of the world that only one out of three in this ostensibly genuine interaction was using his real name. The “colonel” himself made it speedily clear that he thought you being aboard -fresh from a whore house he assumed and confirmed- and then paraded as a trusted friend of the Captain, spoke a great about the general state of things aboard the Proud Marie. And he was not pleased. Not pleased at all. Apparently the Captain’s own displeasure regarding the handling of his father’s imprisonment had already been soothed, long before you stepped atop decks.

Oddly, and more unsettling even than the Colonel’s sudden reappearance in your life, was the nearly meek way the captain received his partner’s dressing down The entertainment aboard was lacking, the colonel said, because whatever Devine hypnotism you’d watched the Captain perform on his audience the other day was insufficient, it ought be happening more regularly, in the Colonel’s opinion. Something was said about Elvis losing his touch. Elvis said something about getting old. The colonel agreed that he wasn’t the looker he once was. Neither acknowledged the sickly pallor of his usually bronzed cheeks, the dark circles around his eyes and the glassy look overtaking their usual cerulean clarity. Your presence was ignored, a little dust mite quivering next to the Captain but not daring to alight upon his arm.

Instead, Like a boy again, the one who’d flinched when your father ran him away from the house when visiting Maddy, Captain Presley’s eyes wandered restlessly across the deck and his shoulders folded in on themselves. Only his hand, restlessly stippling against the gleaming deck rail, indicated some of the old temper and grit bubbling beneath.

Even if you had not known what you did, of both men’s pasts, the subtle manipulations and the over familiar patronizing of the elder would strike a person as false and not a little invasive. It was little wonder that the crew, though unaware of Elvis’ own depths or the “Colonel’s” crimes, found him near unbearable.

The secret ledgers, the hunted way the Captain talked about putting aside money for his causes, Jerry’s simmering mutiny, it all spoke to a hold over the whole little universe here aboard that was as sinister as it was absolute. And here you were, stuck in this floating coffin with a man who wanted you dead. This strangely submissive attitude of the captain’s was one you had only seen in glimpses and snatches by chance, and always in private. He failed to mention to his promoter that you were a crew member now, the purser in fact, someone privy to the colonel’s own dealings. Or partly at least.

Where with everyone else your virtues were exaggerated and great importance added to your name by him, in the presence of the colonel, Captain Presley diminished you in every possible way. Nothing was mentioned of your use aboard, your act of manslaughter, your care of his deteriorating health, even your basic companionship. For so very long you had feared and resented the hold that this odious man’s memory had on you, never once did you anticipate a man of Elvis’ strength succumbing to the same inferiority of character as yourself. Perhaps he was not as strong as you’d hoped. Perhaps he was more wicked than you ever expected, either he had done something very evil indeed in his past to have him so pathetic now, or perhaps he knew his partner made a living displacing and ruining helpless families and considered it a harmless part of the businesses.

You were guilty of forgetting, in his gentler movements, that he had purchased you from a brothel -one he had seemed notorious at. Captain Elvis Presley had a way of making you forget that he could change the center of his universe very easily, nothing existed if he did not speak it and touch it and love it into existence. With a few minor omissions in his speech to his partner, he had cut down the most significant relationship of your life into a passing dalliance. A few hours spent in the hot sun of his devotion did not guarantee a lifetime of steady flame. You felt the bile rise in you at the realisation that you were right to be wary of him, disillusion taking hold of you right under the beady eyed scrutiny of your most loathsome nightmare.

“And why has Miss Beaumont remained on after Memphis?” suddenly you were relevant again as the colonel asked the Captain this in an admonishing tone, “Memphis is her home, is that not what you said?”

“She, she hasn’t got a home no more, Colonel.” one of Elvis’ large hands ran across his brow in a frustrated tick, “S-she don’t mind it here and she hasn’t anywhere else to go. I’ve told her she can stay on.”

He had given you responsibilities and told you he was your daddy and would keep you forever but none of that mattered now, apparently. You were a charity case. You wanted to cling to him, sneak beneath his arm and feel that old comradely weight around your shoulders. Yet you’d never seen him less welcoming, even when he was angry he touched you, but not now, now you stood stiffly beside him and watched as the colonel gave you a look of faux sympathy before he brought the full strength of his admonishment to back bear on Captain Presley,

“My boy, we are running a business here-“

“I know tha-“

The colonel gently railroaded his defense, “Why don’t you provide her with a nice little situation as you have your other lovers? Somewhere safe and where you won’t be distracted by her -charms. I’ll see to arranging it, do not fear, her every whim will be met. ”

Other lovers. That little sentence was meant to unsettle you, meant to make you resent Elvis. The Colonel thought himself subtle, no doubt, but while you might give the Captain power to belittle what you two shared, that was not something you would give this self important toad.

“She’s stays aboard.” Elvis replied with something of the old authority that had first held you spellbound by him.

“My boy,” the colonel actually smiled as if indulging a child and your fingers itched for that handy letter opener, “we have already discussed the impossibility of your developing an attachment, and I would not wish to speak of this in front of the lady but you have brought it up so I must, mustn’t I? It is out of the question, and if the papers were to-“

“-they’ll not.” Elvis snapped, and your heart calmed at the appearance of his old self. “And you won’t break a promise of mine.”

“It would be humiliating,” the colonel tried another tactic, “for Miss Beaumont if she were to be connected with the nature of your past-“

That was enough, to watch this man use the Captain’s deepest hurt as a shame against him brought out that new, feral protectiveness, filling your chest with tightening rage, serving to make your voice thin but steady as you cut in, “I think you’ll find that my being sold on an auction block in a New Orleans brothel will surpass any future embarrassments I might suffer, from association or otherwise.”

Elvis looked at you then, finally and clearly, that old hopeful glimmer sparking before something like fear took over and he glanced back at the colonel, to gauge his reaction. The fellow was obviously surprised that you were lacking in curiosity over his illusions to Elvis shame, he having banked on the supposition that your jealousy of past lovers and your previous prudery over his reputation would slice your enamourment like a knife could butter.

It would have done so to the girl you were a few months past, but an entire lifetime of learning can come to fruition in a single month sometimes, and it had for you. Years of manipulating others made you keen on sighting it, and it gave you a sour victory that you could match this horrid man. For either match him you must, or else conceded now and end your agony, throwing yourself overboard was an accessible remedy. The thought of those blue eyes so sad that you’d leave him like all the others rooted you to the freezing deck, gave you strength to smile challengingly back at the colonel’s emotionless grin.

“Captain Presley!” a very feminine, very northern voice and the accompanying sound of heels clipping against the deck broke apart the blinking contest Elvis was moderating between you two.

“Why, Miss Peabody!” he spun round to greet her with forced cheerfulness that was remarkably effective despite the rigidness of posture. “Good morning, you little darling!”

Miss Peabody’s brisk little pitter patter nearly faltered at the palpable tension between your little group -or maybe it was the captain’s endearment- but after a brief stumble she regained her composure and extended a hand he gallantly took, kissed and kept clasped in his as he inquired about her morning.

And while he was busy with that you chose to meet the colonel's gaze behind his back and give the odious man the closest thing to a snarl you could manage, something to inform him that you were no longer that terrified girl who’s throat he had bruised in the hallway of Belle Mead all those years ago. He did not bother with niceties in response, even risking the Captain seeing him make a motion of slitting a throat. Your throat, presumably. He had calculated well, Captain Presley was too busy with his almost drunken teasing of poor Miss Peabody and you felt nothing but sorry for the both of them, him barely managing to keep his eyes focused and her stammering too badly under his flirtations to be understood.

“What did you want with me, honey?” he asked her and his tone was intimate enough to make you blush for her.

For her it was almost too much to borne, her spindly little frame bowing away from him like a weed from the scorching rays of a noonday sun. “A-actually I came to extend an invitation to Miss Beaumont.” her eyes tore themselves from where they’d latched onto the comparative safety of his throat and found yours.

The colonel looked as surprised as yourself upon hearing this, while Elvis beamed down at her like a child. “Aww, where’re you taking my Rosy to?” he asked her and in that unguarded slip of his you were given the weapon you so longed for. The one to plunge into that blubbery body.

“I-I wished to see her at the banquet tonight, the one held by the fur traders association? A celebration of the city’s growth. You're invited too Captain, of course, as my-“

“Alas, Captain Presley has a prior engagement.” The colonel interjected.

“I do?” Elvis laughed.

“Yes, he has been invited to a function held by shipwright’s guild of St. Louis-“

“-those social functions are one in the same, sir.” You wouldn’t have thought Miss Peabody had enough spine to interrupt the Colonel so tacitly but apparently you were not the only one who found his overbearing presence suffocating. “The city of St. Louis is hosting them.”

“I’m don’t see how that is possible, I have a invitation from the mayor himself-“

“-that is my father, sir.” Miss Peabody’s pointed nose grew sharper and you realised you had pegged her as weak a little too quickly.

“The mayor is Mr. Clarke, and you are a Peabody.” The colonel was pleased with having ferreted her out, just as he had your own alias.

“I am married to a Peabody.” she gave him one last look before turning back to the Captain who seemed to be a little remorseful that she was a married lady. “Might we expect the both of you this evening?”

“Certainly.” he grinned down at her, “And might I steal you for a few hours beforehand?”

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Peabody was back to quivering and looking available.

His grin grew wider but he looked at you while addressing her, “I was just about to take Rosy to the dressmakers, she needs a winter trousseau, and it’s occurred to me a womanly touch might do.”

“Oh captain!” she beamed at the both of you, “Leave it to me entirely, it wouldn’t suit for you to be going into Madame Chardenauex’s, I will accompany her -you were intending to take her to Chardenauex’s?”

“As if any other dressmaker would know what to do with a complexion that magnificent.” he rolled his eyes and she giggled conspiratorially.

If it were not for that murderer’s bulk beside you, it might have been a joyous little moment, even for you. Dressmaker! He had said he would get you “better things” upon arriving in Saint Louis but this outing was a festive affair unlike any you’d ever been a participant in. The real Miss Beaumont had been taken to Europe in her childhood and spoiled there, even if the war had interrupted her coming out debut and it’s accompanying trappings.

“But I’m going with yall, no use objecting.” he added soberly, and you knew he saw your plain relief at his declaration.

“Sir it’s not proper-“

“Do I strike you as proper Miss Peabody?” he asked dryly and her mouth worked like a fish before resigning herself to his oddities.

“I really must advise against this.” the Colonel blustered again, “If the papers were to catch wind of this there could be rumors.”

“Oh hell, that’s unlikely” the captain chuckled with good natured exasperation.

“The West brothers are making trouble.” Colonel Parker rejoined with a significant raise of his non existent brows. “Spreading rumors regarding where you came from-“

The fact he would brazenly mention, in front of a guest no less, an aspect of the Captain’s life that Elvis himself kept strictly to himself, suggested your worst fears were founded -the more salacious his investment appeared to the world. the better for business in his mind.

“-I’m a hick child from Tupelo, Colonel,” Elvis willfully misunderstood him, his tone firm as his hands gathered both your own elbow and that of Mrs. Peabody in his warm palms, prodding you both towards the main gangway, “and I ain’t ever pretended otherwise.” he hollered back over his shoulder. “Oh and Colonel, if you’d read your damn correspondence you’d know that the West’s -they’re cousins.”

Guided away from the looming threat of the man’s presence, your little heart began to speed up, a frantic processing of the amount of hellfire you were about to reap overtaking the cold calm you had managed under his scrutiny.

You had to find Scotty Moore, that was all your brain supplied -you had to inform Scotty. And then what? Hope the genial lawyer had a stairway to Heaven at his disposal? Knife the fat fellow in his sleep before he managed the same to you? Or worse, told the Captain his version of the truth. But he wouldn’t, telling him would out himself.

Neither of you could damn the other without digging their own grave. You were so lost in the cold dread and panic of your future that you were entirely deaf to the conversation regarding trunks and carriages and dresses carried on at your side by Captain Presley and Mrs. Peabody.

“Honey, you alright?” Elvis’ warm hand suddenly cupped your cheek and stalled your walk beside him just as you neared the stairway leading down to the rooms. Suddenly dizzy from the erratic pulse of your fear, you swayed away from him, back thumping against the large ballroom windows, soul sick and numb. It was the first time he’d really touched you since your little world caved in and it was too strong a jolt of contact. “You look downright peckish.” he fretted and hemmed you in against the window, inspecting your eyes like he had some skill in detecting ailments, “You ill, darling? We don’t haveta go, you can stay-“

The idea of remaining aboard without him terrified you, bringing to mind those first hours aboard and the shattered glass in the bath, the endless gunshots pinging against the tub.

Elvis’ body was blocking out the glare of the late autumn sun as he hovered in front of you, warm hands thumbing at your cheeks and eyes concentrated on you and you alone. It brought you some measure of serenity again, like things being tilted aright after being askew, put so by his chilly decorum earlier. You pressed your face into his warm palm and breathed in, heedless if Mrs Peabody thought your behavior loose. To your immense relief he folded you into a soothing embrace and pressed kisses into your hair.

“I’m just cold.” you lied into his chest, though now that some semblance of feeling had returned you realized St Louis’ northern climate really had pierced you right through, “I’ll just go fetch a coat, and be right up again.” you assured him as you two pulled away from your embrace. You intended to dash away and find Scotty on the way down, to at least enlist someone’s help in this debacle -as if mortal hands could aid you in this vengeful twist of fate. The look on the captain’s face stopped your intended errand, his eyes squinting at your eagerness to leave and a sore set to his mouth taking over. It gave you an irrational moment of panic, common in the guilty, that he was all knowing, all seeing.

“I’ll accompany you.” he told you, and the tone wasn’t sweet, even if the sentiment sounded so. “You wouldn’t mind waiting, would you?” he turned to Mrs. Peabody, “Only be a minute.”

“I’ve the trunks to see to, anyway!” she assured him, “And I’ll arrange a hackney cab at the ready, there appears to be quite the little crowd on the dock, I think I even see photographers among them.”

He abruptly left your side to stand by the railing and observe the throng below. He grumbled to himself upon confirming her report and you contemplated bolting to get a head start on him, to maybe run into Scotty and tell him who to blame if you didn’t come back from this outing. He spun round too fast for that, clicking his tongue in frustration and hauling you by the arm down to the lower decks. He took you by way of the outside ladders and so you encountered no one but the occasional guest bustling to disembark. Opening the door leading to the suite he pushed you in with gentle fingers prodding between your shoulder blades. He had said not a word the entire walk and you had spent the time trying to think of a subject to make conversation, but the only word on the tip of your tongue was the one you had been swallowing for ten long years. Help! Like a mechanized thing stuck in a endless cycle of self propulsion, you couldn’t seem to stop forcing it down, so you let him push you into the suite with a meekness born of terror.

“The hell is wrong with you?“ he hissed quietly as soon as the door was shut and you cursed him for studying you as intently as you did him. For caring just enough to make this hurt.

“I am only cold.” you gave him a watery smile and turned from him to open the wardrobe.

He caught you by the length of your hair, tied and flowing down your back as it was, and his hand wound the strands around his palm like rope, and he used it to haul you close. It made you yelp, less from pain and more from the shock.

“I have a great deal on my plate, right now,” he kept his voice appropriately quiet for being nose to nose with you yet it was anything but gentle and you felt yourself shake, “the last thing I need is a grown woman pouting like little girl when I’m about to spoil her. Tell me to my damn face if you don’t want to be seen in the papers with me!”

That was a turn you had not expected. You expected a reproof regarding your terseness towards his investor, but as usual, Elvis’ offense was not the more obvious one. “That's -I would never mind that.” you swore and your confusion must have struck him as genuine enough, causing his grip to loosen and his face to look puzzled in turn.

“What’s eating you then?” he was back to searching your eyes and you thought him silly to attempt it at such close proximity.

“I was cold, and nervous over meeting your partner-“ you began, your mind grasping for sympathetic explanations.

“Oh don’t mind him, he’s a damn ogre when it comes to ladies.” Elvis visibly relaxed and the tug on your scalp lessened, “But why are ya shakin’ like this, been pale too.”

“I thought you said my complexion was magnificent.” You quipped and he pulled away to let out a laugh and remained at a little distance from you.

“Tell me,” he sounded the closest thing to a gossip you could imagine, sitting himself at the foot of the bed, “did you peg her as a married woman?”

You let out a laugh of your own recalling when you first saw Mis Peabody in his embrace, and stepped away to get the coats, “I did not.”

“Ha.” he pinched at his lip and watched you rifle through his extensive wardrobe. “Grab that trimmed one, there.” he pointed out a handsome long coat with a copious fur collar and cuffs, something a French fur baron might be proud to be caught dead in.

“This will swallow me whole.” you protested as you held the length of it above your head just to spare the hem.

“That one’s for me.” he answered and his face had clouded again in the time you turned away and back towards him again, “Mrs Peabody said she’d loan you a coat from her trunks. Did you truly not hear a word we said up there?”

“I-I did not.” you admitted.

“What is wrong?” he asked again and he punctuated each word distinctly, “You feelin’ faint, need Etta to give you something?”

“What?” you were truly at a loss.

“Don’t act all prim now.” he groaned and scrubbed his face, looking so tired when his hands finally fell away that you would have done anything to actually understand his reasoning and spare him the frustration. “You bleedin’ out on me or somethin’?” he whined, “Don’t act delicate, I was swimmin’ in your blood this morning.”

Oh. Oh sweet man. He thought you suffering from your cycle. And it really was the perfect excuse, one you would have thought of yourself if your mind were not so fuzzy in shock. You walked up to him and lopped your hands around his neck, happy to see the way he accepted the gesture and leant back to watch you hover over him,

“Just a little dizzy at times.” you murmured, “Haven't had a new dress since, well I can’t recall, really, I’m looking forward to it. I’m sorry for being distracted, I swear I am gladdened by it.”

He brought his hands up to rub your forearms, just a little moment that seemed to dispel the tension between you both before he leaned up with the intention of kissing you and you complied, bending down to press your lips together and scratch as the back of his head, drawing a moan from him and savoring this sweet peace you two had built. Before it got ripped to shreds by your own hands or another’s.

“You really don’t mind?” he whispered again and this time it had no bite, just an honest inquiry if you’d rather stay behind and not face the raucous of St Louis’ journalistic core.

“I’d be delighted, more like.” you murmured and stole another peck before pulling back to look at him, cataloging the exhausted lines of his face, no longer furrowed in worry, though.

“Well, turn round then,” he muttered and spun you gently, “can’t have you going out there with hair loose like that.”

He snagged the ribbon from your hair and braided the length of it down your back, making to pin it up in a crown atop your head before realizing the pins themselves were in a drawer across the room. You had foreseen this obstacle but had held your peace and continued to do so as he got up behind you and shuffled the both of you over to the dressing table, your braid like a leash in his hand. You sat down in the wooden chair for him and he stood behind you, softly humming beneath his breath as you passed him pins and watched in the mirror as a beautiful crown was constructed from your strands, the vibrant ribbon woven through it like a river of silk.

“You are remarkably proficient at all pretty arts.” you marveled to yourself but was glad it slipped out as his bashful grin in the mirror made your heart skip from something other than fear.

“Thank you.” he murmured as an elegant finger tugged little curls loose from their braided constraints to frame your face.

You caught that hand in yours and kissed it, kissed it and pressed your cheek to it and pretended for a good minute that the man blushing in the mirror was yours. My boy, and not someone else’s.

“We should go.” he rasped and you were certain these hours would be better spent by him sleeping but that was just another losing battle. “Got that function thing later on.”

“Why do you think she asked me to attend?” you inquired, genuinely a little puzzled at her warmth towards you. “I would have thought she would prefer to have you alone before you go back down river.”

“I think you’ve got her wrong,” he grinned as he opened the door and you two stepped out onto the balcony, the chilly air hitting you square in the face as he folded his coat over his arm and pulled on his leather gloves, “she ain’t had eyes for me since you murdered that fella so prettily. Reckon she just wants a chance to see you in your underthings and then show you off in front of her friends.”

“Oh! Hush!” you cried in shock, slapping at his arm and he chuckled harder.

“There’s some that do that, ya know.”

“Do what?” you cried.

“There’s ladies who like ladies.”

“Miss Peabody liked your manly self just fine as I recall.”

“Mhmm, but I didn’t stand there before her coated in blood, licking my lips like a damn vampire afterwards.”

Scotty, you were not going to be able to tell Scotty anything with this route up the promenade but at least the Captain’s good humor had returned, “I did not lick my lips, save from vomit. You were the vampire.”

“Hmm, there’s somethin’ to be said for the way you look in red, Rosey.” he agreed, taking a rich fur from the valet who extended it to you with Mrs. Peabody’s compliments.

“She’s already in the cab, suh.” the man told the captain, “Been waiting for y’all. Wanted to run the gauntlet early, she done said.”

“Right, thank you.” Elvis muttered, tipping the man generously before wrapping you in what had to be a dozen Arctic foxes in their previous life, “Now with those fellas waiting for us, you just stick close and nevermind what they say, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” you nodded confidently, sensing his worry. “Why aren’t we taking the horse?”

“The horse has a name.” he replied, his tone sounding offended on behalf of his equine friend as he shrugged on his own opulent coat, the jet back fur causing his eyes to gleam a startling shade of blue.

“Oh?” you queried, trying to get his mind and eyes off the swarm of journalists and sightseers waiting at the bottom of the gangplank, blocking the carriage door.

“His name is Beans.” Elvis replied gravelly, gaze unwavering on the crowd as he did up his buttons.

“Beans?” you giggled.

That made him drag his eyes down to where you stood ready and shaking with amusement, “Don’t start with me lil girl, it’s a perfectly fine name.”

“Mhmm, perfectly.” you gasped out and he pinched your cheeks before the white flash of an exploded bulb from the docks below told you that gesture was caught for all eternity in a photographer's glass.

Your eyes grew wide staring into his own as the implication of that dawned on you. Then a savage little exultation took over as you realised that no matter how this ended, how he was ripped from you, at least there would be proof that for one brief moment Captain Presley found your cheeks pinchable.

The cocky smile taking over your face was not the reaction he had expected, but it was entirely the most comforting thing you could have given him before you took his arm and began to walk down the sloping ramp, a den of flashing bulbs and yells from below making it look more like a mob rather than a welcoming committee.

“Captain Presley!” there were screams of and:

“Is it true you’re running for President?”

“Is it true you built this ship yourself?”

“What do you make of the rumours you’re an opium trader?”

Elvis chuckled and you could feel it vibrate along you as he pulled you closer, you two continuing your descent without reply.

“How many men have you really killed, sir?”

“Have you anything to say to the youth of our day about gambling?”

“Is it true a man died aboard this last voyage?”

He shook his arm free of your hand and threw it around your shoulders, tucking you into his side and making it an awkward business to keep walking alongside him.

“Did you shoot your mother?”

You gasped at that one and turned to give the fellow a piece of your mind, but the Captain just yanked you along with a warning, “Don’t.”

“Is it true you bought your old master’s daughter in a brothel?”

Even he tensed at that one, astounded by how fast word spread but judging by his gait and expression, nothing they said mattered a damn. No wonder he’d been so apprehensive regarding your handling this mayhem.

“Captain Presley!” one man greeted, distinguished from the others by his respectful bearing and patient position by the carriage door.

“And you are?” the Captain raised a brow, peeved at being detained in front of his own cab.

“Stephen Binder, sir,” the man presented a hand and Elvis’ face cleared in recognition.

“Chairman of the Waterways Committee, yes?” he shook the offered hand warmly.

Mr. Binder’s shoulders relaxed at the improved reception and he gave your hand a respectful bow, in turn. “May I congratulate you, sir!”

“I, that is, we ain’t-“ Elvis’ impassive mask broke for a moment as he glanced at you and then back to the expectant man.

“Oh no, not my meaning!” Mr. Binder clarified hastily, “I mean on breaking the record!”

“Breaking the record?” Elvis repeated at a loss.

“Time in traversing the river from Memphis to St. Louis.” Mr Binder seemed confused by his ignorance, “You’ve surpassed the last record by three hours, man! Surely you were aware of that!”

“Oh.” Elvis grunted, unbothered, “No, I wasn’t.”

“You're telling me you were not trying to?” Mr. Binder’s whole being was stunned.

“No, Mr. Binder I-I jus’ had some business here a-and I was in a hurry to arrive.”

“Good lord.” the fellow was still processing that as Elvis started to eye the carriage door handle, icy wind picking up and ruffling the fur around his neck.

“Yes, well, if you’ll excuse us.” Elvis hinted to him over the den of the rabble around you still.

“Ah yes, of course -it’s just-“ Mr. Bidner leapt out of the way in a daze and opened the door himself like a servant, “Will I see you tonight?” he inquired after Elvis as the Captain handed you into the carriage Mrs. Peabody was already occupying.

“Hell, you sound like a lover, sir.” Elvis laughed as he settled on the seat next to you, “You mean at the city function?”

“Yes!” Mr. Binder’s enthusiasm was not abated by the barb.

“Yeah, we’ll be there.” Elvis answered warily before thumping the roof with his fist to signal the driver to walk on.

“That’s a remarkable achievement, Captain.” Mrs Peabody warbled and you had to agree that he was strangely listless about his success.

“To be perfectly honest, ladies,” he murmured, “I was anticipating him putting me in the big house, soon as I stepped ashore.”

“Whatever for?” she cried, aghast.

“Gambling’s been outlawed on the river between here and New Madrid.” he shrugged, “I’ve been anticipating a man such as himself, newly installed in a position of absolute power on the Mississippi, would be eager to flex it.”

“You don’t think he’s toying with you, do you?” You pondered aloud and Mrs. Peabody gasped in outrage at the thought.

“He is my brother in law,” she declared, “and I assure you, he would not toy with you, sir.”

“I’ve no earthly notion what he wants.” Elvis shrugged, looking very snuggly in his furs and leathers, his hand wriggled into your skirts till he found your own, “But let’s not dwell on that! We’ve duds and furbelows to discuss. Say Mrs. Peabody, -may I call you Gloria? I really feel I must be allowed, yes? well Gloria, what say you to la mode belle cut on dresses these days-“

A great deal of French was passed back and forth between the two and you made certain to remain perky and invested while your mind was running a million different scenarios for remedying your predicament. The most rational of them involved having Scotty tell Mr. Binder that a criminal had his thumb on Captain Presley and the whole operation.

The more irrational and the more tempting options presented by your exhausted brain involved murder and a vicious appetite for jugulars in little Sweet Pea which was not previously detectable.

“What is the English name for that?” you inquired when a bit too much french had been bandied about between these two culprits in regards to corsets.

“Swan.” Mrs. Peabody supplied, puzzled, “It gives a delightful shape to the bust.”

“Three years abroad and endless boarding schools and you didn’t retain a lick of French?” the Captain’s tone was teasing but his eyes were not, and again you had a lurch of guilty panic that he somehow knew you’d never been to Europe once in your whole life.

“I’ve had no use for it since.” you fibbed and your throat felt close to collapsing under his stare, “I-I suppose the adage is right that if you do not use a thing you-“

“-Loose it.” Mrs. Peabody supplied graciously, directing her gaze away from your flaming face and drawing back the curtain a little to watch the storefronts as your carriage passed by.

Elvis was not so gracious and his eyes burned into yours. Panicked, you tried to tease him, “How is it you know so much?”

“I don’t know much.” he was contrary.

“But you do!”

“I only know the French words relating to fashion and pleasure.” he winked at Mrs. Peabody and withdrew his hand from your lap.

It was a theme of today that just when you panicked and needed a moment to collect your composure, life lurched on and required movement and enthusiasm from you. As the chill of his withdrawn hand truly settled in, the carriage halted and another gauntlet of well wishers regarding the Captain's record had to be navigated.

He threaded your arm and Mrs. Peabody’s through each of his own and with a brilliant smile tossed out thanks and compliments to the crowd all the way to the door. Once inside he was predictably informed that it was strictly a ladies’ establishment. A few choice comments regarding the manager’s lace blooming from below her decollage turned her to putty in his hands and it put a changing room at your disposal, complete with a little round stage in the center upon which you were erected like a damn statue, and directly swathed in garlands, silks and lace.

It was absurd that while everyone was jealous of you in this movement, you were jealous of them. At least he interacted with the seamstresses and the refreshment girls, grinned at them, spoke to them in first person and even let his hand linger on a hand or two. Certainly he touched you, large hands spun your waist and slid across your collarbones and tugged at your various skirts but there was a lack of intimacy to it that tore at you. He assessed your figure in the mirrors, and up close, but never once met your eyes. And you let him, spun and dipped however he chose to move you, as if you were inanimate until he addressed you. It made you want to stomp your feet and beg him to meet your eye, no matter if he was spending a fortune on prettifying you and seeing to your comforts better than most husbands would.

You were unsatisfied but dared not show it, your smile growing stiffer as an outing which should have been charming grew wearisome and dragged on, your belly cramping and your arms weary of being constantly outstretched.

A pretty yellow print was suggested and as you were about to agree when he snapped and snatched the fabric from around your shoulders hastily.

“No, no, not yellow, not on her.”

“Does it not suit me?” you asked, genuinely curious, for that shade had been an old favorite but you noticed now he had never provided you a dress of that color on the boat.

“I thought it rather lovely-“ one of the more helpful ladies supported you.

“That shade was rather striking with her hair-“ Mrs. Peabody had grown bold and used to his easy banter and was clueless of the vibrating anxiety you could now detect building beneath his easy stance.

“No, it wasn’t.” he snarled.

“Really I have to protest, Captain!” she teased but he didn’t manage to smile this time, he just raised his eyes to yours finally and, shockingly, he looked pleading.

“No goddamn yellow.” he nearly begged and his voice had gone rough.

Maddy. That was Maddy’s color wasn’t it? Something you’d forgotten about your own sister was projected in his face like a sorcerer’s ball. His eyes were so vibrant and so expressive in their sentimental melancholy you could almost see the scene yourself -some barn on the plantation and her skirts hiked up and his youthful sandy hair gleaming in the rays of the sun beaming through the wooden slats and-

“No yellow.” you confirmed to the lady still holding the bolt of cloth.

The incident turned him as weary as you had already been, and the last bit of the proceedings were shuffled through with blaise. Not even the corsets could animate him fully and Mrs. Peabody soon took her leave, feeling uncomfortable with his sullenness and citing her need to help with the function this evening. You rolled your eyes at her excuses when she left and he caught it, making you freeze in worry until you saw the tiniest little smile tug up his own mouth in return.

Equipped with corsets, hats, a few ready made dresses and a supply of boots and slippers, the two of you exited La Chardenauex’s and found the crowd outside had only grown. Swinging an impossible amount of boxes from his arms, with you tucked beneath one, he patiently compelled the mass to part by sheer determined magnetism alone.

“Ya going to marry her, sir?”

“Do you prefer St. Louis’ fashions to New Orleans?”

“You’re a pride to Memphis, sir!” One voice called and the Captain stalled in handing you into the carriage at that one, his face perking up and his chin ducking in appreciation.

He poured the boxes on the opposite seat and slumped into the velvet bench beside you, door slamming shut, curtains drawn. As was typical with you two, even in the middle of a tiff, there was a natural draw to search out the other to steady each other, breaths syncing and hands entwining, squeezing in a rhythmic gesture of comfort.

“That was entirely more exhausting than it needed to be.” he yawned into the stillness of the unmoving carriage, head falling back and the pretty white line of his throat peeking out of his high collar.

You lifted a leaden arm and traced your finger down the warm line of it and he hummed to tickle the tip of your finger at his throat. “Tell me you can spare an hour or two to rest?” you pleaded, “Before this function.”

“Was about to ask you the same.” he snorted, still slumped though he raised his arm and pounded the roof in a signal to the driver to walk on from the deafening crowd outside.

“It’s a date then,” you smiled, “you me, Sweet Pea and the pillows.”

He turned his head to look at you, mouth smiling and eyes searching and you thought of blurting out your truth right then, right at this moment but then he resigned whatever study he was making of you and laid his head on your shoulder. That old feeling of being responsible for him and his peace of mind took over and forced back your confession. You bit your tongue bloody as little snores reached your ears, all the way until the carriage drew up to the gangway again and you had to pat his face and tell him you were back at the boat.

He blearily shook himself awake, rubbing at his nose as he gathered up the boxes, looking you over to make sure you were ready for another bout of frenzied greetings. Seeing your confidant smile he threw open the door and handed you out, shoving his way through the crowd with the boxes and a belying smile. Waiting on deck at the top of the gangway was the specter of an ogre, bulbous and threatening, and Jerry beside him looking none too pleased.

“My boy!” he trundled up to greet Elvis with a profusion of relief that the Captain received with sleepy confusion, “Thank God you’re alright!”

“What’s the big to do about?” Elvis grunted, hat box digging into his side from the way the Colonel had embraced him, effectively dislodging you from the captain’s arm.

“I cannot believe this imbecile would allow you out there without proper security measures.” The Colonel bemoaned and Jerry, the imbecile in question, gave you an exasperated look of sympathy.

“You’ve got my security measures digging into my sternum right now, Colonel.” Elvis laughed, good naturedly extracting himself from the embrace, righting his coat and the pistol beneath.

“A pistol?” the Colonel was aghast and Elvis rolled his eyes like a child who’s heard this sermon repeatedly in different keys. “ A mere pistol alone is supposed to be all seeing, all guarding of your precious life while you are busy gallivanting in public spaces?—“

“If I’m gonna get offed, colonel,” Elvis replied gently and with a sleepy grin, “I can think of no better time than when I’m neck deep in organdy.”

“This is something we need to remedy.” The colonel was not swayed by that smile like the rest of the population, “Another matter that must be discussed and remedied, another aspect of this venture I return from my hard labors to find has fallen into disarray.”

“Now look here-“ Jerry attempted before the Colonel sent him a withering glare and,

“You have no right to comment on this! You who risk him heedlessly! Does no one care about him but me? Does no one else’s heart quake at the thought of loosing so bright a personality-“

“I do.” You chirped in agreement, and Jerry nearly let out the laugh blowing up in his cheeks.

“What?” The colonel was dazed to be interrupted mid tirade.

“I care.” you smiled warmly at the Colonel and Elvis’ tongue poked through his lips with barely suppressed mirth, relieved someone had shut the fellow up as his ranting was growing loud enough for those on the docks to hear. “And in that vein, our bright star needs some rest before tonight. Do excuse us.”

You relooped your arm through the Captain’s and gently tugged his swaying frame away from the blustering.

“-now wait a moment there is business still to be discussed!”

“After.” you smiled at your enemy from over your shoulder before letting your expression drop into a sneer which Jerry did not miss.

You had a plan for the these few hours before the function and you had to enact them speedily. But remain unhurried, it would never do to excite the Captain's suspicion and dispel his current groggy compliance.

He let you lead him to the suite and he dumped the pretty boxes all in a heap at the foot of the bed, immediately tugging off his warm outerwear and giving a small smirk as you did the same. You busied yourself with pulling back the sheets, shucking your dress and guiding him to sit on the bed, undoing his vest as you attempted conversation.

“The colonel is rather-“

“Protective, I know.” he chuckled.

“Overbearing is what came to mind.”

“Well, that’s how you think of a parent and then you grow up and realise they were just trying to keep ya safe. After years of no one giving a shit if I lived or died, it’s rather nice to have someone care.”

“You have an entire boat of people who would care!” you protested and you stripped him down to nothing but his shirt.

“Do I?” he asked sullenly.

“Yes! And some folks on the docks, too, or have you forgotten? And also, you did not just compare that grabby toad to your mother!”

“Damn, you really don’t like him.” he grinned up at you and his lashes fluttered as you scratched his scalp and wedged your way between his legs.

“No, not particularly. But I loved your mother and I won’t stand for such a comparison.”

“Mm, well,” he nearly purred and let his eyes close, his body swaying back to lay down and you plastered yourself atop him, “ain’t no one gonna ever care as much as her.”

“Maybe not quite as much. But nearly.”

“How nearly?” his eyes snapped open as he felt your hand brushing up under his shirt.

“Very, very nearly.”

“How nearl- ooooh.” His mouth state puckered and a look of bliss flitted across his face as you found his soft length and thumbed at his head, causing it to jerk and swell.

“Nearly, just in a little different way.” you teased, knocking your nose against his, playfully.

“You’re not about ta-“

“I most definitely am. Scootch back and get comfy.”

He complied with a sudden bout of eager energy that made you laugh, scoping up a sleeping Sweet Pea in his arms on the way. He made grabby hands and you pounced on him again, kissing him soundly and pulling back to whisper,

“Thank you for my pretty new things.”

He licked his lips and stared at the wet seam of your mouth, “Thanks for understandin’ -about the yellow.”

You felt caught out again, confused again as to how he would know that you knew that detail about Maddy, if you were merely the mistress of the plantation to her. You reached down and asked as you grasped his length again,

“Do you think of her when I’m-“ and you thumbed over his dribbling slit, eyebrows raised in significance.

“No.” he whispered back fiercely, “And I don’t wanna. So, no yellow.”

“No yellow.” you agreed, heart feeling lighter than it had since you came aboard, lighter until your other haunted fear returned to the fore.

Scotty, you needed to find Scotty. And so you needed Elvis to fall asleep, soundly.

He kept kissing at you, fierce and then lazy and then open mouthed pants as you tried your hand at stroking him, swiveling your wrist and your thumb rubbing at that little place right below his puffy head that made him whine and jerk.

You felt his hand fold over yours, long fingers gliding over your own as he encouraged your grip on him, guiding you in a pleasing rhythm, his hips lifting to meet each upward stroke.

“This lil palm,” he groaned as your slick little hand squeezed each vein and ridge, “I’ll never tire of this lil palm. Used to sneak in to speak with Rosetta just as an excuse to watch these lil hands grippin’ the damn pens.”

You chuckled in disbelief, nipping at his jaw.

“Nah, I’m tellin’ the truth.” he insisted his hand tightening around yours, his thumb encouraging yours to swirl around his tip under his hood, he sucked his teeth before going on in a shaky voice, “I was a desperate man, Rosey, watching you quiver and blush in the daylight and mewl sadly in the nighttime.”

“I was hardly any better, desperate for a thing I had no notion of.” you laughed. “My how times have changed.”

“Ah, now you’re a worldly woman of the world, hmm?

“Well. I-“ that gave you pause as he had a mocking expression on his face and you sensed danger brewing in him, of the delicious kind.

“How bout,” he leaned up a little on his elbows and his face was mere inches from your own again, “how ‘bout you show me those worldly tricks and kiss my cock, hmm? Show your daddy all the skills you’ve picked up in your extensive career as a courtesan.” his eyebrows were arched and his voice sing songed mockingly and you felt riled up and hungry.

You pulled away to show him a lesson and turned to position yourself but he yanked you back by the neck, for the second time that day with a “hey c’mere honey” and he craned your neck back until his face hovered over yours. Right when you expected his puckered lips to press another kiss to your parted ones, you felt the warm, unmistakable drip of spit on your tongue instead.

“To help with the slide” he supplied and closed your shocked mouth with his fingers. “Down you go, lil one.” he pushed at your head and you went in a daze. You were a very different woman from ten seconds ago when you’d so bravely moved to please him, now you were a panting, unsteady little thing with his spit in your mouth and his dark eyes pinning you down. It was weak of him to enjoy your fawn-like compliance, but with the world spinning out of his control and the colonel making him feel small in the way only he could, it was nice to spook a fellow creature who could take it in stride.

The thought came to you as you settled down there with his hand on your head and pressed your lips to him, that he had figured you out in an entirely surprising way. You were in the habit, and you knew it thanks to Rosetta’s admonishments, of making excuses for anything enjoyable. It was a plain fact that for the majority of your life, fun had been an extravagance and pleasure it’s tempting by-product. No pleasure could be attempted by you without a practical reason behind it, and in your mind those reasons still came, no matter how pathetic or flimsy their excuse. The Captain, it seemed, had learned you and was now adopting the same measures to coax your enamoured little head to satisfy his wants. Widening your mouth to take him into the wet heat of it, you were forced to agree that there was some practicality to his pagan impulse to spit on your polite little tongue, but the heat in his eyes when he did it suggested he knew how to play you to accept his filthiest whims.

Feeling the heavy, warm weight of him on your tongue was every bit as heady and sensual as you had remembered, though the man above you was far more in possession of himself than he had been before. His hands threatened to undo the handiwork of your braided hair as he guided you further and further down until you panicked from the feel of him blocking your airflow. He denied your jerk to raise up and kept you on him with a firm hand,

“Open that throat up, darlin,” he told your reddening face and glassy eyes, “c’mon do it.” One hand moved to the delicate column of your throat and massaged it, causing you to involuntarily swallow around him which gave him such a shock of pleasure you were granted the upper hand for a brief moment, pulling up and choking down some much needed air.

“Gotta open that throat up.” he repeated with a tsk, and you fought the impulse to smack him where it hurt.

Perhaps you had been too cocky before, thinking that what had worked before in his impaired state was the normal way of things, but this treatment was almost heartlessly condescending and you felt filthy for enjoying it, feeding off of it as fuel your determination. Because no matter how he used you to get there, you both knew the ending of this always resulted in him crying out and whining like a little bitch in ecstasy.

“I am trying.” you punctuated your words coldly and rubbed your jaw for a brief moment before readying to return to your endeavor.

“I love fuckin’ that prim mouth of yours.” he informed you conversationally and it was a sore trial to your patience that the more you relied on your decorum the more he ate it up. Even that defense was stripped from you in his presence. So in little fit of rage over the unfairness of it all, of life and him and the beautiful ungainliness of cocks, you took him back into your mouth with a vengeance, trying to recall every sweet meanness that had worked before and you were rewarded with the sound of his cry and jab of his hips, sending him deeper.

You recalled the way the scrape of teeth had sent him hurtling over the edge before and did it purposefully this time, receiving a head yank this time instead.

“No teeth, Rosey, keep those things tucked away.” he commanded, hooking his fingers in the bottom row of your teeth and making you nod by pulling your jaw, before he pushed you back down.

He guided you, not unkindly and always shallowly, up and down the length of him, telling you to suckle the tip and sounding akin to a wildcat when you nibbled at the extra skin of him. You’d nearly grown used to it, enjoying and relishing the familiarity of making him twitch and dribble, nothing in his firm guidance giving you cause for alarm, his salty musk pervading your every sense when all at once that guiding hand pushed you firmly but inexorable: down, down, down.

You sucked in a breath through your nose as you sensed what he was doing, filling your diaphragm to bursting right as he nudged so far back you might as well have swallowed clay, so impossible was it for you to draw another breath.

“You better relax that throat before you run outta air.” he griped, looking down at you expectantly as if you were the well versed woman of the world he had mocked you as.

You glared up at him and hit your fists against the top of his thighs in protest that you were indeed trying. He did not look sympathetic, indeed he looked more ominous in the shadows of the bed with the overcast window providing a gloomy impression inside, than you had ever seen him since you first came aboard. You were rather certain the Captain would not kill you on his cock, that if you truly ran out of air before figuring out the mechanics of what he wanted you would be spared by his generosity. But the sensation of burning lungs and an impeded throat was so close to the feeling of being choked to death by the ubiquitous Colonel Parker all those years ago, that you felt yourself start to shake from some physical manifestation of your terror at the memory.

“Your eyes are gonna start going dim soon if you don’t manage this.” that rich and familiar voice grounded you back into the present and you blinked away an errant tear. His heavy hand took up the whole width of your skull and you focused on the comforting feel of his thumb rubbing your temple, soothing and all encompassing, “I’ll give ya a hint, honey. They say all the uptight ones got tight throats, go figure. I had to learn this the hard way, and if I hadn’t been a singer since birth I mighta not made it out of an alleyway or two.”

Confused as you were by his instructions you let the implication of that reference to his past sink in with wide eyes and a noise of anguish for him muffled as it was around his cock and he hissed pleasurably.

“That’s nearly it, just lower, hum lower, like you’re gonna hit a low note.”

After a stunned moment of inaction your own desperate need to be let up for air, and to please him, superseded all embarrassment and you did as you were told, humming as low as you thought possible with a massive obstruction in your way.

“Lower, lower,” he groaned and you saw his belly had begun to shake, “you’re out here doin’ Puccini when the moment requires Verdi, c’mon you can do this, you ain’t some dumb whore, lower!”

Somehow, and perhaps merely to distinguish yourself from dumb whores, you managed it and your throat opened and he slipped down further and further until there was indeed enough of a gap for you to heave back in the breath you had hummed out around him.

“Fuuuck.” he whined high and broken and flopped on his back so hard you thought he may have given his neck whiplash. “Oh that’s it. That’s it, you keep that up and I ain’t ever gonna cum down another throat all my days, you hear me? You don’t want me to go nowhere, right? keep that up then, lil one, oh that’s it, goddamn.”

Sweet Pea gave a series of concerned yaps at his agonized face before he grabbed her and held onto her like a child would a teddy bear during a moment of crisis. He drew his knees up and planted his feet on the bed, bracketing your little body and giving him leverage to thrust into your slobbering mouth as you sucked him down savagely, nails biting into his thighs and tears leaking out of your eyes from the sheer muchness of it all. Bizarrely it was rather empowering to replace the memory of your near death with something this heated, for if it was not a tender moment it was certainly a vulnerable one and the shaky hand he took from your hair and used to clasp your own told you he felt the same.

“The tip now, honey, just the tip.” he gasped out urgently and you pulled off him to obey, arms shaking from exertion and the fright he gave you and you did as he said, relishing the feel of the puffy and weeping head against your tongue, dipping into the leaking slit and that was sufficient. With a holler of praise his beautiful body bowed up and then crashed down, boneless and spent, eyes watching with feral satisfaction as you gagged and choked his seed down.

He yanked you atop him again with a hand in your chemise, and indulged his filthy habit of licking your mouth clean of him.

“Rosey, my Rosey, where would I be without my Rosey….” he groaned into your neck as his fatigue overtook his passion yet again, greater this time around and he settled you into his side, Sweet Pea obliging curling up atop his chest. The warm feeling of his hand on your aching belly and the raw beat of your heart over what had just transpired, kept you tethered to his cozy heat for a longer amount of time than you could spare.

But after you heard steady snores from both Sweet Pea and the Captain, you painstakingly extracted yourself from his grip, years of practice rolling away from little Charlie coming in handy. You pried open a candy striped box and pulled away the lid, extracting the pretty coat within and wrapped yourself in it, covering your stripped down petticoats. Your boots were harder to manage silently, and once you donned them you kicked yourself for not fetching your revolver from across the room before putting them on. The weight of the gun heavy in your pocket, you tiptoed across his carpeted floors and laid your hand on the doorknob, looking back to the bed and its dear occupant. For dear he was.

You thumbed at the corners of your mouth, making certain all pearly traces of him were collected and swore to yourself you were not going to lose him. And just like that, a stupid little bravery bloomed in your heart, watered by love rather than fear, for the first time your life. You creaked open the door, a bright shaft of light from the hall’s oil lamp piercing his little haven for a brief moment before you slipped out and left him to his rest.

Masterlist

Taglist…I so hope this is complete, if I missed you or you wish to be added, please leave a comment to that effect, it’d be a pleasure to add you.🌸

@missmaywemeetagain

@steph-speaks

@heartbrake-hotel

@oh-my-front-door

@blurredcolour

@beccalynn711

@pearlparty

@eliseinmemphis

@star-shard

@foreverdolly

@bisexualwvtson

@powerofelvis

@tyne18

@myradiaz

@briege93

@kanik-arson

@lindszeppelin

@2lekk

@emmymaehereeeeee

@notstefaniepresley

@captainthisamericamain

@dkayfixates

@crash-and-cure

@groovydeputyfestivalkid

@vintagewrld

@horror-movieshoes

@ab4eva

@lillypink

@leanleather

@cigaretess

@butlervol6

@moonlitbanditqueen

@coolgirl462

@artlover8992

@vinnvered

@butlervol6

@babylovepresley

@ash-omalley

@robinismywife

@elvisabutler

@butlersxbirdy

@jelliedonut

@woundmetender

@jessthepolarbear

@stylesmendeshearted

#also the spit omfg #me next captain presley #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis #a whole man is hard to find

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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ATTENTION: User Elv1sPresl3y on Wattpad is STEALING OUR ONE-SHOTS!!

It's been brought to my attention that another thief is out there on Wattpad taking credit for eTumblr's amazing creators and their work. (Thanks @mrsniallhoran505 for letting me know.) User Elv1sPresl3y is stealing Austin, A!Elvis and Elvis oneshots and calling them their own.

Now, y'all organized and took down my thief in record time, so let's go 'ride or die' for our community once again! However it sounds like this thief is proving more elusive, so I think a targeted approach might get more results, since it sounds like some of you have been suffering with this for a while. Messaging Elv1sPresl3y has NOT been effective and sounds like it will only get you blocked.

Let's help our creators out by:

REBLOGing this post

If you are a writer/reader, check Elv1sPresl3y on Wattpad and let us know in the comments of this post if your/someone's work has been stolen (or who's stories have been stolen if you read them). Let us know which specific stories are yours!

REPORT on Wattpad once we have specific tumblr authors to defend.

Check the comments on this post periodically and then COMMENT on THE SPECIFIC STORIES in the collection of stolen ones to let those readers know that story is stolen from "@ name" on Tumblr. Keep comments on Wattpad clean and specific (it looks like ones that include cussing/ranting are flagged & may get removed!)

Message Elv1sPresl3y's FOLLOWERS on Wattpad to let them know they are actively following someone who is stealing other author's works. I would recommend keeping it clean and to the point so you don't get blocked or flagged.

Messaging Elv1sPresl3y has NOT been effective and sounds like it will only get you blocked, so I would NOT interact with them one on one.

If anyone else has ideas, please let us know! I am so, so sorry to all the writers who've had their work stolen by this thief!

Let's show them once again that the Elvis & Austin fandoms are the best fandoms and try get this shit shut down! What pisses me off even more is that they are ranked #1 in Austin stories. I've included some screenshots of one of the "collections" they've posted, but please go check for yourselves.

WE RIDE OR DIE FOR THE ETUMBLR COMMUNITY!! Don't mess with us.

I hope you don't mind, but I'm using my taglist and just tagging some peeps just to make sure this post gets traction! @powerofelvis @aconflagrationofmyown @troubleinapinksuit @karamelcoveredolicity

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211 @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy @amiets2 @saintmagx

@kvcssghbjbcd @butlersluvbot @babydollie43 @vainbimbo @meladollsims @wstelandbaby @dre6ming @normatural @ash-omalley @xcallmetaniax @galvz-42 @thejezebel @fullmetal-falcon @robinismywife @dre6ming @seaweedbrain00 @amiets2 @mslizziesblog @heisatroubleinapinksuit @calusussss @dont-feel-so-good-peter @rainydayz101 @pizzaisrelationshipgoals

@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch @tattywood

@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 @ab4eva

@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis

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butlervol6 · 1 year

Text

if you still haven’t read this then PLEASE do yourself a favour and start. every chapter i think it can’t get better and it does, i’m so invested.

Pink Scarf - PART 18.2 (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: Sex. SO MUCH ANGST. Medication/drug use/overdose. Dub con (sort of?). References to medical trauma, miscarriage, infertility. Blood. 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: 16.3k (LOLOLOLOLOL)

A/N: Y'ALL, I'M SO SORRY, it's a monstrosity. I couldn't help it. There was just so much to be said while still in E's POV, so that's how we ended up here, over 16k. But we finally learn Elvis' BIG SECRET and experience the mighty fallout from that in his eyes, so hopefully it's worth it. This is my Thanksgiving gift to all of you, but you may want to pace yourselves. I feel like I had to rip my heart out a little bit to really get in E's headspace. Prepare yourselves emotionally. That's all I will say.

A quick note about the pictures...the first is actually from when he bought Graceland in March 1957 and it just works PERFECTLY for the beginning. I couldn't resist the pics from Red West's wedding in 1961, even though I know the timeline and the people don't match but the VIBES, the VIBES my friends, are oh so Jack and Reader's wedding so I just had to include them. The one for 1960 was taken the night of the Rollerdome. *sob*

If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Some of you have been asking about this, and of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY which is always evident but especially so when someone tried to steal PS last week and y'all went 'ride or die' for me instantly, without question, getting it taken down in record time. I didn't in a million years expect this kind of support and response for Pink Scarf, 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 AO3 account, as well as my NEW Wattpad account. so if you are so inclined, you can check it out/support me over there with kudos and votes and whatnot!)

(Elvis in March 1957, Graceland)

March 1957

Elvis parks in front of your house, his mind whirling with noise. He’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, but as soon as he’d gotten off that train, he knew he needed something that he couldn’t get from any of the guys or even his mama. So, he finds himself unexpectedly here.

Turning off the car, he seeks any sort of relief from the heartache he feels. He’s been holding it all in since the train stop in New Orleans, the one that sent the world crumbling under his feet, destroying the pretty picture he’d had for the future. But all that is gone now and here he sits, hands tapping on the steering wheel with nervous energy.

He nods to himself, finally leaping out of the car, and then he saunters down the walkway to the front door. The chime of the doorbell can be heard through the door, and he listens carefully, grateful to hear light footsteps from beyond.

When you open the door, it’s like he can breathe again for the first time since the train pulled away in New Orleans. You look surprised to see him, those big eyes of yours widening the slightest before you speak.

“Elvis, you’re home?” you ask with a hint of confusion, but overall, you seem pleased at finding him on your doorstep.

“Just got in, baby,” he says, that boyish smile curving up. He gathers you up into a big bear hug and instantly feels better as he breathes in the unique scent of your shampoo and lingering perfume. A scent that feels like home.

“And you came right here?” you ask, brow furrowing when he pulls away. He notices that you look a bit worn around the edges, darker circles rimming your eyes as if you haven’t been sleeping well.

You’re right to be confused. Of course, he hadn’t planned to see you right away. He’d planned to sweep June off her feet in New Orleans, wanting to show her Graceland immediately, the home he’d thought they’d share together for the rest of their lives. But all that had been dashed as soon as she’d blurted out that she was engaged to another man. Engaged. His June.

“I want to show ya something,” he blurts out instead of saying any of this. “It’s a surprise! Will ya come?” Oh, god, you have to come, he thinks. His heart might shatter if you don’t, though he’s not exactly sure why. You’re not his—you and Jack have been dating for nearly a year—so it’s not as though if you don’t come that it really means anything. Yet, still he hopes. He needs this. He needs to share this moment with someone he cares about.

Despite the fatigue in your eyes, you nod quickly, and then as if you can’t leave the house fast enough, you grab your purse and coat and shut the door behind you without a word.

He smiles gratefully, and relieved, he grabs your hand and practically skips to the car. Once he has you tucked in safely, he runs around the front of the Cadillac, jumps in, and peels away. It’s not too far of a drive, and he yammers on about the last few months he’s been away, the words flying out of him. You nod and ask all the right questions, but he notices that you are pensive, quieter than usual.

His verbal diarrhea halts for long enough for his brain to take into account that you don’t seem your usual self, and he asks, “Are you okay?”

You look down at your hands and then out the window, as if contemplating if and how much to share, which makes him a little nervous. Your fingers twist in your lap.

“Honestly? It’s been a hard few weeks, E,” you finally say, still unable to meet his eyes. “My nana passed last Tuesday.”

He’s mortified that he’d just been going on and on about himself and here you were dealing with such a loss. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know. I know how close you two were,” he says remorsefully, reaching his hand over to clasp one of yours.

You shake your head, sniffling back tears. “It’s okay, you’ve been away. There was no way for you to know. And I keep telling myself that she’s in a better place now, but that doesn’t really help all that much. I guess it still doesn’t seem real.”

He nods, because he can’t seem to think of anything to say that will make any of this better for you. “We can do this another time, baby, if you’re not feeling up to it,” he finally gets out.

“No, no. I need something to do instead of moping around the house. I’m worn from being sad and worrying about the rest of it. No, I’m glad you showed up, E. I can’t wait to see your surprise,” you add quickly, trying for a smile.

“The rest of it? What’re you so worried about, baby?” It’s obvious you don’t expect him to pick up on that because he sees the quick look of panic that flashes over your face at the question, so he’s quick to add, “I mean, you don’t hafta talk ‘bout it if ya don’t wanna, but I can tell somethin’ else is weighin’ on ya.”

“You could say that,” you sigh, raising your eyes to the roof and back down again. The twisting fingers are back. “God knows I haven’t been sleeping, and it’s giving me these terrible headaches.” You pinch the bridge of your nose for respite. “I…well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell you, Elvis, because it’s about Jack, and I really don’t want him to think I’m running around telling everyone our business.”

A warning rush rolls over him at this because he suddenly and very desperately wants to know what has happened with Jack, and that is a dangerous game for all kinds of reasons, many of which he’s not ready to admit to himself.

“I swear and cross my heart I won’t say a word, if you wanna tell me,” he says instead, a little too eagerly, so he quickly adds, “If it’ll help ya feel better and all.”

He forces himself to watch the road and not you, but he can practically hear your mind whirring.

“Oh, fine, but not a word out of you to anyone, Elvis Presley, I mean it. I know how bad you are with secrets,” you glare at him.

“I promise, I promise!” he concedes, crossing his heart. “I swear on my mama!”

“Well, in the midst of all this with Nana, I found out that Jack was dating other women a while back while we were going together. Apparently, I thought we were exclusive, but he didn’t, and well…” you trail off bitterly.

Elvis has to bite his tongue and bite it hard because somehow this wasn’t what he expected, and oh, lord, he knows too much for comfort.

Thankfully, you take this as him listening intently, because you continue, “I know I shouldn’t be too mad at him. I suppose it’s an honest mistake, seeing as maybe we didn’t communicate clearly enough about where we stood with each other. But it was so obvious to me, and I don’t understand how it wasn’t obvious to him. It’s not like I was going around with other guys all the time! I know it was months ago, but damn if it doesn’t really sting. Part of me feels like such an idiot, you know? What else don’t I know about him and what he’s doing? It just makes it hard to trust him, even though he was truthful about it when I asked.” He can sense the conflict in you, as your voice fills and shakes with the emotion of your held-back tears.

His heart is beating fast now, and all he is seemingly able to do is nod furiously, as if agreeing vehemently with all you are saying. The problem is that Elvis is complicit in all this and you have no idea. You have no idea that he was the one who pushed the showgirls onto Jack when he came to visit him in Vegas in November. You have no idea that “dating” didn’t have much to do with it at all. And now he feels altogether shitty for being the one to put Jack in that position in the first place. He’d managed to spread his own unfaithfulness and debauchery right on over to Jack, and now you are the one paying for it.

Shit.

Although, knowing Jack, it’s also possible that there was other dating happening, too. Either way, Elvis knows he’s got to tread real careful here and needs to keep his trap shut.

But Elvis can’t stand that hurt look in your eyes when he dares to take his eyes off the road to glance at you. He hates how angry and sad you look, the blue-black circles under your eyes conveying your distress.

And his emotions feel complicated, too complicated for comfort. He suddenly wonders if he didn’t present Jack with those temptations on purpose because there is a very deep and selfish part of him that desperately wants you to kick Jack to the curb for this, and that terrible, selfish part of him wants you to finally see Elvis in the same way he sees you.

Maybe there’s a reason that things didn’t work out with June, that voice pokes at him hopefully.

Stop that shit right now.

All this is playing through his head and leaving him outwardly silent. He realizes he has to say something, anything, because you are waiting for him to do so.

“I-I’m sorry that happened, ‘specially finding out at the same time as all this with your Nana. W-What are you gonna do about Jack?” he says, trying not to gulp.

He watches your eyes narrow and then he quickly looks back at the road. He can feel you shift in your seat.

“I…well, right now, I wanna pummel his brains out, so I told him I need some space to figure out what I want to do. I just—I thought we…” you trail off dismally. “I don’t want to go through this again,” you add quietly.

Elvis knows you are talking about Ted. Stupid Teddy who stepped out and got Judy Cole knocked up and then left you brokenhearted in his wake. It still pisses him off, even though he knows he’s got no right to judge Ted, not now, not after all the foolin’ around he’s done.

But when it comes to you, he can’t help but be protective. It’s in his bones, the way he wants to take care of you. In fact, he wouldn’t mind punching Jack in the face right about now for hurting you like this. And he’s even more pissed at himself for his part in it all.

Elvis just wants you to be happy and to be with a man who deserves you, and deep down, he doesn’t know if that man is Jack, even though he loves Jack like a brother. But the real problem is he’s not sure if he thinks any man will ever be good enough for you.

But his brain is wary to dwell on the meaning of that, wanting to avoid anything else that feels uncomfortable, so instead, he lets the excitement of showing you his new home overshadow any other unwanted feelings he might be experiencing.

“Okay, baby, we’re almost there, so close your eyes,” he says excitedly, changing the subject abruptly, before pulling up the long drive.

“Alright, Elvis, this better be a big surprise with how hyped up you are,” you chuckle, letting the mood turn by doing as you are told.

“The biggest,” he breathes, sliding to a stop in front of the Colonial mansion. “Don’t open your eyes yet! I’ll come around!”

You wait until you hear the car door open and feel his hand take yours. He gently brings you out of the car to standing, an excited energy vibrating through him.

“Okay, darlin’, open!” he drawls dramatically.

You do, blinking out the early Spring sunlight. He watches your face light up as you take in the architecture.

“Oh my god, Elvis, it’s beautiful,” you say in awe. “Is it yours?”

“Yes, baby, it’ll be all mine very soon. And for Mama and Daddy, of course,” he adds hastily, as if you’d thought he’d abandon his parents.

“Of course,” you smile, looking at him with those pretty, though tired, eyes of yours. “Can we go inside?” you ask.

All he can do is nod excitedly. Elvis takes your hand, pulling you up the steps and past the huge white columns on either side. He can’t unlock the door fast enough, the keys rattling and shaking in his hands. Once inside, he pulls you through the house, mouth running a mile a minute about what he wants to do in each room, how he wants it to look.

Finally, you make it to the top level, the last room. “This is gonna be my bedroom,” he rambles on. “I’m gonna get the biggest bed you’ve ever seen in your life, made special.”

You gently pull your hand out of his, and he watches as you take a small pill bottle out of your purse and pop two of the pills before downing them dry. Aspirin, probably, for the headache you were talking about in the car.

“E, stop a minute,” you say. “This is all amazingly wonderful and beautiful, and I am so excited for you, but…well, what exactly am I doing here?” You look at him with curious and concerned eyes.

“I…uh…I…,” he stammers, unsure of what to say or how to say it, as it’s all been spinning inside for hours and hours. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes. He certainly doesn’t want to put any of his stuff onto you, not now, not after what you told him earlier. His hands fall to his sides, and he shakes them, wiggling his fingers like he does to come down after a show. It doesn’t help. There’s just too much emotion rolling through him all the sudden.

You step to him, first putting your hands on his shoulders, then you run them gently down his arms before grabbing his flailing hands, absorbing some of that wild energy. The feeling still manages to send little electric shocks through him, even after all this time. Only then does he finally still and dare to look at you.

“E, what’s wrong? You let me talk earlier, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” you ask, your eyes searching his, open and concerned. He should’ve known you’d see right through him. Maybe that’s why you’re here, because he knew you’d understand, that you’d be able to tell he wasn’t okay when no one else cared to.

It takes a moment for him to gather his words as his emotions get in the way. Emotions he stoically hid from the guys the rest of the way to Memphis. Emotions he pushed down when he saw his mama because he just couldn’t bear to break her heart yet with the news. God, he’s spent so much time recently learning how to hide everything real about himself in order to become the man everyone wants him to be. But here, now, with you, it all begins to overflow.

“I-I-I told June to meet me in New Orleans. I-I w-w-was gonna bring her back here, to show her w-what I-I wanted to buy…for us,” he says, bouncing on his toes, tears welling and clouding his vision. He hates how it’s tearing him in two to say this.

You squeeze his hands, urging him to continue, and for you, he does.

“But when I-I got there, she was acting so strange. There w-wasn’t much time and, uh, she told me she’s engaged to someone else.” He blinks and the tears run over, finally spilling down his cheeks. Saying it out loud suddenly makes it feel all too real. His chest aches with betrayal, with loss.

You look at him with such care, though you do not look shocked at this news.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, E. I know you how much you loved her,” you say, squeezing his hands again gently.

‘Loved.’ As in past tense.

“Did you know?” he asks suddenly, stepping back, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You take a conscious deep breath. “No, I didn’t. But she did call me a few times wondering where you were, if you were okay. She said she hadn’t heard from you in months…” you say awkwardly, petering off.

“Aw, shit,” he curses, running a hand through his greased hair. A wave of anger rolls through him, burning him from the inside, but as much as he wants to put it on June and her spiteful engagement, he knows the anger is mostly towards himself. He fucked up. He fucked around. And he’d expected June to just sit back and wait for him while he did it. He didn’t even make the time to call her.

And you know what he’s done. He can see it on your face. He looks down, unable to meet your eyes.

You don’t speak. You don’t lay into him or tell him he’s an asshole, although it might be better if you did. God knows he’s already thinking it. You just look at him with sadness and understanding and forgiveness, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

With that ache in his heart, he finally realizes that he couldn’t have loved June the way he said he did and then leave her hanging like that. But he did love her…at least, he had. They’d had such a beautiful summer together and he was sure he wanted to marry her, once his fame was settled. Three years, he’d told her.

Shit, I didn’t even make it six months, he thinks absently.

And then everything changed almost overnight. His fame exploded. There was Hollywood, then Vegas. And the girls, good god, there were so many beautiful girls who wanted him, needed him, who threw themselves at him. He’d been weak. He hated being alone. He couldn’t help it. It was just sex, he’d told himself, just a way to blow off steam as his world became smaller and smaller and nearly suffocated him. A thousand excuses run through his head, but in the end, it was his choice not to pick up the phone. It was his choice to screw around, to live this life.

It’s no wonder that June moved on, he thinks. I’m a first-rate asshole.

“Y/n, I messed it all up,” Elvis finally chokes out. The sob fully breaks the dam holding him together, the pressures of his fame and the realization hitting him like a truck: he is never going to be able to have that normal life with a wife and kids he’d once dreamed of. His knees buckle under the weight of all of it—his decisions, both good and bad, the fame he doesn’t know what to do with, the unexpected consequences of this privileged but isolating life he’s chosen.

He sinks to his knees, defeated, on the carpet of his future bedroom, the one he’ll probably never share with someone who loves him for who he truly is. Because he isn’t just Elvis Aron Presley anymore—he is “Elvis Presley,” the celebrity, the commodity, the fantasy.

While he relishes in the luxuries of it all, in being able to provide the life his family deserves, a small part of him cannot help but feel like he’s made a deal with the devil. That this talent he has been blessed with will also be the thing that damns him. He is overcome by the feeling that he’ll never know ever again if he is loved for who he really is, or if it is his fame and his image they love. And there is something about that that crushes his soul.

But he can’t say all this to you because it sounds dramatic and indulgent, and he knows there are very few people in this world who’d actually understand. This is his cross to bear.

And yet you still comfort him. You are still here. “Oh, hon, I know. It’s okay, I know,” you say, kneeling down with him.

In the midst of all he’s achieved and gained these past few years, June is the representation of all that he stands to lose, all that he’s already lost. “She was my last chance, y/n. I’m never gonna be able to trust that a woman loves me for me and not for my fame after this. And I screwed it all up,” he says quietly, tears running freely. “I just feel so fucking alone.”

“Oh, that’s not true, Elvis, it’s not,” you say, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll find her, I know you will. And you have so many people who love you for just being you, not for the fancy cars or the mansion or the fame. You’ve got your family, you’ve got Jack and your true friends. And you’ve got me.”

The way you say it, so softly, yet so matter-of-fact hits him hard, so hard that his heart stops beating for a moment. If he wasn’t already kneeling, the honest way your tired yet beautiful eyes search his face might knock him right off his feet.

It’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you, he thinks suddenly. This is the feeling he was avoiding in the car. The feeling he’s been avoiding since he watched Jack kiss your cheek in the diner a year ago.

It takes his breath away. You take his breath away, you always have. He’s been enamored with you since you plowed into him all those years ago in the hallway at Humes High.

Suddenly, June is all but forgotten because you reach up, cupping his face in your cold little hands and wipe a tear off his cheek. He cannot help the way his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation of the pad of your thumb dragging softly across his face. His breathing, rapid from his cries is now labored for another reason entirely.

Opening his eyes slowly, he shouldn’t be shocked to see tears in yours, your grief and sorrow, not only for yourself, but for him, too, welling there, as if you are connected to him. In fact, Elvis feels like his brain is short-circuiting because you are too damn close and the tension in the room is suddenly so thick, he feels like he might suffocate.

Every cell in his body feels on fire as you lean in closer and closer until your lips press against his forehead. You’ve never kissed him, not once in all these years, and this alone sends heat rushing through his young body. Then when you kiss his nose, and then one tear-stained cheek, he holds his breath, feeling like he might die from this chaste sensation.

Warning bells explode in his brain because suddenly he wants you more than anything in this world, always has. And now you are so close. This is Jack’s girl, he thinks, and she’s my dear friend. Don’t be an idiot.

But when you lean in to kiss his other cheek, you place your lips alarmingly close to his, his tears wet underneath your soft lips, and his body is on high alert as only a twenty-two-year-old’s could be. His heart flutters as you pull back just enough to look deeply into his eyes, tears shining in your own, and then you lean in once more.

This can’t be happening. This should not be happening, his mind screams, but then your lips are grazing his and all rational thought ceases to exist.

You taste so sweet.

Heat blooms through the ache in his chest, and in his disbelief, he freezes. Part of him wants to devour you whole, but he is terrified that if he moves, he might spook you and he cannot bear that.

His confusion is overridden when your hands, shaking but demanding, pull him closer. Your lips are soft and sure, and he cannot help but be swept away by them. He’s kissed so many girls, too many to count, all over the country, but not one has ever made him feel like this, like his heart is going to leap out of his damn chest.

But this is a betrayal of a monumental kind, for both of you. While he is no stranger to betrayal, he does not want this for you. As much as he wants you with every fiber of his being, he does not want to be the source of your regret or heartache. He’s already done enough in that regard already, though you don’t know it. Mustering up every ounce of his self-control, Elvis pulls out of your kiss.

“Y/n, baby, you don’t want this. I’m no good for you this way,” Elvis says in a hushed tone, his forehead resting against yours. “I-I can’t have you regretting me, I-I-I couldn’t bear it.”

You lean back the slightest bit, and he thinks you might be listening, reconsidering, making him feel mostly dismay but also a little relief. What he does not expect is for you to press your little pointer finger up against his lips, hushing him, as you stare into his eyes. It’s as though your soul is as weary and needy as his and it feels as though you see him, truly see him, which is a new feeling for him. This sends a welcoming shiver down his spine, and he knows that despite every scrap of logic and propriety he is trying to lean on, with you he is powerless.

When your finger drags down his lips, catching on the bottom one, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his groin. Yet still he resists (even though he wants more than anything to see where this is going), thinking you might realize your mistake, and this will all be over in an embarrassed, yet still salvageable, flash.

Instead, you very deliberately scoot closer, your knees bumping his on the carpet. You lean in again, your lips grazing his again with a yearning he cannot help but return in kind. It’s barely a kiss, but the intent is there and when you pull up, effectively opening your mouth to him, the way he can feel your warm breath mingling with his own has him struggling to control himself.

You are testing him, testing the waters, hesitant but somehow insistent at the same time. His long lashes flutter closed when your fingers brush his jaw then rake into his perfectly styled hair. But it’s when the tip of your tongue touches his, sending a hot shockwave through him, that he can stand it no longer and closes the gap between your mouths with a longing sigh.

Pressing his pliant lips to your yielding ones, he rolls his tongue softly but firmly against yours, earning him a quiet moan from you. This is like fuel on the fire, finally spurring him into action, and his hands fly to the back of your head, pulling you closer.

If there is one thing besides music that Elvis excels at and loves to do, it’s kissing. He plays with it the same way he plays a crowd, listening to you and adjusting his performance as necessary. The buzzy way it makes him feel, like every nerve is magnetic, is one of the only things in this world that is anything like how it feels for him to perform for an audience. He loves the way it makes him feel.

But kissing you is unlike anything Elvis has experienced before. It’s as though you are tuned to the exact same frequency, finding his rhythm immediately, adapting easily. The usual fumbling of people getting acquainted in this way does not seem to apply to the two of you, the ebb and flow so natural it’s as though you had done this with each other many times before.

But the passion of it stokes a fire that has been denied a long time. Intense heat crashes over him, sending tendrils of warmth through his limbs and deep into his belly. He drinks you in as deep as he can without being desperate, and oh how close he is to being desperate for you. His grief over June melts away the more he tastes you, and he wonders how he ever lived before having the taste of your lips on his.

It's all very dramatic and romantic, which he is both at heart. From just a few kisses, he suddenly knows that if he could kiss you and only you for the rest of his life, he would be a happy man indeed. This surprises him.

But what truly shocks him is when you lean so far into him that it pushes him over, his knees screaming a little, and he falls back into the wall with a thump. He scrambles backwards, maneuvering his long legs into a more comfortable seated position while you don’t even miss a beat or attempt to come up for air. And when you crawl into his lap, hoisting the flowing fabric of your dress up just enough so your warm, bare thighs are straddling his, his heart actually flies right out of his goddamned chest.

Speaking of which, you are currently running your hands down his, pulling his silky shirt up enough to dance your fingertips over his stomach. His breath hitches then hisses at that, his arms involuntarily encompassing you, large hands splaying across your back to draw you ever nearer.

And you go willingly, inching up his lap until you are straddling his hips. When you grind down into his lap, he thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven, his blue eyes rolling back into his head with a low moan.

He'll admit he’s dreamed of this, fantasized about this, but nothing could truly prepare him for the reality of the way you are making him feel. A trickle of attraction that began six years ago is now a roaring river, and is so, so much more than anything he’s felt before with anyone else.

He doesn’t understand it. He loves women. He always falls in love too fast, enjoying the rapid descent into the madness of it all. There have only been a few that he feels were true, though every girl he’s with, he loves in his own way.

But you are not like any of them, not at all. With you, it has been slow, so gradual sometimes that he didn’t even realize it. A teenage crush turned into friendship, and within that has blossomed a love that he didn’t know he was capable of. It is not until this very instant that he realizes it truly for what it has become. He doesn’t just care for you. He loves you.

He is in love with you.

Fuck.

Realizing this as your hips begin to rock steadily over his crotch is not the best timing. He’s as hard as a rock, fighting both the swell of his physical need for you while wrestling with the emotional needs he’s quickly realizing at the same time.

If he didn’t love you, he might not care if this is just a quick fuck between friends, but he does care. And he’s worried about where this is coming from, likely your overall grief and your anger at Jack. No, he doesn’t like the messiness of that at all.

But another grind of your pelvis into his, coupled with your tongue down his throat has the physical quickly taking over any and all rational thought. He wants you, more than he’s ever wanted anyone. And he desperately wants to give you what you need, which based on the mewls escaping your lips, is a physical release, a connection.

God, he can feel the wet heat of your cunt now through your panties and his pants as you slide over his length, back and forth, again and again. He clings to you as your hands wind through his hair, burying his head in your neck, his lips taking in as much of your skin as he can. He revels in the scent of you, your perfume and your irresistible musk that is permeating the room. He is positively dizzy with it.

You are frantic in his lap now, chasing something he’s not entirely sure you’ve ever had. He knows about Ted, but he highly doubts Ted knew what to do with you. And with Jack, well, he’s not sure how far the two of you have gone, but he can only guess based on Jack’s recent actions and your desperation for no one to know that Ted had popped your cherry that you’ve been trying to be good and pure and wait.

But as you reach for his belt, pawing at him, for the first time in this whole event, he gets the distinct impression that you’re not sure what to do next, only that you are needy for something. And goddamn him, he is willing to give you what you need, but only if you really understand what it is you’re asking for.

“Wait, baby, just…wait,” Elvis pants, stilling your hips with one hand while grabbing the hand at his belt with the other. You whimper a little at the interruption, rolling your hips for emphasis, but despite the groan he can’t help, he’s having none of that.

“Baby, I need to know that you really want this,” he says, brushing your hair off your deliciously pink cheeks, your lips swollen from his kisses. He looks into your eyes, almost getting lost in them and forgetting what he set out to do. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and then add, “Elvis, please,” in a begging tone that sets him completely aflame.

“Oh, damn, okay, baby, okay,” he breathes, barely able to contain himself with that. He’s only human, after all. He races to help you with his pants, pulling them over his hips and down his legs in record time, his erection springing free, precum already glistening the tip. You lift up on your knees, you move your panties aside, and touching the silky soft skin of his cock, you help him line up with your entrance. He can’t help but gasp at the feeling of your cool little fingers circling his shaft, losing it a little more when he feels how incredibly soaked you already are.

He can’t believe this is happening. It shouldn’t be happening. But all logic is gone from him, replaced by the sweetness of your mouth and the wetness of your pussy and his desperate need for whatever love you have to give him.

He watches as you bite your lip in concentration, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you try to take him in. You are incredibly tight around the sensitive tip of his cock, and he moans a little at the constriction. That’s when he knows for sure that no one else has touched you like this for a long time. You aren’t ready for him, not yet.

Reaching under your skirt, he deftly finds the delicate little bundle of nerves there and begins to work it ever so gently. He shifts his hips down, his cock regretfully released from your hold on it. Sliding his fingers through your folds (oh, god), he gently slips one finger into your tight heat, then two, allowing you to adjust around him before pumping them in and out. Your eyes go wide and you gasp with the intrusion, but then they flutter closed with a sigh, and then another, and another before your hips begin to rock again.

He watches you in your ecstasy, taking in every delectable reaction he can and committing it to memory. The way your brow scrunches and your mouth falls open into a little O. The feel of your thighs clenching around his hand as he massages and fingers your dripping pussy. Those alluring little breathy moans escaping your lips. Every part of you has him completely mesmerized and he knows it. He knows his mouth is agape and he is moaning softly right along with you. He is so aroused just by watching you, he feels like he could come without you even touching him.

“E, I need more…I need you,” you breathe with your eyes closed and brow concentrated, and oh sweet lord, those might be the best words in the English language with the way they come out of your mouth.

He is utterly unable to deny you this. He can’t even speak, he just pulls his fingers out of you, lifts your hips, and maneuvers his cock back to the place it wants to be most. And you are more ready for him now, your tightness yielding much more easily around the sensitive tip of him.

It’s in that moment, as you sink down ever-so-slowly onto him and he is enveloped by your wet heat, that Elvis realizes he is utterly ruined for any other woman, ever. They cannot and will not ever hold a candle to you. He should’ve known before. He should’ve stopped this while he still could. But as you finally settle in his lap, taking him in completely, your fingers relaxing and your eyes bright and glassy, he knows he is well and truly fucked in every way.

He kisses you deeply again and again, memorizing your mouth, as you begin to raise and lower yourself on his cock. You feel so good, so completely perfect, it’s as if you were made just for him. He is drunk on you, hands wandering your body, finding what makes you keen, and he’s unable to get enough of you.

But you are so needy and ready that unfortunately it doesn’t take very long of you riding him and him playing with your clit for you to begin falling apart at the seams. Based on your surprised gasps, he’s not sure you’ve ever come before, so he does his best to help you get there while holding on to his own release for dear life. You begin to shudder around him, clenching his length, and with a strangled moan you hit your peak. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the way you are coming undone on top of him, around him, your eyelashes fluttering closed and then popping open, all wild-eyed and rosy cheeked as the hushed sound of his name falls out of your perfect mouth.

He's so fucking enraptured that his orgasm hits harder and faster than expected, chasing yours almost immediately, not giving him time to pull out like he should have. But he can’t bring himself to care because it’s all you. All he’s ever wanted or needed—it’s you.

Oh, sweet Christ, I love you, I love you, I love you, he chants in his mind as he follows you over the edge.

He clings to you, head pressed into your breasts as he pulses hard into your warmth with a grunt, then stays there as he comes down from the high. And then you are both gasping in the silence, and there is an air of disbelief that fills the room that the two of you just did that, together.

This is making love, he realizes suddenly. It must be, considering the incredibly overwhelming feelings he has for you that are pouring through him in unreasonable amounts. He never wants to let you go, not ever.

He pulls back enough to kiss you tenderly, lingering a little too long. There is a sinking, nearly unbearable feeling that this may never happen again, and it threatens to break him, so he pushes it as far away as it will go.

You press your forehead to his, silent, you still enveloping him as he eventually begins to soften inside you. Neither of you rushes to move. He cannot read what you are thinking and that makes him nervous.

“Are you okay?” he finally whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You nod but say nothing.

“Okay, baby.”

You both sit there a while, simmering in what you have done, and he wishes you would say something, say anything at all to let him know what is going on in that head of yours. But you are quiet, unreadable.

Finally, you remove yourself from his lap and stumble your way into the ensuite bathroom to clean up.

Elvis runs a hand down his face, wiping away the mixture of salty tears and sweat that has collected there. He uses his handkerchief to wipe himself off and then puts himself back together. Blissed out in his refraction, he is so full of love for you that he almost can’t stand it. He thought he’d known love before, and perhaps he did, but this realization of love for you is so big that he doesn’t know what to do with it. God, he feels like with you by his side, he could conquer the damn world.

But you’re not his girl.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.

His head falls back onto the wall with a thump.

Somehow, he’s both on top of the world and completely buried by it at the same time. You interrupt his thoughts, coming back in quietly and falling, exhausted, into his arms. He takes off his coat and puts it on top of you both. He can’t help but pull you closer, up into his lap, so your head rests against his chest. This is where you are supposed to be, he can’t help but think.

He knows the two of you need to talk about this. While he has been having his epiphany, he has absolutely no idea what you are thinking. He has no clue if you feel anything even close to what he feels for you. It is possible that all of this was just some sort of revenge on Jack, and that breaks his heart a little. And even if you did do it for that reason, you chose him. You felt safe enough with him to choose him.

But something deep inside him tells him it isn’t just that, not with the way you kissed him, not with the way he felt like his damn soul was connecting with yours. That deep connection he’s always felt to you, it can’t possibly be one-way.

But what if it is? a worried little voice creeps in.

He wants to ask you, but he looks down and sees you passed out on his chest. Fatigue begins to hit him, as he hasn’t slept in over a day.

It’s not long before he, too, falls into an exhausted slumber.

He’s not sure how long you sleep, but when he wakes, the sun has moved and the room is nearly dark. Disoriented, it takes a moment for him to realize that it’s you in his arms, and when he remembers why, his cheeks flame with heat.

Oh. Oh.

Drowsy, he rubs his eyes with one hand, trying to wake up. As the memories of your lovemaking resurface, his heart beats faster, and he knows the moment you wake you will both have to face what you’ve done. You’ll have to decide what comes next. And more than anything, the hopeful little voice inside him realizes that he wants to share this all with you—that’s why it is you he brought to Graceland today, and why it was so important to him that you like it.

“Y/n, honey, wake up,” he says quietly, not wanting to shock you awake, but you don’t even stir. He shifts under you, hoping that might get you moving, but you just lie there.

“Hey, baby, it’s time to wake up,” he says at full voice now, but you remain still, too still, and silent.

His heart starts to pound. Something isn’t right.

“Y/n! Honey, I need you to wake up!” He is getting frantic now, his hand gently tapping your face, which feels too cold. But still, you do not wake.

“Fuck. Fuck! Y/n, wake up!” He shakes you. Panic and confusion roll over him as he tries to figure out why you are knocked out. His sleep-addled brain runs through what happened before you both fell asleep, before you made love.

Her headache, he thinks. She took pills for her headache.

He had thought they were aspirin, but as he frantically rummages through her purse, pulling out the little prescription bottle, he reads “Percodan, one tablet every 6 hours for pain and sleep relief” on the label.

Elvis swears you took two tablets, not one, way too much for a girl your size. You hadn’t read the bottle.

Shit.

Having been in Hollywood, he knows that this happens. People overdose from taking these narcotics, usually to get high, but he knows that you did it on accident. Based on how full the bottle is, he’s guessing that you maybe hadn’t even taken the meds before today.

Regardless, he’s not taking any chances with you. There’s no phone hooked up at the house, so with his adrenaline now working overtime, he lifts your unconscious form and quickly carries you to the car. He peals out, driving to Baptist Memorial Hospital as fast as he possibly can.

The those few hours are some of the most terrifying of his life.

He bites every nail down to the quick in that waiting room, pacing there as your family sits, equally worried. He can’t help but feel that they are judging him for letting this happen, even though it was an accident.

He can’t bring himself to call Jack.

Guilt eats away at him, even though he knows he had no idea about the pills, but if he hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe he would’ve realized sooner that something was wrong. Part of him feels like this is punishment for his sins, for what he let happen in the house. He prays and prays to God, harder than he’s ever prayed before.

Please, God, I love her. I can’t lose her. Do what you want to me, just let her be okay.

His prayers work.

You wake up. The doctors say you are going to make a full recovery. His heart nearly explodes with relief.

He offers to stay while your family goes home to get some rest. It is past visiting hours, but being Memphis’ own superstar, the nurses take pity on him and let him stay, as long as he doesn’t keep you awake.

When you finally stir, it’s the middle of the night.

“E—Elvis?” you croak. “What happened? Where am I?”

He sits up straight and leans forward to take your cold little hand in his. “Y/n! Oh, baby, you took too many of your headache pills and I couldn’t wake you up. You scared the hell outta me. You’re in the hospital, but you’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.

“Wake me up? Why—why was I asleep?” your brow furrows in confusion.

His heart drops into his stomach, dread like ice in his veins. He doesn’t want to ask, but he knows he must:

“What’s the last thing you remember, honey?”

Obviously still groggy, you close your eyes for a moment to think. “Um, I remember you picked me up and took me to…to your new house,” you say, then your eyes pop open, “You were showing me your beautiful new house, and then my headache got really bad, so I took some of my pills, and then…” You stop, looking at him blankly. “And after that, I don’t remember. You said I fell asleep?”

Oh, God, no. No, no, no. He feels like he’s going to vomit.

The force of his dread hits him like a tsunami as he runs through what happened in his head again. You took the pills first and then he told you about June and then you kissed him.

But you don’t remember. You don’t remember because you were accidentally fucking high.

“Elvis, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you say.

“Sorry, baby, I-I-I was just really worried about you, is all. I-I guess it’s all kinda hittin’ me at o-once, now that you’re o-o-okay,” he says, unable to keep his voice from shaking, unable to keep from stuttering through the half-truth.

“Please, go get some rest, E. I’ll be fine. I’m so tired, I feel like I could sleep for days…” you say, drowsily, eyes fluttering closed.

“Okay, okay, baby, I will…Get some rest,” he says, kissing you on the top of your head as you drift back into slumber.

In a panicked daze, he manages to make it down the hallway and to the men’s room before his stomach rolls and he is violently sick into the toilet.

Oh, sweet Lord, he took advantage of you. You were drugged and didn’t know what you were doing, and he had sex with you.

He vomits again, tears running down his face.

I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have ever let it happen if I’d known! I would never hurt her! the reasonable part of his brain cries out.

Shame eats at him from deep inside, cutting him. He deserves it.

How could he do this? How could he let this happen?

I should’ve known. I should’ve known the moment she kissed me that she wasn’t in her right mind.

But he didn’t, and what the hell does that say about him? He’s fucking selfish and he took something from you that you weren’t in your right mind to give.

He dry heaves, wanting desperately to expel his regret but knowing that he never will, not until the day he dies.

And what’s even worse is that he is still left with the fact that he is desperately in love with you. You don’t remember what, up until a few minutes ago, was one of the most amazing moments of his young life. You can’t share that with him. And that makes him feel even more selfish because the last thing he should be thinking of is his own damn feelings.

Sitting there on the cold floor, he tries to convince himself it’s for the best. It’s much less complicated for you this way. For you, there was no betrayal. For you, making love with him can never be a mistake you once made in a moment of anger and desperation. For you, there is only the love of friendship between you two.

Yes, it’s better this way, he thinks. He can carry the burden for both of you. He deserves to.

Because he knows he cannot give you what you need. He cannot be there for you, day in and day out, holding you tight and keeping you safe. Especially not now. Not after what he’s done.

He has to lock this away. You can never know, not ever. He must protect you from this and from his guilt. He knows you wouldn’t be able to look at him if you knew.

Oh, God. Please forgive me.

He can’t stop crying. He has to stop crying because he has to go out there and he has to look fine. He has to be fine, for your sake. You’re alive and going to be okay, and it’s that which he latches onto as a mantra in order to slide into the persona that has made his name.

He manages to make it to the car without losing it again, as the dawn starts to break on another day. He can’t bring himself to go home; he can’t look his mother in the eye right now. So, he drives aimlessly, for hours, his sins eating away at him until he finds himself at the church.

He waits for Reverend Hamill in a pew, his thoughts dark and churning. This is just the straw that broke him, for he knows that since his fame began two years ago, he has fallen so very far. He has been self-centered and vain. He has fornicated and broken hearts and caused pain to those he claimed to love, all in the name of this new life of his. And he’s pushed his friends to do the same. His stupid, selfish actions have had a ripple effect that has completely ruined lives.

Not only had he driven June away and into the arms of another man, he’d played with your life and Jack’s as well. If he hadn’t pushed Jack to cheat, you would never have needed those pills in the first place. You almost died because he didn’t want to be alone in his debauchery, and he knows that some sick part of him pushed Jack to it because he wanted to sabotage your relationship.

Then he realizes that, on top of all that, he did another incredibly selfish and stupid thing. He came inside you, which means that you could be pregnant. And that would ruin you completely, and you wouldn’t even know why, you wouldn’t understand. He would do the right thing, of course, and maybe, someday, you would learn to forgive him, but it would ruin you all in the process.

Oh, Lord. Oh, Jesus.

He thinks he might vomit again.

When the Reverend emerges, he looks surprised to find Elvis sitting there.

“Pastor, I am the most miserable man you’ve ever seen. I am doing the things you taught me not to, and I’m not doing the things you said I should,” he sobs, “Please, please pray for me.”

“Oh, son…come in,” Reverend Hamill says.

Deflated, consumed, and heavy with his guilt and the repercussions of his actions, he follows the pastor into his office. He can’t bring himself to admit what he’s done, to admit how horrible he is. He just cannot get the words out. Instead, he weeps and prays, over and over, the Reverend praying with him.

All he can whimper out is, “Please, please forgive me for my sins. Please.” He’s not sure if he’s asking the minister or God or both. He only knows he cannot live with himself for hurting you, even if you don’t know it.

After over an hour of this, by the grace of God, he finally calms some. His entire body and soul aches.

But he knows what he has to do now. He understands the deal he has made.

It doesn’t matter what he wants or needs. You being okay is all that matters. He has to make sure you’re taken care of. He has to make sure that you are happy.

In the days and weeks and months that follow, Elvis pretends he is having the time of his life, becoming every bit the budding superstar that the country insists that he is now. Sometimes, he even believes it; sometimes, he even forgets. Though every time he sees you, his heart breaks a little more, his love for you permeating him to the core.

But he knows he can’t have you. He knows he doesn’t deserve you.

Instead, he plants seeds in Jack’s ear. “You love her, don’t ya, Jacky Boy? When are ya gonna make an honest woman of her?” He pushes Jack to fully commit to you. He even goes with Jack to buy the ring, though he stops himself from paying for it. Jack has his pride, after all.

Instead, he throws himself into work, grateful for the grueling cycle of touring and recording and appearances and acting. He throws himself into fixing up Graceland for his family, building a life of extravagance that he never could’ve dreamed of.

And, God help him, he starts seeing other girls. He leans into the image of the playboy they all want him to be. He dates and he fucks, thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of these girls will make him forget the perfect way you fit into him, forget the way your face looked when you came undone around him. That maybe one of them will come close to the wonder that is you. That they will help him forget his past sins by cutting new ones. He cannot seem to help but do the sinful things he swore he wouldn’t do, lest he drown in his sorrows, but the girls help keep him from the one thing that is off limits: You.

When Jack finally pops the question in the summer, and you accept immediately, he can barely keep himself together. He convinces himself this is the right thing, that he is happy for the both of you as he stares into the night sky knowing deep in his soul that it should be him. He reminds himself that this is the deal, this is what he wanted, to see you happy and taken care of.

And he will damn himself for your salvation every time.

December 28th, 1957, Graceland

Oh, God, what have I done?

The moment you appear down the aisle, looking ever the most beautiful, blushing bride, every part of him aches with love for you. He’d thought that by giving you the life you dreamed of, the life you needed, that it would be enough to let you go. But as Elvis stands by Jack’s side at the altar, he realizes that no matter what has happened, no matter what he has done, he is always going to love you and it’s never not going to hurt, especially not after this.

Not after the quick look you shoot him as you step up to meet Jack, your pretty, wide eyes full of excitement and emotion. Not after seeing you all in white and wishing to God that it was him marrying you right now. Not after he keeps his peace after the minister asks if there’s a reason these two should not be married.

He somehow manages to keep himself from openly weeping during the ceremony by biting the inside of his cheek repeatedly but still finds himself caught in your radiance more than once and must force himself to look away. During the wedding pictures, he cannot help but maneuver himself close to you to press a lingering kiss to your cheek, to be memorialized for all time on film. The press of his soft lips into your warm cheek sends that tell-tale shiver through him, one that drives in the fact that he still loves you. He gives himself this tiny thing, and no one questions it because they all know you are close friends, and a congratulatory cheek kiss on your wedding day is not strange.

Discretely, he makes sure to let the photographer know he wants copies of the pictures, with the excuse that he is paying for them and wants to make sure they are perfect. This, too, is not questioned, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

To torture himself even more, he offers Graceland up for the reception. These are his two best friends, after all, now cleaved together in holy matrimony for the rest of their lives. No expense should be spared because they deserve all the happiness in the world.

And they do, he reminds himself throughout the day. They do deserve all the happiness in the world.

At least if you are with Jack, he thinks, he still has you in his life. He can still see those beautiful, wide eyes whenever he wants without question or suspicion.

He clings to this.

Even so, he feels as though he is being sucked into a riptide. It seems fated that his life is going in a much different direction than the newlyweds. The draft notice he received a week ago confirms this, weighing heavy on his heart and feeing like a nail in the coffin of his hopes and dreams.

God is testing him, he thinks. It is all a very clear and stark reminder that where he goes, you cannot follow. He cannot help but feel that God is punishing him for his sins by taking him away from the fame he has just settled into to, taking him from the people he loves and the things he loves to do. He wants to lament that it isn’t fair, but part of him knows that he deserves this, too, for what he’s done and for what he’s done to you.

And perhaps God works in mysterious ways, as while he is loathe to leave his parents and his career and his fans, he cannot help the small part of him that is relieved he doesn’t have to watch you and Jack in your newlywedded bliss for the next two years. It’s the only upshot to this entire disaster.

But he won’t let his sorrow overshadow your big day. With a smile plastered on his face, he gives a charming and loving speech of how wonderful it is to see his two best friends find such happiness with each other. He only stutters once or twice, which comes across as endearing rather than damning. But the thing is, even though he is miserable, he is still happy for you two. He wants more than anything for you to have everything you’ve ever wanted and more, and if that is with Jack, then so be it.

The only time he truly falters is during the dance.

Your little sister (who at 18 is not so little anymore), Rosie, as the Maid of Honor, dances with Jack, while he, the Best Man, dances with you. The moment he touches you, sparks fly through him and down his spine, and he cannot help but pull you in a little too close, even though everyone is looking. His large hand wraps around your smaller one and the other clings to your waist.

The thing is, you do not react to this at all, not outwardly, anyway. You let him hold you and press his cheek against your temple. You let him breathe in your scent and lean into you, as if memorizing everything about you. You let his hands contract, pulling you in closer. You let him lead because it’s like somehow you know, in your soul, that he needs this, even if you’re not exactly sure why.

And for that he is grateful. He is grateful as he takes in every bit of you, committing you to memory, knowing that soon that is all he will have of you. All you will be is a memory, imprinted on his heart, for the rest of time.

When the song comes to an end, he leans back slowly, his eyes searching your face for any recognition, any understanding of his plight, any feelings of your own that might linger in your subconscious. You stare back at him openly for a moment, and for a second he thinks he sees a glimmer of something in your eyes, but then Jack is pulling you away and the moment is gone.

As the party continues into the night, he feels like he is suffocating and escapes upstairs to his room. And as people know not to enter his bedroom without express permission, he feels safe to let out the shaking sob he’s been holding back for hours.

He’s not sure how long he cries before a tap at the door startles him into motion, frantically wiping at his face.

“Bewbie, sweet boy, can I come in? It’s just me,” his mama’s voice echoes through the door.

“Yeah, Mama, come in,” he croaks out, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. While he is relieved that it’s her and not one of the guys, or God forbid, you, he still doesn’t know how he’s going to explain the state he’s in.

His mama comes in quietly, shutting the door quickly behind her. She looks him over and in one fell swoop seems to understand, even though he’s said nothing, even though he’s spent months perfecting his nonchalantness for the world, what is going on.

But a mother knows.

His mama sits next to him on the edge of the bed, putting her arm comfortingly around his broad shoulders. “Oh, my wittle baby, it’s her, isn’t it? Our beautiful y/n. You love her,” she says, less of a question and more stating a fact.

That does him in, the way his secret is exposed so easily by his mama. It terrifies him that she knows him so well, and terrifies him that if she knows this, what else does she know? There’s no point in denying anything, so he curls into her like a child and lets go of it all, the tears streaming once again down his cheeks as his body shakes with quiet sobs.

His mama has always loved you, taking quickly to your genial ways and how you always made time to spend with her. Maybe she suspected something from the start, he doesn’t know, but she doesn’t judge or scold him now.

“H-hurts so bad, Satnin,” he hiccups out. And it does, now that he’s letting it. It feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest.

“I know, baby, I know,” she coos, rubbing his back. He can sense all the questions she wants to ask but doesn’t.

“I-I-I couldn’t…I-I ain’t w-w-what she needs or wants, Mama,” he stutters out. It’s as close as he’s willing to get to telling her the truth.

“It takes a brave man to let the girl he loves marry another, when he knows that’s what she wants, though I can’t say I wish it didn’t work out the other way,” his mama tuts.

“Y-you knew?”

“Course I knew, Bewbie. A mother always knows. To be fair, I been watchin’ the way ya look at that girl for the past few years and it didn’t take much t’put it all together, baby,” she says. “But the question is, does she know?”

He stills and stays silent for a moment, before answering truthfully, “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” she tuts, “I’m gonna trust you had good reason for lettin’ that wonderful girl go without tellin’ her how ya feel?”

His heart constricts, causing him to doubt his choices, but he can’t explain how he nearly killed you with his terrible decisions. He certainly can’t tell his mama that he made love to you when you weren’t yourself, no matter that it was you came on to him. And he knows his mama would balk if he told her how much he doesn’t deserve your love because of his sins.

“It’s better this way, Mama,” he says quietly, sitting up and staring at his hands. “And she’s happy, both she and Jack.”

His mama nods, resigned. “Alright, my sweet baby, puttin’ your friends’ happiness before your own…I know ya made the choice ya thought was best,” she says, wiping his face and pinching his cheeks, “but ya get yourself cleaned up now ‘n go be at least a ‘lil happy for your friends, okay?” She leaves the obvious unsaid—that he’s leaving to film in a few days and straight from there, it’ll be into the Army, so this will be one of the last times he can spend with them.

He nods. “O-okay, Satnin.”

And with that, he does as he’s told.

And then, in a blink of an eye, she’s gone. His mama is gone and his world fully collapses and it’s all his fault.

You are the only one who saves him from being completely swallowed in the blackness of his despair, and he’s not in his right mind to think or care how that looks. All he knows is you’re there when he needs you the most. You’re there to get him through the absolute worst of it before they send him a world away, and then, he loses you, too.

He loses everything that means anything to him—his mama, you, his career—and he wonders how long God will continue to punish him for his misdeeds, until he can’t bring himself to care much anymore about anything at all.

Germany feels like a cold fog that clouds his brain, even when he brings his Daddy and Dodger and Red over to live with him off base. In his haze, he writes Anita promises he wishes he could keep but deep down knows he won’t. Then, he turns around and does all the things he shouldn’t do because he can and what does it even matter if it’s all lost anyway? He takes the pills they give him to keep him awake in the field, and those make him feel pretty good, for a time anyway, and then he starts taking other pills they give him to bring him down after. In his off time, he screws and tries to forget the life he used to know.

And in those horrible quiet hours when he lies awake, trying to sleep when even the pills won’t let him, trying to escape and can’t, he thinks of you. He thinks of his love for you and your hold over him even now, a world away, and when he’s extra lonely, he imagines you on top of him, writhing and beautiful. And when he comes undone, there’s nothing left but a gaping hole in his heart and a mess in his hand.

March 1960

Elvis bites his nails to the quick on the long journey home. It’s not just because of the planes and the exhaustion and not knowing if he’ll ever get back to being “Elvis Presley,” but he knows he’ll be seeing you in a matter of hours. Not years or months or weeks, but hours.

And he thinks that maybe he is finally over you, that maybe he’s healed enough from everything and that he’s on his way to start something new, something fresh.

But, God, somehow you are more beautiful now than before, but you act so strange around him, and his heart wants to leap and implode all at once. Somehow everything has changed…but you, you still own his heart.

Once he discovers your pregnancy, he is over the moon for you because he can sense how badly you want this. He doesn’t care that the baby is Jack’s—he loves it more than anything because he loves you and seeing you so happy brings him true joy for the first time in a long, long time.

His career is taking off again, his new image impressing those who denounced him a few years ago, and he already has appearances and recordings and films lined up to go. Life feels…almost good, like maybe he’s finally paid his karmic debt.

Then you almost bleed to death in his arms.

His terrified confession of love is spoken in an act of desperation, a singular hope that if you know he loves you, you won’t be able to go, that the string of fate that draws you both together cannot be broken, that he can somehow will you back to life with the power of his love.

He begs God, begs as he’s never begged before, an inner wail of blood-soaked prayer that does not cease as he rides with your near-lifeless form to the hospital, nor when he calls Jack and your parents, nor as paces the waiting room.

Singularly focused on his pleas to God, he doesn’t even realize he’s covered in your blood until Charlie and Jerry arrive shortly after the ambulance and look at him in shock.

“Jesus, EP,” Charlie gasps quietly, taking in the macabre scene, “We need to get you changed and cleaned up before Jack gets here.”

That’s when he looks down and sees your life’s blood staining his pants, his shirt, his arms, his hands. God, it’s even under my nails, he thinks as he watches his hands shake, feeling utterly disconnected from his body.

He’s frozen, unable to move, repeating his prayers again and again, until Charlie whisks him away and has to physically help him strip down and wash the blood from his body in the bathroom. As he watches the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, he cannot bear the thought that maybe it’s the last thing he has of you, these stains, and that maybe he’s truly lost you.

He just got you back. He can’t lose you. He won’t.

No, his inner mantra of prayer doesn’t cease until he is absolutely sure you are going to be okay.

Though “okay” is relative, he learns quickly. You have a long recovery ahead of you, the surgeons say, wiping their sweating brows, and the next few days will be crucial. The baby is gone, and the doctors say that more tests need to be done once you are well to see if that is even an option in the future.

He is heartbroken for you, and for Jack. But you are alive. You are alive.

Lamar and Red have to physically drag him from the hospital in the morning to get him ready and put him on the train to Florida for Frank Sinatra’s special, which is the very last thing he wants to do. But it is absolutely pivotal in his career comeback, so he tells Rosie in no uncertain terms that she is to keep him posted about her sister and any developments.

As he showers and packs, exhaustion seeping into his bones, it suddenly hits him that he told you he loved you, and it’s likely there will be fallout from that. It makes him incredibly worried, and he is even more loathe to leave until he knows where he stands with you. It’s possible you won’t even want to see him again.

Or it’s possible she loves you, too, a little voice hopes. But he knows better than to feed that monster. You don’t love him, not like that, and it’s selfish of him to even consider at a time like this.

“It’ll take your mind off things, EP,” Jerry tries to convince him, seeing his trepidation, prodding him along to get on the train. “And it’ll give y/n and Jack and her family time to get situated.”

The message is clear. Elvis is not in the inner circle of your life, not anymore, not as he wants to be. This fact is both sobering and cutting at the same time. It reminds him yet again that where he goes, you cannot follow, and where you go, he is not always welcome or needed.

He nods solemnly, thinking he finally understands, yet again, the terms of his deal with God. You live and he keeps his distance, he keeps his sins from tainting you. You live and he lets you go.

He pops a couple of pills, brought over from Germany, to wake him up, to get him in the performing mindset, to rev him up to being THE Elvis Presley. “Anything she needs, anything at all, comes to me,” he tells Jerry, “Hospital bills, recovery costs…and I want the best doctors helping her figure out her pregnancy issues. Oh, and send flowers, every day.”

Jerry nods, eyes observant and keen. “Of course, EP. Anything for y/n and Jack.”

Yes, anything for you.

You don’t remember a thing from that night, he learns from Rosie, and most of him thinks it’s for the best. But a small, egotistical part of him thinks bitterly that you certainly have a knack for forgetting anything monumental that happens between the two of you.

But he is busy. So busy, in fact, that he barely has time to think of you at all after that.

Except half the songs he chooses for his comeback album have something to do with you, which he only consciously realizes when he steps up to the mic to sing. And just as he thought of you the night of the talent show, he thinks of you now, singing about the girl of his best friend and how it feels so right being with you. He pours his hopes and dreams and frustrations and sorrows right into that album.

Perhaps it will cleanse him of needing you. Perhaps it’ll help him let you go.

When you find out that children are likely not in the cards for you and Jack, he sends more flowers, every day for a week. Jack is devastated and practically begs to come out to Hollywood to escape the sadness, so he agrees.

Anything for his friend, right?

He takes care of you from afar. He takes care of everything. Anything you could possibly want or need is yours. But he keeps his distance.

That is the bargain.

He falters at Christmas, almost letting his grief and yours ruin everything. He swears that you feel something for him, that maybe your impulse to be with him was not entirely driven by the drugs all those years ago. That maybe you do somehow remember his confession. Part of him swears if he had let it happen, you would’ve been his once again.

But you are not his, you never really were.

And while he knows this on a logical level, the more he is away, the more he fills his days with mindless movie making and wooing his costars and taking pills that bring him up and more that pull him down, the more he lets himself imagine you are his. From a distance, he can take care of you. From a distance and in the deep recesses of his mind, you belong to him and him alone.

“Elvis Presley” becomes a household name, now with a clean-cut image, alluring to both housewives and teenagers alike. His fame and wealth grow, and so does his isolation and loneliness. So does the need for the pills and to bring the rest of the guys into it all with him. Even Jack.

Especially Jack.

But he doesn’t like to think about why that is.

He manages to destroy his relationship with Anita along the way. He loved her, in his way, he really did. But she was not you. Neither is Ann, though he thinks for a moment that she may be the answer to his prayers, but in the end, he screws that up, too.

As the years drag on, he thinks he finally understands why he sabotages every relationship he’s ever had—it’s you—none of them are YOU. So he flits from fling to fling without ever truly landing because all he really wants is your love. But he doesn’t deserve it, he never has.

He knows this as he watches Jack descend into alcohol and drugs and women, and a small, horrible part of him wants Jack to self-destruct, and even though he knows this hurts you, he is too selfish to stop it. And the guilt of this, coupled with the downturn in his career, pushes him to self-destruct, too.

Still, he keeps his distance. When he’s home, he tries not to shoot you too many lingering glances. He reins himself in, most of the time, but in moments of weakness, he allows himself to get too close. He catches you alone, he makes a pass. But because you are you, you always rebuke him with a laugh. Silly Elvis, ever the jokester.

But sometimes, in the dark of night, in your beautiful, wide eyes, he sees something else. That deeper connection that drew you together in the first place, mixed with a heat he has only seen once or twice. And it is that which keeps his hope alive.

In an attempt to bury it and fill the hole in his heart, he almost marries, but in the end, he can’t go through with it. He’s wildly unhappy and dissatisfied, and it’s not until he finally gains some control over his career again that things take a turn for the better. He finally starts to clean up his act. He seeks knowledge and spiritual clarity. He finally finds his passion for music and performing again after nearly a decade.

But it’s too late for Jack. He managed to drag Jack to hell and while he made it back, Jack has not. And you are miserable because of it. This breaks his heart.

He tried to give you everything you wanted and needed by stepping back to let Jack do so. He kept his distance. He did what he’d promised God, and yet life still destroyed your dreams.

Jack no longer makes you happy. Jack is no longer the man who can give you what you need.

And suddenly Elvis wonders if he was wrong all along. That perhaps he wasn’t the man you needed then, but he is now. Perhaps his sins have been forgiven. Perhaps the more he pushes you away, the worse things become for both of you because you are indeed supposed to be together.

You are his. You’ve always been his.

So, riding high from his first Vegas performance, he finally allows himself to pursue you. He pushes away a decade and a half of guilt and shame and lets his charm and confidence entice you. He lets the sparks fly between you, finally free after all this time, and more intense than ever. To his gleeful surprise, you accept him willingly, if not a bit hesitantly.

Maybe it is just sex, he thinks at first, this carnal need he has for you, but he knows better. As soon as he tastes you after all these years, he knows he can never let you go again. As soon as he coaxes, then watches you come undone again and again, he realizes that still, after all this time, this is it for him. You are it. You always have been. And he will do anything to keep you, to make sure you know that you are his.

He thinks you might remember it all after that first night, but you don’t, not right away. He senses your fear to let go, to let yourself have him, to have this affair. He knows you want this to be only sex. And maybe it is for you, at first.

But he will have you. He doesn’t care how many mountains he must move or what he has to do to convince you to stay, but he loves you more than anything in the world and he’s not willing to part with you, not anymore.

It’s true that his fame, wealth, and influence have spoiled him into always getting what he desires. Of course, what he truly desires always has been you. Now unlocked, his love and want and need for you is insatiable, and he will do anything to keep it that way.

Anything for you. Anything but letting you go.

As the blackout of his rage starts to dissipate and he comes to, he assumes that his friends are holding him back from quite literally killing the disheveled and beaten man who used to be his best friend, and he watches with deep satisfaction as you slap the shit out of your husband.

He also feels the immense guilt of letting it get this far, of not knowing just how bad Jack was to you, and his part in all of it.

But when you vomit and promptly fall to an unconscious heap on the ground, his fear is what overshadows his rage and guilt. Something is wrong, he knows it.

Not again, not again, not again.

Triggered by your history, Elvis, with untold strength, wrenches himself from the four men holding him down and clamors to your side, everyone else forgotten.

Pulling your limp body into his lap, he screams for someone to call the doctor. His heart pounds so hard he thinks he might need one, too.

Please God, please God, please God. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.

That deep-seeded, old shame creeps back in as he rocks you: This is your fault. Your selfishness did this. You destroyed Jack, he took it out on her, and you’ve put her at risk, yet again. You are a scourge on this woman you claim to love so much. A pestilence.

He’s getting lost in this fearful despair, and then Jerry’s voice in his ear snaps him back: “EP. EP! You have to let her go, man. The doctor is here.” Jerry pulls his arms off her as the doctor examines her.

Elvis’ fingers go straight to his mouth, his obsessive habit of biting his nails taking over as he watches the doctor carefully.

The doctor looks up, taking in the scene. He looks at Elvis, then at Jack bleeding against the wall, and purses his lips. “Will somebody tell me what happened to this young lady?”

“There was an incident…” Jerry begins diplomatically.

“Her husband slammed his fist into her face!” Sandy yells over him, furious, earning scathing looks from the entourage. They knew better than to give details, knowing to keep things close to the chest and avoid any legal issues, to protect him at all costs.

“Sandy!” Jerry admonishes her.

“No, it’s okay, Jer,” Elvis says firmly, waving him off. “I’m sure the doctor knows to be discreet.”

The doctor looks up at his hovering, intimidating form, and says nothing for a moment. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I need to get her to a hospital and stabilized as soon as possible. She needs x-rays. It’s likely she has a serious concussion, Mr. Presley.”

The men start to argue, knowing that as soon as she leaves this room, a whole host of problems could fall down on them, but that’s the last thing he cares about right now. All that matters is you.

Elvis holds up his hand and everyone goes silent. “Do what you need to do, Doc. Anything she needs.”

The doctor nods and asks that someone phone for an ambulance.

Elvis looks up and sees that the men cleared the room at some point, leaving only the major players. Jack still sits, leaning on the wall next to Red, his face battered and bloody, watching the doctor. Elvis can’t tell if Jack is sorry or not. Elvis walks towards Jack, his anger tempered only by his concern for you.

“EP!” Jerry says in a warning tone, signaling for the men to flank him.

“I’m fine,” he commands, crouching at Jack’s side.

Jack flinches.

“Are you proud of yourself, Jacky Boy? Are you satisfied, seeing her laid out on the ground like that? Is this what you wanted?” he hisses.

Jack says nothing. He sees the tears in Jack’s eyes, the regret through the pain, and for a second, Elvis almost sees the man he used to know in there.

“Hmm,” he tuts, looking over his friend with disgust, shaking his head. “I’ll deal with you later. And you, too,” he says, with a low, deadly calm, pointedly to Red. Then he rises easily from the floor, his attention on the men with the stretcher who just entered the suite.

“It’s never enough with you, EP, you selfish motherfucker. The man who gets everything he wants, no matter how many lives he has to destroy to get it. The rules never apply to you, do they? Dammit, you coulda had anyone, anyone! Why did it have to be y/n?” Jack spits out mournfully from behind him.

Shame snakes through him, through the anger that continues to boil under just the surface, covering the sorrow that flows under that. There is truth in Jack’s words, he knows that, even though he wants to deny it.

“How long, Elvis?”

He supposes he owes Jack that much, though he doesn’t even turn his head.

“Opening night.”

“No, you bastard. How long have you been in love with my wife?”

The room goes silent yet again.

Elvis turns around, but he cannot bring himself to look Jack in the eyes for a moment. A lifetime of memories flashes through his head, of times much better than this, of times when they had each other’s backs. Ultimately, he knows what Jack has become is partially his fault. Ultimately, he knows it was wrong of him to want you when you weren’t his, wrong to have sex with you, even before the debacle of you and the pills. It was wrong of him to manipulate Jack into marrying you.

As much as he hates Jack right now, he once loved him, and still, he betrayed him.

Jack chuckles darkly, “That fucking long, huh?”

Elvis finally looks Jack in the eyes but says nothing. Nothing he can say will make any of this less of a fiasco. Nothing he can say with make it right, no matter how much he wants to jump in to defend himself, to tell Jack he saw you first, to tell him he wanted you first, to fucking explain that you’re his goddamn soulmate and he’s had to watch you be with someone else for almost two fucking decades.

“Ahhh, and she didn’t even know, did she?” A hint of a smile plays on Jack’s bloodied lips. “Didn’t even give the King the time of day! Well, at least I got that goin’ for me,” he laughs.

His brow furrows as he fumes, and he steps towards Jack again. Lamar puts himself between the two men.

“It’s fine, Lamar, let him at me. What do I have to lose now anyways?” Jack laughs, which turn suddenly to sobs, “You were my brother. I gave up my life for you! I loved you, man!”

The words cut Elvis to the bone, flooding his fury with more guilt.

“And I love her,” Jack sobs.

“You don’t fucking love her,” Elvis says, infuriated, pushing past Lamar to grab Jack’s chin, wrenching his head to look at you being put on the stretcher. “You hurt her. You been hurtin’ her. And Jack, if she dies, I don’t care what brotherly love was between you and me—I will fucking kill you,” he says, low and vehement in Jack’s ear, for only him to hear.

He pulls back to stare Jack in the eye, to let him know just how serious he is, to make sure he understands that through the pain and the alcohol and whatever pills he might be on.

Jack blinks through his tears and nods his head once, shakily.

Elvis releases him.

Then he steps in behind you, still unconscious, on the stretcher as they take you out of the penthouse and to the elevator.

“EP, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to…” Charlie starts, hustling behind him.

He turns, seeing the stares of the men who have given him their lives to stand by his side. Some of them are befuddled, some understanding and resigned, some even a little suspicious after tonight’s events.

“I don’t give two shits if it’s a good idea or not, I’m goin’ with her. Anyone wanna argue with me about it?” he says impatiently, shooting up an eyebrow.

No one does.

It’s good it’s the middle of the night, otherwise he would’ve caused a huge scene at the hospital. But the nurses and doctors seem to gather by his demeanor that now is not the time for autographs. Instead of putting them in the waiting room, they set up an empty room at the end of the hall for the lot of them, a gruff old nurse warning them they best be quiet and not wake any of the patients before she closes the door on them.

And for the third time in his life, he waits to know your fate.

He waits for you, just as he’s been waiting for you for the last 18 years.

He waits and he prays, though this time, he makes no bargains with God.

He stills when the doctor finally comes to tell him that, yes, you do have a concussion and though you will likely experience symptoms as you recover, you should recover fully. He feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

When the doctor leads him and him alone back to your room, the doctor mentions the other symptoms you’ll likely experience and that you might have issues with your memory leading up to the event. Elvis cannot help but chuckle at that.

“Oh, I’m betting she will,” he says under his breath, though this time, he thinks it might be best after what you went through tonight.

He sits by your side in the quiet, dimmed room, and is taken aback by the angry bruising already spreading over your beautiful face. His fury at Jack swells through him once more, followed immediately by sadness. You look so innocent and fragile lying there. Suddenly, he feels afraid to touch you, as though you might break.

So, he waits. He waits for you to wake and he prays. He thinks of the lifetime he’s had without you and the life he wants with you going forward. And this time, he knows he won’t be leaving your side for anyone or anything.

But his secrets still lay heavy and dark on his heart. There are those things he cannot tell you of that day at Graceland so long ago, and the things he still cannot bring himself to admit to, like his confession of love as you almost died in his arms and his meddling in your life. He doesn’t want to tell you how all of it has led to you lying here in this hospital, hurt and fragile but somehow still his, he hopes.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about it yet, so for now he just waits for you to come back to him.

He’s been too rough with you, he thinks, in his quest to show you how you are his. Pushing you too hard to keep up with his rockstar lifestyle and his insatiable need for you sexually has not been good for you. You’re exhausted, not eating, and have been on an emotional rollercoaster for days, and he was too consumed by his own selfishness to listen, so much so that he almost drove you away. The hurt, the feeling of pure panic that shot through him when you said you were leaving was enough to bring him to his knees, but of course, he could not tell you that. He couldn’t show you that weakness. Instead, he’d covered it with anger and passion, fucking you into submission.

He realizes his dominance, while fun in the bedroom, is perhaps masking his true feelings. He has told you in so many words how desperate he is for you, how he wants you to be with him, to let him take care of you, how he is yours, that he needs you. But in truth, he is afraid. Afraid that you don’t and never will feel the same towards him as he does towards you. That it is only his coercion, manipulation, and his sexual prowess that keeps you here with him. No matter how much you say you are his and that you will stay as he fucks it out of you, he’s not convinced that you’ll feel the same in the light of day, of your own accord.

Lord, the way you said you needed him tonight flashed him right back to that first time with you at Graceland. The time you don’t remember. He is putty in your hands now, just as he was then. But that need of yours was only sexual. If it is truly just sex for you and you are only staying for that…well, that scares him and makes him want to hold onto you so tightly that you can’t leave even if you wanted to.

If you don’t ever feel that same pull inside your heart, in your soul, that he has for you, he’s not sure what he will do.

Gone is the bravado and confidence gleaned from years of being Elvis Presley. Instead, he sits here at your bedside feeling stripped to his core: a nervous, stuttering boy with a funny name who loves you more than life itself. He is that boy who picked your books up off the ground, the one who you calmed backstage with your sweetness and wit. For you and you alone, he is just Elvis. And he’s worried he won’t recover if you don’t ever grow to love him.

Anxiety courses through him, a throbbing pulse that serves to remind him that for all he has and is in this world, he is still only a man. And you are the girl who has comforted him through some of his worst moments, yet now after all this time he’s still terrified to let you truly see him. If he lets you in, you will see him for all that he is and all the terrible parts of himself he’s ashamed of: his selfishness and possessiveness, his overindulgence, his obsessive tendencies, his goddamned vanity and ego. His secrets. If you know the things he’s kept from you, he’s not sure you’ll ever forgive him. Certainly, you could not love him.

His heart aches at that thought, flooding him with despair. He needs you so badly that he cannot bear to risk showing you everything; however, a deep part of him wants to flay himself bare to you, to expose himself in a way that he has never done before, not with anyone.

Elvis puts his head on the bed near your hand. He is going to be gentler with you, especially after tonight. He will prove to you that he is worthy of your love, that this is so much more than just sex. He’s going to take care of you and give you the life you’ve always deserved.

God has humbled him once again tonight, and he knows he must do better.

He loves you so deeply he can hardly breathe.

So, he waits. He prays.

And he hopes that one day, you will love him, too.

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#pink scarf #our poor sweet baby elvis #definitely shed a tear or two over this one #elvis presley

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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interact with this post to be added to my taglist!

(if you only want to be tagged in writings featuring a certain person pls specify)

#austin butler #austin butler fic #elvis presley #elvis fic #butlervol6writes

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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the crocodile eyes get me every time holy shit he’s so hot

Austin Butler as Elvis Presley, in between takes of #ElvisMovie. Photographed by Ruby Bell

#everyone say thank you ruby bell #he’s so slutty #like please lemme hit austin

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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masterlist <3

hi there! im ab and i am so glad you’re here :)

join my taglist

austin butler:

- dad(to be) austin series

following austin and fem!reader as they begin the journey of starting their family together! warnings and summaries available at the beginning of each part.

part one (the moment you knew) part two (the baby talk) part three (positive) part four coming soon...

elvis presley:

coming soon...

#austin butler #austin butler x reader #austin butler fanfic #austin butler fic #elvis presley #elvis fic #austin butler elvis #masterlist #butlervol6writes

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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positive | dad(to be) austin x reader

previous part here!!

pairing: austin x fem!reader

summary: trying for a baby isn’t always easy, especially when you keep getting negative tests. austin and reader remind themselves, and each other, to keep positive over the course of the first few months of trying.

warnings/notes: negative pregancy tests, mild sadness/crying, mentions of periods, very mildly suggestive at one point, and tw for v*mitting!! im finally back!!! i missed you all so much, my life has actually been insane the last few months and it seems like im finally catching a break so i can write again. im so so thankful for all the love and support on my writing so far and im so excited to finally get this part out for yall! ENJOY PT 3!!!!

words: 2.8k

You knew when you started trying to get pregnant that it could be a long process. As someone who could be easily disappointed you knew it was important to prepare yourself and, before you got the first negative test, you thought that you had adequately done so.

month 1-September 2021

It was the day before your period was due to start at the beginning of November, the first time taking a test after you and Austin had begun trying to get pregnant. Austin was sitting on the couch downstairs, strumming absentmindedly on his guitar while an old movie played on the tv, when you quietly closed and locked the ensuite bathroom door. You had just come back from brunch with a couple friends, also stopping on the way home to pick up a box of pregnancy tests, and told Austin you were just ‘running upstairs to change’ so he wouldn’t suspect anything. Before taking the test, you closed your eyes and internally reminded yourself not to get your hopes up, though you could still feel the buzz of excited anticipation. After taking the test, setting it on the counter and washing your hands, you allowed your mind to wander. You imagined how excited Austin would be when you showed him the test and how you would reveal to the world that you were going to be parents. You turned to the side to gaze at your stomach in the mirror, imagining a bump containing your tiny growing baby.

When the timer finally beeped, you were quick to pick up the test, expecting to be faced with two bold red lines. When there was only one, you immediately felt the disappointment set it. You tried turning the test side to side, using your phone flashlight—anything to try and identify the missing line. After a couple of minutes, it was clear that the test was negative and your sadness hit like a freight train.

Tears freely flowed down your face and you knew that the only way to feel better would be to talk about it with Austin. For this reason, you decided to just head downstairs and find comfort in your blissfully unaware husband, still strumming on his guitar.

“Baby, come ‘ere. What’s wrong?” He quickly placed his guitar to the side and opened his arms, which you immediately fell into.

“I wanted to surprise you because I thought it would be positive but it wasn’t.” You sniffle with your head tucked into his neck, pulling the test from your pocket and holding it out to him. He takes it, glancing at it and quickly setting it aside, pulling you even closer. His arms were warm and tight around your frame, “I’m just disappointed.”

He maneuvers your head from his neck, brushing your hair out of your face and kissing both your cheeks, “It’s okay to be disappointed, I’m sorry I wasn’t with you when you took it. Just try to remember that this is just the first test baby.” You nod at him, wiping the remaining tears from your cheeks,

“I know, I know. I just really thought I was so it took me off guard.” You blow out a breath before continuing, “It’s just not the right time, when it is then it’ll happen.” Austin smiles lovingly at you, tilting your face up to place a gentle kiss on your lips,

“Exactly. We just need to keep positive in the meantime.” You smile back at him, his encouraging words making you feel better. “Plus, this just means we get to keep trying. Don’t you love trying? I know I do.” He squeezes your hip and leans in to leave sloppy kisses along the skin of your neck and chest. You giggle, threading your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck to pull him harder against you. You feel his lips pull into a smile momentarily against your skin before continuing to mark you,

All you can manage before you pull him up and crash your lips against his is, “Well, that, mister, is a great point.”

month 3- December 2021

It was a few days before Christmas and you were, understandably, stressed. Last minute shopping, baking, wrapping and packing for visiting Austin’s family over the holidays filled your days. It was as you were putting the last tray of gingerbread cookies in the oven that Austin entered the kitchen, your phone in his hand and his hair still wet from his shower,

“Here darlin’,” He hands you the phone, fluidly reaching around you to press start on the oven timer for the cookies and kiss the side of your head, “It was vibrating on the bathroom counter, figured it was important.”

You took the phone, thanking your husband, and tapped the screen to check your notifications. There was a text from Austin’s sister confirming holiday plans, a couple of emails you noted to go delete later and a message from your period tracker app. Since trying to get pregnant you had been using the tracker more than ever, for figuring out when you are ovulating and also when to test. After the last two months of negatives you had neglected to check your app as much, meaning that you didn’t really know where in your cycle you were.

You unlocked your phone, opening the app to check the notification, and were met with a pop-up stating that you were three days late–a notification you had set up when you and Austin decided to start trying but had never recieved in the months previous. You were momentarily taken off guard, reaching back to grip the counter top you were leaning against. Austin, still in the kitchen, glanced over at you,

“What’s goin’ on?” He stood from his seat at the kitchen island, coming to stand next to you and peers at your phone, “Oh–does that mean…?” You look up, meeting his eyes. You can tell there is an excitement in them so you choose your words carefully,

“I–uh, I’m not really sure. I mean I’ve been late before and not been pregnant…and I have been stressed with everything going on so it could just be that.” He listens intently to your words, his thumb and finger pinching and prodding at his bottom lip anxiously, “But, I could test just so we know for sure?” His eye light up at your suggestion, nodding enthusiastically. You softly smile at him, “Alright, but I need to finish baking and I really should finish packing and we also have a few more gifts to wra–” Austin grasps your face between his hands,

“Baby, it’s okay. We can do it whenever you’re ready.” He presses a quick kiss to your lips, pulling back and smiling at you before busying himself with cleaning up your baking mess. You can’t help at smile to yourself, taken with just how kind and caring your husband always is.

…

After hours of doing the many tasks that needed completing, you finally had a free moment to take the pregnancy test with Austin. He leaned against the counter, reading from the large instructional booklet in his hands from the pregnancy test box–as if you hadn’t taken many before– when you entered the ensuite bathroom. Without looking up, he held out the unwrapped test to you. You took it from him, ripping the package open and threw it in the trash. Austin still hadn’t looked up, fully engrossed in his reading,

“Love, you do know there isn’t going to be a quiz? You don’t need to memorize everything on that paper.” He looked up at this comment and regarded you with faux annoyance,

“Ha Ha, you think you’re so funny hm?” You nodded at him, a smug smile on your face, and he couldn’t help but crack a smile. As much as you were teasing him about it, you found it endearing that he was so interested. “Alright, now go pee.” He gestured toward the test in your hand. It was your turn to laugh at him and his bold declaration, making your way to the toilet while he went back to his reading,

“Okay okay, I’m going you impatient man.” You pulled down your leggings, sitting down and uncapping the test, watching as Austin went right back to the place he had left off in the booklet. You shook your head at him and began to reach the test between your legs when you caught sight of a familiar red stain. You had felt pain in your back for a couple of hours but assumed it was because you had been on your feet all day doing chores, not because you had–finally– started your period. You thought you would be disappointed but instead you felt a laugh bubble up and out before you could stop it, “Um…Aus?”

“What baby?” He looked over at you, immediately noticing the crimson against the light pink fabric of your underwear. Surprisingly, he too chuckled to himself, crossing his arms over his chest, “That’s just our luck isn’t it?” He reached under the sink, grabbing you a tampon and an extra pair of underwear from the stash you kept with your period supplies to hand to you. You were momentarily surprised that he wasn’t at all disappointed and couldn’t help but vocalize that,

“You’re not upset?” You began cleaning yourself up, still sat on the toilet and, if it had been anyone else, you would’ve felt strange having such casual conversation while you were doing so. But not with Austin, who replied just as casually,

“Well, I mean maybe a little. But, like I said the first time, it’s just not the time yet. It will be soon enough, and until then I’m gonna keep positive for you and us.” He punctuated his sentence with a kiss before he began to back out of the room with the promise of snacks, a movie and cuddles downstairs once you were cleaned up.

month 5- Februray 2022

By the fifth month, you and Austin had managed to completely eliminated the pressure, and therefore the possibility of disappointment, off of trying to get pregnant. You had both fully come to terms with the idea that your timeline being altered wouldn’t really matter in the long run, either way you would eventually have a child and the time it took to get there would never cross your minds again. Because of this, you decided the month prior that you would stop testing before your period was due to begin as it created more upset than it was worth. If you ended up not being pregnant that month then the arrival of your period would alert you, not a negative test.

Today was the last day before your period was supposed to arrive for the month and it was the least stressed you had felt since September. Instead of worrying all day about the impending test you would have to take, you were able to bask in the excitement of the first Elvis trailer dropping with your husband. There were phone calls and FaceTimes with Baz, cast and crew, who Austin had become close to during the process, celebrating the positive reception and palpable excitement from the public. This led into days of preliminary, general conversations with managers and agents around press tours and public appearances for the following months. You were so engrossed in it all, excitement buzzing through you as you sat in zoom and phone meetings hand-in-hand with Austin. You, and he, had been so caught up in it all the excitement that a week and a half slipped away without so much as a second thought from either of you. This was until you were making dinner one night and suddenly felt sick to your stomach.

At first you just made your way over to the fridge and got yourself a glass of water, thinking you had just been too busy that day and neglected to keep yourself properly hydrated–a somewhat common occurrence you had been actively trying to work on changing. You swallowed one mouthfull of the cold water and immediately felt your stomach turn, slapping a hand over your mouth and running to the first floor bathroom. Barely making it inside, you double over and empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet. Austin, having heard the commotion, enters the bathroom,

“Oh my poor girl.” He gently pulls your hair away from your face and rubs a hand along your back. After a few minutes of retching, the nausea passes and you sit down. You lean back against Austin’s legs as he stands behind you, closing your eyes. You hear the sink turn on and off before feeling a cool cloth touch the heated skin of first, your forehead, and then arms, “Think it’s passed now or do you still feel sick?” You open your eyes and look up at him, his pretty blue eyes meeting yours,

“I think I’m done for now. Can you help me stand up?.” He places the cloth he was dragging along your skin down before gently lifting you up. You lean heavily on him, skin still feeling slightly heated and prickily as the last of the nausea still lingers, and he carefully manuvers you to stand in front of the sink. You reach for your toothbrush, about to put it in your mouth but stopping to ask, “Can you get my mug from under the sink so I can rince my mouth? I don’t think I can bend over.” He nods, leaving a hand on your waist as he squats down and opens the undersink cabinet. You brush your teeth quickly, just to get the taste out of your mouth, spitting out the toothpaste when you finish. He finds your mug, placing it on the counter and is about to stand up when when you feel him freeze,

“Baby?” He stands up abruptly, bumping you slightly, causing you to wince from the movement of your body and your weak stomach, “Oh my god, how late are you?” He holds up the box of tampons you had stashed under the sick after purchasing them a couple weeks ago in preparation for your period–the period that was supposed to start over a week ago. You stare at him dumbfounded for a moment, wiping the reminisce of toothpaste from your mouth with the back of your hand and quickly doing the math, before you ask him,

“Do we have any tests left?” He exits the bathroom without responding, heading upstairs to look for the box of tests in your bedroom. Left on your own, you look at yourself in the mirror, searching for any early indicator that you might actually be pregnant. You study your face and your frame, even lifting up your shirt and turning to side just like you did the first month, but, obviously, nothing looks different.

Austin reenters the room moments later, pregnancy test box in hand and everything happens so fast. The time it takes for you to take the two remaining tests, place them on the sink and set the three minute timer feels like it passes in the blink of an eye. The anxiety is thick in the air as Austin wraps himself around your from behind, rocking the two of you softly side to side with his arms tight around you and his head tucked into your neck, waiting for your three minute timer to beep. You hold tightly onto his arm that’s slung across your chest, leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

After the longest, most silent, three minutes of your life, your phone loudly signals the time is up and you jump. You feel Austin blow out a breath against you before lifting his head and looking at you through the mirror on the wall in front of you,

“Do you want to look or should I?” You turn around in his arms, carding a hand through his hair for a moment, studying his face, before kissing him softly. When you pull away you don’t answer his question right away, instead you say,

“Positive, right? We just need to keep being positive and everything will be okay, right?” Tears prick the corners of your eyes, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and needing reassurance. You can see his eyes get glassy before he pulls you into a crushing hug, pressing his lips to your forehead over and over. He murmurs against your skin,

“Yeah my love, everything will be perfect no matter what it says.” You kiss him again before pulling back, wiping your eyes and turning around to the sink where the tests lay. He reaches toward one test while leading your hand to the other, “Together?” You nod, pulling his free arm across your chest again as a comfort. Austin begins to count down from three and you repeat that word in your head like a mauntra,

“3.” Positive. “2.” Positive. “1.”

You both look down and flip the tests in your hands. Your hand instantly flies to your mouth, dropping the test back onto the counter, as you begin to cry,

“Oh my god, it’s positive!”

taglist: @bcofl0ve @abloversblog

#austin butler #austin butler x reader #dad austin #austin butler imagine #austin butler one shot #austin butler blurb #austin butler fic #austin butler x y/n #austin butler fluff #austin butler angst #austin butler fanfic #butlervol6writes

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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new part of my aus dad series tonight!! super excited for this one, it’s the longest part so far!!

if anyone wants to be part of a tag list let me know and i’ll start one!!

#austin butler #austin butler fic #dad austin #butlervol6writes #austin butler fanfic #austin butler blurb #austin butler fluff #austin butler imagine #austin butler x reader

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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Pink Scarf - PART 18.1 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

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

TW: References to sexual situations. 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: 8.6k

A/N: OKAY Y'ALL, Part 18 is split into two parts (18.1 & 18.2), so be aware that there is a bit of a cliffhanger for this reason. This part as a whole is another monster, but in a completely different way than the action-packed Part 17, and I didn't want to torture y'all anymore by making you wait for a GIANT chapter, since I was at 13k+ with no end in sight! We're diving into uncharted territory here (which was a challenge, let me tell y'all!) and 18.1 is all in flashback because of this. The vibe is DIFFERENT for obvious reasons, which you'll understand shortly. I promise there’s a good reason for the pivot, which will become more apparent in 18.2. Thank you so much for your patience, and I really hope you enjoy this perspective change in the story!

I've set the mood with lyrics from Teresa Brewer's Till I Waltz Again With You which is the song Elvis really sang in the talent show in '53 (unfortunately there is no recording of him singing it *sob*), and I've added pictures of our boy in the different years referenced, just to really give you a mental picture and break your heart a little bit. Only because I love y'all!

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! 👀💋

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!)

Elvis in 1951

You'll be waiting for my arms

September 1951

Elvis meanders down the hall through the crowds between classes, quiet, blue eyes sharp and watchful. He heads towards the lunchroom, his cheap and worn guitar slung over his shoulder. His dark blonde hair is too long for the popular style, greased and pushed back, a stray lock falling into his eyes. The style of his clothes is too bright and bold for a scrawny 16-year-old white boy, gaining him stares that range from curiosity to contempt, but he doesn’t care. He is wholly himself, a separate standout from the masses, but somehow unassuming through it all.

A few weeks into junior year, he already has his head down and tries to pay attention in his classes as best he can, even though sitting still is hard. He knows he must graduate and his mama and daddy will have his hide if he doesn’t, so he sits in the back row and listens and does his work as best he can. He makes decent grades. He’s respectful to his teachers, all “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir,” just like he was raised. All the while, his fingers drum out rhythms on his legs (the desk is too loud—he learned that the hard way a long time ago), his mind whirling and spinning with melodies and harmonies and dreams for the future.

But mostly he observes. He knows he’s different. He knows most kids don’t understand what he’s about. He’s a poor, church-going kid from the projects who is so quiet that he seems a little slow, except that those piercing blues see and hear everything, constantly cataloguing, constantly adapting, constantly thinking, constantly moving. Always searching for a way to get his family off the dole and into comfort. So, he waits and watches and learns. He doesn’t care if that earns him strange looks.

The halls start to thin as underclassmen hustle to their classes and upperclassmen run to lunch, loud and hungry and antsy. Elvis is not in a hurry, though, yet not without direction.

The little, fluttering thing that rounds the corner is, however, and plows straight into him, managing to knock herself and her books to the floor. He’s not quick enough to get out of the way, but he is fast enough to catch her as she goes flying backwards.

“Whoa!” he exclaims, his hand grasping your forearm as momentum carries you in the other direction. He somehow manages to swing his guitar down gently enough that it doesn’t splinter but the strings thrumb in a dissonant chord as it hits the ground.

The move to save both the guitar and the girl throws off his center of balance, so as you wheel back, you take him with you. In your panic to stay upright, you grab at him desperately, latching onto his wrist, which damns you both, but does serve to soften the blow as you land with a gasp on your backside.

His fancy shoes have no traction on the slippery tile, and he struggles and slips this way and that before gravity wins the battle, sending him ungracefully to his knees, pinning your skirt between your legs. He manages to catch himself with his free hand at the very last moment, avoiding completely crushing you under his weight. His breath huffs out with the exertion, and that’s how he ends up sprawled on top of you in the middle of the hallway, your books scattered around like shrapnel.

Time seems to slow for a second, and he really looks at you for the first time, his face in too intimate of a proximity for comfort as he looks into your big, wide eyes and sees a pink blush grace your cheeks. Your pretty hair surrounds you like a halo in disarray. And your lips, well, they are much to close because he can feel the warmth of your breath on his face. His chest heaves and then catches because you are quite beautiful, sprawled out there on the tile under him.

Then reality and propriety rushes at him like a freight train, realizing the compromising position you are both in, through no fault of your own, but compromising, nevertheless. He feels heat rush to his face at the inappropriateness of his thoughts.

“Aw, h-heck, s-sorry,” he blunders, pushing up and back off of you as fast as his lanky limbs will allow.

“No, I should be the one that’s sorry,” you bluster back, leaning on your forearms “I was too much in a hurry and wasn’t looking where I was going.” Your voice is light and as pretty as you are.

“Are ya o-okay?” he asks, truly concerned but also happy with the excuse to look you over as you sit upright, your hair cascading over your shoulders. Taking in your slightly disheveled state, he can’t help but feel like you’re the loveliest girl he’s ever laid eyes on. It’s not just because you’re pretty—of course you are—but more like the feeling he gets from you, like you’ve reached something inside of him that no one else ever has. He can’t explain it. It’s like he’s always known you somehow. Shaking off those strange thoughts, he kneels, gathering your scattered books off the black and white tiles.

“Aside from my bruised ego, I think I’m fine,” you sigh shakily, “and now I’m late for class, on my first day, no less.”

“O-Oh, y-you’re new?” he asks, stammering yet again. He doesn’t understand why he’s so tongue-tied. He talks to girls all the time. The boys may despise him for a multitude of reasons, but the girls…well, he likes them a lot, and they seem to like him right back, with all his sweet Southern politeness and his pretty eyes and how he strums on his guitar and warbles at night in the shadows at the Courts. He’s had girlfriends from the time he was twelve, and he seems to have some innate knowledge of what women of all ages like. It’s one of the things he’s good at—talking sweet to girls and kissing on them.

But this pretty little girl has him thrown for a loop.

You’re both kneeling now, gathering papers and books. “Yeah, we just moved here…oh, thank you,” you say as he picks up your books and stands, offering his hand to help you up. Your hand is soft and cool in his larger one, the touch of your skin on his shooting and crackling through him like lightning. Those eyes of yours catch his briefly, and he almost feels dizzy with the way they make him feel.

Lord have mercy, he thinks, what the hell’s wrong with me?

“Oh gosh, I hope I didn’t break your guitar!” you gasp, seeing it discarded on the floor, obviously mortified at the prospect. It’s the last thing on his mind, and he manages to tear his gaze from you for a second to look down at the instrument. Honestly, he’d break a hundred guitars if it meant running into you again, but by some miracle, it’s undamaged.

Elvis picks it up and strums it. “It’s fine, no harm done,” he drawls, lip curving up in a shy, boyish grin.

Relieved, you flash a little smile, and the sight nearly knocks him over. “Well, good,” you say breathlessly, taking your books back. “I really am sorry, again. I—uh—I gotta get to class.” You are obviously worried about being late, face still flushed with embarrassment. Before he can say another word, you are already rounding the corner, scurrying away, your hair bouncing in your wake.

He stands there, staring after you and blinking as if coming out of a trance. He realizes he didn’t even catch your name or get a chance to introduce himself. All he knows is that you’re a pretty little freshman that just moved here, and while this information is pertinent, it doesn’t really help him much.

Walking to lunch in a daze, all he can think about is how he can go about seeing you again.

Till I kiss you once again Keep my love locked in your heart Darling I'll return and then We will never have to part

Unfortunately, he doesn’t see you, not for a while anyway. The school isn’t that damn big, but he never seems to be able to catch you or your name. Which is a damn shame because his thoughts seem to drift towards you when he least expects it. You show up in his daydreams or when a song he’s singing strikes him a certain way. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

By the next time he finds you, he’s just about put you out of his mind. But the minute he sees you that morning, out in front of the school, giggling with your new girlfriends, it’s like you’ve plowed into him all over again. His heart thuds a little harder in his chest as he passes you, trying not to stare, but he manages to catch your eye for a split second all the same.

At first, there’s no hint of recognition, which nearly breaks his heart, but then your eyes widen with realization and a hint of a shy smile plays on your lips. He returns it in kind, unable to stop himself from the bashful and relieved way it spreads over his face. For a moment, he considers stopping and asking all the questions he’s dying to know the answers to, but the flow of the crowd pushes him onwards and into the building.

He’s near giddy the rest of the day, wondering how and why the pretty girl he barely knows has captured him so completely.

Though it may break your heart and mine The minute when it's time to go Remember dear, each word divine That meant I love you so

Elvis in 1953

April 1953

Standing backstage in the high school auditorium, Elvis wonders why the hell he’s agreed to do this damn talent contest. His hands are shaking and clammy and he can feel the vomit rising in his throat. He’s scared shitless because he’s really only ever sung in the dark to his neighbors at the Courts, or in church with the congregation, but something inside him knows he needs to do this, even if it’s just to show himself that he can. It’s like a part of his soul drives him forward, even though his mind thinks he’s nuts.

It's not until he sees you backstage, ahead of him in the line, that his mind switches from crippling stage fright to a sense of excitement and curiosity. Your hair is done up real pretty and you’re wearing your Sunday best, he can tell. You don’t see him right away, and he knows he’s staring, but at least it’s keeping his mind off his churning stomach. You must feel his gaze because you turn and look back, your intelligent, wide eyes locking onto his.

It sends a thrill of a different kind through him when you tiptoe back towards him, and his heart races a little more than it already is.

You look him over carefully, and he might feel more self-conscious except your eyes are kind and concerned. “You okay?” you ask in a hushed whisper, not wanting to interrupt the current act on stage.

“I-I-I-I…yeah,” he stutters, unable to get the words out. His legs are wiggling, hands shaking, and he feels like he might puke all over your shiny shoes, but sure, he’s fine.

Lord, why is it in this moment of all moments that you come to talk to me?

You smile knowingly. “Yeah, I’m real nervous, too,” you breathe, seeing right through him. When he looks at you this time, he can see it, how you wring the sheet music in your hands and your eyes keep darting to the stage. It makes him feel a little better, somehow, knowing he’s not alone in this.

You stand there with him for a moment, and it should be awkward, except it isn’t at all. That strange familiar feeling of you makes this seem natural. He can’t seem to get any words out, so he just waits and jiggles.

“It’s gonna be fine. I think we’re just supposed to imagine everyone naked, right?” you whisper a little too seriously and that sets him off, a loud chuckle erupting from his mouth. Hearing the word “naked” come from your proper, pretty little lips just tickles him in a variety of ways, and he can’t help it. Other people in the line shoot him warning looks for being too loud, so he quells his laughter as best he can.

You look over, your eyes dancing more with amusement than nervousness, and you cover the giggle that starts to come out of your mouth. He’s reminded once again by the warmth that spreads through his chest that you are the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on, and hell, you’re funny, too.

You have to stop looking at each other because you’re one small step away from setting each other off into more peals of nervous laughter, which would surely disrupt the show. He watches as you bite your pink bottom lip and thinks of how much he’d like to do the same to you, imagining how soft it would feel yielding to him. Then he tries to push that less than appropriate thought right out of his head as soon as it pops up because, damn, this isn’t the time or place for that kind of thinking.

As your laughter dies, you look down at your feet, obviously feeling a swell of fear as you play with the necklace around your neck. He can feel it coming off of you in waves, despite your attempts to comfort him.

Suddenly, he can’t stand the sight of your uncomfortableness. He has the deep urge to fix it and make you feel better. Without thinking, he nudges you with his elbow. When you look up at him in surprise, he crosses his eyes, making a googly-eyed silly face at you. It has the intended effect, sending you into a fit of giggles, earning a glare and shush from the teacher in the wings.

It’s the cutest thing, watching you laugh like this, and it sends a rush of calm and satisfaction over him to know he’s the cause. He almost forgets that he has to go out there and sing in a few minutes.

“I’ve got to go, we’re on next,” you whisper.

“You’ll be great,” he says. He doesn’t even know what you’re going to be doing but it doesn’t matter. Anything you do will have his attention.

You smile shyly, as if reading his mind somehow, and he feels heat rise to his cheeks that has nothing to do with his stage fright. You nod, then skip off to the front of the line.

He watches in awe from the wings as you accompany your singing friend on the piano. Your hands fly over the keys with practiced, concentrated ease, and if he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t ever have guessed that you were nervous.

He suddenly thinks he needs to take up the piano. Maybe you could teach him and then he’d have an excuse to see you.

That thought is fleeting though, as your performance is through in the blink of an eye, and you exit the stage with a relieved smile, meaning that he’s one step closer to having to get out there himself. Now that he knows you’re okay, his nerves come rushing back. His leg vibrates uncontrollably, but he still manages to give you a thumbs up.

You slow as you pass him, placing your hand lightly on his bicep. He stills and looks at you in surprise at the contact.

“Thinking of them naked works,” you whisper with a smile, “Break a leg out there.” Then, you give him a light squeeze before being ushered away. Sparks fly through him at the echoes of your hand on his arm.

Elvis thinks his heart might explode. It’s crazy, this way you make him feel like he’s flying. It carries him out onto the stage, where he sings a rendition of Teresa Brewer’s “Till I Waltz Again With You” that somehow brings the house down and wins the talent show. They even call him out for an encore.

Thinking of them naked works, indeed.

But when he closes his eyes to sing, it’s you he thinks of. It’s you that gets him through.

The feeling he has coming off that stage is a buzzing, electric high he thinks could get used to. A dangerous, tiny thought in the back of his mind tells him to chase it like there’s no tomorrow, but the relief at the whole thing being over is too strong and pushes the thought away.

But the feeling lingers in his body like lightning in the clouds, just like your touch.

Till I waltz again with you Just the way we are tonight I will keep my promise true For you are my guiding light

Elvis in 1955

Winter 1955

Jack somehow convinces him with a begging phone call, on this cold-ass winter night on one of his only nights back home in Memphis in so long he doesn’t even remember the last time he slept in his own bed, that he has to help Jack get some broad at some diner across town.

And because Jack’s his best friend and he hasn’t seen him in years due to Jack’s stint in the Army and his insane touring schedule, Elvis bags off his family and Dixie (poor, lovely Dixie) and jumps in the Caddy to head to this diner across town. He figures he’s gotta eat anyway, so might as well get some time in with an old friend, and it’ll be a bonus if he can help ole’ Jacky Boy get some tail.

Absolutely exhausted from gallivanting all over the South, playing sold-out shows, and doing other things he’ll never tell his mama about, he drags himself into the diner, hands stuffed in the pockets of his big wool coat. Good old Jacky sees him coming and leaps out of the booth to give him a big, manly hug.

Elvis can both see and feel the change in Jack. There’s a bravado to him now, an air of machismo that is new. He’s broader and more muscular than the boy who enlisted right after graduation instead of waiting for the draft to get him. And Elvis gets it—Jack didn’t have much to stay for, what with his father being such a mean drunk and him having no special skills to speak of. Jack figured, why not just get it over with?

Even though Jack’s only a little over four months older than Elvis, he was a grade ahead in school, but that discrepancy never mattered much to either of them.

“Look at ya, ya sonnofabitch! Finally got some meat on those bones!” Jack says gleefully, slapping him on the back.

“And you’re as ugly as ever,” Elvis shoots back with a smile, sliding into the red booth.

“Damn, man, I’m hearin’ your songs all over the radio. Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it when I got home and every station I turned on was your warbling ass,” Jack teases in a congratulatory tone.

“Honestly, I’m so damn tired I could sleep for a week, but we’re back out on the road tomorrow,” he replies.

“What happened to that scrawny, shy kid who’d only play in the dark, huh? I’d be scared shitless to get up in front of all those people! Now you’re playin’ all the time…I just can’t believe it, man,” Jack shakes his head.

Elvis shrugs, “Can’t really ‘splain it. It’s like the biggest rush ya could ever have and it just overpowers the fear. The crowds are wild though—never knew chicks could be so crazy.”

“Oh, I bet you are just drowning in it, ain’t ya?” Jack says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Elvis shrugs nonchalantly but his lip curls up into a mischievous grin as he looks out the window. He was indeed taking advantage of his newfound popularity with the girls, almost to an insatiable extent. He’d done good resisting in those first few months, knowing he had Dixie waiting for him at home, wanting to be faithful to her, wanting to be a good Christian boy. But damn, the more he was on the road and the higher the highs of his performances, he just needed a way to wind down at the end of the night. And there were just so many pretty girls literally tearing themselves apart to get to him.

In the end, he hadn’t been strong enough to resist. He knew cheating on Dixie was wrong, and he felt terrible about it, having her waiting here at home for him like she was, but with every show he was learning that he wasn’t gonna be giving any of this up any time soon. No, he wanted to take this as far as he could go, and while a small part of him wanted to hang on to the idea of starting a family with Dixie, a bigger part knew that wasn’t in the cards, not anymore.

“Speakin’ of, what the hell am I doin’ here? You suddenly forget how to talk to girls while in the service?” Elvis ribs, yet truly wants to know.

Jack lowers his voice to a hush and leans in, his eyes darting up every so often to make sure he’s not overheard. “No, man, but this girl, she’s different, I’m tellin’ ya. This ain’t about gettin’ laid. I don’t know what to say, I walked in here right off the train my first day home and it was like the goddamned heavens opened. Every time I try an’ talk to her, I just get all tongue tied like an idiot. I figure, you were always good with talkin’ to girls in general, so I need your help buddy.”

“You’ve got it bad, man. She must be a real looker,” he says, shooting up an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but it’s more than that. She’s smart…oh, shit, here she comes! Be cool,” Jack hisses, leaning back too casually, a dumb grin spreading over his face. Elvis can’t help but chuckle at the sight of his friend being so head over heels for a girl he barely knows. He leans back, taking a much more relaxed and subtle stance than his friend, one that has been well practiced these past few months, as the waitress comes up from behind him to take their orders.

If nothing else, watching Jack be a dumb shit is entertaining, he thinks.

The waitress bounces over and Elvis rolls his eyes slowly up her body, taking in every lovely curve along the way.

“Oh, hi, Jack! I see you’ve got a friend with you today.”

Elvis freezes, his eyes reaching your face just as you start speaking and look over at him.

It’s you.

Holy shit, it’s you.

His brain short-circuits. He hasn’t seen you since he graduated a year and a half ago. And damn if you don’t look prettier than ever, all grown up and filled out in all the right places, your smile brightening the room.

His lips part as his mouth drops, he can’t help it.

“Um, yeah, y/n, this, uh, this is my friend Elvis,” Jack stumbles over the introduction, looking to Elvis for help. But in this moment, Elvis feels utterly useless, every ounce of confidence he’s gained in the past year draining out of him all at once.

His heart gallops in his chest, and he sits up straighter. He can see you looking over him expectantly, eyes narrowing as if trying to place him. He knows he shouldn’t care if you remember him, but by god, if you don’t, he thinks he might be crushed. But he’s also aware he’s different, too. He’s filled out and his hair’s darker, and why in the hell would you remember him from all those years ago anyway? You’d barely spoken to each other in four years.

“Elvis…” His name drags and plays on your tongue in a way that makes his toes tingle. “Like that singer?”

Of course, that’s how you recognize him, he thinks. But at least you know of him, even if it’s not in the way he wishes. He decides to lean into being “Elvis” because maybe that’ll make him feel less like an awkward high schooler and more like a cool cat. Regardless, the shyness he’d felt for being odd in high school is now mostly gone, and his unique style is part of the reason he was garnering so much attention these days. His confidence, especially with the ladies, is ever-growing. He knows he’s getting to be hot shit in the South and now has an image to live up to. There is no space for shy Elvis Presley here in this diner, for all the reasons. So, he manages to turn up the dial on his Southern charm, forcing himself to relax in your presence.

“Well, Miss y/n, seein’ as I never met another man with that name, I suppose, yes, like that singer,” he responds with a coy smile.

“Aw, don’t let him trick ya with that modesty. This here’s the one and only Elvis Presley,” Jack kicks him under the table, the message clear: Use your fame to help me out.

Your face lights up a little at that, which has a little flutter rolling in his empty stomach. “Now, Jack, you never told me you were friends with a celebrity,” she teases, her attention divided between the two men.

Elvis has to very consciously remind himself that he is here to help Jack, not steal you out from under him, but it is taking everything in him not to reach over and play with the hem of your skirt and tell you just how much he wants to take you home to his mama, Dixie be damned.

Jack smiles almost giddily, obviously pleased with your attention. “Well, I’m not one to go showin’ off or nothin’,” he says self-deprecatingly.

Elvis rolls his eyes at that.

“Well, my sister is gonna be beside herself when I tell her who came in tonight. She’s thirteen and might be your biggest fan, Elvis,” you say cheerily. He notices you aren’t completely beside your own self over him being here, which he has some mixed feelings about. On the one hand, he desperately wants your attention and admiration, but on the other hand, it’s kinda nice that you aren’t fawning all over him. It makes you even more appealing somehow.

“So, what can I get ya?” you ask, taking out your pen and paper, looking from man to man.

“I’ll have a hamburger, well done, please, and one of your vanilla milkshakes,” Elvis says, unable to take his eyes off you.

“I’ll have the same, except the burger medium rare, like a real man,” Jack jokes, poking fun at Elvis’ picky eating habits. Thankfully, you don’t react, and Elvis can’t help but kick the shit out of Jack’s shin.

Jack winces.

“Hmm, why do I get the feeling that you two are gonna be trouble?” you smile knowingly at them, pointing at each with the top of your pen. “I’ll be back with those in a jif. Try not to kill each other before I get back.” You bounce away and both men turn to watch.

“No promises, honey,” Elvis calls after you.

“Y’see what I mean, don’tcha? Ain’t she just special somehow?” Jack whispers excitedly, totally gone over you.

Oh, Elvis knows intimately how special you are, but he can’t say it, so he settles for a, “Yeah, man, she seems great,” and tries not to feel sullen about how he’s got to be Jack’s wingman for his own dream girl.

They shoot the shit, and he does his best to get Jack talking to you when you come by, even though it’s hard because he wants you for himself. It’s painful having to keep himself so in line, his heart cinching in his chest every time you come by to check on them. That’s when Elvis knows he’s in deep trouble. He reminds himself often that he is off the market anyway, at least when here at home in Memphis.

He promised to help Jack out, and so he will, even if it kills him.

“I gotta take a leak, man,” Jack says after the food is finished, scooting out of the booth.

You sashay over to clear the plates, and Elvis can’t help but stare as you lean over the table. Your eyes dart to his and he swears he sees a hint of pink on your cheeks. Warmth spreads across his chest and he tries not to avert his eyes. Any other girl he would confidently ogle, so he tries his best to stay the course.

“Y’ know, I’m not sure how you do it,” you say, breaking some of the tension as you stand over him, hands full of dishes.

“Do what, honey?” he drawls, raising only his eyes. Now that Jack’s gone, he’s laying it on thick and can’t bring himself to feel bad about it. Not when it’s you.

You shift your weight, but otherwise ignore his advance, much to his chagrin. You’re probably used to getting hit on by customers. “Getting up in front of those big crowds, all those people, and singing like that. I could never,” you shake your head.

A split second and he decides to play his hand, mostly because he has to know, just has to, so leaning back confidently, he drawls again, “Oh, well, a pretty girl once told me you just hafta picture ‘em all naked.” A slow grin spreads across his face.

Your eyes widen as it hits you. He watches you carefully, cataloguing your expression as you remember, your eyes travelling over him quickly, trying to reconcile your memory of him with the man in front of you. Your cheeks go rosy, and he relishes in the fact that he’s the reason.

“Well, damn, I guess I give really good advice,” you finally say, a little breathless, with a shake of your head.

Elvis can’t help the loud laughter that escapes him at that. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but you surprise him with your quip. You smile back at him, proud of yourself. The smile makes him feel special somehow, like he’s the only guy in the world.

“You’re really somethin’ else, y/n,” he says, his laughter dying down and being replaced too quickly by the awe he always seems to feel in your presence.

Something flashes over your face, something he can’t quite interpret. “Right back atcha, Elvis Presley,” you respond, and there’s something in the softness of your voice and in the way your big eyes stare straight into his that sends electricity zinging down his spine.

Then, as he watches as you walk away, he knows with absolute certainty that this won’t be the last time you see him.

Till I waltz again with you Keep my love locked in your heart Darling I'll return and then We will never have to part

And it isn’t. In fact, Elvis somehow manages to stop into the diner nearly every time he is home from then on out. Sure, Jack is his best excuse, but he also rounds up the band and Sam and even Dixie once or twice to go to this great diner he “just happened to find.”

Once he knows you are more often than not going to be there because it’s your family’s place, he wants to go frequently, and Jack is thrilled because the man might be more entranced with you than he is.

It’s not long that being friendly customers turns into being friends. Even when they find out you’ve got a serious boyfriend (because of course you do), neither him nor Jack is much dissuaded by the fact. Elvis would much rather have you in his life as a friend than not at all, and Jack is somewhat delusional in thinking you’ll drop your boy for him.

And while Elvis wants more than anything in the world to have you all to himself, he knows it’s likely not in the cards, at least not now, and maybe not ever. Not with the boy you want to marry you ever so close and Jack waiting in the wings like a puppy. And certainly not when he is running himself ragged with tours and recording, with his very real dreams of stardom so near he can taste them. But, as reality shows when he and Dixie finally part ways in late spring, it is no kind of life for a successful relationship.

So, he has to be content with watching you walk away with someone else, knowing he can’t have you, even though those electric shocks go through him every single damn time he sees you.

Though it may break your heart and mine The minute when it's time to go Remember dear, each word divine That meant I love you so

Elvis in early March 1956

March 1956

Elvis’ career takes off so dramatically that he barely has time to process his good fortune. In the moments when he’s not traveling, recording, touring, or appearing on television, he relishes the somewhat normalcy of hanging out with friends and family. It’s steadily getting harder for him to go out without being bombarded by fans, but he generally enjoys the attention. He’s grateful for his fans and for his budding success, though sometimes it feels so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There are moments when he desperately wants to be still and alone but when he finally has a moment to himself, it feels like the world is closing in on him.

It’s one of these moody, antsy nights that he finds himself at your doorstep, without anyone else in tow. The last time this happened was the night he signed his contract with RCA. You’d been the first person outside of family he wanted to share the news with and without a thought, he’d ditched everyone else and showed up at the diner in his fancy suit, uncharacteristically lifting you up in a hug and spinning you around in his exuberance.

But the mood tonight is decidedly less enthusiastic. He’s tired but hasn’t been able to sleep in what feels like days, pressure pushing in on him from all sides. Usually he didn’t mind, taking it all in stride as part of his new life, but tonight he was worn and restless, his body vibrating with energy that has no outlet.

When he feels like this, he gets needy. He’s already the sort of guy that thrives on physical touch, but in the state he’s in, it’s a necessity rather than a preference. Normally, he might go out with a girl and fool around a bit, but the idea of having to charm and swoon and put on airs right now feels impossible. But he knows he needs a woman’s touch to soothe him and that’s how he finds himself here, alone, knocking on your door.

Your eyes widen with surprise when you open the door and then soften with concern at the state of him, near pitiful with the dark circles rimming his eyes, his body slumped against the door frame, and his pallor a sickly pale.

God, he just wants to weep at the welcome sight of you.

You quickly and quietly usher him inside. By some merciful twist of fate, you are alone. Your mother and sister are out of town visiting relatives and your father is working late at the diner.

This visit should be awkward but isn’t—it’s as though he has been dropping by your house alone and unannounced your whole lives with the way you receive him, and for this he is thankful. And perhaps this is why everything seems to hit him at once, a wave of anxiety rolling over him so strongly that he can barely speak as you lead him to the couch.

It’s suddenly all too much, this feeling of responsibility towards his family and friends and fans. He’s overworked and overtired and the panic of his rising success has him shaking before you, his heart beating too fast and his breathing too shallow, making him dizzy and lightheaded. As he hyperventilates, you hum at him softly, prompting him to put his head between his knees while rubbing circles on his back. Tears leak from his eyes, staining his cheeks and where he leans his head against his forearms on his knees. He too worked up to even be embarrassed by how completely raw and vulnerable he is before you.

With very few words, you just seem to know what’s happening. You don’t ask him to explain or to defend his feelings, you just accept them for what they are and accept him for all that he is. There are no expectations. He feels incredibly relieved by that.

As he eventually starts to calm, he falls over, exhausted, laying his head in your lap. He feels your slight hesitation, but only for a second, before your fingers begin to cart through his hair. He cannot help the small whimpering moan that escapes his lips at the tenderness of the gesture, one he so desperately needs in this moment.

You are exactly what he needs, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to deny that right now.

Perhaps that is why, once his breathing slows and he feels himself start to fade away into drowsiness that he turns in your lap and asks what he does.

“Can I stay?” he breathes, begging, looking up into your beautiful eyes. The plea is not full of lust, yet there is an open-endedness to it that he doesn’t hide, as his need for your comfort in any way you will give it to him is his prerogative. He cares for you far more that he dares to admit and cannot resist the pull of your soul to his, not tonight.

He watches your face carefully, seeing your brow furrow in the slightest and how you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. Propriety says you shouldn’t dare go there—you both know this—but at this point he’s not beyond batting his long lashes at you hopefully and a little mournfully.

“Oh, alright,” you finally concede, “but you need to be quiet as a mouse. I don’t know when Daddy will be home. And no funny business, Presley.” You point at him playfully, but there is a seriousness to your tone that makes him nod to give you reassurance. Exhaustion and moodiness cloud the way his heart wants to soar at this development of trust between you two, but he is too worn out to even muster a joke about the situation. That and he admires you too much to do anything that might jeopardize your blossoming friendship.

And with that settled, he raises from his all too comforting position in your lap. Much to his dismay, he’s unsteady on his feet, his attack having drained him of what little remaining energy he had, but you are quick to come to his side and walk him through the house to your room.

This doesn’t stop an unintentional tension from building, however, as you enter your room with him held close. He waits for you, wanting to follow your lead, wanting you to be comfortable, though he would just as soon collapse on your single bed without another thought.

You turn to him as though not exactly sure what to do next, your mouth opening then closing quickly, and he suddenly wants to kiss you so damn badly it’s painful. But it’s not the first time he’s felt that way in your presence, and probably won’t be the last, but then again, it never has been just the two of you alone in your bedroom before.

“I…I’ll be right back, I’m just going to…to go change,” you stammer, grabbing what is likely a nightgown out of your dresser. “Um, make yourself comfortable.” Then you escape into the hallway beyond, and he can’t help the little smile that plays at his lips in your wake.

He takes the moment alone to remove his coat and jacket and slip off his shoes and socks, folding them neatly at the end of the bed. He hesitates for a moment with his shirt and pants, but as emotionally wrought as he is, all he can think of is the calm feeling of being near you and ends up stripping down to his boxers and undershirt. Figuring he can always put them back on if it eases your mind, he then sits on the edge of the bed and waits.

It's not long before you come back, clad in a pretty white nightgown with little blue flowers all over it, your hair all brushed out and face washed pink. His heart actually skips at the sight. You look gorgeous and he has to remind himself that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here for you, yes, but not in that way. Luckily, his exhaustion overrides that sort of thinking rather quickly—he’s not sure he could do much in this state, even if you wanted to. You shut the door quietly behind you, even though there is no one else home to hear.

The air in the room feels heavy with potential and he can sense your trepidation as you turn back towards him and sit near him on the edge of the bed. His body begins to drag with sleep, the comfort of your arms and your bed beckoning to him. Finally, he chooses to break the silence.

“I’m not going to hurt you...I would never do that. I promise I won’t touch you like that. I just want to—” he says softly.

“I know, Elvis,” you interrupt quietly, “It’s okay. I know.” And your eyes are so big and sweet and open to him that it nearly makes him want to start crying all over again. Part of him wishes he didn’t need you like this, that you didn’t have to see him in this moment of weakness, but part of him is glad it is you. It could only be you, really, that he would give this part of himself to, he realizes, though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s that strange, unspoken bond between you two that has lingered under the surface from the beginning. This almost unreasonable need to take care of each other even when it doesn’t always make sense.

Once you climb under the covers and invite him to join you, he falls in next to you faster than you can blink. The bed is small which doesn’t matter much since he instantly curls close into your side as you lay on your back, notching his head into your shoulder. He can smell the soap and cold cream on your skin, and he drapes his arm over your midsection as though he’s done it a million times before. You stiffen at the contact at first, but then he feels you relax, your head leaning onto his, eventually running your fingers soothingly over his arm.

Yes, this is what he needs, he thinks dreamily, feeling like he can finally breathe again. And it’s not long before he drifts off into a deep slumber, surrounded by your comforting scent and warmth.

It’s the gray early morning light peeking through your white curtains that has him stirring awake, and it takes him a good minute to figure out where he is and who he is with, a feeling he is all too used to considering how much he’s on the road. But waking in some seedy motel in the middle of Texarkana in the arms of some random chick from the night before is not anything like waking in your cozy little bed, your warm body pressed back into his.

There is a care here with you that he yearns for, positively aches for, but did not realize he wanted or needed until this very moment. He is surrounded by the sweet smell of your silky hair, the warm softness of your bare legs against his convincing him that everything about this situation is just right. In his sleepy, unthinking haze, he pulls you closer, spooning you tightly into him, thinking he could just stay here forever, blissfully unaware yet of why he shouldn’t do so.

Until his virile, 21-year-old body reminds him, that is.

Perhaps it is the drowsy little sigh that escapes your lips in the same moment you unconsciously wiggle back against him that does it. Suddenly, he is very much awake, in more ways than one.

A stupid, instinctually carnal part of him very much wants to lift the hem of your nightgown up higher than it is already bunched and slide himself right between your inviting, bare thighs and into your heat, and dear god, that thought has him unraveling himself from you quicker than lightning.

Aw, hell.

He rolls over and sits up too fast, forcing himself to think of anything and everything but how you are lying in that bed so invitingly near. He closes his eyes against the brightness of day and breathes a few deep breaths before reaching for his clothes at the end of the bed.

A lesser man might allow himself to slide back into that bed, but by god, he swore he wouldn’t touch you like that and he refuses to take advantage when you’ve been so good to him. This thought, more than anything, sobers him as he puts his clothes on.

“El…Elvis? Are you okay?”

Oh, the way your sweet little voice sounds all clouded with sleep has him biting his lip so hard he nearly draws blood.

“Yeah, baby, it’s all good. Go back to sleep, honey,” he whispers, finishing the buttons on his shirt as quick as he can.

The domesticity of this little scene coupled with the ache in his groin has every damn cell in his body wanting to get back in that bed, and maybe if it wasn’t you, he would. But it is you. And as desperately as he wants this, he respects you too much to let his hormones get the best of him.

So, before he can change his mind, he kisses the top of your head for a little too long, breathing in the scent of you one last time, then puts on his shoes, grabs his coat, and climbs out the window, escaping into the dawn.

Till I waltz again with you Just the way we are tonight I will keep my promise true For you are my guiding light

His thoughts drift to you all day. He doesn’t even want to change or shower because the smell of you still lingers on his clothes, on his skin. The unfamiliar feeling of being so well rested and content has him singing and smiling all day, prompting his mama to ask him, with a knowing eye, exactly where he was last night.

And this gets him thinking about how much he would love to wake up beside you every damn day if he could, how amazing that would feel, and about how maybe, just maybe, it’s possible that he can.

Ted is out of the picture, and it’s been long enough now that you’ve moved on through the heartbreak. You’ve even casually dated a little bit, though no one has seriously caught your eye.

But then there is Jack, who is still pining hopelessly over you, refusing to make a move. And Jack is one of his best friends. It wouldn’t be right to sweep you off your feet right out from under his nose. He knows he could do it, too, and not just because he’s cocky in his growing fame. After last night, he just knows somewhere deep in his soul that if he asked, you’d be his.

And he wouldn’t even consider it except now he’s had a taste of you, of your sweetness and your comfort and your care and goddamn it, your smell is still all over him.

Well, shit or get off the pot, Jack, he thinks, because I ain’t waitin’.

He works himself up into it, trying not to think about all the obstacles in the way, namely his career and how it’ll take him far away from you, but in this endorphin-fueled moment, none of that matters. Only you matter, that and how you make him feel like he’s on cloud nine and how now that he knows what it’s like to wake up next to you, he knows he wants that again and again for as long as possible.

In truth, if he’d stop long enough to really think on it, he’s known it for a long time.

He’ll catch you at the end of your shift tonight. He buys a bouquet of flowers and everything. Energy pulses through him all day, sending his fingers tapping and his legs bouncing so much that his mama tells him to go run it off. Junior and Gene and Red think maybe he’s lost his mind because he’s even more restless than usual.

Finally, after a full day of working himself up into a near frenzy, he jumps in the Caddy and heads to the diner, ready to make you his.

But when Elvis parks in front and looks through the window of the car and into the diner, he sees Jack has gotten there ahead of him. He sees Jack holding your hand and then kissing it, pulling you into the booth next to him. He sees the lovely way you blush and smile in response.

And then he watches as Jack pulls you into him for a long, lingering kiss on the cheek. The way your eyes flutter closed tells him all he needs to know.

Fuck.

He’s too damn late.

Jealousy roars through him as he sees his best friend touching you, touching you when it should be him, not Jack, doing so. He can’t help but feel the memory of your body pressed so perfectly against his just mere hours ago. At that, at the thought of never having that part of you ever again, Elvis’ heart breaks into little pieces. He rests his forehead against the top of the steering wheel, unable to look at the romantic little scene before him.

This is how it was always supposed to be, he tries to convince himself. It was always Jack who was pursuing you, not him. And the worst fucking part is that he knows that Jack can give you something he can’t: Jack can be there for you, stable and sure, with you in the same damn city every damn day.

He cares for you, but he knows that his career is taking him places you cannot follow. And it wouldn’t be fair of him to ask you to put your life on permanent pause for him, no matter how desperately he wants you, no matter how deeply he believes that there is something powerful drawing you two towards each other with every breath.

He cares enough for you that he realizes, at least for now, that he has to let you go.

Friendship it is, then.

My light, my light I will keep my promise true Till I waltz again with you

Elvis in 1956

Taglist:

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211 @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy @amiets2 @saintmagx

@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch @tattywood

@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 @ab4eva

@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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#that color blue was made for him #i’m so down bad for this man jesus #like idk if it’s just my daddy issues or what but #elvis presley #aloha from hawaii

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butlervol6 · 1 year

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A Whole Man is Hard to Find (An Elvis/Austin AU Fic)

Chapter Nine: I was so young when I behaved twenty five, Yet now I find I've grown into a tall child, And I don't wanna go home yet

Summary: An Elvis AU taking place on a riverboat casino in the 1870’s, you’re welcome to imagine either Elvis or Austin’s portrayal. See general warnings on first chapter. We are picking up where we left off, but this time the day is see. through Rosy’s eyes.

Warnings: MDI. Warnings include (my weird writing style), talk of preventing pregnancy, smut! fingering, f & m oral receiving, allusion to past non consensual overstimulation, period sex sorta, medicinal use of laudanum, drinking, brief descriptions of past violence. Legit everything this story has already dealt with?! Let me know if I missed something.

Author’s note: I’m genuinely curious if y’all think I’m moving this story along quickly enough? I personally enjoy writing and reading about relationship arcs instead of complex plots, so I tend to neglect the latter. I’d love your feedback, also if things in the story are just unclear or inconsistent, please let me know. I’m kinda drowning in my writing and ideas right now and can’t get a good look at the entire project. 💋

Word Count: 10k

Chapter Nine

Midnight was nearing and you had not seen the Captain since his hasty retreat that morning. All things considered he’d acted quite composed towards you, if rather cold, and fresh off your relief at his not being dead when Jerry succeeded in rousing him, you hadn’t minded.

Truly. You told yourself all day you didn’t mind the fact the only speck of affection he’d given you was a clumsily blown kiss as he shut the door. Truly you didn’t mind. Or you should not have.

Your mind stayed with him all through the day, however, missing his little touches along your neck when he passed you in the halls and the feel of warm hands encircling your waist from behind. Captains were supposed to captain their boat and it stood to reason that if he were to push the boat hard today there would be little time for fraternizing below decks. Still, you looked for him eagerly at each meal and hoped every footfall approaching Rosetta’s office would belong to him, but never caught a glimpse of him. The riverboat was moving again and the beast thrummed harder than ever as he pushed her, at times annoyingly so on the lower decks, your teeth buzzing together if you didn’t keep them apart. You wondered if the feel of it made him blush, too. Or maybe not blush, maybe he would respond differently, maybe he would grow hard and long and ready thinking of the memory of you gliding against his tub rail. Would the thought of you absorb and replace that old familiar feeling of his moving boat? Would it anger him or thrill him that never again could he push his engines without thinking of the taste of you and that first moment of carnal knowledge. Such thoughts muddied your brain until the figures ran on the page as your pulse pounded and your nipples stiffened, rubbing uncomfortably against the constraints of your corset.

You shifted in your buzzing seat so often Miss Rosetta finally put her pen down forcefully and asked with quiet authority, “Did he hurt you last night, child?”

You choked on your reply before doing your utmost to assure her all was well -without informing her that he had been the height of subservient last night despite his anger, how he had stretched out beneath your attentions compliantly and responded with almost addled ardor to every little mercy you granted him. It had been puzzling and unsettling and yet you craved it again along with the warm weight of him in your mouth. After such a display of unabashed need of you it was bitter to find him in a rush to leave this morning. So desperate were you for him now, any part of him, that you grew certain you had gone insane. All those warnings regarding lust seemed true, in men it was a slow decline of faculties but if awoken in a woman she lost her mind speedily. Doctors removed the wombs of women with your level of appetite or took portions of the brain out to calm their frantic need. The women welcomed it by that point. And that thought made you angry, clearing your head like nothing else could as you attacked the payroll divisions with newfound vigor, determined to keep your intellect despite your newfound whorishness.

Calhoun took your mind off such things for a few hours when Sister Rosetta informed you that there was no need for him to fall behind on his studies, just because he had been foolish enough to leave home. He would study beside you and you would help him with his figures. Twelve years old and proud as anything for having managed this little stowaway stunt, “Cal” as he liked to be called, was the perfect foil for your simmering impatience. He was too sweet to cause you much annoyance but when he shirked his work it was a blessed relief to have someone to snap at and command their obedience. Sister Rosetta, a stern task master to you, had no quibbles at your occasionally sharp tone towards him.

After dinner, in the free time allotted, you took pity on the boy and brought him down to the lowest deck, to show him the horses and the marvelous stables the Captain had designed.

“It’s like Noah’s ark down here!” Cal exclaimed in awe, contentedly exploring the place and petting the mares until one of Big Daddy Crudup’s minions from the kitchen came down with slop buckets and the retracting door was raised in the ship’s side. Calhoun was gone from your side and watching the feeding frenzy of alligators before you could catch his shirt and hold him back. The horses seemed to share your presentment that tempting alligators was a foolish pastime, they shied away from the door, whinnying and stomping and one even kicked out angrily with its hind legs, barely missing striking your shoulder. Not wanting to be thought an overbearing ninny, you stayed quiet and watched along with him in horrified fascination as those large jaws chomped on the carcasses of chickens and filtered watermelon scraps through their tremendous teeth.

As the ship settled for the night, or at least the staff who kept normal hours did, you went about your nightly routine with stubborn determination not to miss the embarrassing and delightful attentions of the man who often would pause in his own undressing to watch you shed your layers. You set the room to rights after the panic this morning and you bothered with braiding your hair for once. You ordered a bath and soaked in it while doing your damndest not to think of him or his lessons, or the feel of that long finger probing up and into you. “Stay loose for me” he had said, and your wondering impulse caused you to put a hand into the water to try yourself. She was angry, that most feminine part of you, angry and ravenous and you almost quailed in uncertainty to touch her, so insistent were her demands and so pitiful was your arsenal to meet them. Your tentative explorations grew a little frantic as you tried to please her, realizing now why he became so harsh with you near the end -it was necessary to bring you over the edge but you couldn’t seem to manage it yourself, legs spread over the tub sides, working up a sweat in the hot bath and your forearm burning as you tried to keep up a rhythm that made your whole body shake. The feeling always grew too much and wearied you right as you began to taste the culmination. You were forced to pause and compose yourself, and just as you wondered if maybe you had accomplished it the pulsing hunger became apparent, worse than ever.

Angrily you sat up in the water and finished your washing, refusing to notice the way the buzzing bottom of the metal tub stoked your misery.

“Just ask, I’d grant you anything.” he had said twice to you since you’d come aboard.

The first time he had given you the requested pistol, the second he had worshiped that shameful part of you with his very mouth. You had no reason to doubt he kept to his word once given, but you felt a distance growing with every hour apart and it made you fidgety. It reminded you of those awful and anxious hours spent before you had gone up to the wheelhouse to make amends, only to end up murdering for him. Overburdened with this presentment you flipped through the pages of his extensive library in vain, hoping for some distraction but not even the Art of War was dull enough to pacify you, nor were Ovid’s poems any longer capable of scandalizing you. You had done all that they suggested, save taking his- well, his, his sack in your mouth. You had not done that and unfortunately, alone amongst sheets smelling of his sweat and warmed from your bath, you thought the whole idea overwhelmingly appealing.

Mad, you had gone mad. Deprived too long and blooming too late, that was the only explanation for such rampant hunger. You detested those lonely years of your early youth with a passion, angry at something or someone for how long you had feared and been feared, not a patch of affection to be found since Gladys and Maddy’s death. Just sullen masculine faces that you begged and wheedled into working alongside you in the cotton rows, hating them and the necessity that made you all rely on each other. Terrified of their patience wearing out and them going elsewhere, leaving you with a plantation and no hands to work it, no money for taxes, no food for the next winter. Sleepless in fear despite your exhaustion when you heard them drunkenly try your door handle in the middle of the night. Scared stiff of men your whole damn life, first your father, then old Mr. Beaumont’s unwanted attentions and then the fellows working alongside you in the field. Forever terrified. And now here you were, craving a man. Longing to ear that husky and worshipful whisper saying “yer so good to me.”

Frustrated upon all counts, you pondered dousing the candles and trying to sleep when your eye caught sight of his medicine bottles and your excuse formed perfectly in your mind. You just wanted to see him, wanted to make certain he recovered fully and help him keep to his regimens. Bid him goodnight.

You rose with an alacrity that proved your motives to be anything but selfless. The thought of dressing again in your hectic state was unappealing and you settled for grabbing one of his long coats from the wardrobe and throwing it over your nightdress, the length and warmth of it unnecessary for indoors but once on the wheelhouse deck it would serve its purpose. Yanking on your boots you slipped the pistol down by your ankle. You snatched up the bottles and a lantern and made your way down to Etta’s little nook under the crew stairs. Careful to not set the drying herbs ablaze you rummaged for more feverfew and decided against adding valerian tonight if it was true he intended to stay up and pilot the boat. She had a wondrous amount of curatives here and long after you found the feverfew you remained distracted by reading the labels and consulting the ancient encyclopedia she had often loaned you. There were remedies for colic and malaria which interested you exceedingly, but rather like with the captain’s library, your mind seemed to subconsciously seek out that which pertained to your own overwhelming wants. You soon found yourself blushing as you read the clinical descriptors of herbs used to make men harden easier or make them finish faster -whichever outcome was wished for. So engrossed were you in reading these and glancing up to the shelves to find their corresponding tonics already prepared by your friend, that you nearly knocked the lantern over in your fright when you heard her say from somewhere behind you:

“Thought I might catch you rummaging in here sometime soon.”

“Oh, lord.” you pushed your hand to your chest and snapped the book shut, “I was engrossed.”

“What’s got you so studious?” She asked and when you took too long to think of a respectable reply she went on, “I didn’t want to push you earlier as you were so shy on the subject but, Miss, we need to get you some herbs, for yourself.”

“Why, what for?”

Etta’s eyebrow arched as if begging you to understand before she relented with a sigh, “The Captain would loose his shit with both of us if you fell pregnant.”

“Oh.” you mouthed, debating again wether to admit to her that he had insured himself such a thing would not happen, much to your confusion and despair. “Why would he blame you?”

“Because he knows I know how to prevent it, and he knows that I know how very much he would detest such thing happening.”

“But -he’s so fond of the children-“ you felt close to crying and hated yourself for it, for how young and stupid it made you feel in this moment.

“Sure,” she nodded, “but he’s got all these honorable notions about marrying and having children in a settled life and they don’t fit with his manner aboard. Never heard him say he wanted to give up this way of living, and a child might make him do that. I think he’d feel mighty spiteful towards anyone involved in the whole affair. So tell me, honest, do you need herbs? Oh Lord almighty have you even bled yet?” she looked close to panicking as that thought occurred to her, and it impressed upon you the seriousness of Captain Presley’s hatred for the possibility.

“Yes, just started.” you lied, realizing now that the heavy feeling in your abdomen was most likely readiness for a cycle rather than pure desire. She needn’t know you were running late, there was no possibility you were with child, after all. Surely his little entry was not enough, he had spilled himself on your belly yesterday morning.

She heaved a relived sigh and braced herself against the doorframe. “And him? He need anything to accomplish what he wants?”

She was being delicate for your sake but you cheeks burned nevertheless. “No, he seems perfectly capable at -at all times.”

“At all times?” she giggled incredulous, “Then he must truly like you.” and her tone suggested that you were lying though you didn’t understand why. “That right there,” she pointed to an amber bottle of no particular specialness, “that’s gentle enough to keep him ready without causing him pain, if the laudanum gets to him and he becomes frustrated from his -uh, his body not responding, well, few drops of that’ll cut through the fog.” she studied you for a moment and seemed pleased at your growth, that you now received her instructions without blabbering about decency. If only she knew how far you had fallen. “Mind you, it won’t sharpen his mind, you’ll be dealing with a horny drunkard. Still, nothin’ enrages a man more than not being able to preform when he wants to, keep that in mind Miss, and don’t bat an eye at him if you value your skin. Just -just provide a remedy discreetly, alright?”

“Alright.” you muttered, glancing back up at the magic potion in question.

“And these,” she pointed out a few concoctions, “teaspoon of these a day will do for you. Get on them speedily, girl, you’ll be terribly fertile in a few days hence.”

A heavy rap on the door frame of the tinny cubby made you both squeak in surprise and turn round to find a very tired looking Jerry observing you both.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?” he asked, polite as ever.

“No, no we were all finished.” Etta’s smile gleamed brilliant in the lantern light and Jerry responded with one of his own out of magnetic compulsion.

“Then in that case,” he straightened himself up a little, “Miss Beaumont, I’m headed to bed to catch some shut eye while the captain pilots us through the night, he said if I were to find you still awake that he’d appreciate your presence in the wheelhouse. Somethin’ to do with splitting accounts and funding candidates. Wants it done before we reach Saint Louis in the morning and the Colonel can bitch over it, I reckon. Are you amenable?”

“Of course, Mister Shilling, I’ll be right up.” you pocketed the tonics eagerly, glad to have been summoned rather than appear uninvited.

You bade Etta and Jerry good night and made your way by Rosetta’s office to pick up the pertinent ledger before making your way to the third deck balcony. As you made your way to the bow you spied through the humongous windows many guests still awake and deep in cards and drink at the magnificent tables. A glass door right ahead of you opened suddenly and a tipsy patron, nearly steaming in the cool night air, came barreling out to lean against the rail and catch his breath. He noticed you as you tried to discreetly slip by him and flung out an arm to arrest your progress .

“You work here?” he slurred.

“I do.”

“Tell the captain for me then,” he gripped the rail with one hand and your shoulder with the other, “tell him that me and many others aren’t comfortable with him running the boat through the night. These damn rapids sank the glorious Sultana and it ain’t an insult to him to suggest he ain’t up to par with the United States Navy. Ya see? Tell him we don’t want him to go on through the night, makes us jittery and the earnings bad.”

You glanced passed him into the glittering room and saw that the boat’s House tonight was not Mr. Black as usual. Indeed, an imposing man with a furrowed brow and craggy features was dealing, and something about him was reassuringly forbidding compared to Mr. Black’s geniality. You suspected the problem with earnings came from that source rather than nerves over traveling on the river in the dark. It was a torpedo that sank the tragic Sultana but smartness was rarely appreciated by drunkards, so you kept your wit to yourself and gave him earnest assurances that his concerns and demand would be passed on to Captain Presley. In fact you were headed there now, you told him, and if he would let you go you’d voice them in the next minute. He released you at that, being more drunken vehemence than anything malicious.

You hauled up your gown and the long coat tails and made your way up the last set of stairs, higher and higher with the yawning darkness growing below you, looking like the pit of death. Little moon was out tonight and you suddenly shared the drunken patron’s own misgivings for navigating so treacherous a waterway by compass alone.

The wheelhouse itself was aglow with a cozy ambiance of lanterns hung along the beams, and from it came the sound of two very drunk harmonies to a familiar third’s deep and rich lead.

“Oh it was a fierce and bitter strife

Away Santiana!

Oh General Taylor took his life

Along the planes of Mexico

Well! Heave her up and away we’ll go, away Santiana!

“-wait wait!” Elvis’ steady voice hushed them, “-wrong verse ya numbskulls, how’s he gonna have his legs blown away in Monterey if he’s already dead? Got ahead of yerselves. -Rosy darling?” he added in surprise as he caught sight of you coming round the glass front and into the narrow doorway.

It was odd to be up here again after what had last occurred and you noticed the blood stain on the floor where the man’s life had gushed out still remained, a darker brown patch against the wood by the captain’s boot.

“Hello all.” you greeted, noticing the crowd was Scotty and Bill slumped in a drunken embrace along the farther wall, next to the captain’s side, Scotty’s only remaining function left to him was his nimble fingers on a banjo’s neck. The captain, thank God, appeared perfectly sober perched atop one those high legged chairs that enabled him to see out into the pitch black horizon. He seemed surprised to see you and not a little bemused to be the only one up here with remaining wits, an abandoned accordion leaning against his chair leg.

“Good evening Miss Ho-“ Scotty began to greet you joyfully, your true, damning last name on the tip of his tongue and you dropped your ledger in a purposeful fumble to drown him out.

“Whatcha doing your here, honey?” The Captain asked not unkindly but with a puzzled expression that did not correspond with his order for you to come see him.

“Jerry said you sent for me? For the accounting? Something to do with candidates?”

“Ah did he, now?” he bit his lip as he looked at you thoughtfully then turned back to his navigating instruments, shrugging his shoulder, “He didn’t wake you did he?”

“No sir I couldn’t sleep, anyway, it’s no bother.”

You could feel Scotty’s eyes burning into you as if he was trying to sober up enough to watch your interaction with the captain, his usual perceptiveness dulled and no doubt vexing him. The captain was not interacting much, he just frowned again and kept his eyes ahead, one large and elegant hand resting on a wheel spoke to nudge it this way and that.

“I also have been charged with a message from one of your guests.”

“Hmmm?”

“Yes, says he is uncomfortable with traveling in the dark on so dangerous a river, that it’s no offense to your skill, it’s just affecting his earnings.” there was a decidedly awkward stillness in the little room after what had been so jovial a scene before your arrival. You felt compelled to add, “I reckon it’s Mr. Black’s successor who’s responsible for that. Who is he, by the way?”

“That’s Mr. Cash.” Elvis grinned at the mention of the man, “One of our best card players and he stepped in so Bill and Scotty and I could have a reunion up here. Damn kind of him but I’m afraid he doesn’t understand the necessity of loosing enough to keep the patrons happy.”

“I should go.” you realize you’ve intruded on an important, however devolved, reunion.

“Jerry said I wanted your help?” he repeated a little louder, halting your backwards retreat.

“Yes sir. Candidates? Before reaching Saint Louis, he said?” you got the strange impression Jerry had not been commissioned with such a message and that was exceedingly puzzling.

“Well I’ll be-“ Elvis chuckled before glancing towards you, “haul up a seat next to mine, Rosy, one of those smaller deck chairs should work. You got enough light, honey? Bill, bring that lantern over here, make yerself useful.”

Bill lumbered up from his place on the floor and hauled a chair and the lantern over closer to you, seating you with drunken chivalry. “Is that E’s coat?” he hiccuped, fingering the wool that drowned your tiny frame.

“We should go Bill.” Scotty stated, having hauled himself up and now standing beside his friend, nudging him gently towards the door.

“Well hey,” Bill protested, “she ain’t a bother, no need to break up the party-“

“You good with divisions Bill? Have an extensive grasp on my finances?” Elvis snapped quiet suddenly, “No? Alright then, goodnight.”

“Night EP.” Scotty ushered a tearful Bill out the door, assuring the dear man that in the morning he would see sense regarding his drunken state and would laugh at being so maudlin.

It wasn’t any less tense between you two without a audience and you felt the same fiery impatience towards this beautiful fool as you had felt towards Cal. Something motherly and snappish that would have you saying things you’d regret if you did not govern yourself masterfully. You contended yourself with glaring daggers at the the side of his godlike profile before diligently finding the relevant page in the ledger.

“What are your instructions, sir?”

He cleared his throat and his mouth worked for a brief moment before formed speech came out haltingly but measured, “I wish to set aside a certain amount for my father’s legal expenses, as well as the sum necessary to support his wife and her children.”

Your head jerked up, “He remarried -after?”

“Speedily.” he gnawed his lip and his burning eyes flicked down to yours, calming when he registered in them your understanding of his pain. “I also intend to support some of the candidates running for re-election on the Memphis City council.”

If he intended his side eyed observation of your reaction to that news to be subtle, he was unsuccessful. You caught his searching glance and were ready for it, giving him nothing but a demure look of surprise, before making note of his instructions.

You two went on in this manner for a little longer, the tension easing as you worked together on the figures, aided by the vulnerability of his having already trusted you with the knowledge that the “King of the Mississippi” was stretched thin beyond his means most times. You yourself had grown proficient at appearing securely entrenched at Belle Mead when in truth you’d eaten potato spuds and nothing else for the last five months. You admired a good facade and he seemed to know that about you. Value it even, if not trust it.

Business talk running out, the stern set of his mouth loosed up, even as his stutter returned when he asked you how you’d spent your day.

“Well enough, uneventful, except for Cal.” you smiled up at him and he returned it for once.

“Cal?” he repeated, “He pestering you?”

“No, no, a delightful distraction in fact.” you admitted, and expounded upon Rosetta’s ambitions for his scholastic betterment.

“Poor Cal,” the Captain chuckled to himself, “he’ll get his taste of adventure, alright. But if he came aboard with grand notions I’ll have him know he’ll have to duel me if he plans to take ya.”

“I suppose Helena must seem a little too quiet for a boy of thirteen.” you surmised.

“Mmm, yes.” he nodded, “But you liked Helena, didn’t you?”

“Little slice of heaven it seemed.” you nodded, thinking back to that grassy hill and his brilliant smile as the children chased him. “Haven’t felt so peaceful in years.”

“Until dinner.” he coughed.

“I liked the sight of you so happy.” you ignored him. “And it felt good to do good, to be part of something good.” Your fingers twitched in need to reach out and touch him, feel the sturdy frame that held the heart you wanted to soothe. Assure him that the bitter hadn't erased the sweet. That you hadn’t minded him last night, not at all, and you were close to admitting such, no matter what degeneracy that revealed in your own character.

He stared straight ahead as any responsible captain would, eyes flitting from the instrument panel and map, to the black horizon. After his shiftiness this morning you couldn’t help the irrational suspicion that it was all an intentional ploy to create distance. “If you ever wished for that peaceful life-“ he began in a very steady voice but his nostrils were flaring between breaths in a way you recognized, “well, I’d ensure you’d have it. I’d set up up nicely.”

“I told you I wanted to stay on.” your hands formed fists in your skirt, realizing that perhaps this place of bloodshed inspired in you the most frantic of impulses. To bash his head in until he understood something that even you didn’t yet.

“I’m just saying-“

“I’ve answered you, sir.”

His eyebrow quirked in derision and blue eyes flicked over to where you sat, taking in your angry form before smiling a little and looking away again. “What were you up to tonight?” he asked

“I’ve told you.” you were puzzled.

“No, I mean when Jerry came to get you.”

“I-I couldn’t sleep so I, well I bathed and then I got to reading-“

“What were ya readin’?”

“Ovid.” you admitted

“Oh.” his mouth stayed rounded comically for a beat and he suddenly seemed particularly interested in the jet-black horizon. “Well, tell me now, would you have banished him from Rome for being a horny little shit?”

You laughed and bit your lip. “It would be hypocritical to do so.” you admitted in a whisper but he caught it, his head swiveling to give you a searching look.

“Are you flustered, Rosy darlin’?”

“I just wanted to make certain you were alright.” you shied away from your admittance, something in his bearing making you defensive again for the first time in days, “I wanted to bid you goodnight.”

His face grew impassive at that and as he turned away, you felt that old coldness begin to creep between you. It was maddening to have his soul flit in and out of your fingers with every breeze, trapped in this little world with every mood he indulged. Your temper, which you had let loose for the first time in ages last night, was not so easily muzzled again.

You stood up and reached for him quickly, dumping the ledger out of your lap to thread your fingers through his hair demandingly. He grunted in shock from it and it took great effort for him to keep his eyes straight ahead on his course.

“You pout a great deal for a grown man.” you murmured against his ear and his whole body shuddered at the feel of your warm breath. “Tell me you aren’t thinking of putting me ashore somewhere out of some stupid sense of honor.”

“I -o-only if y-you wanted it.” he he maintained and you laid your other hand on his heaving chest.

“I don’t want it.” you snapped and he let out something that sounded suspiciously similar to a moan. “I’d find Helena or any other idyllic place unbearably dull without you.” you informed him, loving the way the muscles of his chest and stomach jumped beneath your gliding hand. “And what of your good luck, captain? I’d take both with me, only way you’re getting this ring off me is by removing my head. To speak nothing of yours, sir.”

His laugh turned into choked off groan as you cupped him through his trousers, the feeling of him firming up beneath your palm finally giving you some peace.

“What kind of daddy thinks of letting his girl go?” you asked, feeling close to crying again and he wasn’t much better.

“Shit Rosy I just wanted to do right by you,” he growled, “how’d you even know? -you been talkin’ to Jerry? What did he say to you?”

“Jerry said nothing.” you retorted, angry and wanting to hurt him as he kept hurting you, “You’re a self loathing bastard and I could have noticed your mood half blind.” the skin of his neck beneath your hands was a furnace despite the cool night air and you felt a temporary pang of guilt for hassling him while he was ill. “You think I’ll grow tired of you? Or you’ll grow tired of me? Is that why you won’t take me properly?” the little girl trapped inside of you begged for a reason, begged to know why knew no one ever wanted you fully.

“Sweet Lord, Rosy!” he pushed you away from him at that, a warning hand at your throat, “You gone mad tonight? I hadn’t taken you cause you were shakin’ like a leaf at my mere touch not that long ago. Now listen to you, naggin’ about not being taken.” he mocked you with his voice in imitation of the last word. “Innocence is a precious thing honey, little enough of it left in the world. Shouldn't be in a rush to get rid of it.”

“I wouldn’t be in a rush if you were not so damn fickle!” you cried out and he looked as if you had struck him, bitterness finally coming to the fore.

“Is that what this is about? Listen here little girl,” his tone was deadly calm and the hand around your throat was loose but commanding even as his eyes kept drifting back to his task, “I don’t take kindly to manipulations or womanly wiles, you hear me? I liked you best when you were brave and scared and honest, and I’d like to think that lately I found a soft side of you, too. I’ll have that from you or nothing, you hear me? Goddamn honey, I’ve told you to ask me, and I’ve done my best to encourage you yet you still won’t trust me, you still won’t ask me for whatever will make you feel safe. Fucked if I know if it’s modesty or fear, but I can’t know which it is when you never talk to me. Everybody’s got their secrets and I let you have yours, but don’t you get angry at me for something I haven’t done. I’ll fuck who I please and I’ll sulk when I please and if I give either up -it’s out of fondness for you, nothing more, you get that? Hmm?”

His tightening hand compelled an answer out of you. “I’ve killed for you, and I just might kill you before you tire of me.” you swore, jabbing a finger at his chest that was nearly out of reach as his arm held you two apart. “Do you understand that? Do you understand that I need you? Is that what you want to hear? Because by god I’ve been telling you that, I need you to be kind to me, please for god’s sake please, all I’ve ever done is beg men to stay and then they don’t. Please, Elvis, please.”

His mood and hand shifted then, drawing you into the kindest and must assuring of kisses. “Rosy, oh darlin’, I ain’t just any man.”

“You are my man.” you observed against his lips and he put up no argument at that, just a groaning assent.

He pulled you round between his legs, hooking his hands under your arms until he had you hauled up into the chair and spread across his lap. “Why do you enjoy unmanning me so?” he begged for an answer into the crook of you neck.

“Same reason you like bringing me you joy, I suppose. Because you need it.” you pondered for a moment, “And -well,” honesty seemed a very good course considering his pained remonstrance against your secrecy, “no one has ever been obliging to me before. I have always been resented for asking anything of anyone. All those men on the plantation, they hated getting their instructions from a woman. I spoke the honest truth when I told them we’d all starve if we didn’t work ourselves to the bone, but they acted as if I were the one who created cotton specifically to make their hands bleed. You, though, you seemed peaceful with it last night.”

“Rosy,” he just held you there in the crook of his arm, the other holding the wheel, his face burdened, “I don’t remember much of last night, but I doubt it coulda been pleasant for you.”

“I told you I liked it!” you cried, sitting up alert and ready to do battle on that score, adding softly as the thought struck you: “No one’s ever trusted me with something like that before.”

“Was that was it was?” he mocked himself.

“Yes! And I’ve been thinking of it all day.”

“Truly?”

“Truly! And I couldn’t think of ought else but you as the boat -moved.” your face was flaming but you could see that mischievous glimmer return to his eyes, promising you a victory more than even his heated stares.

“How was your bath?” He asked dryly and you were certain that this tiff was nearly over.

“Excruciating, thank you.”

He barked out a laugh. “And then Ovid?”

“No, no first I tried my best to find some relief but my arm grew tired.”

He clutched at you beneath the coat and let out noise too deep for description. “Sweet Lord honey, so then you were gonna come find me for some relief?”

“Yes, you’ve warned me against turning into a harpy.” you giggled at the memory of that first verbal tongue lashing he gave you in Jerry’s office. Bastard, you thought fondly.

“Hmmm, reckon we were too late to save ya, this time.” he disagreed gravely, “You’ve been standing there bitching and I’m rackin’ my brain for what’s gotten into you and all the while you just needed some tending to. Honey you gotta speak up when you need me.”

He had a point and though your soul was as frustrated as your womb at his shifting the blame, pushing that point was unlikely to make peace so you just nodded in vigorous assent.

“C’mon lift your gown, darlin’ wanna see how badly you need me.” he urged.

You wondered at your lack for shyness as you reached for the hem of the garment and raised it above your waist, the coat falling open and letting the cold autumn air hit your delicate petals. He leant towards the side and inspected you, his tongue instinctively wetting his lip.

“Honey, you’re soaked and so damn puffy.” he marveled, his voice reverent again and you felt yourself back on familiar ground, him slowly beginning to forget his own need for control in the context of his desire to please.

Laying across his lap, head cradled in the crook of his elbow, you could wiggle against him, feel his growing desire beneath your bottom. You could reach up and trace his features, pull at the plushness of that bottom lip and stroke the line of his jaw while he just took you in, a fight evident in his eyes. You weren’t about to let either his demons or masculine pride win.

“I couldn’t manage it without you, daddy.” you confessed and that broke him down faster than anything.

He jammed his foot into the wheel spokes to steer the boat by his leg, so he could bring his other hand down to you, moaning louder than even you when contact was finally made.

“My pretty, silly little girl.” he said as his fingers started up a insistent rhythm through your folds, worrying your bud with his thumb and nudging two fingers against your hole until they finally slipped passed and made you freeze from the burning ache. “You wanted more? I’ll give you more, I’ll fill ya up, honey, don’t you fret. Look at you, wants to be taken but can barely handle a few fingers. Damn idiot.”

The relief he had begun to give you had now morphed into something a little painful and harsh but it had the promise of something delicious behind it and you did your best to breath through the tugging squelch of his fingers in your tight canal. He curled them into you and you jolted like a pony at the starting line.

“Oh please, again!” you begged.

“Like that?” he chuckled, sounding pleased himself, curling them until you were writhing in his lap and kicking you heels futilely in the air.

“Just like that. Oh good god you’re marvelous.” you gloried in your victory and his skill as a mind numbing pleasure began to take hold of you.

“Shit, wish I could I watch you.”

You realized then as you opened your eyes that he had his own trained on the large compass before him and the vast river horizon ahead, boot nudging the wheel this way and that through the deadly sandbars, his hand pleasing you by feel alone. The sheer competency of the man attending you made you spasm appreciatively, and that in turn trapped his fingers all the tighter inside you. That little place he was rubbing drove you to the brink and then over it, howling your thanks into the night air before the arm under your head lifted you up to muffle your mouth against his shoulder.

“Don’t want no one else to hear the pretty music you make for me.” he hummed as he coaxed you through the last of it, “That’s all mine, that’s my fuckin’ reward, you keep quiet for me, alright?”

“Yes, yes, alright.” you whined, your tongue heavy and your limbs worthless, reveling in the feel of him hard as iron beneath your hip.

“Good girl.” you felt his lips against your temple as he pulled his fingers from deep within you. He raised them to his face and took his eyes off of the compass for a brief moment to watch the way they glistened in the lantern light. “You’re a treasure, darlin.” He whispered huskily before sucking them into his own mouth as if savoring one of big daddy’s jellies.

You could not deny the moan you let out at that sight. “My god, Elvis.” you whispered in awe and his eyes flicked down to you for the briefest moment as a grin took over his face.

“Want a taste?” he asked and was swiping his fingers through your quivering slick before you could protest or assent. He tapped the soaked digits against your lips and like a drugged little pet you opened them and took them in as far as they could go. You felt him twitch beneath you but before you could stumble to your feet and take what you wanted he was moving you off his lap himself, sliding off the seat to stand beside you until your bare bottom alone sat in it.

“Gotta taste you.” he declared almost defensively as you looked at him confused. “You see that dial?” he pointed to the face of what appeared to be some instrument or other, and you nodded bewilderedly. “These two lines, keep her between those two, alright? Else we’ll all be gator food.” And then he was actually letting go of the massive wheel and dropping to his knees after that brief tutelage, wasting no time in burying his face into your heat. If he wanted you to be quiet he should not have devoured you so perfectly. When you told him as much he whined against you and the vibrations made you gush for him, the sound of his slurping you up nearly causing you to forget his rudimentary lesson in navigation.

You thought of the alarmed patron below decks who did not feel comfortable with a seasoned captain piloting the vessel in the dark, and something shameless in you caused you to laugh joyfully at the thought of his terror at knowing a woman was piloting his vessel, a very distracted one at that. You told Elvis your thoughts and his laugh sent shockwaves up your core.

It was building for you again down there, his near constant moans against you causing you to buck up into his face until you realized he sounded near himself, his moans changing pitch familiarly and you risked a glance down at him to be confronted with the sight of him open mouthed worshipping you, a hand around himself, his trousers undone and his eyes nearly rolling back.

Something possessive in you, something desperately wanting him to know that you had liked what you’d done the night before, made you gasp out sternly, “Don’t you dare finish, I want to do that for you.”

You saw the exact moment when your admission struck home, his blue eyes widening impossibly and his cheeks hollowing, a pained tension seizing him for a brief moment before the very nature of your command pushed him over the brink. With him shuddering and crying out into your slick, he succumbed despite your warning -or because if it. The very shock of your own power over him nearly sent you to follow, inspiring you to plant a foot on his shoulder and wantonly grind against his beautiful face as he struggled to regain his breath and rhythm.

He took your demanding movements unflinchingly, tongue stiffened into your core and nose worrying your bud until you shook from your own release, babbling that he was perfect and good to you, his hair caught in a death grip. The horizon was neglected and forgotten until he struggled to his feet and took the wheel back with a shaky hand, his trousers still undone and a pearly mess evident in his left palm.

You could see his form trembling from the back, wether from emotion or the intensity of sensation you did not know, but you felt similarly unmoored, leaning forward to rest your forehead against the silk back of his waistcoat, hands holding his waist as he got the bearings straight again. He sighed deeply and calmed at your touch. You slid off the seat and shook your gown out, wobbling on jellied legs.

“Sit, let me clean you up.” you coaxed, pushing at his waist until he perched back up on the high seat.

“Haven’t got any wash rags up here.” he muttered and his voice sounded rough, making you worry the cold and damp of the night air might not being doing him favors in the long run. “I’ll just wipe it-“

“Here!” you grabbed at his wrist before he could do something despicably bachelor-like and wipe his spend on the wall or his pant leg. “Let me.” And you lifted the hem of your cotton gown and throughly wiped the evidence of his weakness away, catching him looking at you with that old, unrestrained hopefulness that you had been craving since before the damned dinner. You pressed kisses to his face for that and felt his lips still tacky from your pleasure, even if he could only return your affections clumsily with his eyes ahead again. He had a hand woven in your hair to keep you close and you were certain again that he cared for you. In some way at least, too gentle for mere lust.

You relished the feel of his soft member in your hands as you took him and wiped the dribbled spend from him, hearing him hiss as the coarse cotton scraped over the pink head.

“Sensitive still?” you asked curiously.

“Terribly.” he nearly whined before clearing his throat and repeating with forced naturalness, “Terribly, it’s like you get after one, ya know?”

You were rather fond of the sound of that whine, of the heady power of making this capable man shake apart and you grinned a little before saying, “Mmm, yes I know, but that never stops you, does it?”

He glanced away from the instruments to give you a genuinely puzzled look of concern before his eyes rounded comically at your move to bend at the waist and take him, soft and twitching, into your mouth. You made certain to run your tongue along him diligently, cleaning up his sticky mess and found it easier to maneuver him in your mouth with him having shrunk since his peak.

“Shit shit shit no no, Rosy -Goddamn it honey no!” he was remonstrating above you in whining outrage, his thighs flexing to get away from you, “Pull off honey,” he demanded but you ignored him, tickled to death to repay his sweet cruelty in kind. “Baby, darlin’, it ain’t the same for men, you can’t do—you c-can’t oh goddamn, it’s it’s worse for us please, please lil’ mama stop.”

That was a plaintive enough plea that you felt pity and pulled off to give him a wry look, “Who says it’s worse?” you demanded.

“I-it’s -what?” he dazedly caught his breath and fumbled to tuck himself back into his trousers, out of reach of over eager pupils.

“Who says it’s worse for men?” you repeated stubbornly, “I feel near dying and you keep at it, always ends up fine. How would you know it’s worse? You’ve never been a girl.”

“No- no I haven’t.” he conceded with a huff but his grin was growing, “It’s just one of those things that’s understood.” he tried to explain and the more he did the more unimpressed you grew with his logic and he fumbled some more. “For one, men can’t have them so often as y’all.”

“Have you tried?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Something dark and haunted, like a ghoulish memory, flitted across his face before he gathered his good humor again and replied, “No, not -not in awhile. Not with someone sweet like you.”

That haunted look of his effectively doused your mischief and you clasped your hands before you and gave him the gentlest smile you could manage.

“M-maybe we’ll try another time?” he urged, something cajoling in his tone, like he was very worried he’d disappointed you. “Maybe sometime when the consequence of a failed experiment won’t be wrecking the boat?” he turned to teasing and of course it worked.

“Yes, yes that’s very sensible of you.” you agreed heartily and his shoulders relaxed again.

You risked the boat one last time to give him a passionate, proper, straight on kiss that left him groaning happily into your mouth. You stepped to the side and it was with reluctance that he tore his eyes from yours and back to his task.

“You should go to bed, Rosy.” he murmured and this time it did not feel like a dismissal. His tone was too warm, his eyes unguarded.

“I hate to leave you up here alone.” you lamented.

“Oh, I’m not!” he grinned, “See this,” he pointed out a long metal tube that extend down into the floor, opening up a little hatch in its side and shouting down it, “How’s the weather down there Lamarr?”

“Hot as Satan’s asshole.” Came Mr. Fike’s reply from the boiler room, hollow and distorted by the metal but cheerful as always.

“Hates me when I run her this hard.” he informed you with a laugh, “He and a crew of two will be shoveling all night. And come five bells, Jerry will relieve me and I’ll crawl in next to you -that’s a promise.”

“Alright.” You conceded, worried for the way his brow beaded with sweat despite the night chill. “I brought your medicines.”

“Ain’t talking them, gotta stay alert.”

“You’ll be dull indeed if a fever takes your brain.”

“I’ll take the goddamn laudanum then and the rest I’ll take before I come down, happy?”

“The laudanum is the least helpful!” you protested.

“Try piloting a boat with your whole body screaming for some goddamn relief, Rosy.” he retorted, “Pain’s a mighty distracting thing, though no one gives it credit.”

There was some logic to that, and he had been successful at this balance long before your appearance, so you gave in to his outstretched hand and dropped the little bottle in his palm.

“I’ll put the rest here.” you whispered and set them up on a little ledge.

“I appreciate you.” he said earnest and sudden, “Don’t take my contrariness as an indication otherwise, you just, you gotta let me decide darlin’, I know best. Been doing this for a long while now and the colonel’s doctor takes real good care of me. Don’t need to worry your head over things you ain't qualified for. Alright, honey?”

That was a sugar coated chastisement if ever you heard one and you backed down accordingly. Giving him one last kiss you took yourself to bed and fell asleep easily, no strangling hands or burning flesh or spattered brains disturbing your dreams. Nothing disturbed you at all in fact, until you hazily felt the heat of his naked form gathering you up in the predawn light, curling around you and going limp after. Just as he had promised.

It was hours later and the cheerful sunlight was beaming through the slats of the shutters before you felt him moving against you, that old dance happening once again, and this time you were at peace with it, lazily wiggling back to meet him.

“Morning.” you whispered once you felt him hug you closer in acknowledgment, affectively burying your face in his warm chest.

You pressed little kisses through the wiry chest hair to that beautiful skin beneath, feeling his breaths still coming out steady and slow. His hand came up and scratched at your scalp like he might a kitten, and you purred for him then. He rolled you beneath him, gentle and unhurried, and you saw as he settled between your legs that his eyes were still barely open.

“Mornin’ Rosy.” he moaned sleepily, but with a smile tugging at those pretty lips before he slotted them against your own, sweet and insistent.

The morning progressed in a predictable manner, but this time it was sweet and steady due to its predictability. You remained unruffled as he began to grind himself fervently against your heat, kisses pressed to every part of your face and surrendering appreciative moans when you joined him in rolling your hips.

“Goddamn, you’re so slick for me already.” he groaned into your neck, and it was true, he was sliding through your folds effortlessly and your toes had already begun to curl from the immense pleasure of his head hitting your pearl insistently. “This all for me? You dreamin’ of me or somethin’?”

He was slurring slightly, and his efforts were drowsy. You realized then that he was no doubt still drugged a bit, and the responsibility of gentling him into consciousness settled in your chest warm and a little painful.

You savored the feeling of his arms bracketing your head, able to watch his face as he sought his pleasure, his hands woven in your hair and your legs around his waist the only guidance as you both found relief after a short time. Your heart thudded beneath his cheek afterwards and you playfully chided him for always making a sticky mess of your belly. That earned you a warm laugh and the sight of him propping up his chin in the valley of your breasts, grinning at you contentedly.

When he finally pulled away and sat up you saw his eyes drift to the apex of your thighs and widen impossibly. You glanced down, expecting to see his seed dripping lewdly down your thighs, but instead were greeted with the sight of crimson blood everywhere, on your thighs, the sheets and smeared against his abdomen and pelvis. As mortification took root and began to bloom in your horrified little soul he started silently shaking, his whole body convulsing before the sounds of untamed hilarity bubbled out of him. Peal after peal of rich laughter, that had him flopping on his back and clutching his arms about himself in an effort to calm the strength of his amusement.

“Oh Rosy,” he wheezed as he mopped the tears off his lashes, “you never fail to put me in my place, little one. Here I was thinkin’ you wanted me that bad and it was just- just-“ the rest was lost to another bout of laughter as you smacked at him on your way to the washroom.

“I do want you.” you hollered back to him, mortified but relieved he was not sickened by it, and was now seemingly alert if a little crazed.

“Thank ya, Rosy.” he mumbled from the bed so softly that you barely caught it except that you were listening intently. He stumbled into the washroom shortly after and proceeded to groan through his entire routine, unabashedly proclaiming that he felt like shit.

By the time you were dressed and polishing off breakfast beside him in the mess hall, you felt the boat grind and rock to a halt, boilers slowing and a anchor dropping alongside the St. Louis docks. Food had made him slightly less manic and he told you to go about your duties as usual, he’d send for you if and when he wanted an introduction made. He took Scotty with him to the top deck to greet his partner who was coming aboard, and you ensconced yourself off alongside Cal into the afternoon.

Elvis did send for you then, a summons to come to the third deck and you did so briskly, a little apprehensive of meeting the man all the crew held such animosity for. The Colonel, it would seem, was essential in the Captain’s mind, but not in the crew’s. You yourself begrudged him the 50% profit out of which you were barred from charging a dime for maintenance or wages.

Climbing to the third deck you had a decent view of the tidy St. Louis skyline, a city that you had only heard of and dealt with in the vague language of river commerce. It was amusing to you that after years shut up in one place you and had now traveled more extensively in the past month than in all your life

Upon rounding the bend of the bow’s bulkhead you caught sight of two figures in deep conversation. There was something unsettling about the scene before you that you could not name. Like a presentment or the wailing warning of a banshee, you registered danger before you could make any sense of the threat. It was not only that protective and jealous part of you that registered fat, hairy hands familiarly holding onto the Captain’s waist, or Elvis’ forced guffaw that by now you had learned was one he reserved for patrons when they said something particularly dull. Nor was it the partially obscured tubby figure, such as the kind you had once flinched from in any stranger thinking it was him. No, no it was all very wrong somehow before you even registered the damn cane. Then you noticed it, long and sleek with the same broken clown head adorning it, broken from fatally connecting with the skull of Miss Savannah Beaumont in her own foyer.

Andreas Kuijk, as you knew him to be, moved away from the captain a little while conversing and that was when your eyes locked, his widening in disbelief upon recognizing you, and yours smarting from the inability to blink, to look away from the face that had haunted your dreams for years. The face of a man the captain was so obviously at ease with, his head turning to see what had put his friend in such a trance and spying you there. The Captain’s face lit up with a grin at the sight of you lurking in the shadows of the bulkhead, and he beckoned you closer.

“Colonel,” he addressed the man genially as he waved you over, oblivious to the way your heart pounded in your throat and your head swam, “I want you to meet our newest addition and a very special delight of mine, Miss Savannah Beaumont. Rosy, this is Colonel Parker. C’mere honey, -hey, you aren’t looking well, you ill?”

Colonel Parker? Was that the name and alibi they’d given him after he bashed in her brains and tried to end you as well? Two helpless women trying not to starve and he had come down to Belle Meade on their commission so certain, so volatile, and your father had just watched. Watched Savannah get murdered and told you to be good. To hush up. That this was the way of things now, all that was left for womenfolk to do was endure it.

Colonel Parker. Was this name change why there was no man to accuse at the trial, only a written testimony left in hopes of hanging you for perjury and theft?

Elvis was looking at your white face with concern, his eyes flitting between the Colonel’s simmering gaze and your shaking form, and you realized then, with sickening certainty, that he was more anxious regarding the Colonel’s opinion of his whore than for your health.

You needed to drag your eyes from that murderer’s bloated face but the longer you stared the more certain you were that this would be like all the other frights, an insubstantial figment of your nerves. But he did not dissipate, he remained composite and leered at you with almost malicious enjoyment of the cruel fate that had trapped you both aboard the same vessel, piloted by a man whose heart you both had a stake in.

Such a thought sent a nauseating chill through you, the sudden momentousness of the challenge before you striking you square on. To bank on a month of intimacy and flirtation to undo the fetters of a decade worth of partnership was idiocy. That old feeling of being impotent in the face of abandonment reared it’s ugly head, and seemed doubly cruel now that you’d tasted some semblance of fidelity. Now that you’d learned men could be gentle and kind and trace your face softly in the morning light.

You had taken the blows dished out to you again and again, until your grief had turned into a fierce need, and now it burned an inconsolable remonstrance. Not again, not him. The steady, hot rage the thought of that inspired in you, cleared your head of terror. Enough for you to play your part, enough to please the captain who loved your manners as much as he loved unwinding them beneath him, and him alone.

Under Elvis’ puzzled gaze you flung your head back and met that odious man halfway up the deck, summoning every bit of dignity you possessed to impress upon the Captain your amiability towards his partner. Unflinchingly but with a tongue sitting heavy and numb in your mouth, you shook the bloated hands that had once attempted to choke the life out of you for a few acres worth of land.

“Colonel Parker.” you greeted, and you spoke his alias like the lie it was.

“Miss Beaumont.” he greeted in kind, iron grip mocking your crumbling facade.

Masterlist

Yes I want to sing Sea Shanties with Elvis Presley, what of it?! Thank y’all for the love notes and brainstorming that y’all have aided me with! I’m so deeply invested with this story and I can’t wait to reach that finish line with y’all, maybe find us a place in the sun 🌻 I owe you all for the momentum keep at it

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#absolute fav fic on here atm #everyone NEEDS to read this #elvis presley #elvis fic

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// synchronicities pt. 5

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𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 | ex's best friend! austin butler x reader

summary: after a bad breakup with your cheating ex, the last thing you're expecting is for his best friend to side with you. at his insistence, you decide to let him accompany you to the arctic monkey concert in las vegas. what happens in las vegas doesn't always stay in las vegas.

warning/notes: one bed trope, SMUT! exhibitionism, fingering, unprotected sex, choking, begging, creampie, protective!austin, austin really said "fuck cheaters" with his whole chest in this fic

word count: 13,138

masterlist | requests are currently closed !

“Austin wouldn’t do that to you. Besides, I don’t even really know Jeremy anyway, so why the hell would he bring him?” You were currently holding Juniper, placing a few quick kisses to the top of her head as you bounced her in your arms. Your best friend was in the process of cubing cheese, getting ready for the wedding anniversary party she was throwing. You had offered to help earlier, but she had simply handed you her daughter. Juniper loved you the most out of any of her other friends, which was why she never threw fits when you were around. She simply tugged on your hair and played with your necklaces, content with just being around you.

“I don’t know. I’m just anxious, you know? I broke up with him a week ago, and you know how vindictive he is.” Jeremy was the type of person to go out of his way to make you uncomfortable. He was the absolute king of getting a rise out of you, and you hated that. You had a feeling that he had been spewing all types of bullshit Austin’s way, and despite the fact that you and Austin had been friends before you and Jeremy even dated, you knew that his loyalties would probably be with his male friend. It only made sense.

“Come on, Y/n. Jeremy is a-” She lowered her voice as she looked up from the cutting board. “Asshole,” she whispered, shooting you and Juniper a small smile before going back to work with her knife. “But Austin isn’t. He asked specifically if you were going to be here tonight because he wanted to talk to you. He loves you both. Besides, you weren’t the one that got caught with a Tinder account. You aren’t the bad guy in this situation. Austin is a loyal friend, but he’s fair. He knows Jeremy is the one that messed up. When I talked to him last night he sounded super angry about it all.”

You rocked back on your heels, spinning around in a circle a few times just to make Juniper squeal before continuing your train of thought. “Yeah- no. . . you’re so right. I don’t want to make him choose a side, but he’s known Jeremy the longest. I know that if push came to shove, it wouldn’t be me he’d stick beside. That’s all.” You’d have to be an idiot to think that Austin would pick you over his longtime friendship. You had met Austin through a modeling gig towards the beginning of his career. The Hannah Montana era- which he still visually cringed at the mention of. You had been an assistant photographer back then, fresh out of high school, and the two of you had clicked. Two years later you both ran into each other at Ashley’s birthday party and decided to exchange numbers. Austin was the person that had introduced you to Jeremy in the first place. Of course, he probably never thought that the two of you would end up dating. You and Jeremy were polar opposites, which you had once found cute and quirky, but now realized was incredibly annoying and a waste of your fucking time.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” You heard Ashley mumble under her breath, but when you hummed at her, she merely shook her head. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” She was quick to flash you an “innocent” smile.

There was a knock at the door, and you were quick to shuffle off towards it. “No, no. I’ve got it.” Christopher called out, jogging ahead of you before opening the door. A few familiar faces shuffled in, giving Ashley’s husband tight hugs before moving over to you. You gave them side hugs, smiling softly to yourself as they cooed at the adorable baby in your arms before moving towards the kitchen. Words of congratulations were exchanged before they were ushered out the back door. “I’ll take her from ya.” Ashley walked over, scooping Juniper out of your arms before nodding towards the kitchen. “Can you cut up the carrots and celery for me? That’s all that’s left.” You were quick to salute her, a silent ‘you got it’, before moving over towards the kitchen island. She wrinkled her nose at you, blowing you a quick kiss before floating out the back door and to the waiting guests.

“I think you should stay another week. Having you around has been an absolute blessing, Y/n.” Chris told you, and as you looked up you could see that he wasn’t joking, but telling the truth.

“Ah, you guys need your privacy though. I just didn’t want to go back to our apartment until he moved all of his shit out.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “We have a big house. Besides, Juniper hasn’t been this well behaved in a while. She’s teething, and with you around she hasn’t been as fussy. Not only that but Ashley loves having you here. You live an hour away, and she misses you.” You shot him a warm grin before ripping open the bag of organic carrots, cutting off the stems before slicing them down the middle.

“Hey! In my defense you two are the ones that moved away from me.” He laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry for stealing her from you.” He teased before heading out the back door to follow after his wife.

You’d met all of Ashley’s previous flings, and none of them were as fantastic as Chris. You couldn’t imagine her with anyone else. He loved her as well as her family and friends. He treated you like family, and you adored him for that. There was a soft knock on the front door again, and instead of putting your knife down to open the already unlocked door you simply called out that it was open. A lanky blonde pushed his way in, a large bouquet of flowers in his arms. For a second the two of you stared at each other, anxiety already gnawing at your stomach. Ashley’s words from earlier had only calmed you down a little. You weren’t sure what kind of conversation he wanted to have with you, but you were sure that probably wasn’t going to be good.

“Long time, no see.” He smiled softly at you, walking further into the house so that he could set the flowers down on the kitchen table before making his way over towards you. He stood across from you at the kitchen island, leaning over so that he could place his forearms against the granite. You rolled your eyes, shooting him a soft smile.

“It’s been two weeks.” You retorted.

He returned the smile, his blue eyes dancing over your face before he nodded. “Exactly. Long time.”

For a few seconds the only sound that could be heard in the house was your constant chopping. You weren’t sure if he was waiting for you to say something or not. You weren’t sure what to say in this sort of situation. You were sure that something along the lines of ‘hey there, i know my shithead of an ex boyfriend is your best friend, but i’ve known you longer than i’ve known him, so i’m hoping we can still be friends’ probably wouldn’t go over too well with him.

“So Jeremy called me last week.” He started.

You sucked in a breath before placing the knife down on the cutting board. “Oh yeah? What did he say?” He cleared his throat before walking around the island, moving closer to your side. He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked good, but when did Austin not look good? He was wearing white wash jeans, old boots that made him even taller, and a jean button up the same shade as his pants- tucked in with a belt. You would be lying if you said that you had never been attracted to your friend. He was a good looking guy, but he had just started dating Vanessa right around the time that the two of you got close. Not to mention that, but you weren’t the type of person to cross the boundary of friendship with someone that you were close to like that. That was how things got messy, and you didn’t like drama.

“Well. . .” He pursed his lips for a second, his blue eyes flickering up to the ceiling for a second before he finally looked back down at you. It appeared that he was trying to find the right words to say. “He tried playing the victim for a few minutes, but caught on pretty quick that I wasn’t falling for it. I scolded him a little bit, and now he isn’t returning my texts.” Your mouth fell open, eyes going as wide as saucers. Austin had stood up for you? God, you knew that he was a wonderful person, but you didn’t expect that.

“He isn’t talking to you?” You were stunned.

Austin shook his head, mouthing the word ‘nope’ before reaching over for the knife that you had placed down. He went to work doing what you had been doing before, giving you the opportunity to assemble the vegetable board in a way that Ashley would find aesthetically pleasing.

“I’m sorry if I look a bit shocked, but I wasn’t expecting you to actually say anything to him.” He cleared his throat, his long fingers gripping the hilt of the knife tightly as he started to work on the celery.

“Being cheated on is a shit feeling, and the fact that he threw away almost five years with you is just plain stupid. He knows how I feel about it, and now he’s choosing to ignore the problem rather than to own up to anything.” Ashley had been right. It sounded like Austin really had picked a side.

And it was yours.

“How are you holding up though? I was waiting for you to reach out to me, but you never did.” He sounded a little hurt. You licked your lips before grabbing one of the small bowls Ashley had taken down out of the cabinet, filling it with the green goddess dressing the two of you had picked up at Whole Foods a few hours back.

“I’m doing surprisingly alright. I’ve been staying here with Ash and Chris for the last week, which has been pretty great,” You took a deep breath before continuing. “I didn’t reach out to you because I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position with Jeremy. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure on my end. Maneuvering friendships after a breakup like this is really hard.” He hummed in understanding, scooping up the celery in his hands before distributing it on the plate. His hand brushed yours, and he kept it there for a couple of seconds before moving it back down to his side.

“Look, I appreciate that, but I’m your friend too. You’re having a hard time, and I want to be there for you. Jeremy can be a selfish dick, but I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s always been like this. I don’t really expect too much out of him anymore, but just know that I’m really upset with him over this. When you two first started dating I had a feeling that this was how it would turn out. I tried to warn him about hurting you, but he didn’t seem to heed my advice.” He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Which isn’t surprising.”

Sure, you’d heard some pretty choice words about Jeremy from Austin’s lips before after a drunken fight or some play-teasing that one of the boys took too far, but this was pretty full on. Whatever picture Jeremy had tried to paint for Austin the other day over the phone must not have been very nice. It made your stomach churn just thinking about what he had told his other friends. God, they must have thought you were some kind of a monster. That was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t stand. You were the one that had been hurt in this entire situation, but suddenly you’re the bad guy. You had done everything you could think to do in order to save your relationship with him. You knew that it wasn’t going to work out long term, but you still loved him. You don’t just waste five years of your life on someone you don’t love. The longer you spent away from Jeremy, the more and more you started to pull your head out of the clouds and come back down to earth. Even if it was a long way to fall- the realizations had been hard- but it was good. You had been biding your time with Jeremy. The two of you never really talked about marriage or children. It was almost like the two of you had just been in a relationship because it was convenient for the two of you. You were attracted to one another, you had mutual acquaintances, and it had just made sense to be together in your early twenties. Now? Now you just felt like a moron who had allowed herself to be mistreated all in the name of “love”.

“Well I don’t know how you’ve put up with him for so long. I’ve only known him for five years and I’m starting to regret the day I ever met him.” You tossed a carrot onto the plate a little harder than you had meant to, and you cursed under your breath as it bounced off and landed right on the floor.

Austin bent down and picked it up for you, tossing it into the trash. “I guess you have me to blame for that. I wouldn’t have introduced you two if I knew that he would have hit on you. You aren’t the kind of girl he usually goes for. You’re unique and actually have a personality.” That made you laugh. Austin couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face as he watched you, and soon he was bumping his shoulder up against yours. “Do you need help with anything? I’d be willing to drop some of his stuff off at his place. Maybe egg his house? Might be therapeutic.”

You snickered, shaking your head. “No, he should have all of his junk out of my place by now. I gave him a week, and my neighbor said that he hauled a whole truck load of shit out. The only thing that’s causing me some stress right now is the fact that I spent way too much money on those Artic Monkey tickets and a hotel room up in Vegas, and now I can’t even go.”

His nose wrinkled as he looked down at you. “Why the hell wouldn’t you go? You need to get out of the house and have fun after all the shit you’ve been through this past week.”

Yeah, you could really use a night out.

Sure, getting wine drunk and watching Married at First Sight with Ashley was a blast, but you needed to get out of California for a bit, even if it was just a two day ordeal. The tickets had originally been a late birthday present for Jeremy, but he’d gone and fucked everything up. You’d already called the hotel only to find out that they don’t do refunds so short notice, and it was impossible to find someone to go with you. Ashley didn’t like the Artic Monkeys, and even if she was willing to go with you, there was no way you were going to inconvenience her any more than you already had. Jenny from work said that she would have loved to go with you, but her fiance had planned a surprise trip to Arizona to visit her elderly grandparents. The rest of your friends either weren’t big fans and weren’t willing to take the time off of work or already had plans. Sure, you could always go down there and stay by yourself. It would nice to have meaningless sex with a hot stranger, but over the years of inconsequential hookups you knew that doing something like that after a bad breakup only ever hurt you worse in the long run. There’s nothing bad about chasing your own pleasure, but you were better than that. Besides, getting even with your cocksucker of an ex wasn’t worth the possibility of contracting some kind of sexually transmitted disease, and Vegas was probably chalk-full of those.

You also had your own safety to worry about. There was no way you trusted yourself to get drunk at the concert, hail an Uber and then crawl back to your hotel without something bad happening. Human trafficking was a real and serious thing, and you’d rather waste a little over a thousand dollars than something bad happen to you. “I wish I could go, but I’ve already asked everybody I could think of and they’re all busy. I’ll probably just try and sell the tickets or something.”

Austin’s eyebrows furrowed as he took a bite out of one of the carrots. He chewed a few times before hurriedly swallowing. “You didn’t ask me.”

And for a good reason. You didn’t hate the idea of being petty. Jeremy totally deserved it, but Austin didn’t. There was no way you were going to pull him into your drama. You gave him a look, and he let out a small chuckle before shaking his head, his blonde hair falling into his eyes. “No, I’m serious. I’ll go with you. I don’t have any shoots or interviews for a full week, and my upcoming project doesn’t start for another month and a half.” Ever since he was in that Elvis biopic his face had been plastered all over god’s green earth.

“Jeremy would-” He cut you off before you could finish.

“No, fuck that. You told me you spent like. . . five hundred dollars on the hotel room for the night. Let’s just go, have a good time, and then we can both come back home refreshed. Besides, I love the Artic Monkeys. You know they’re one of my favorite bands. The tickets were sold out by the time I decided to buy one. Not only that, but I didn’t want to crash you and Jeremy’s date.” Austin did love the band just as much as you did. Also it was always a blast hanging out with him. You hadn’t been alone with him for years. You remembered how much fun the two of you used to have back in the day, and you could really use a good laugh.

Breakups make people do dumb things. Some people bleach their hair in a desperate attempt to reinvent themselves, while others go on a month long drinking binge. You? You agreed to go to the concert with Austin. Your ex’s longtime best friend. Alone. “Yeah! You’re totally right. It will be fun.”

Austin threw his fist in the air, and once he had heard you laugh he threw his leg out in a half-assed move he had probably learned during one of his karate lessons, which only made you laugh that much harder. “It’s going to be great. God, I’ve never seen them in concert before. I’m actually pretty psyched right now.”

And you could tell. He was grinning ear to ear. That smile remained on his face for the rest of your best friend’s celebration, and he stuck to your side like glue throughout the entire night. Later that night he shot you a text, as if you would possibly forget the promise that the two of you had made.

You had asked a very tipsy Ashley what she thought about the situation, but her input wasn’t much help. “I think you should have sex. No! For real, girl. He thinks you’re hot so I think you should go for it.” She was ridiculously inebriated, and mostly everything she says when she’s drunk is either highly dramatized or completely nonsensical, so you disregarded the last comment.

If Austin found you attractive at any point during your friendship, then there was no reason why he would have introduced you to Jeremy in the first place. The two of you were strictly friends. . . even if you did find him attractive yourself. That didn’t mean that the feelings were mutual.

You always used to enjoy road trips. That is, until Jeremy came along. The man always had something to complain about. Either his legs were cramping up, his ass felt sore for sitting too long, or he didn’t like the music you had turned on for the both of you to listen to. Going anywhere with that man was always a chore. Not to mention the fact that he always had something to say about your driving. Driving in the car with Austin reminded you what you loved so much about the open road. It was supposed to be fun and carefree, and when you had good company it was always a blast. Austin insisted on picking the music, which you definitely didn’t mind. He was still on an Elvis kick, and because of his major role in the movie he had a newfound love and respect for blues music. Towards the end of the four hour trip he had turned on the Artic Monkeys to get you both ready for the concert. You had sped down the interstate listening to his favorite songs by them, screaming the lyrics right along with him. Austin enjoyed driving with the windows rolled down, not caring about how his hair looked or how his ears popped. He must have enjoyed the feeling of the wind on his face. You followed his lead, rolling yours down as well. It really was therapeutic to get out of the state for a little while. The second you saw the sign for Nevada you practically moaned in relief. You were free, even if it was just for a little under forty-eight hours.

A couple of times during the trip you had seen Austin lift his phone up, taking pictures of the desert road and videos of you singing your heart out, your hair in your face from the wind and a wide smile dimpling your cheeks. Ashley would always be your best friend, but you hadn’t felt this happy in months. Maybe even years. Austin appeared to be in the same boat. You hadn’t seen him stop smiling. Not even once. When the two of you finally pulled up to the hotel, which was only about ten minutes from the concert venue, the both of you were in high spirits. Austin grabbed your overnight bag for you as you climbed out of the car, which you thanked him for by opening the lobby door so that he could step into the hotel first.

“Hey there. I booked a room here about two months ago.” You gave the front desk clerk your first and last name, but he was staring straight behind you with wide eyes and a slack jaw. You almost rolled your eyes as Austin used his free hand to wave, knowing damn well that the man must be momentarily star struck.

“O-Oh. . . okay. Give me just one second.” The young man’s face flushed as he began typing away furiously at the computer. “Here’s your key cards for the room.” He went to hand it to you, but his hands were shaking so horribly that he dropped it. The short brunette cursed under his breath, scrambling to grab the small packet before handing it off to you.

“Before we head up, I just wanted to see if there might be any rooms available with two beds? I know that the one I booked was a suite with a king size.” You didn’t want to be difficult, but it was certainly worth a try. Austin took a step closer to you, leaning against the counter as he looked down at you. You ignored his gaze, waiting for the boy to check.

“I’m so sorry, but we’re completely booked for the night. There’s a pretty big concert going on down the street in two hours, so all of the hotels in the area are probably completely booked up for the next week.”

You should have known that this would happen to you. You’d seen enough romcoms to know how this sort of situation went. Two platonic friends get stuck in the same hotel room together with just one bed. Of course this would happen.

You closed your eyes tightly for a few seconds before pocketing the hotel pamphlet. “Thank you.”

The boy shuffled awkwardly where he was standing before nodding his head towards Austin. “I know that this might be super lame, but my girlfriend absolutely loves you. I saw Elvis and. . . y-you killed it, man. Do you mind signing something for me?” Austin smiled warmly, placing the bags down on the floor.

“Not at all. Hey, thank you so much for seeing the film by the way. And tell your girlfriend that I said thank you for the support.” The boy nodded, quickly grabbing a blank sheet of paper out of the printer that he had beside the computer monitor, sliding that and a pen across the counter towards the blonde. You were used to people stopping Ashley while the two of you were out, so it wasn’t anything that you weren’t used to. For some odd reason, in this case at least, you felt an immense amount of pride wash over you. Seeing the way that he so sweetly interacted with a fan who was very clearly freaking out made you feel proud to have him in your life. Austin wasn’t just an amazing actor, but an amazing person as well.

“What are you all smiley about?” He asked you with a small smile on his face, bumping into you with his shoulder as you both walked into the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor.

“Just proud of you is all. It’s really amazing to see how far you’ve come.” Austin leaned back against the stainless steel wall as the doors began to close, and as you turned your head to face him he was quick to face the other way.

“Are you blushing?” You teased lightly. He was quick to wave you off with his hand, shuffling his feet until he had his back to you. You could still see him in the reflection of the wall, and you were quick to let out a small chuckle. “Don’t get all shy with me when I compliment you.” He shook his head a few times before facing you, blue eyes wide with shock. He had a sheepish grin on his face, and there was something about that expression that made your insides feel uncomfortably warm.

“I’m not used to you saying stuff like that to me in person.” Compliments had always made him feel embarrassed, which was why press tours made him feel a bit anxious. Austin was humble to the degree that whenever people went out of their way to remark on his work he sort of. . . shut down. His cheeks would heat up, he’d begin biting his lip, and he’d find it hard to make eye contact. He’d always been like that, ever since you first met him. Teasing him was fine, but whenever you very honestly commented on how well he was doing in his career? That was when the nervous ticks began.

He was smiling to himself, staring straight ahead at the glowing buttons, watching as the numbers flickered on the screen, signifying that you were still a long way off until the top floor. The confined space was beginning to make you feel. . . odd. Your heart was pounding, you were becoming overly aware of how close you were to Austin, and all you could smell was his woodsy cologne. You were the type of person that used humor as a coping mechanism, so under your breath you began singing what you could remember of the Hannah Montana theme song. He was quick to give your arm a light thwack, his loud laughter echoing in the confined space.

“You ruined it. We were having a bonding moment, and you totally killed the mood.” He was still laughing though, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Exactly. Of course you didn’t admit that. Instead you only laughed, moving away from him as he gave you a gentle shove.

“Come on, dude. . . I mean- sometimes I’m in a jam and I have to make a plan. It might be crazy, but I do it any-” He grabbed you by your shoulders, giving you a few shakes. At this point you were both belly laughing, barely able to keep yourselves up as the elevator continued to jostle as you climbed higher and higher. The sound of his cellphone loudly ringing made the both of you quiet down though, and the second that he dug the device out of his pocket and you saw the name that was flashing across the screen? Dead silence.

“Shit.” Austin cursed under his breath, his thumb hovering over the answer button as he debated whether or not he wanted to answer. Anxiety locked up your limbs as you fell limply against the wall, watching with wide eyes as he worried his lip with his teeth. “I’m going to answer it. Be quiet for a second.” He swallowed thickly before pressing the phone against his ear. “Hey, man.” There was a beat of silence before Jeremy’s loud voice came over the other end. He sounded mad. Really mad.

“What the fuck, Austin? Are you with Y/n right now?” Austin licked his lips, turning down the volume in an attempt to keep you from hearing whatever rotten things the rancid man was bound to say.

“We’re seeing a concert together. Why?” The blonde sounded guarded, a stark difference from the soft, teasing tone he had been using with you just seconds ago.

“Why? Are you seriously asking me that right now? You’re on a date with my girlfriend of five years after only a week of us being separated. What the hell is wrong with you?” You kept your eyes on the elevator, breathing a sigh of relief when you noticed that you were almost to your floor. It was almost as if Jeremy knew that you had finally allowed yourself to let loose and have fun. Whatever joy you had felt just minutes ago had been sucked from your body. Hearing his voice had been a catalyst, and suddenly all you were reminded of was just how wrong this whole situation was. Sure, he deserved it, but you weren’t the kind of person to go out of your way to be cruel.

Austin seemed to notice your shift in mood, because he reached a hand out, placing it on your shoulder as he spoke. “Y/n and I have known each other for well over five years, so I don’t think it’s weird for me to spend time with her. You can’t dictate when and where I see her anymore, Jeremy. She had an extra ticket and I offered to go. End of story.” Austin’s tone left no room for argument, but that didn’t mean that Jeremy didn’t try.

“I had to find out through your instagram story that the two of you were even with each other right now. Do you know how embarrassing this is for me? You’re supposedly my best friend, and now you’re in Vegas with my ex. Do you not realize how fucked up this is? Am I in the fuckin’ twilight zone or something?” You didn’t even think about the fact that Jeremy might see Austin’s private story. You had been too preoccupied with actually being in the moment to even think of the repercussions. You knew that your ex would eventually catch wind of the two of you doing something like this, but you didn’t think he would have the audacity to call within the same day.

“Embarrassing for you?” You flinched at Austin’s tone, your heart rate picking up even faster. God, was this going to turn into a fight right now? You started shaking your head, trying to signal for him to give you the phone. Whatever anger Jeremy had, you were used to taking the brunt of it. You didn’t want Austin to be the one that got reprimanded over this situation. He had been nice enough to come with you, after all. Even if he loved the band, he was still doing you a major favor by tagging along and keeping you safe from whatever creepy men were surely lurking in the shadows of Las Vegas. He shooed you off with a gentle flick of his wrist, his eyes hardening on the steel elevator doors. “You got caught trying to cheat on your girlfriend of five years, and you’re the one that is embarrassed? Why? Because your ex and your single friend- who have known each other for years, might I add- are hanging out? You’re a fuckin’ piece of work man.”

“Fuck you! How the hell do you not see how big of a deal this is? You’re fucking her, right?” Austin groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him with a gentle thud, his eyes screwed shut.

“I’m not fucking her. You’re painting this out to be some huge deal when it really isn’t. Stop spinning this false narrative so that you can play the victim. It isn’t going to work with me, Jeremy.” You ran your hand down your face, listening to the elevator as the floors continued to ding past. Jeremy must have recognized the noise too, because he was quick to speak up about it.

“So where are you two right now?”

Austin didn’t hesitate. “We’re heading up to our hotel room.” You instantly recognized the mistake though. Room. Singular.

“So you’re sleeping with her tonight? Austin, how fucking long has this been going on?” Great, now the paranoid asshole thought that you were the one that had been cheating. Maybe this had been what he was fishing for the entire time. He needed a reason to continuously slander you to all of your mutual friends.

This was turning out to be a car-crash of a day. A fiery one too. You couldn’t seem to catch a break. You’d been smart enough to block Jeremy on all social media the night that you saw the notifications on his phone and kicked him out, but now you felt the need to unblock him just to message him. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he could try to move on whilst still being knee deep in your relationship. Suddenly you’re the bad guy for trying to do the same? You hadn’t even come here with the intention of making a move on Austin. That had been the furthest thing from your mind, but you were so angry that suddenly it was on the table. You had always liked Austin. He was a fantastic guy, and had always gone out of his way for you without fail. Having sex with Austin might make things a bit awkward, but you sure as hell wouldn’t hate it. You just didn’t want him to think that he was a rebound hookup.

Because let’s face it; you’d always had a bit of a crush on him. Seeing the way he was viciously protecting you right now only solidified that. He must have known that he was potentially ruining one of his longest standing friendships for you, and he didn’t seem to care. Austin wasn’t pulling any of his punches either. He was going straight for the throat.

“If I’m so disappointed in you for cheating on her, why the hell would I go for her while she was still in a relationship with you? How does that make any fucking sense? Not to mention you went out of your way to control and nitpick every single little fucking thing she did, Jer. I wouldn’t do that to you, and I’m pissed off that you would even accuse me of something like this.” The door to the elevator opened loudly, and Austin was the first one to walk out, the two duffle bags swinging in his right hand while he held the phone up to his ear with the left. You couldn’t hear what Jeremy was saying now that you were out in the hall, but it must not have been good, because the second that Austin walked up to the correct room number he tossed the duffle bags down, throwing his free hand up into the air exasperatedly. “You’ve always gone out of your way to keep us away from each other. It hurt my feelings, but I understood and dealt with it. We get along too well and you felt threatened.” You scrambled to reach into your pocket with a shaking hand, trying desperately to find the keycard.

“Yes you were,” A beat. “No, Jeremy. You felt threatened. Every single adult woman that I know has at least one male friend. Ashley has a husband and we still call and text almost every day. It’s normal. The only thing that isn’t ‘normal’ is you in this situation.” Austin nodded his head in a silent thanks as he pushed his way past you and into the hotel room. He placed your duffle bag down onto the bed, keeping a hold on his own as he made his way towards the bathroom. You were still standing in the entryway, feeling like your limbs were locked up from the shock and stress of it all.

He brushed past you, and it was then that you could hear what Jeremy was saying. “-and I always knew you had a thing for her! So why the hell would I leave you alone with her? I’m a guy! I know how guys are!” Austin was quick to shut the door to the bathroom, not wanting you to hear any more of the conversation. You could hear the zipper to his bag and his hushed voice, but other than that you couldn’t make out anymore of the conversation.

“I’m not trying to be difficult, but my friend will most likely get ambushed if we try to enter through the main line.” You had asked to speak with the manager of the venue, chewing your bottom lip anxiously as he narrowed his eyes on you.

“And tell me again who your friend is?” The man asked gruffly.

The last thing you wanted was to try and come off privileged, but this certainly wasn’t a ploy to try and cut the lines. Someone was bound to recognize Austin, even in a dimly lit concert hall, but the last thing you needed was for all hell to break loose. There were at least a few thousand people that would be attending the show, and protecting your friend was your top priority. He had gone out of his way to show you support throughout the entire day. He had ruined his friendship with Jeremy all so that he could be there for you. You could tell just by the look on his face when he had stepped out of the bathroom that things had blown up far worse than they had in the elevator. It was over. By the time that the two of you headed back home, you were sure that everyone in your tight knit group would think that you were a homie hopper of epic proportions, and Austin would be losing one of his oldest friends. For now the two of you didn’t want to think about that though. Right now, at this very moment, the two of you wanted to drink overpriced beer and act like fools in front of Alex Turner.

“Austin Butler.” The guy blinked a few times before realization dawned on him.

“Ah!” He pointed at you, nodding his head enthusiastically. “He was in that Quentin Tarantino film.” You snapped your fingers, nodding your approval.

“That’s the one. He was recently in the Elvis biopic, which is really the only reason why I’m hoping you can just scan our tickets and get us in the dark building.” The short, stocky man nodded a few times, music pumping away loudly in the building. The opening act hadn’t started yet, but they were bound to play any minute. Adults and teenagers of all ages were lined up around the building, chattering excitedly with one another.

“I loved that one line of his. ‘I’m as real as a-’”

“‘ Donut, motherfucker,’” You finished hurriedly for him, laughing nervously. “Yeah, yeah. It was hilarious. What do you say though,” You looked down at his nametag. “Anthony? Can I go ahead and wave him on over? I don’t want him to get out of the uber if you can’t help us though.” The second that people started clamoring out of line to get pictures and autographs was the second that you would both probably be forced to leave. Anthony nodded, grabbing his walkie talkie off of his hip and bringing it up to his mouth.

“I’ve got two VIPs up front that are going to need an escort. Stand by.” You turned your body towards the silver Hyundai, waving animatedly at the car. Austin must have been watching you, because the second you gave him the “okay” signal, he was up and out of the car.

“Thank you.” You heard him say to the driver before closing the door, quickly jogging over to your side. He tucked in close to you, smiling down at Anthony.

For a second the older but shorter man just stared up at Austin. “Holy shit, you weren’t lying.” You let out a nervous laugh, bouncing on the balls of your feet. You thanked god that you were wearing your comfortable heeled boots. You had already been standing outside for nearly thirty minutes. You could hear whispers in the line beside you, and while Austin didn’t dare to turn his head to face anyone, you anxiously did. Sure enough, a group of young girls were staring directly at the both of you.

“Come on you two, I’m going to take you through the side entrance.” He told the both of you, already walking off in the direction of the building.

Austin breathed out a quick thanks before reaching down, taking your hand in his as the two of you began walking through dimly lit doors. The concert venue already smelled of alcohol and women’s perfume. Whether it was the Nevada temperatures or the amount of bodies that were already packed in the room, the building was stiflingly hot, even in the back corridors. You blinked your eyes as you passed by a few black chests, squinting ever so slightly to read the words painted on the side.

“I think this is their stuff.” You leaned in to whisper to Austin, who was quick to whip his head around.

“Holy shit. Are we. . . backstage right now?” He mumbled, though quickly shut his mouth as Anothony turned to face the both of you.

“Did you guys want to get any beverages? Once I put you guys in your spots, there’s really no leaving.” Austin reached into his back pocket and pulled out his card.

“Is there any way that someone could grab us a few beers?” Anthony took Austin’s card from him and waved over another person who was wearing a black “staff” shirt. They whispered something to one another before Anthony quickly shuffled off.

“What if he stole my card?” Austin turned to look at you, smiling widely.

You rolled your eyes, letting out a small scoff. “Oh my god. You’d shit yourself.” The blonde let out a small laugh, rocking back on his own vintage boots.

“The night would definitely go to shit, that’s for sure.” He wrinkled his nose in that adorable way that you loved so much, and you found yourself getting caught up in the moment again. Austin had this wonderful way of making everything feel alright. The world suddenly felt steady beneath your feet. You could breathe in his presence. “Let’s have a good night, alright? We didn’t drive here.”

“Meaning we can get wasted?”

His lips twitched up into a small, naughty smile. The moment felt very personal. Special. You had almost forgotten about his hold on your hand, because you nearly jumped when he gave it a small squeeze. “I think that we both deserve a drink.”

You lost count somewhere after your fourth beer. You weren’t a lightweight, but the last time either of you ate anything was hours ago, so the alcohol went straight to your head. You excitedly raised your beer above your head as the band finished up their third song of the night. Austin laughed at you, but was quick to raise his own beer as well. You couldn’t remember the last time that you felt this comfortable around a guy before. Here you were, in a highly populated area and drunk to boot, feeling more safe than you ever had in your own home with your ex. Austin stood behind you, his free arm wrapped around your shoulders, his forearm pressing against your neck. Maybe he wanted to make sure that you didn’t leave his sight. Or better yet, maybe he just wanted to be as close to you as possible. You were too inebriated to think too far into things. During the opening act, when you were a little bit more perceptive to your surroundings, you had seen a few people taking photos of you and Austin. You were positive that he must have known as well, but he didn’t bat an eye. He stuck close to you, leaning in to whisper jokes, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. He had even pulled out his own phone, pressing his forehead against the top of your head as he kept the camera pointed at the stage. Every once and a while security would walk over and take the empty beer bottles out of your hands, waltzing off so that they could quickly replace them for you both.

Austin had the top buttons of his shirt undone, so when you turned your cheek further into his embrace, you felt his bare skin against your face. It was hot enough in the building that you both were sweating, your hair sticking to your cheeks and the back of your neck. A few strands of wavy hair currently clung to the skin just below his temples. You were trying your hardest not to stare up at Austin, because the longer you looked, the more beautiful he became. You could feel your hair sticking to his chest as you leaned your head back against him, blinking up at him as the stage lights flashed. Fans began to cheer loudly as Nick O’Malley played the opening notes of the song Arabella. You watched Austin’s smile widen, his eyes twinkling in the bright blue lights. He must have felt your gaze on him, because he looked down at you.

“What?” You couldn’t hear him with how loudly the music was playing, but you could feel his chest vibrating against your cheek as his deep voice sounded. You could see his plush lips form the words.

“I just love you.” You shouted back up at him. Because you did. Really and truly. Austin was one of the best people that you ever had the pleasure of meeting, and you hoped that he felt the same.

You weren’t an idiot though. You saw how he treasured you and your friendship. He had proved how wildly protective he was over you. You saw the way that he was looking at you right now. He didn’t have to say it back, because everything that he had done tonight said it for him. Every gentle brush of his knuckles against the skin of your bare shoulders. Every featherlight kiss on the top of your head. Every sway of his hips as he danced right along with you, matching your goofy energy effortlessly. The smile that he shot back down to you was blinding, and right on cue one of the staff breezed by, reaching out for your empty drinks. Austin grabbed yours out of your unsteady hands, leaning in close to the other man to say something that you didn’t hear. Now that the two of you were no longer nursing your drinks, Austin swung you around, throwing his head back as you let out an excited shriek. You pressed your chest in close to Austin, breathing out a small laugh as Austin pressed his forehead against yours as the two of you swayed back and forth. His large hands were holding tightly to your hips, dragging them against his as you both swayed in place. His knee was in between your legs so that he could be the one in control of your movements. You weren’t sure if you would be able to keep either of you steady if he had let you take the reigns.

The other concert-goers bodies were pressed in tightly to you, but they were all dancing with their own partners, some of them kept their phones out to film the performance and the crowd. In that moment you suddenly remember just who he was and the fact that he was dancing very provocatively with you.

“What if someone takes a video of us?” You pressed your lips against his ear as you spoke. You felt him shiver against you, having to bite your own tongue to keep yourself on your best behavior.

He was shaking his head before you even finished. “Fuck it.”

We deserve it.

You remembered his words from earlier on in the night. You were usually the kind of person that over thought every decision that they ever made. You were anxious by nature, which was why being with someone like Jeremy had only served to worsen your mental health. Dancing with Austin like this in a crowd of people that no doubt knew exactly who he was probably wasn’t a very good idea. Drunk or sober, you probably would have put yourself into this exact same situation. Why? Because this was the most fun that you have had in years. You felt free. Actually free. You were with someone that looked out for you and cared for you, and if he wanted your chest pressed right up against his so that he could feel you better- then damn it. You were going to let him. His long fingers tangled themselves into your hair as he slid his palm up to the base of your neck. You could see your lashes as your eyes became half lidded, and felt the heaviness of the thick mascara you had applied before leaving the room. The glitter that you had applied to the tops of your cheeks and the inner corners of your eyes had rubbed off on Austin. It was on his chin, his own cheeks, and his chest. The stage lights flashed from blue to red as the chorus picked up, the drums pounding in your ears.

As Arabella! Arabella! Just might have tapped into your mind and soul.

You leaned up on your toes so that you could press your forehead against Austin’s, both of your eyes still half lidded and glued to one another’s. “You can’t be sure.” He mouthed the words, his plush lips brushing against yours. Once again your lips were twitching up into a smile, and you reached your own hand up, grabbing a fistful of his wavy locks so that you could press his forehead even harder against yours.

That’s magic in a cheetah print coat. Just a slip underneath it I hope.

The lights flashed again, going from red to a deep purple. The two of you were now fully wrapped up in each other, the both of you covered in your glitter, your bare skin dewing with sweat. You’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. Not once in your life. It was painful just standing there, gripping onto one another like your lives depended on it. Neither of you were dancing anymore. You both had stopped your movement the second that Austin’s lips had brushed against yours. You could see the gentle question in the man’s blue eyes. Would it be a mistake? Would this just be a one time thing for the both of us? Would it mean as much to you as it would for me?

Asking if I can have one of those organic cigarettes that she smokes. Wraps her lips round the Mexican Coke.

You were too buzzed to overthink anything anymore. You were sick and tired of being worried about everything. You had a bad habit of overcomplicating things in your head, when in actuality it was really quite simple. You and Austin were far from strangers. You found him attractive, and his actions tonight had you questioning whether or not Ashley really had meant what she had said the other night about him having a thing for you years back. Would it really be a mistake if something really did happen between you? You were both single, and even though you and Jeremy had only been separated for a week, things had gone sour years ago. The tears that you had shed over the situation were those of anger. You were embarrassed about the fact that you had unknowingly allowed yourself to be taken advantage of. You didn’t miss him. If you kissed Austin, it sure as well had nothing to do with Jeremy. So as Austin leaned forward, his blue eyes still locked on yours, you couldn’t help but urge him forward.

Makes you wish that you were the bottle. Takes a sip of your soul and it sounds like-

His lips were softer than you expected, but you blamed it on the fact that you had been kissing your ex’s dusty ass exclusively for far too long. He kissed you tentatively at first, testing out the waters, but as the guitar solo continued to press on, the crowd cheering loudly all around you, the lights flashing behind your closed eyes, his timidness began to dissipate. You clung tightly at his shoulders as your lips moved fluidly against his. It felt like years of pent up attraction was being put into this kiss. It felt heavenly and hellish all at once, and you knew that if you could devour Austin in that moment then you would have. The venue largely smelled of other women’s perfume and beer, but now that you were as close to Austin as you could possibly be, you were able to really smell him again. His signature scent had changed multiple times over the years, as had yours. His natural scent was something that you had never been able to fully describe though. It made everything smell a bit darker- more earthy in a way. The woodsy, amber notes of his current cologne made your head spin.

His rings pulled on a few strands of your hair as he gripped harder onto the base of your neck, pulling you as close as humanly possible. If you thought that it was hard to breathe before, now it was impossible. Austin was crushing you to him, the hand that had tangled itself into your hair gripping hard at your hip. There was a small, nagging voice chattering in the back of your head, trying to tell you that it wasn’t a good idea to be making out in the middle of a crowd of people. You normally would have been worried about whether or not you were making others uncomfortable, but you couldn’t think of anything else outside of Austin. You could feel his fingers digging into your hip, his digits slipping beneath the flowy fabric of your top. The band had only played four songs and you were already more than ready to head back to the hotel. There was raw desperation in the way that Austin was touching you, almost as though he was panicked that at any second this might be taken away from him. That you might be taken away.

His lips were no longer timid against yours, rather demanding and possessive. Whether you knew it or not, he was claiming in that sea of people. Pressing hard enough to bruise and committing your taste to memory. His tongue claimed your mouth, the palm of his hand dragging upwards over your stomach, his fingers grazing over your underboob. He froze, pulling away from your lips to let out a small hiss. You didn’t need to hear every word he said- you felt them against your mouth. Swallowed them as he spoke to you.

“You’re not wearing a bra.” It was less of a question and more of an observation.

You could feel the drums echoing in his chest against yours, and let out a small whimper as his fingers moved upwards another inch, cupping you through your shirt. All someone had to do was look over at the two of you and they would immediately be able to see what was going on. You weren’t about to shy away from Austin because of a few prying eyes.

“No.” You breathed against his lips, swallowing thickly as you felt him groan deep in his chest, giving your breast a small squeeze.

“I’m trying so hard to be good right now.” You pulled away another inch so that you could look up at him.

His cheeks were flushed a pale pink, lips kiss swollen and glossy with the combination of both of your saliva. His eyes? No one had looked at you like that in years, and even if they had, they sure as hell weren’t Austin. His dirty blonde hair, in the yellow stage light, looked golden halo. The damn near biblical beauty that the man possessed was offset by the dark look in his eyes. They were blown out wide, practically black as he looked down at you. His jaw was clenched, and you could tell that every bit of beauty that you were currently finding in his face, that he was currently finding in yours as well.

You weren’t sure how many minutes had passed, but you must have missed a few songs. People were cheering all around you as “R U Mine” echoed over the speakers.

“This ones a classic.” You tried to lighten the mood, swaying your body back and forth ever so slightly.

Your hips dragged against his with the movement, and you could feel just how hard he was for you. You hadn’t even touched him yet, and he was stiff to the point of pain. He let out another groan, letting his head tilt back towards the ceiling as he closed his eyes tightly. His hands were still holding you to him, but you could feel them beginning to shake. His restraint was steadily crumbling.

“Yeah,” He breathed, pressing his hips harder against yours. “Classic.”

You weren’t sure how you were even able to stand anymore. You were suddenly stone cold sober, all of the alcohol burning right out of your system. You felt like you were burning up, suddenly overaware of the warmth pooling in between your legs. Consequences be damned, you wanted to fuck him. You needed to fuck him. You didn’t care about how other people might feel about it, or even how it might make you look.

You were sick and tired of being unhappy. You were sick and tired of being sexually unfulfilled. You were sick and tired of being attracted to Austin and unable to say anything. People often say that “timing is key”. Well. . . now was the right time. You were sure of it. Jeremy, over the years, had somehow convinced you that it was better to be docile. Women that were bold with their sexuality weren’t sexy at all to him, rather just whorish. You felt yourself beginning to hesitate, worried that somehow your brazenness might send him the wrong message. Because you were needy, but that didn’t mean that this didn’t mean something to you. The way that Austin was staring at you though silenced your fears without him having to utter a word. In a sea of beautiful women, he had stared at you all night as though you were the only one that existed. He had tunnel vision, and it had been that way for years. He had been happy for his friend when the two of you started dating, and moved on with Vanessa. But you’d always been on his mind. Whether this was just a one night stand to you, or perhaps a backwards way of getting revenge on Jeremy. . . He couldn’t find it within himself to care. He’d let you use him in whatever way you saw fit, just so long as he could have you. Even just once.

People were pressing in on the two of you as they danced and sang along to the music, and he pressed you in closer to him to make room for the others. Your hands brushed over his chest, slowly making their way down his abdomen to the front of his jeans. He sucked in a breath, eyes widening as he took in your delicious expression. He loved seeing you so confident. You were always gorgeous, no matter what you did, but you were otherworldly in your confidence. If there was enough room to do it, he would have fallen to his knees in front of you. Dressed in all black, your hair slightly limp with sweat, your glitter face catching the light just right. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. His expression pushed you to go further, pressing your palm a bit harder against his length and giving it a few gentle rubs. He twitched in his pants, lurching forward a bit as he let loose a rather loud groan. You two had earned a few stares throughout the night, but thanks to the popular song no one was paying either of you any attention.

“I need to fuck you. Please. Please let me fuck you.”

The uber ride was spent in tense silence, the two of you unable to take your hands off of one another. He never let go of your hand, placing soft kisses against your face as the minutes ticked by and you began to get closer to the hotel. The driver must have realized that now was certainly not the time to make small talk, because the only thing he said to either of you was your name when you opened the car door, just to make sure that you were the right person. You both uttered a quick thank you before climbing out of the car. Austin practically yanked you through the double doors of the hotel, still shaky and slightly sweaty from the concert. The second that he had gotten you into the hotel and pressed the button, the heavy metal doors rattling closed, he had you pressed against the wall. In the blink of an eye you had been pushed back a few steps, his large hands scooping both of your wrists up so that he could press them above your head, rendering you useless. The cool stainless steel bit into your skin as he pressed you harder against it, his jean covered hips pressing against your stomach.

He kissed you like he loved you and hated you all at the same time.

You felt like you were going to explode. Like he was pressing into you so hard that your ribs might give out and break. Honestly you didn’t mind that idea. If you could have absorbed Austin into your body somehow, you would have. He was everywhere. His scent was heavy in your nose, the taste of him on your tongue as he devoured you, and you could feel every inch of his body pressed up against you. Trapping you there against the wall. He kept your wrists gripped in one hand, his free hand running down your body, hastily unbuttoning the front of your tight pants.

“C-Cameras.” You mumbled against his lips, opening your eyes so that you could nervously eyed the corners of the elevator. Sure enough, there was one situated right on the both of you. “The front desk can see us.” Your voice came out hoarse, and as his lips moved to your cheek and down your neck, you couldn’t help but let out a breathy sound. A cross between a sigh and a moan as you tried to keep the noises at bay.

“He can watch.” He mumbled against your skin.

“Holy fuck.” His voice had never sounded so deep in your ears before. You could barely breathe as his hand slipped down the front of your pants, easily slipping past the thin fabric of your underwear. He took a second to feel the fabric between his fingers, and you could feel him smile against your neck. “Lace?” You couldn’t even nod. All words had completely escaped you as well. “Cute.”

And then he was pressing into you, fingers running along your velvety folds. He swallowed thickly, his hold on your wrists becoming so tight that it was slightly painful. You didn’t care. You wanted him to hurt you. Any sensation was a good sensation at this point. He must have felt how wet you were already for him. Now he knew that kissing him at that concert had practically killed you. “So soft.” He spoke gently to you, but his deep voice cracked. He was trying to stay soft with you, but now that the dam had finally broken, it was hard to keep himself in check. There were years of pent up sexual tension finally bubbling to the surface.

His lips continued to press against your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin every once in a while. You were sure that there would be marks tomorrow morning. Either he wasn’t thinking about the dark hickeys that he was leaving or he just didn’t care. You would take whatever he gave you. You wanted it all. His finger pressed against that small bundle of nerves, causing your hips to jerk forward in surprise. He let out a small hiss, removing his lips from your neck so that he could run his nose gently up the expanse of your throat, straightening out to his full height so that his smoldering eyes could bore into you.

“Be good for me, okay? I need you to stand as still as possible.”

You nodded quickly, the elevator floors flashing on the digital screen behind Austin. You didn’t even remember pressing your floor number. You could be headed to the roof for all you knew. He leaned back down, pressing his face into your neck once again so that he could get better leverage. The height difference, in this case, was beginning to get annoying. His fingers gathered up your slick before pressing against your entrance. He didn’t ask for permission or warn you, rather he just slipped them inside of you without any hesitation. It felt good to be full- though you still weren’t as full as you would have liked to be. Having something inside of you was still enough to have your head lolling back against the elevator wall, your eyes screwing shut tightly as you tried to keep your hips as still as possible.

“That’s my good baby.” My.

You wanted to scream. His fingers curled slightly inside of you, his thumb pressing against your clit as he began to successfully work you up into a frenzy. You were already worked up to the point that you could feel yourself immediately building up, your abdomen tightening with every thrust of his fingers and every brush of his thumb. That combined with his teeth and tongue constantly teasing the skin of your throat- it was more than enough. When was the last time that anyone had actually made you cum? It was sad, really. You always went out of your way to pleasure your ex and never got anything in return. Austin was taking his time with you though, almost like his own pleasure was an afterthought. He wanted to possess you first. He wanted to work you up until you couldn’t think about anything else other than fucking him.

The elevator chimed, the doors rattling open. You let out a whimper when he slowly slipped his fingers out of you, watching as he smiled that slow, sly smile of his. Much to your relief there was no one in the hall, so when he let your sore wrists go you practically stumbled through the hall, trying desperately to find your room. Austin’s large hand found your wrist again, pulling you in the right direction. You tried to keep up with him and his long legs, your own feeling unsteady beneath you.

“W-Where’s the keycard?” He seemed so put together and in control in the elevator, but his stutter told you everything that you needed to know. He was just as wrecked as you were. Barely able to hold it together. He reached into your back pocket before you could tell him, his hands sliding over your rear. He “tsked” softly when he found what he was looking for, quickly sliding it into the handle and yanking it open wide. You winced as the knob slammed against the door, but you were past worrying about any noise complaints or the possibility that you might have neighbors. Austin was slipping his shirt off of his shoulders before the door was even fully closed, kicking off his boots as quickly as he could before descending upon you. His hands gripped at your hips, pressed the fabric of your pants down and off of your legs. He took a second to pull back so that he could admire your panties.

“Just like I thought. Cute.” You squirmed under his heated gaze, moving your hands to your shirt so that you could remove that too. He brushed your hands away though, wanting to do it for you.

There was a possibility that this might be the first and last time that he got to do this, and he wanted to be able to fully enjoy the moment. He let his eyes explore every inch of your skin, his fingers dancing along the soft skin of your back, moving to cup your breasts in his hands. You felt impatient, but you didn’t complain. You allowed him to admire you. Seeing the way that he looked at you reminded you that you were worthy of love. You hadn’t felt beautiful in a while, but seeing Austin panting over your body put it into perspective for you. You were never the problem. It was him.

“I want you to keep your feet planted on the ground, but turn around and face the bed.” Austin was unzipping his jeans after what felt like an eternity of gentle touches and heady exploration.

You were quick to do as he said, but grunted when he gently pushed you forward. You planted your forearms on the bed, keeping your back arched, your ass in the air. He sucked in a breath, his belt jingling as he kicked the pants off. He must have liked the panties more than he was letting on, because he merely slipped them to the side, taking a good look at your warmth.

“Fuck, so pretty.” You believed him.

He slid his hand over his length, giving it a few good pumps before he froze. “I don’t have a condom.” He mumbled out, defeat edging its way into his voice.

“I’m on birth control.” It was irresponsible, you knew that. Saying something like that was so unlike you, but you truly felt like you would regret it for the rest of your life if you didn’t fuck him tonight.

“I’m willing to risk it if you are.” He seemed to be in the same boat.

You quickly nodded, gripping the duvet covers tightly between your fingers as you felt the head of his member press against you. “Please. Please just fuck me.” You didn’t need him to try and warm you up- to gently slip in so that it wouldn’t be a painful fit. You needed him inside of you. He didn’t say a word, rather he let out a loud moan at your panicked insistence and pressed his hips forward. At this angle it felt like he was in your stomach. Pain and pleasure melted together, a loud moan leaving your own mouth as you let your forehead press against the soft mattress. The pace that he immediately set had you gripping for dear life onto the blankets, the nicely made bed a mess in seconds. Austin kept one hand planted on the small of your back, the other one gripping hard at your thigh. You could feel the weight of his stare on your ass, and you somehow managed you twist your torso so that you could watch him. Seeing the expression on his face was enough to have you letting loose another moan. He was gorgeous, his sharp jawline twitching as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. His blue eyes were fully focused on you, eating up every jiggle of soft supple skin. You watched him pump in and out of you, reaching a hand back so that you could feel the assault. Your fingers ran along his length, slick from your own heat and his precum.

“Fuck.” He cursed again, his eyes flickering to your face. He removed his hand from your back, reaching out for you, leaning over your body so that he could grab your neck. He pulled you until your back was against his chest, still pistoning in and out of you. The hand that was on your thigh repositioned itself so that he could lift your leg, making it easier for him to fuck you at the same startling pace. He was using the height difference to his advantage.

He squeezed down on your neck, his wet lips pressing against your cheek, the corner of your lips- anywhere he could reach. You were close. He had edged you enough in the elevator, and the angle was enough to have you gasping for air. “Not yet.” He must have felt your fluttering walls and known what was about to happen. You weren’t sure how long you could push off your climax. You shook your head quickly, your lips parted, eyes squeezing shut. He quickened his pace, his hips snapping into you. You could feel his moans rumbling in his chest, his breathy pants hot in your ear.

“Gonnacumgonnacumgonnacum-” You were past the point of being able to form coherent sentences.

“I wanna cum with you. I’m close.” There was something so endearingly intimate about the way that he said it.

“Where do you want it? Tell me quick.” He breathed out. And maybe your decision made you stupid. Maybe Austin had fucked all of the common sense right out of your body, but your answer was immediate.

“Please for the love of god cum inside of me.” His grip on your throat tightened, and he breathed your name against the top of your head. “Fill me up. Please-”

“Oh fuck, I’m going to pump you full.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

Without any warning the hand that was on your throat moved down, his palm pressing against your abdomen as he worked your clit. The stimulation along with the brutal way he was fucking you was enough to push you over the edge. You didn’t have time to silence yourself. Didn’t have time to try and be courteous to anyone else. Your moans turned to screams, your eyes closing tightly as he continued to pound into you. You felt him twitch inside of you, his hold on your thigh tightening to the point where you were sure to have a palm sized bruise there tomorrow. His warmth spilled inside of you, his heavy pants dissolving into moans. It was a string of curses, followed by your name. He took extra care with shaping each syllable of your name. He wanted you to know without really having to actually say it.

Please don’t let this be a one time thing. Please- god.

You woke up to the sound of your alarm clock, your hand blindly reaching for the bedside table so that you could press the snooze button. Austin grumbled at your side, his hold on your waist tightening. He had held you all throughout the night. He had been insistent on it, following you closely even when you moved in your sleep. You were scared that he might regret having sex with you in the light of day, but judging on the way he nuzzled his cheek against your bare skin, he didn’t regret a thing. You smiled lazily, reaching down to detach one of his arms from your stomach so that you could bring it up to your face, giving it a warm kiss. He sighed contentedly into your hair, returning the sweet sentiment by giving the back of your head a kiss.

You were quick to check your phone notifications, wanting to make sure that your ex hadn’t found some way to harass you throughout the night. Thankfully you saw nothing from him- but a hundred messages from other people. Co-workers, friends- even family members had texted you. Ashley’s contact was the first one that you clicked on though- per usual. Your best friend had barraged you with texts throughout the night. Asking you how the ride up there was. Then asking you about the show. Somewhere around the twelve o’clock mark she had sent you a screenshot from instagram. From the person’s profile picture it looked like a regular girl- but right there, in the crowd, was you and Austin.

You were quick to scroll down, clicking on one of the many links that she had sent you.

“Austin Butler caught in a heavy makeout sesh with a mystery girl at the Las Vegas Artic Monkeys show.” “Who is Austin Butler’s mystery girlfriend? Read more to find out.” “Austin Butler caught locking lips with talented photographer friend.” And sure enough, people had been able to find you. Your instagram had been leaked, internet detectives able to find you within the timespan of less than twelve hours. You had old pictures of you and Austin posted from years ago, and so of course news outlets had uploaded those.

“Um. . . Austin?” He grunted, and you were quick to try and detangle yourself from his arms. “L-Look at this.” You were quick to push the phone into his face. He tried to blink the sleep from his eyes, focusing on the words. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“They called you talented. That’s nice.” “Good God, why are you like this?”

thank you for the emotional support, you sweet sluts: @powerofelvis @ggwritesstuff @woundmetender @eliseinmemphis @polksalademma @sournatromanoff @flwrs4aust @headfullofpresley @cryingabtab @austinbutlersbaby @lindszeppelin @rosaminny

@knoxvillesshoes@cosmorant@ol1viam@simply-sams-things@haim80s@gabbcabb@8hgel@slutt4him@busy-bee-angel-misska@kaitaesupremacy@dazedshoon @4rt3m1ss@cryingabtab@kittenlittle24@austinsrealgf@austinbutlersgirlfriend@clearbolts @dark-as-love@anni-secret-account-75@ab4eva@starcatchxr @julietamidala @obbsessivereader@gwuide@blurredcolour@the-little-red-haired-girl@meladollsims@poppet05@shrekstheloml@randomwriter888@idc123sworld@vane28282@mirandastuckinthe80s@girlblogger2002@rockerchick05@screechingstrawberrysong@simpforevery1@girlabirla@dre6ming@obetrolncocktails@fairyjanes@jensenswinchester@lo-bells @in-my-body-bag@fxntxsix@petrparkrslut@eliseinmemphis @lelifesaver @screaching-cookie@fantuhsise@areuirish @bcofl0ve@mslizziesblog@shynovelist@ssstrangersblog @harrysthecraic@hangmanswhore@jyvnho@mymamalife @melodydior

#holy shit this is AMAZING #the TENSION AND THE POSSESSIVENESS ARE YOU KIDDING #austin butler #austin butler fic

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butlervol6 · 1 year

Text

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

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

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

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!

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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#SCREAMING #JACK CAN EAT SHIT #SO GLAD EP FINALLY BEAT HIS ASS #IM OFFICIALLY A PINK SCARF STAN

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