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formulaforza · 8 months

Text

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. the beauty of winter, the second time. minors dni. nsfw warning under the cut. 7.7k part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: hate sex, rough sex, spanking, hand job, biting, choking, orgasm denial (m to f), unprotected sex, brat taming, name calling (slut), oral (m receiving), angst, angst, more angst.

Arthur turns the corner into the kitchen, swinging around the wide, arched door frame. You’re stood at the island, the chilly edge of the granite countertops pressed against the exposed line of skin between your shorts and your top. A plate of toast sits on the heavy ceramic plate in front of you, and you make a shaky-handed attempt at spreading mashed avocado over the dry, cool bread. Charles clears his throat a few feet away, pulling his coffee mug off the machine shelf. It’s not even steaming.

“Ciao Arturo,” you speak. Even your voice sounds sweaty. “Dimenticare la testa?” Forget your head?

Arthur’s eyes dart between the two of you. Charles, you, and then back again. Charles is lucky, his back is turned to the whole thing. You’re the one who has to deal with his questioning glances. He stirs sugar into his cold coffee, and the spoon clinks against the sides of the mug painfully loud.

Arthur smiles. “Occhiali da sole,” sunglasses, he says, reaching for the plastic frames on the counter, pointing them between you and charles. “sto interrompendo qualcosa?” Am I interrupting something?

You glance at Charles, still stirring his cream and sugar, and you realize he won’t be turning around, not while his brother is in the room, not while he’s still got a bulge in his shorts. You almost laugh. “Nope. I’m making breakfast, he’s being a bitch.”

“Ah, so, the usual?” Arthur jokes and you nod, try to stifle a laugh so you don’t get an earful later. You fail, and Charles is flipping both of you off over his shoulder. You raise your brows knowingly towards Arthur—See? What did I tell you? “Ok, well. I’ll see you guys out there?”

“Yup,” you nod. “Probably in like an hour-ish? For me, at least.”

You watch, butter knife in hand, as Arthur trudges out of the house, the shuffling of his nylon snow pants and the thud of his heavy boots across the floor. He slams the door shut behind him, a quirk of the old house—the refusal of the heavy door to latch shut unless you threaten to pull your shoulder out of its socket when you close it. You’d spent half your childhood trying to shut it properly.

“A bitch?” Charles is teasing as soon as his brother is gone, abandoning the coffee he won’t be drinking and slotting comfortably behind you. He pokes your sides, has you curling in giggles as he continues through his own laughter, “I’m a bitch?”

“You are!” You laugh out, escaping his grip and pointing the avocado covered butter knife at him. “I’ll cut you.”

“Sure you will, baby,” he smiles, and then he kisses you because you’re alone and he can. There’s been lots of kissing just because you’re alone—just because you can—as of late. Since that one date you’d agreed to a few weeks ago, and all the subsequent basically-almost-half-dates-half-hookups you’d experienced since. Officially, though, there has been no second date. Unofficially, you’re dreading knowing he’s going to ask any time now.

It’s not that you don’t want to date him, you’re just not sure you want to be dating him. It’s the difference between what you’re doing now, or having fun and being happy and keeping it all to yourself, or making it into something, turning up to joint-family parties in the same car with an overpriced bottle of wine and listening to your grandma talk about your kids having his hair. It’s belonging to yourself or belonging to him, and you just aren’t sure you’re ready to belong to anyone.

He’s ready, you know. You know, because he all but wrote it down for you in Vegas. Your agreeing to go out on a single date was the consolation prize, the taunting, the holding what might be over his head like a carrot on a string.

“We have to be more careful,” you say, wiping the last of the green fruit onto the practically stale toast. It’s been twenty minutes, at least, since you’d put it in the toaster. “Arthur’s silly, but he isn't a fucking idiot. None of them are.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

“Well, I am.”

“Why?” He laughs. The two of you are on such different wavelengths right now it isn’t even funny. “I mean, would it really be that bad if they found out we were seeing each other?”

You bite down hard on your toast, you have to because it’s so stale. “It would, actually,” you say around the dry bread. Crumbs fall to the counter below you. You sweep them off with your palm onto the floor, and then under the edge of the counter with your sock-covered foot.

“Oh, come on,” he says, all nonchalant. He takes a sip of his cold coffee and winces, cradles it in his hands like it’s going to provide him any warmth. You don’t laugh, don’t even want to. “They’re going to find out eventually.”

“Says who?”

“We aren’t going to keep it a secret forever.”

You nod. Slow and intentional. “Keep what a secret?”

“Us.” You hate the casualty of it, of the label, of the grouping you two together. You hate that he can just say it like that, let it fall from his lips like it’s nothing.

“There isn’t an us.” You choke on it—us—like it’s a swallowing sword. It’s not that you’re… opposed to the idea of us, so much as this is the last way you wanted to start referring to the two of you as a unit.

“I mean,” he dumps the coffee into the sink. “We’ve been fucking for a year, dating for a few weeks.” The coffee gurgles in the drain, echoes through the kitchen. He flips the sink faucet on. “I think there’s an us to be talked about.”

“We aren’t dating, Charles,” you’re quick to correct, because, well—you aren’t dating. “We’re seeing each other,” you take another bite. It’s not good, beyond just the toast, you think maybe the avocado was a day from being perfectly ripe. “It’s different.”

He fills the mug to the top with water and dumps it again. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, but your inflection betrays you.

“Okay.” He repeats the action, drops a dollop of dish soap into the bottom of the mug and swirls it around so fast the water spins out over the edge of the mug. Fill it, dump it, swirl a sponge around angrily, fill it again.

“Dating is like, dating is like a label.” Dump it again. “We don’t have a label. We’re free to see other people if we wanted to.” You drop the toast onto the plate, three notes taken from it, each progressively worse.

“Okay.” Fill it, dump it—until the water isn’t soapy anymore. He leaves the mug face down on the dish strainer, carefully, without making a sound. It’s impressive, his silent, brooding, angry act. You know he’s full of it, that he wants to scream at you so bad. It annoys you, almost—that he won’t shout.

“Is that all you’re going to say to me?” You say, because you don’t like the implications of him refusing to yell at you. That’s like. It’s almost. You can’t even face it.

“What is it that you would like for me to say?” He spits, slams the faucet off. You almost flinch. Almost. “That I don’t want to see anyone else? That I think you’re full of shit and feel the same way I do!?”

He’s never—he’s never yelled at you before, not really. Sure, he raised his voice in Vegas, he did. But he’s never yelled at you. Your dynamic has always been sharp, yes, but it was never loud. It’s always been grounded in the smart-ass comments, in the quick wit, the silence of arrogance and annoyance and frustration. It’s never been loud. It throws you off balance, completely off kilter. You don’t know why you wished for it, why you were annoyed with his previous refusal. You—you don’t like it. Not at all.

You can’t think straight, much less speak straight. “I don’t know, like… I don’t know.”

“Like, like, like,” he mocks you. His words are like venom. He’s such a fucking child. “Like, what!?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!?” You yell right back, aren’t even hurt by the mocking so much as annoyed it’s the best he could come up with. He’s better—smarter—than playground insults. You expect more from him at this point. “Are you fucking seven years old!?”

“Maybe!” He slams his hand on the edge of the counter. You hope it hurts as bad as it sounds like it does. “Maybe I fucking am!” You scowl. This is an ugly look on him. You don’t know what you ever fucking saw.

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you!” He wags a finger at you, he actually fucking does it, points a finger at you like he’s scolding you.

You smack his stupid fucking finger out of the air and when you do, he grabs your arm, pulls you crashing into him, into his lips. He kisses you, and you kiss him back, but there’s nothing romantic about any of it. No, no. This might be the angriest you’ve ever seen him, all teeth clacking, tongues fighting, hands groping.

It’s reminiscent, almost. Of the time that really wasn’t all that long ago, even if it feels like half a lifetime. To the time where his only goal was to shut you the fuck up, when the only reason he fucked you was because he thought someone needed to put you in your place.

He’s not taking his time with you. Not today, not this time. No, he’s pulling your shorts down fast, grabbing at your bare ass and pulling you flush against him.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling the short locks, pulling his mouth to yours. Everything is so greedy and selfish and a fight—a fight to win the unwinnable game.

He’s crude with it, crass almost—the way his fingers move against your cunt. Quick, hard, mean. You hate yourself for how wet you are, how easy you make it for him to slide in a finger, and then another, to fuck into you with a burning curl.

When you settle into it, just as your breath picks up and your hips start to move against his hands with some semblance of rhythm, he’s pulling his hand away with a guttural fuck, moving back to your ass, giving it a hard smack.

Two can play at that game, you think, hand diving into his shorts. You take his cock and stroke him, impatiently thumbing pre-cum over his head and fucking him with your hand. He’s hard before you have to do any work, had spent the morning half-way there already.

He bites on your bottom lip so hard you think it might bleed. “I fucking hate you,” he says into your neck, biting the skin there, too.

“Good,” you say, lips curling into a naughty smirk. “I like it like that.”

He’s rough when he moves you around, almost shoves you, turns you and bends you over the countertop. It’s cold, even through your shirt, it’s cold. You push the plate away, the half eaten toast relegated to the other end of the kitchen island.

There’s no teasing, no warning. Just him, fucking right into you, leaving you grabbing at the smooth granite for any sort of stability, to brace for all of him. You can feel the fabric of his shorts; he’s got them pulled down just enough to have his cock out, and it reminds you of the fucking sauna this summer.

In the same way you were given no warning, you’re given no time to adjust. He’s already fucking into you with hard, measured thrusts that slam you against the edge of the counter. You think he might fucking break you, split you right down the middle. It hurts so good.

He’s quiet, lets the sounds of your skin smacking against him do all the fucking talking, tell the story the both of you already know. You can’t find the words. You’re just there, against the cool granite, full. Full. So fucking full.

It’s unlike him to be so quiet, but, you don’t mind it. You don’t think you can hear another sentence out of his mouth without wanting to walk clear off a cliff.

Gibberish moans are forced from your lips before you can even process them. “Fuck—fuck you,” you manage to sputter out, and then he’s reaching around to cover your mouth with a flat palm, leaning over you and whispering in your ear all husky.

“Shut the fuck up, or I stop,” he says, and you nod. You nod, but his hand holds steady, moves slowly down around your throat, applies just enough pressure around your neck to make everything that little bit hazier. You choke on your words, bite back moans until you taste copper.

When he’s had his fill, he’s turning you back around to lick into your mouth and hoisting you up onto the counter, taking you like that instead. Harder, harder. Impossibly fucking harder. You’re scratching lines over his back, dragging your nails over his skin and whining against his shoulder. When you toss your head back in a last-ditch effort to keep yourself quiet, he laughs—and then you’re looking at him.

The eye contact goes on for what feels like a decade, him fucking into you with reckless abandon while maintaining a steady, furious glare. He pushes his forehead against yours, lips just out of reach, ghosting over yours with every thrust of his thick cock.

You open your mouth to moan, feel the threat of your orgasm in your core, in the way he perfectly fucks you.

“Fuck you,” he breathes into your mouth, and the anticipation of the kiss that never comes burns. He breaks his glare, can’t look at you any longer, can’t kiss you, either. His eyes fall to your body, to the space where he disappears into you. He’s captivated by it, watches with a hard stare as he fucks you senseless.

You could see his denial of your orgasm coming before you started fucking, so when your leg starts to shake and your cunt clenches around him so nicely, you’re unsurprised by his, “don’t you fucking dare.”

The problem for him is, he forgets that you’re just as pissed, that you don’t give a fuck what he says. No, you know that he’s all fucking talk, could never actually bite what he barks, not with you. He’s all talk, and he’s just as close as you are. Nothing short of your families walking through the door right now would get him to stop railing against you.

So, you come around him, feel a special kind of satisfaction at the way his face contorts, at his canding, “God,” and the way he comes tumbling after you with a groan and a fuck.

(four hours later)

“Qu'est-ce qui a rampé dans son cul et est mort?” What the hell crawled up his ass and died? Lorenzo asks in the ski lodge. Both of your families are eating lunch at one of the restaurants on the mountain, and Charles, in his ever ending broodiness, opted to sit at the farthest possible end of the table from you and his brothers. Mostly, from you. He sits silently in a conversation with your father and brother-in-law, ever the entertainer.

“Il est dans une de ses humeurs,” he’s in one of his moods, you reply. “J'ai râlé toute la matinée à la maison,” bitched all morning back at the house.

“Ouais,” yeah, Arthur adds. “Quand je suis retourné chercher mes lunettes, il ne s'est même pas retourné pour me parler,” when I came back for my sunglasses he wouldn’t even turn to talk to me.

“Je parie que sa copine lui manque,” I bet he misses his girl, Lorenzo settles, rocks back on the legs of his chair. A pang of green runs through you, gross and envious.

“Sa copine?” His girl? You ask.

“Ouais. Chaque fois que je l'appelle, il me dit "j'ai quelqu'un chez moi" ou "je suis chez un ami,” Yeah, everytime I call him he’s talking about “I’ve got someone over,” or “I’m at a friend’s house,”” Lorenzo reasons. Your jealousy is replaced with mortification as you realize Charles not only has a girl, but that the girl is you.

“Someone should call her,” you say. “Get him laid so he isn’t so fucking annoying.” Lorenzo laughs and Arthur offers up a half-hearted smile, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Your phone rings on the tabletop. “Arthur!” You scowl. “Gross! I can't stand Charles.”

“Je dis juste que pour deux personnes qui prétendent se détester, vous passez beaucoup de temps ensemble,” I’m just saying, Arthur defends, for two people who claim to hate each other, you two spend a lot of time together.

We don’t—you want to tell him—we don’t spend a lot of time together, but then you think of all the times they don’t know about, all the nights and all the hours and all the days. “Cela aurait effectivement beaucoup de sens,” It would actually make a lot of sense, Lorenzo laughs. “He likes pulling pigtails.”

“I know you love me boys, but I wouldn’t touch your brother with a ten foot pole,” you insist, and it sounds convincing—at least in your own head. Only time will tell, you suppose, if you managed to convince them of the lie.

You enter the family room seven and a half minutes before Charles does. Where he is for those seven and a half minutes, you don’t care, as long as it’s not anywhere near you. Your families have always done this a couple days after the New Year, your own little joint Christmas celebration. Over the years, you’ve found it to be varying levels of both endearing and infuriating.

“It’s hot in here,” you say, plopping yourself down onto the sofa, fanning yourself with a magazine from your mother’s coffee table.

“Really?” Your sister peruses, eyes unmoving from her phone screen. “I was about to put on a sweater.”

“Yeah,” you continue, abandoning the magazine and instead opting to gather your hair into a messy, half-twisted knot off the nape of your neck. “I’m on fire.” You secure it with the thin black band from around your wrist, look to your sister as you pull loose pieces out to frame your face. “What’s the damage?”

She assesses the situation, pulls a few more hairs out of the knot and twirls one around her finger. “Has your hair always been so shit as holding a curl?” She asks. You nod, tucking all of the loose strands behind your ears in a swift movement.

Charles is here now, lingering in the archway between the family room and the kitchen, his hand leaving indistinguishable fingerprints on the trim above his head while he nurses a beer, nurses a conversation with your brother-in-law. His hair is a fucking mess and you’re going to kill him, something you become so, so certain of when you notice the buttons on his shirt are mis-aligned, that just above his waistband, a single piece of plastic is missing, loose threads left in the wake of the long lost button.

As if second nature, your fingers trail over your own, down the linen shirt that clings to your figure. A missing button. He has a missing fucking button. Your eyes don’t stop at the torn threads; all the way down to his sneakers, all the way back up to his messy hair.

He brings the glass beer bottle to his lips gently, parting them ever so slightly to allow the smooth brew to cool his throat. When he pulls it back, his lips are damp with condensation and ale, tongue swiping the pink skin clean.

“I need a drink,” you announce, standing from your seat and moving to the kitchen. He doesn’t move out of your way when you approach the doorway, has this stupid, satisfied smirk on his face as he takes another swig of beer. It’s the look he only gets after he has you.

“You broke a fucking button,” you mutter as you squeeze through, finger grazing the loose fabric strands that hand above his waistband. He stiffens at your contact and now you’re the one with the rotten, pleased smile.

“Leave a gap,” he says, looks past you and into the family room. You haven’t wanted to punch him this bad in at least a week, maybe two. You longed for the days when it was all you worried about: finding the next opportunity to hit him. Things were so much simpler then, so black and white. Now it’s wild colors and they’re all bleeding into each other to create a particularly shit-toned shade of brown.

Given the opportunity, you’d go back. Back to the Ski Lodge and Vegas and the sauna. Back to Monaco and the yacht and that one chilly winter night. All the way back to last year, to the club, to right before the club. You’d stop yourself if you could. But you can’t, can you? No, the best you can go back is ten minutes.

(Ten minutes earlier)

“Fuck you,” he groans, hushed and gravely, rutting up into you.

The closet is hot and humid with the air that pours in through the attic entrance. Dark, too: smells like fabric softener and lemon furniture polish–not that you’re smelling any of it now. No, right now all you can smell is him, raspberry and incense and a summer hike through a forest.

All you can feel is him, the stretch of his dick as it fucks deep into you. You moan against his hand, the calloused palm muffling your whimpers, cheek flush against the drywall. “Show up with your fucking ass out,” he says, hand forcing the hem of your skirt up higher, higher than your hips, slipping under the fabric of your shirt to cup your breast.

He’s fucking up your hair. You’d spent half the morning curling it and here he is, running his rough fingers through the hairsprayed strands like he owns them, like he has any right to knot them into a messy ponytail. You swat his hand away from your hair, and it snakes around your neck. “Don’t be a fucking brat,” he goads, the heavy weight of his fingers leaving you white and fuzzy with pleasure.

You shake your head, free your mouth from his palm and pant, “Fuck you,” you spit. “Fuck–ah,” he ruts up into you with all the force he can muster, pulling you off the wall, bringing your back flush against his chest. “–fuck you.”

He laughs, buries it in the skin of your shoulder, biting a purple bruise into the space there. “Bab–God, so fucking tight.” Your back arches against him, body moving, craving, begging to feel more of him, all of him. Every last inch.

You can feel him in every nerve ending and it still isn’t enough. You know he can give you more, that he can leave you sweaty and sleepy and monolingual if he really wants to. You know, because he had you sprawled out on his bed last weekend, dried tears crusting on the corner of your eyes, muscles weak and chest heaving against his sheets.

Tears prickle your eyes when his grip on your throat tightens, when he pushes to see how far you’d let him go. You move a hand to wipe them before they fall. You still have to face the family after this, can’t walk out there with black streaks running down your cheeks. The tangled hair is more than enough to get them asking questions.

His hand moves up your jaw, locking into your hair again and turning your head to face him. Look at me, he says, pulling you into a hard kiss. His long, measured thrusts fuck you open. His dick makes you drunk; floaty and dizzy and off balance and so, so fucking needy. You’re close, he states, knows your subtle breathing changes well enough that it doesn’t even have to be a question anymore. You nod against his lips, lick into his mouth, across the scrape of his sharp teeth. “I’m gonna. I’m coming,” you choke, breathing shallow and rapid.

“No,” he whispers, hard and gravelly into your ear, biting on the lobe. A hand moves between your legs, dips into your slick and sends a jolt through your entire body. You don’t even know which hand he moved, can’t feel anything but his two fingers circling your clit, his dick fucking into you. “Not yet.”

His instructions are thinly veiled, but you’ll follow them anyway. Your body writhes against his hand, hips fighting your mind, moving in any rhythm that might make you finish harder, faster, even a second sooner.

Your leg shakes under you, muscles weak and strung out. “Give it to me, Charles,” you beg. You know he’ll let you come as soon as he does. “Want you–fuck–want it so bad.”

“Ouais? Putain, such a slut for me.”

You nod eagerly, try to shake away the thoughts of release with it. He makes it so fucking hard. “I am, I am,” you insist. You are, you are. For him, every fucking time.

You know he’s close the same way he knows, the micro-changes in his movements, his breathing, his words. You know he’s fucking close when he loses his rhythm, tries to bury himself impossibly deep inside you, to actually rip you fucking open.

“Where?” He asks, offers you the option only because you aren’t in the privacy of an apartment. As of late, he’d been having his way with you, getting you messy and marked with him. Clean up is significantly harder in a fucking linen closet. My mouth, you mumble. Let me taste you.

He nods, picks up the steady pace of his fingers. You first, he instructs. “I want you to come for me, baby.” The pet name, always the pet name. Even when you’re this pissed at each other, it’s the only word your brain holds onto when you come around him, clench tight and quiver on his dick, muffling your own cries with your hand.

He pulls out of you with a whine and a mumbled fuck, a hand on your shoulder, turning you, pushing you down to your knees swiftly. There’s nothing careful about the way he fucks into your mouth, bruises the back of your throat as you muffle your gags around him. “Your fucking mouth,” he groans. “Makes me fucking crazy.” Your eyes meet his and you roll them, hollow your cheeks and swirl your tongue and watch, like it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen–watch his face contort when he comes undone, thick stripes of him painting the back of your throat.

You swallow. Clean, no mess, wipe the spit with the back of your hand and flatten your hair, twist what’s left of the curls into some semblance of what they were before he pulled you into the closet by your wrist.

You hurriedly re-button your shirt and flatten your skirt over your thighs. You’ve been gone too long, both of you have. Your families are going to catch on if you keep it up like this, all horny rendezvous in humid closests because he can’t keep his hands to himself.

His hair is pointing in every which direction, and when he runs his hands through it he misses a chunk. You reach to fix it and he swats your hand away.

You scoff. “Stay here, leave a gap,” you tell him and he rolls his eyes. You’re the brat, though, right? You turn the doorknob slowly, peek your head out into the empty hallway. He laughs behind you, what the fuck are you doing? “I’m going to the bathroom,” you quip.

He reaches over your head, wraps his fingers around the edge of the door and pulls it all the way open, moving forward until he’s flush against your back. “No UTI’s on your watch,” he mumbles.

You elbow his chest. “I said to wait here.”

“Fuck that,” he says, squeezes out behind you and the door. His feet are heavy on the hallway floor as he dips into the kitchen. You scurry in the other direction towards the bathroom.

It’s your parents anniversary party where it all comes to a messy boiling point. Thirty years of love, twenty-something years of parentage, and still. Still, you surprise them when you knock on the apartment door with a boy on your arm. A boy who, you assume to the surprise of Arthur and Lorenzo, is not their brother. The person perhaps most surprised by your bold decision making, however, is Charles. He’s glaring holes into you all night.

You try to take it as a compliment. You look good tonight, took careful consideration of your hair and makeup and clothes—your best black cocktail dress, all silk and long sleeves and exposed back, and your highest nude heels. You look good, and you like to think he notices, even if you’re nearly certain he’s watching your date more than you.

Your date, Jean, the friend of a friend and a blind date two weeks ago, hovers behind you like a lost puppy in his crisp white shirt and freshly pressed black slacks. He’s French, as french as they come—spends his evenings smoking cigarettes on the balcony and drinking wine with a careful pallet, distinguishing between the sweetness and the high notes and the low notes and all the wine terms you don’t understand. He’s a bit hushed and likes to make fun of your pronunciation and loves, loves, loves sex.

You don’t know how you get separated from him, where he disappears off to, You don’t know what compels you to follow the sightline of the stare that burns into you, to follow Charles out onto your parent’s balcony, but you do. You do, and the air is chilly and you shudder, skin prickled with goosebumps. You can hear the music playing through the glass door. If it wasn’t so terribly cliche, you’d swear la vie en rose is filling the air.

“Hey,” you nod, and he acknowledges you with nothing more than the raise of his brows. He leans against the balustrade, the cold metal of the railing clinking against his rings. You stare into the bottom of your wine glass, swirl the liquor round and round.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” He asks, and you look up to him. He’s not looking back, smirking down at the ground at nothing in particular.

You roll your eyes, swallow down on the pit knotting in your stomach. “Oh, please,” you scoff, halfhearted and lackluster. “Like that would ever work on you,” you reply.

He chuckles, cranes his neck to look at you. “Maybe not,” he says, “but your games are always so fun.” His voice is low, unplayful. Horridly serious, despite the laugh.

“I don’t play games,” you replied, step closer to him, to the edge of the balcony. You lean against the railing, gather your hair and pull it over one shoulder. Everything is so weird now.

He quirks a brow, lets a genuine laugh slip and looks at you again. “What’s Jean, then?”

Your cheeks burn red but you refuse to let him get the upper hand. “Why do you care? It’s none of your business,” you shoot back, all spite and venom and irritation. You knew he’d be here and yet, still. Still, you hoped it wouldn’t be like this.

It was naive. Moronic, even. You should have known better.

He leans in closer, your faces no more than inches away. “Oh, but, it is my business when you’re trying to make me jealous,” he says, voice hushed, almost disappearing into the sound of the street below you.

Your eyes drift away from him, back into the apartment, into the dynamics of your families, into the way Jean hides in a corner nursing a drink. He’s so nervous, needs constant babysitting. You turn back to Charles, to his pink cotton shirt, top two buttons undone. It’s begging to be ironed. “And what if I am?” you challenge, and your voice threatens to betray you, to expose the vulnerability you try so hard to conceal.

A flicker of something, something you’re too scared to properly identify, flashes across his face. “Then you’re wasting your time,” he replied, voice tinged with the same something his expression is.

Your frustration bubbles. He makes you mad in a young way, in a fiery sixteen year old girl way. Pissed at the drop of a pin over nothing in particular. “You think you know me so well?” You ask, and he smiles down onto the street. It makes you angrier. “Well guess what? You don’t.”

There’s an air of arrogance about him. He drips with it. “I know more than you think,” he says, dips his head in the direction of the party, or your date. “And he is not your type.”

You couldn’t hold back your retort if you wanted to. “Oh? Tell me then, Charles, what is my type?”

“That guy is a bitch,” he says, stupid, satisfied smirk on his face, digging dimples into his cheek because he thinks that he’s so, so funny. “So, for starters, your type is someone with the confidence to make you come.”

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment, with anger. His words cut through you like a hot blade, the lack of decency, of basic respect. He gives more to a stranger than he does you, at this moment. You’d come to expect a lot of things from him over the years, but never, never, was blatant disrespect one of those things. He’s been raised better, you knew he had been, that Pascale would be red with fury if she heard him speak to anyone—much less you—like that. “Go to Hell, Charles,” you say, quiet, steady, without a single crack of betrayal, and then you’re turning to head back inside.

The sliding door is cracked, and you almost literally run into your date, standing just out of view from your previous spot on the balcony. You’re even more embarrassed at his eavesdropping, but it’s not like you can blame him, not with the show you and Charles always manage to put on.

Jean is visibly uncomfortable, all flushed cheeks and red ears. “Est-ce que ça va?” Are you okay? He asks, and the concern in his voice is evident, even through the embarrassment.

You force a smile, hope he hasn’t heard most of the conversation with Charles and attempt not to burden him with the emotional complexities that come with your past, with your present. “Je vais bien,” I’m fine, you reply, downplay the whole event. “C'est juste un truc de famille,” It’s just a family thing.

Jean nods, and it’s so uncertain you know he heard what you hoped he didn’t. “Je l'ai écouté,” I heard him, he admits, and your stomach churns. “J'espère ne pas avoir aggravé les choses,” I hope I didn’t make things worse.

You wonder how that would be possible—how things could get any worse than they already are.

“Ce n'est pas de ta faute,” It’s not your fault, you say, half-apologetic, half-hushed. “Charles et moi avons une histoire compliquée. C'est juste... difficile à expliquer,” Charles and I have a complicated history. It’s just… difficult to explain.

It’s not that difficult to explain. You and he hooked up a year ago. Since then, you’ve hooked up a lot. The feelings have been felt, the emotions turned, the hearts dropped. But you’re past it all now. You’re past it, both of you. It’s history now. It’s history. It’s history.

Jean gives you a half-hearted smile, and you know then that it’s as good as done between the two of you. He clears his throat, looks past you onto the balcony, onto where you assume Charles is still preparing more salt for your wounds. “Je devrais rentrer chez moi,” I should go home, he says, “Réunion anticipée demain,” Early meeting tomorrow. You know it’s a lie because you know he doesn’t work on Sundays, but you’re not in the place to call his bluff, not when you’ve got a full hand behind your back.

You offer to walk him out to his car, but he turns you down. You don’t give him the option to avoid your company on the walk to the elevator. It’s silent, the sound of your feet on the floor, the elevator moving up through the shaft, the dinging of the doors.

He steps inside, presses the ground level button and when the doors close between you two, you know it’s the last time you’ll see him intentionally. You wait five minutes before you’re pushing the elevator button, too, stepping in and heading down to the floor level. You need air. You desperately need air, and the balcony of the apartment is no longer a safe place for you.

You cut into an alleyway between your parents’ building and the neighboring one, lean against the chilly brick wall and close your eyes.

Breathe in, breathe out. It was never supposed to turn into this. The whole fucking point was that you didn’t want it turning into this, all messy and boundariless and bleeding over into the rest of your family’s dynamics. That was the whole point, it was. Your whole reasoning in Vegas, on the trail, after his best win. The whole point was to keep the damage minimal.

In. Out. You don’t know what the point of it all is, anymore. Why you’re still playing this game when it’s clear the rules are so long broken they can’t be remembered. You need to just. You need to just let it be. Let it be what it’s supposed to be.

In. Out. You know that it would work with Charles, you know it like you know your own hand. You know it would be good, and you used to be able to rationalize why the tiny little chance you were wrong outweighed any potential. You can’t rationalize it anymore, you can’t. You want to, because it’s easier to keep on, keeping on. But you can’t. It just doesn’t make sense anymore, not even to you.

Breath in, breathe out—until you hear his feet scuffing on the sidewalk.

They’re hurried, and you figure they’re making their way to you. You listen to them walk past the alleyway three times before you open your eyes. He’s pacing, typing away rapidly at his phone screen, brows furrowed, hard lines running through his face. He’s typing and pacing and muttering about something under his breath.

“Charles,” you speak, and he jumps, completely and utterly startled by your presence. He sighs out your name softly, like he’s going to startle you back, and then he’s approaching slowly, cautiously, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Who are you texting?” You ask.

“Who do you think?” He says, offers up a weak chuckle, and then, before you can say another word, “I’m sorry.” His voice is ridiculously sincere, all drowned in guilt and regret. His eyes are soft, his lips pursed. “I shouldn’t have said that, It was stupid and immature and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You sigh. “Yeah, it was,” you admit, voice half tinged with resignation.

He takes another step. His posture is so docile, lacks any kind of defense. He knows he fucked up. “I can be a real fucking idiot, sometimes,’ he continues, a rare example of self-awareness.

Despite your frustration, you nod. “Yes, you definitely are.”

He leans against the bricks next to you and you look up to the sky again, close your eyes and breathe the air again. Anything to keep your resolve, to keep your wits about you.

“But, you have to admit. I was right about one thing.”

Even closed, your eyes tell the whole store, scrunch and wince before rolling open to look back at him, certain that nothing you invite to come from his lips is going to make any of this better. You frown because curiosity always kills the cat. “And what was that, Charles?”

“I know you,” he huffs, pushes air past his lips like he knows better than to do what he’s about to do. “Well enough to know you know he isn’t a match for you, that you only brought him around to make me jealous.”

Honest, honest, it wasn’t your intention. It was an added benefit, sure, but it wasn’t the intention. No, the intention was to move past Charles, to finally, finally move on from what the two of you had. The problem with that, though, is that somewhere over the course of the last year, your type had become Charles. You’d tried to force the attraction with anyone who was opposite, to the antithesis of Charles, and that’s how you wound up with Jean. He was different, in every category, and the line between hate has always been very thin, you reasoned with yourself. Very thin. Very thin, you knew, because you walked it with Charles for twelve months. For all of the seasons.

“It hurt,” he admits. “It really bothered me seeing you with someone else and that’s not an excuse for what I said,” he continues, and you drop your head to look at him. He’s looking at the sky, too. Like he’s trying to rationalize his own words with even himself. “it’s not, but it’s the only explanation I can give you.”

Somewhere on the street, an overhead light clicks on, fills the street with orange, cuts harshly around the buildings and into the alleyway where you both stand. It casts hard shadows on everything, on everything but him. It lights him softly, somehow, apologetically soft like the universe itself wants to apologize for his actions.

You think maybe you should be the one who’s sorry, the echoes of your spat still hanging in the air, heavy in the darkness just a few steps away.

Your voice trembles when you speak. “I didn’t know it would hurt you that much,” you admit. “I was just trying to move on, to prove that I could.” Prove to him, or prove to you—you aren’t sure.

The pretense falls between you, almost suddenly, all at once, and the air is different. It’s not angry and it’s not apologetic. It’s just. The air is just shared. Shared pain, shared sadness and hope and understanding.

“You know,” he says. “You know you don’t have to pretend with me.” His voice is soft, but it’s firm, unwavering. “I never wanted you to.”

Your breath catches in your chest, heart pounding fast. Fast. Faster than you can think. You can feel it in your toes, in your temples, in your fingertips. He looks to you, your eyes meeting and your heart jumping that much more. “I can’t pretend anymore,” you admit, below even a whisper. It’s a miracle he hears you. “I can’t pretend I don’t care about you, Charles.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing against the skin of your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t even noticed had slipped. He murmurs your name, half-pain, half-hope, and you finally recognize it, the something about the way he looks at you, the way he talks to you. The something, you finally see it. It’s been looking you in the eyes this whole time and you’d been so blind to it all.

He was wrong in Vegas, you could be this smart and that dumb all at once, because here he is, looking at you and speaking to you the same way he always does, and for the first time you see it for what it is: tender, candid, and utterly consuming love.

"I've been so scared," you confess, voice quivering. "Scared of losing what we have, scared of ruining everything if I let myself fall."

He holds your gaze, a comforting anchor in the midst of the uncertainties. “I’m scared, too,” he admits, and you find solace in it. That even him, who’s known for how long now—you can’t remember, even he feels scared. You don’t even care if he’s lying, if he’s just saying it because he knows it will make you feel better. You don’t care, because it does. It makes you feel so much better. “But, I’m more scared of not trying.”

The truth hangs in the air between you, fragile but undeniable, a connection that has endured far more than it should have. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” you say, voice finding steady ground now, your eyes locked on his. “But I’m done denying what’s been here all along.”

He cups your face with both hands, a sweet smile on his face, a stutter to the way his Adam's apple bobs. His thumbs brush your tears, and he says your name so sure. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he says. “Through all of the painful silences and the complicated, unspoken shit.”

Tears stream down your face now, a mixture of everything overwhelming you in the best way. You place your hands over his, hold them against your face like it’s going to ground you to the reality of his words.

“I’ve loved you, too,” you whisper, voice riddled with quiet intensity. “I have,” you laugh. He smiles. “Even when I didn’t fully understand it, even when I pushed it away.”

Charles leans in, forehead resting against yours, breaths sharing the little space between your lips. “I want to be with you,” he says, a plea. “I want to be with you, even if it’s messy and uncertain.”

Your face is half as bare as your heart, now, and you’re sure he’s got mascara all over his thumbs, that you’re a real sight for sore eyes. But when you kiss him, he kisses you back.

He kisses you back, despite it all, despite how long you made him wait. He kisses you back and somewhere in the space between the kiss and the tears, you both find the space to laugh and you know you’ve made the right decision. The decision to leap.

For him, you don’t know why you ever hesitated.

#charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc angst #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 angst #f1 fluff #ferrari

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beautifulcrayon · 2 months

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Fun fact about me, on august 3rd 2023 I saw “Bon” just a few minutes after he was added to the findjackwalten site, but I was drunk at a slot machine in Las Vegas, so I just stared at my phone screen not being able to process him. That night at like 2am I woke up in a cold sweat to grab my phone to check if he was real

#this is so funny to look back on for me it feels like a feverdream #i won money that night though and didn’t lose any money on the trip maybe he was good luck idk #my brain was BAMBOOZLED when I saw him #i was wearing twf merch too….#“Bon”#twf #the Walten files #drinking mention #idk why this specific update was so shocking to me considering the site updated other times that day too #this image of bon changed my brain chemistry

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dejwrld · 7 days

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⤷‧₊˚ ʚ₊˚‧ ✿ ꒱ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈 / a night in vegas for the future married couple shows just how lucky they are to have each other.

┊ •° ੈ ⋆° ┊ warning readers discretion is advised — female reader, her/she pronouns, black reader (with descriptors), influencer!reader, profanity, alcohol usage, mentions of other haikyuu characters, profanity, set in las vegas, alcohol usage, fluff, mentions of drunk ushijima, needy ushijima, comedy, other hq appearances included, oc!best friend for reader, mdni

╰┈➤ song for this part: lucky, jason mraz & colbie caillat

masterlist

Your first night in Las Vegas was spent playing slot machines and staring in shock wondering how a male stripper could fit so much into a G-String. You were getting married soon and the bubbly feeling was finally getting to you now that you laid in bed with your fluffy customized bachelorette robe and were laying in the king-size bed in one of the best suites in the hotel. You knew that your best friend Autumn had an early morning planned for you and others, at nine in the morning—all of you had a spa day filled with massages, pedicures, manicures, and facials, and that would be followed by a nice luxury brunch. Although, your friends probably were in some nightclub drinking and dancing away—you realized that you no longer could hang out like you used to. Retire to your room early just to indulge in room service and the jacuzzi bathtub you had in your room.

You wondered what your fiancé was doing. Due to the rules of the people who planned all of this, they thought it would have been best to give you guys separate rooms. You didn’t mind that at all, but you knew this was torturous for your Waka. You grabbed your phone to text him, but then you remembered that Tendou had collected his phone before the group parted ways to start their own night of fun. You hoped he was enjoying himself and his last couple of nights as an engaged man. However, you could already imagine that he was ready to go back to his room but Tendou most likely was holding him hostage. As you went to turn the television on, a knock was heard at the door. You assumed it was the room service you ordered, but when you opened the door—there your fiancé stood with some foolish tipsy grin on his face. His face was as red as ever and gosh, you couldn’t even keep a straight face at how he looked at the moment. He looked like he had used the bathroom and forgot to fix his clothes. But it was the fact that he was breathing so harshly as if he ran a marathon that made you chuckle.

“Why aren’t you with your friends?” You snickered as you looked at him. “Your best man put so much into your party and you ditched him. Do they even know you left?”

Ushijima Wakatoshi didn’t say much as he stepped forward and let his forehead fall upon your shoulders. He took in the sweet scent of the body butters you use, which automatically meant you must have just gotten out of the shower or bath. You heard him let out a sigh before speaking, “I just missed you baby.” he utters in a whisper as if the two of you stood in the strictest library.

“You literally saw me earlier during breakfast and you also FaceTimed me while you were getting ready because you didn’t know what shirt to wear.” You pointed out as you dragged him into your hotel room.

“I know, but I still miss you.” Ushijima’s body plopped down on your bed as he stretched his limbs. “I ran up some flights of stairs to get to you, you know?”

“Waka, why the hell would you do that? They have elevators for that. How much have you been drinking?” You asked as you kneeled down to take off his shoes.

“I missed the elevator and was too eager to wait for another one.” He answered truthfully as he sat up using his elbows. He chews at his lower lip before speaking again, “I just had a little bit of scotch and some other things the guys I brought. Which I must point out was very expensive. Why is everything so expensive here? And why is everything so loud? Especially those damn slot machines.” He hiccups.

He just kept going on and on until his eyes glanced around at your hotel room. It was as if he had forgotten what he was talking about in the first place. “Your room looks better than mine.”

“Really? You should see the view from the balcony.” You sat on the bed and your head motioned to the balcony door that was closed.

“I want to see,” Ushijima’s voice drags as he glances at the closed door. He blinks a couple times and then looks at you. “I bet the view is amazing.” His words drag off before he sits up.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You sniffled a laugh before standing up to help him take off his clothes but he gently pushed your hands away.

“But this could be the last time we see the Vegas view.” He stands up strolling to the balcony with you not too far behind him because you would hate for your fiancé to go flying over the balcony.

He inhales sharply before exhaling the Vegas air. Many of the bright lights made the city look beautiful at night. It surely lived up to the lively experience it advertised on the television shows and movies. It wasn’t even the first on your list of where you wanted to go for your bachelorette party—you were thinking something calming and relaxing like Cancun, but Autumn and Tendou had something up their sleeves. Now here you are in Vegas looking at the gorgeous night view from your suite balcony.

Ushijima's arms are wrapped around your waist before he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I can’t wait to marry you, baby.” He kisses the side of your neck. “I can’t wait to wake up next to you and see that gorgeous smile every morning.” He pecks again. “And I can’t wait for you to have my last name.”

He lets out a happy sigh before letting his body slump on the chairs that were on the balcony. His eyes scan over your body and his teeth nibble on his lower lip before speaking, “Baby..” His voice came off as a whine and it took you by shock.

Ushijima Wakatoshi whining for you. The roles were always reversed. It was you pouting your lip gloss-covered lips out at him and whining to him about wanting him.

“Waka…” Your voice trails off as you wiggle out of his grasp to turn to look at him, back against the baluster of the balcony.

Bold olive-colored eyes stared down at you with some form of hunger you’ve never seen before. Your teeth glided across your lip as you nudged him back into the hotel room just before he leaned down to kiss you. The balcony door closes with a soft thud and you’re pushing him on the bed.

“You’re being quite bold right now.” You noted, this time you helped him remove his clothes. Fingers curled on the fabric of his polo shirt to tug over his head. “Do you think it's the alcohol?” Your perfectly arched eyebrows raise at him in curiosity.

“Maybe,” He hiccups. “I didn’t have that much. You know I’m not much of a drinker.”

That was true, he didn’t drink much so you were positive that three hard drinks would have your fiance's face flush the brightest red and him slurring his words. While neatly putting his clothes with the rest of your dirty clothes. You brought the blanket over his body, completely tucking Ushijima in to rest. “Get some rest, my love. We do have an early brunch tomorrow and Autumn will kill all of us if we’re not on time.” You joked.

You leaned down placing a loving kiss on his forehead, the kiss seemed to be a comforting thing for him as he snuggled further in your bed.

“Babe..” He whispers as if the two of you resided in the quietest library. “I’m so lucky to be able to be married to you.” His eyes shifted close as if he was going to go to sleep.

“We’re not married just yet, bear.”

“What?” His eyes shot open as if you’ve just dropped the most shocking news to him.

“The wedding isn’t until next week.” You reminded him.

“Oh…” His voice trails off in disappointment. “Well, I can’t wait for you to be my wife.” He sighs happily before his eyes shift close again.

Your lips parted to respond, but you were met with a snore. Mentally marking down that had to be the quickest you’ve seen Ushijima fall asleep. Usually, you’re the one falling asleep on him since he would stay up watching back some games. But the roles were reversed now as you admired how at peace he was. Admiring how his lips pouted outward just a bit when he was sleeping and sometimes his thick brown eyebrows even crumpled together as if he was in a deep dramatic dream.

You were so lucky to be his fiance, to be his lover—his soon-to-be wife.

In the middle of Las Vegas' busiest casino, Tobio Kageyama felt like he had about ten-plus children going through a kid crisis. Tendou was drunkenly crying because they couldn’t find Ushijima, and Kai poorly trying to calm him down because he too had a little too much to drink. Hinata and Atsumu were playing rock paper scissors for their casino winnings (it was only five dollars and forty-five cents). He thought Daichi would be able to help him crowd-control a bunch of volleyball-loving men, but Tobio didn’t even know where Daichi was. He glanced down at his phone for a split second and Daichi and Oikawa were gone.

“So let me get this straight, you guys lost the groom in Las Vegas….” Autumn, who was the best friend of the bride, swirled her straw in her drink trying to sniffle a laugh. “Have you guys tried calling his phone? I don’t think it’s safe for him to be wandering around tipsy in Las Vegas.”

Tobio holds up Ushijima’s phone and Autumn's plush lips form a straight line before sighing. “Well, you guys better go find him.”

“What? You’re the maid of honor, I think it’s best if you help us.” Kobio’s blue eyes sparkled with pleads and Autumn shrugged her shoulders.

“I didn’t lose him, you guys did. My best friend is safely in her hotel room getting her beauty sleep for the brunch tomorrow, and Ushijima Wakatoshi better be there next to her at noon, sharp.” Autumn backs up from Tobio to rejoin the girls at the blackjack table they were at.

And it soon hit him, if Ushijima did walk off by himself—the first person he would go look for is his fiance. That's what Tobio would do if he was in that situation. After he consulted the others about where he was going, the only one who decided to go with him was Tendou. Whose wet cheeks were as red as his buzz cut due to the crying. Tobio’s knuckles knocked on the room door and he could hear some shuffling around behind the closed door. He even could hear a faint, “Waka. Stay in bed, and rest.”

The door was tugged open and there Tobio’s unsettling thoughts that they may have lost the groom in Las Vegas washed away. His body relaxed as Y/N leaned against the door frame slightly in her pajamas.

“Missing a groom?” She questioned as her eyebrows raised at the two men in front of her. “He’s going to have one major headache tomorrow, but he’s fine.” She gives the two a smile. “I’m sure he really enjoyed himself tonight-“ her words stop as Tendou loudly sniffles overpower her.

“Are you crying-“ Her question was interrupted by Tendou’s tipsy state waltzing into her room and crashing on the bed, on top of his closest friend while he drunkenly sobbed.

“I thought I lost you, buddy.” His slender fingers caress the top of Ushijima’s head.

“Even though I can feel the room spinning, I know for a fact I don’t want you on top of me like this..Tendou.”

Tendou sniffles and climbs off his friend. Wet cheeks finally drying up at the sign that his friend was okay. “Why did you walk off? You could have died. Then I would have to marry your fiance.”

“What?”

“Huh? Oh nothing, goodnight Miracle Boy.” Tendou’s voice drags out as he gets dragged by the collar of his jacket by Tobio.

Even though you can see your fiance’s ears grow red in embarrassment at the nickname he hasn’t heard since he was in high school, a smile crept on his face as the memories unfolded tonight.

Ushijima Wakatoshi was at peace with the life he had now. He was doing well career wise and he was about to marry the love of his life.

He was so lucky.

⤷‧₊˚ cuties that wanted to be tagged | @salaciousdoll @honeybleed @cinnamisu @markleedreams @ryukenzz @altdiamonds @peachesncats @starlitsawamura @tetsuskei @nearly-sweet-lisia @threezzyo @pineapplesneedrights @mysteria157

#ushijima wakatoshi smut #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #haikyuu x black reader #haikyuu x smut #hq x reader #hq smut #hq x black reader #female reader #anime smut #anime x reader #⊹˳⁺ ♡ 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝒻𝒾𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

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jmdbjk · 1 day

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Wow.

I can't leave to enjoy a few days vacation without the world falling apart?

Hybe vs. Min HeeJin. Not on anyone's bingo card this year. I have not caught up on everything but who tipped off Hybe about her dastardly plans? The timing of it all... and her little extemporaneous skit she did for a press conference was perhaps part of her plan to turn public opinion in her favor? She claims to have invented kpop or at least made it what it is today but out the other side of her mouth says she hates idol culture?

Hybe's not here to play, they will not be nice. I see no benefit to her for showing us the not so pretty side of the idol industry. Maybe that's her problem, she can't see what she's doing because she's too far into it. Thirty years in the business will make you lose your objectivity. She has no idea she is coming across as a greedy, spoiled, entitled, manipulative, narcissistic, emotional female in a male dominated industry. Basically a nut case.

The lady had a tremendous opportunity to perhaps take ownership of her company in due time, become a great example for female leadership in a country where corporate culture is steeped in chaebolism. Instead she squandered that and thinks she will come out on top. Did she miss the Hybe vs. SM Entertainment episode from last year?

Anyway.

RM's new album! RPWP!

The Monochrome pop up store is doing well!

Jin will be back after 6 Fridays!

In other news. I went to Las Vegas. This is what I saw:

The Bellagio Fountains. They're huge. The Bellagio is SWANK. I looked for Jimin in Dior and Tiffany, Hobi in the Louis Vuitton store, Namjoon in the Bottega Veneta store, but none of them were in there. There was no Calvin Klein store.

When Hobi, JK and Tae were there watching the fountains dance to Dynamite, they were standing here:

Passed by Allegiant Stadium a few times. It's huge.

Drove out to Seven Magic Mountains. I am happy to report the lowest boulders had no writing or graffiti. They were amazingly huge as you can see.

Joon's pic of the above rocks:

Went to AREA 15 and it was HUGE and amazing! It's impossible to show everything that its about, there are multiple buildings and installations and activities, gift shops, bars, etc. We went into the Omega Mart (mega art) experience which led to a maze of fantastically created chambers, each different from the last one, all pulsing with animated lights, texture walls, ceilings and floors.

And ate at Hobak Korean BBQ. We couldn't find out which tables the members of BTS sat at but I got a pic of the Butter album they all signed. There were other autographs from other famous Korean celebs but the BTS signatures were displayed in a more prominent place on the wall.

We also scoped out The Sphere. Also HUGE. The concert space is arena sized. I don't know who was playing there that night but the parking lot was filling up.

We also walked the Strip.

The Fremont Street Experience. That's an animated video screen overhead with ziplines running through the length of it. It's two blocks of casinos, restaurants and gift shops. People are also doing busking and shows at street level.

Hoover Dam, view of the dam from the highway bridge and view of the highway bridge from the dam. Spent a few minutes on the Arizona side.

Hiked in the desert. Saw cactus and wildlife. Drank a lot of water.

Drove to the Mojave Desert Preserve in California just to say we did.

We hated leaving. It was a fun trip. But damn, I have so much stuff to catch up on now. Hiatus my ass.

If Vegas is on the BTS comeback tour I promise I will be there this time.

We gambled at the airport on our way out. The slot machines were next to our gate. And in the baggage claim area. But as you can see, its not just about gambling there.

In case you didn't get it, everything in Vegas is HUUUGGE and FARRRR. Walk a lot, spend a lot of money.

Overall, Las Vegas was clean, the people were extremely friendly and welcoming of course, they might be teaching hospitality as a school subject there, I don't know.

#what happens in vegas stays in vegas #until i post all my pics here #so regretful that i didnt go to ptd in vegas #we also unknowingly drove past the millenium dance center #where bts rehearsed while in las vegas

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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Unexpected 8

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The stylist jabs you with another pin and you bite down on the grunt. You don't want to make this any more difficult than Lloyd already has. His planning, while exhaustive, is not entirely practical. You hear his whistling from behind you. You can't look back as the blonde twists and tugs your hair.

The compartment of the plane allows little breathing room and you feel crowded by the seats and the bodies all around you. Two make up artists working on your face as you're yanked at like a puppet. Another woman steaming the dress, a hazardous task in the air you suspect. You struggle to keep your bearings as the flurry has you dizzy.

As the women deem you suitably dolled up, the gown is presented to you. A simple white sheath that drapes across the chest with a skirt the wraps and splits from the thigh. It's not entirely your taste but it's better than leather or sequins. You let the stylists help you into it, straps to thin to keep on your thick bra, and you reluctantly let your chest loose beneath the charmeuse.

"Almost there, Mrs. Hansen," Lloyd declares as the light dings and all are drawn to the signal. Seatbelts until you touch down. You can barely believe, rather force yourself to accept, that the time has come.

You face Lloyd as he gestures you to one of the ivory seats and you restrain the surprise at his appearance. You'd been so distracted by your own primping, you hadn't noticed his own. A white wedding suit with a red vest. Tailored perfectly to his figure. Oddly refined. You could admit, at least to yourself, that he looked good.

You sit and pull the seat belt across. You'll have to wait till you're back on solid grown to force on the strappy heels. His hand settles on yours, causing you to flinch and he toys with the wring on your finger, lifting it to admire the large diamonds. He leans in to kiss your knuckle.

"This is it, doll face, the first day of the rest of our lives."

"Please, I'm nauseous enough," you grumble.

"Ah, come on, every girl dreams about her wedding day. And you get a whole second one," he taunts, "now that's just being spoiled, isn't it?"

"Sure," you utter and stiffen. You didn't exactly ask for this. He got his pre-nup, he could just shove another contract under your nose to sign.

"Don't be like that, babe, we're gonna celebrate," he leans against you, "I mean, you can't drink, but I can make up for that by fucking you silly."

"Lloyd," you lower your voice as you glance around.

"Ah, don't you wanna choke, daddy? Hmm? Like our little vacation? That was fun. Smack me around--"

"Shhh," you hush him, "I'm gonna smack you right now."

"Oh, please, mistress, mark me up good," he snickers.

You shush him again and turn away, looking out the window. This is it. The final white flag. You surrender to this man and his stupid mustache.

💎

A Vegas wedding chapel. You can't say you never saw yourself there. In fact, with Colin, your budget was so small you married in the backyard with his family to witness and disapprove of the entire affair. Worse, you didn't get a single piece of the cake. Even the slice you save in the freezer for your anniversary was ruined after the fridge burnt out.

You stand before the altar shaped like a Roman plinth with a bright red heart attached to it. You must look so stupid. Not as bad as the couple in the empty pews. They must have the next slot, you scoff to yourself.

The man in his Viva Las Vegas Tee and the woman in a pepto pink sundress. They're both older and mismatched. Likely the least odd couple in the city even so. The man, even sitting down, towers over the squat woman with her breast in a generous display, nearly three times as wide as the strawlike man.

As you look at them, the woman smiles and waves, her heavily blushed cheeks rounding. You return the smile awkwardly and return your attention to the drawl of the barely awake officiant. Lloyd clears his throat and gives you a pointed look, his hands tightening around yours.

"Do you Marion Lloyd Hansen take this woman to be your lawfully wed wife?" The droopy eyed man asks.

Your lips part. Marion? You blink as Lloyd says I do dismissively, as if to brush over his name. Your turn comes before you can think of a snappy remark, too amused as you choke on your laughter.

You barely keep your guffaws below the surface. This whole thing has to be a joke. You really just can't believe any of it is real.

"Alright, I do," you say nonchalantly.

The officiant continues, going through his script and prompts the groom to kiss the bride. You nearly evade the pucker but let Lloyd plant one on your lips. He takes you off kilter as he wraps you in his arms and bends you backward, poking his tongue between your lips shamelessly.

You finally wrestle him off you and regain your balance. You slap his chest and keep him at bay, "Jeez, calm down."

"Come on, baby, we got paperwork to do," he slings his arm over your shoulders and leads you down the aisle, "oh, and a few introductions." He stops you beside the middle pew and turns, "ma, pop–"

You wince, taken aback. Okay, he's playing a trick. This really isn't true. He's set this all up to fuck with you.

"Oh, darling," the woman bounces to her feet, "it's so nice ta finally meet ya," she nears and claps her hands on your cheeks her long acrylics poking you sharply. She plants a kiss on you as the man stands stiffly.

"Son," the tall man greets, "nice ta get a ticket down for the event."

"Dad," Lloyd shakes the man hand. As imposing as Lloyd is, he stands a head shorter than his father and a head above his mother. "Couldn't leave you out."

"Oh, I'm so happy my boy's found his lady," his mother chimes, "now, I'm Dotty and this is my lover boy, Harlan."

"Dear," the man says abashedly and nods at you with beet red cheeks, "pleasure, little lady."

"Uh, you too," you sputter, "Lloyd didn't tell me you were coming in for the wedding."

"Ah, he's a sweetheart," Dotty exclaims as he wiggles in place, "he says ma, how about I fly ya out to the casinos and I said you know that's a bad idea but then he said it was special, so… we'd do anything for our boy, don't you know?"

"Ma," Lloyd warns.

"What, pookie," she chides, "I waited so long for a daughter and oh, I can't wait to take her round the tables. They always say you got good luck on your wedding day."

"Uh, yeah, I mean, they say a lot of things," you utter.

"We gotta sign the contract," Lloyd interjects, "then we'll go to dinner like I promised."

"Oooh, I love a buffet," Dotty rubs her palms together, "and dear, you look like you can keep up."

You crook a brow and restrain a chuckle. Not exactly the Hansen stock you expected.

💎

You peel a strip of meat from the chicken wing and pop it in your mouth, a napkin tucked in the top of your dress to keep the sauce from dripping. You doubt you'll walk away unscathed. Dotty has some of the glaze in the corner of her fuschia painted lips but hardly seems bothered as she gnaws on the bone.

She drops it on her plate and wipes her fingers. She leans on her elbows as she balls the napkin in her hands.

"You know, we're so proud of Marion– Sorry, Lloyd," she corrects herself as Lloyd clinks his fork loudly, "anyway, him goin' off to Harvard and all that. But we were worried. He works too much, never got time for girls."

"Mmhmm," you take in all in, enjoying the unnerving twist. Lloyd really does know how to surprise you.

"And such a nice one," she smiles, "so," she takes a slurp of soda, "when's the baby comin'? Do we know if it's a boy or girl?"

"Baby," Lloyd chokes, "what– how–"

"I know a pregnant lady when I see one," Dotty insists, "absolutely glowing with a shade of miserable."

"Erm, well, it's early so we–"

"Lots of time, lots," she sings, "oh, let's not worry about the youngin yet. It's your wedding night and we gotta party it up."

"Ma," Lloyd tuts again.

"Promise we won't get too wild," she grins at him. You see where he gets that from, "just enough to have some fun."

"Son, your ma's grown. Same with the wife, they'll be just fine," the man's placid tone lulls you, "'sides, we got some catching up to do."

#lloyd hansen x reader #dark lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #series #unexpected #the gray man

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sixties-girl · 2 months

Text

Are you lonesome tonight in Vegas?

Plot: You are in a trip to las Vegas because Elvis was going to offer a few concerts the same days you were there. You were feeling kinda lonely but that night you would get some good company to your side.

(It is mostly a fluffy thing and I tried my best to keep it free of orthographic mistakes).

--How fun! We will sure have a great time there.

-- Yeah, yeah, in special in casinos, hopefully I win some deal ‘cause then I could end up like Nicolas Cage in that movie.

--Damn Rodrick, if that is the case, we will better keep you far from those casinos- coments Joe giving a smooth elbow to his friend.

5 friends and one destination: Fabulous Vegas, or Sin City as it is use to be called. In fact, your friends wanted to go mostly to sin going to casinos wasting all their savings(in the best of the cases) in slots machines or russian roulettes while they already had a few cocktails.

Meanwhile you, you had nothing to do with that, you just were in their plan because Elvis Presley was going to have a few concerts in the International Hotel from las Vegas the same days you will be there.

It was summer of 1969 and he barely had cameback to stages a year ago with his Special Comeback TV special. You were in your twenties and you have been his fan since your teens thanks to some secondary school friends but you were excited to see him performe live after all that decade just recording some movies here and there.

The thing is that you were the only one of your friends who wanted to go to see him so you would go by yourself. Once in Vegas evening and with all your stuff already in your hotel rooms, your friends left you in the International Hotel and tell you to call them later.

You enter by yourself and wow, the space is all full of people, some smarter dressed than others. You are lucky enough to have a spot so close to the stage.

Lights turn off and there he is. He even looked more handsome in person, you were delighted by his physical appearence and the way he moved around that stage.

His black satin suit also helped to hug his torso perfectly fine while his singing live was incredibly good. He is now singing “Are you lonesome tonight?” which described perfectly how you were feeling that night.

You giggled because it seems as if he was pointing you while singing this sentence of the song and you would nod just in case he noticed it.

When the shows comes to an end, you are so excited and yet so sad it already ended this great time you had in his concert, not ready for going back outside to face Sin City but before you thought about it, a random man approaches and says:

--Hello young lady, before you leave, would you like to meet Mr.Presley more personally?.- you can’t believe him, is some kind of joke?

--If you are trying to get me I am sorry but I don’t have time for that.- before you turn around, he grabs you shoulder.

--I am being serious, he wants to meet you right behind the stage, just follow me!

You doubt but you don’t have nothing to lose after all so you follow him wherever he leads you.

You arrive in front of a door, it says “dressing room”. The guy knocks and the door opens, and yes, it is opened by Elvis Presley.

--E, here she is...what is your name?.- you are in shock right now, even trembling a little bit of meeting him that close.

--I-i am, y/n.

--You are a bit nervous, aren’t you? Don’t worry honey, I am sure that once you will know me better, you will really relax.- Elvis smiles right at you, gosh, he really knows how to captivate you.

He grabs you around your waist and invites you to enter inside. Once there, you just take sit on a random couch while you watch him lightining one of his characteristic cigars. He is staring right to you, directly to your soul:

--So y/n, I will ask you here and again, are you lonesome tonight?.- he does the last part singing it. You giggle at that.

--Yeah, I am, none of my friends wanted to come with me to watch you performe.

--Oh really? Where are they now?,- he sits right next to you, that makes your heart skip faster.

--I don’t know, probably all drunk and with all their savings wasted.

--That doesn’t sound very nice, I don’t think they are the best company for a sweet and beautiful girl like you, don’t you agree?.- he puts his arm around your shoulders, what is he doing?

--Well, to be honest, I didn’t like their plan since the beggining, I just wanted to go to your concert because I have been a fan of yours since I was a young teenager.- you give him a sweet smile that melts him inside.

--Very good girl, how old are you honey?

--I am 23.- you feel how he is getting closer and closer and you don’t know if to stay or walk away.

He nods and then takes your chin up for meeting those beautiful blue eyes of his.-- You know, since I saw you on stage I instantly wanted to meet you, you are not just a very pretty girl but also a sweet and smart one and you shouldn’t be around this city all by yourself, more now that it is all dark, so.--his face is very close to your ear and lowers his voice, almost like a whisper.-- Would you mind if I made you some company tonight?

You shiver at his suggestion, is he really meaning what you think he is meaning? Elvis had always this fame of womanizer having some affairs here and there, even now that he is married and recently became a dad.

Still, you actually needed some company, otherwhise you will have to manage to go to your hotel and you didn’t want to deal with your friends sequels of “living las Vegas”. He has been treating you good until now as well.

--What happens my girl? Don’t you want to spend some time with me? I won’t do nothing you don’t want to if that is what worries you.- he gets a bit apart for giving you some space but you grab his hand.

--No! It is okay Elvis, I would rather stay here tonight with you than anywhere else.- you get closer to him. This is actually a dream for you, you just felt a bit overwhelmed, that’s it.

--What a relieve to hear that, you really got me scared doll.- he hugs you tight.-- Maybe we should go somewhere else, to get some fresh air.

--You are right, but where we could go?

--I know a place that I am sure you will be amazed with but I have to ask you something first.- he looks attentively at you.-- Are you scared of heights baby?

--A bit, yes.- Elvis stands up of the couch and grabs your hand while you get up as well.

--Don’t worry, you can always hold on to me, I will catch ya’.

He seems very convinced to bring you wherever place he has in mind. You get out of dressing room, facing some glances, probably thinking you were another one-night stand of his.

You get inside an elevator from the International Hotel and Elvis presses the highest level button.

When the doors open, you find yourself in a huge terrace, quite crowded because there is some kind of event going on. You observe a little scenario with some band playing on the background as well as a large mini bar table on the right where people order their drinks.

On the left there is a balcony with beautiful and yet imposing views from las Vegas, and in the middle there is even a little swimming pool! You are so amazed that for a second you forgot that Elvis is talking right to you:

--Doll.- laughs a bit.-- That stunned are you by the place that you forgot about me?

--Maybe.- you say a bit teasing.-- But seriously, this is incredible Elvis, thank you for bringing me here.

--I suggest we get some drinks first, I think I haven’t drunk since I performed.

--Good idea.- and you both go to the mini bar. You order a piña colada for you while he takes a glass of cola. He looks at your drink curiosly:

--What is it?

--Piña colada, is one of my favorite cocktails ever, would you like to try some?.- you sip a bit of it.-- It tastes good, other times they would just put me too much alcohol.

--I don’t like alcohol in general but I will just try it for a bit.- he takes the drink and shows a surprised reaction in his face.-- Yeah, not bad, it is very sweet, now I understand why you have this sweet essence in you.

You blush at his answer while you sip more from your glass. He really knew how to make compliments, no wonder why women were in love with him.

Elvis takes your hand and brings you right in front of the balcony. While being there he pases one of his arms behind your back and holds you there:

--I told you that I would be holding you, remember sweet thing? I think I should call you my little piña colada.- he laughs at his own wisecrack.

--Why not piñita? Means little pineapple in Spanish.

--Really? It really suits you this nickname, so yeah, my sweet piñita that I just met today and made my night better.

You giggle with how cute he says the word piñita. He holds you closer with his arms and you look at him up while he takes your chin up. You can’t stop looking at those eyes of his and this time you don’t feel any nervous anymore as in the dressing room. He gets closer to your face and whispers:

--I would like to taste more of that pineapple and coconut flavors, could I get some more y/n?

You get shocked because it may be the first time he actually called you by your name after calling you by lots of nicknames. Suddenly you feel his lips on yours ones. Elvis starts kissing you in a gentle way, sweet you would say.

You close your eyes for feeling better that kiss of his that starts to be more passionate and needy, as if he had been waiting all night for this moment. You feel his tongue exploring your whole mouth while both your tongues weave together.

You start gasping a bit since you start feeling the lack of air but you can’t stop, this kiss may be the best one you ever had.

You notice how his hands go lower from your back, is he grabbing your ass in front of everyone else? Yes, he does.

You feel more the lack of air and you let him notice it, getting apart from you:

--Did you like it my darling? I dare you did looking at your face right now.- you feel your cheeks hot, hot because that piña colada was taking its effect, hot because that kiss left you wanting more and hot as well because some people were looking directly at you both.

--I did, you are a really good kisser Mr.Presley, and a naughty one as well.- you give him a flirty look.

--Naughty? Oh my lovely piña colada, you have barely seen the tip of the iceberg of how naughty I can actually be. I can show you a lot more than this y/n.

The situation was getting out of handle. Despite you were enjoying this flirting with Elvis, you knew that in whatever moment you could end up in his suite and the rest would come over.

At this point, you just were really tired after the whole journey to las Vegas and the concert and what came later after that. You yawn a bit and he notices it:

--Are you tired baby?.- you nod at his question.-- If you want, you can sleep at my place, the bed is huge so there’s enough space for both of us.

You look at him not trusting too much if it is a good idea to enter inside “his territory”.

--Plus where would you go anyways? I can’t leave such a sweetie like you in a place like this, all by yourself.- he looks at you with concerning eyes.- I promise I only have good intentions with you.

He is right though, you don’t have nowhere else to go and paying one night in this hotel is quite expensive for your own pocket.

You agree in going to his place after all since tiredness and the last effects of that cocktail weren’t helping you so you both go straight to the elevator.

You go down a few levels and walk through the long corridors from the building. He makes you stop in front of a door that opens and lets you enter first.

Wow, he wasn’t lying when he said that the bed was huge. And not just that but the whole room felt expensive.

But that was the least important thing. You quickly get off your shoes, that were killing you at this point, and lay down on that bed.

--Gosh y/n, you really were looking forward to lay down, didn't you?.- he laughs while approaching where you are lying:

--Hm, I wasn't lying when I told you, it has been a harsh day for me.- you yawn while you turn your face to the pillow.

--Oh no pretty baby, you can't hide that gorgeous face of yours yet.

--I can't keep my eyes opened anymore Elvis.- you murmur down the pillow.

He gets up for turning lights off and gets to lay next to you, hugging you from your back.

--Good night piñita , I hope you rest well and that you didn't feel lonesome tonight.- he whispers to you ear. You laugh softly since his whisper has given you tickles.

You wished him good night as well. He couldn't see it but you started smiling, not believing yet who was spooning you. Definetly you weren't feeling lonesome that night anymore.

I hope you enjoyed it! :)

#elvis the pelvis #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis the king #elvis fluff

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notbecauseofvictories · 7 months

Note

*taps gently on your window* you said you like the history of chicago? do you have any fun facts specifically related to the history of chicago as the original and eternal capital of pinball? any tidbits that ideally would beyond those found in a typical timeline of pinball history? (ignore this ask if you don’t know anything and/or aren’t interested in the topic ofc)

Weirdly enough, I do! Maybe not a lot, but I know that---much like alcohol---Chicago tried to ban gambling and gaming periodically throughout the 20th century. And I know that---also like alcohol---they failed, completely and utterly.

For those of you not in the know, Chicago technically "banned" pinball games from the 40s to the 70s. Technically, the city enforced such prohibitions.

Technically.

Due to selective enforcement and honestly, people just straight up ignoring the law, Chicago became a powerhouse of gaming activity anyway. Pinball games were part and parcel of that process. I'm talking about Chicago Coin, which was founded in the 1930s, but didn't achieve true success until they started churning out pinball games in the 1960s and 70s. Bally Manufacturing was into pinball games and slot machines long before it ever sold tennis rackets and activewear. Williams Electronics/WMS industries hit the jackpot in 1981 when it produced Defender. (The company has since moved to Las Vegas.) There's a whole complicated history to explore, and I highly encourage everyone to do so.

However, my absolute favorite bit of writing about the city and its symbiotic relationship with pinball is this Chicago Reader piece. It's very clearly an elegy to a dying art form---written in 2005, it's clear that the world of pinball machines is passing away. Still, it loves the arcades of old. Even today pinball games represent an enormous, significant weight on the fabric of the city; sitting in my apartment right now, I'm about a 10 minute walk away from the nearest pinball machine. (Maybe less, I haven't been to every bar in my neighborhood.)

In short, there's a reason that the Pinball Expo has been happening here since 1985---Chicago is the uncrowned queen of the flippers.

So who cares if John E. Cassidy tried to ban them, or that there was an even older 1895 prohibition against mechanical gambling devices? They're as Chicagoan as ketchup-less hotdogs, and complaining about construction on the Kennedy.

#fyi some of those links are to the chicago reader and if you have adblocker/ublock/etc.#the pages will not load. you have to open them in an incognito window.#I love the chicago reader so I happily jump through this hoop to ensure that they get ad revenue #(plus the reader has been discussing and writing articles about youth culture since the 70s I think #so it's a vital part of this particular story)#but just so you know #city of the big shoulders

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vintagelasvegas · 10 months

Text

Las Vegas Strip, April 20, 1987

Gold Key Motel at what is now Gold Key Shops. Carving Cart, La Concha, and El Morocco signs. McDonalds, Westward Ho, and Slots-A-Fun. Short-lived sign at the Riviera ("Improv"). The fire hydrant photo is Riviera Blvd with Candlelight Chapel on the right.

Mitzi Briggs, the former 51% owner of the Tropicana, was working as hostess at Carving Cart in the late 80s.

Photos by André Corboz, Swiss professor and art historian. André Corboz Collection, Mendrisio Academy of Architecture, Italian University of Switzerland.

#1987 #Gold Key Motel #La Concha #Neon McDonalds #Westward Ho #Riviera #Circus Circus #Candlelight #Sahara #Vegas World #André Corboz

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powerofelvis · 1 year

Text

Fire And Desire

Pairing: Elvis Presley x f!reader

Word Count: 3.1K

Summary: While in Vegas with Elvis, he seems to be more demanding of you to stay inside. However, with your fiery personality, that proves to be much more harder to do. This leads to Elvis taking matters into his own hands.

Warnings: dom!elvis, 68-70's era!elvis, smut, unprotected sex, spanking kink, Elvis being a demanding and bossy little shit, Elvis' temper being shown, reader being disobedient, fluff

A/N: This is a request for my darlin' Christi @ab4eva! Christi, my darling, I hope this is what you asked for. Although he doesn't seem to be as demanding and bossy as he liked, I think that he did a great job with demanding and bossing the reader around a bit. Not to mention, his temper is something to not mess around with. I hope everyone enjoys this fic as well.

prompts.

Elvis was under a tremendous amount of stress, with his upcoming engagement at the Las Vegas Hilton only a few days away. You could admit that you weren’t helping the fact that he was trying to navigate getting his career back on track due to the failure of his acting career. The engagement required the people in his circle to be on their A game and that also included you, being in his corner. However, you were so starstruck by being in Vegas that you could care less about anything else. You wanted to sightsee as much as you could, because once you were back in Memphis, you wouldn’t be able to return again. Elvis had a very short temper and you knew that, but he tended to be a little bit more patient with you.

“Baby, you can’t just roam around Vegas without some protection, ya ought’ ta know that.” Elvis spoke after you asked him if you could go out to see some of the sights, opting out of being stuck at the Hilton. “I’m a big girl, Elvis. I can handle myself.” You wrapped your arms around his waist as he shook his head, huffing at the notion that this was one conversation that would happen more than once. “Now, listen damnit. You’re not going out alone! We ain’t havin’ this conversation again, ya hear?” Elvis gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched as he pushed you down on the bed. This was the first time of the many that he would turn down your idea, forcing you to take matters into your own hands.

While Elvis was away for rehearsals, you were stuck in the penthouse with nothing to do. You tried to keep yourself busy, skimming through magazines and pacing the floor, looking out of the window at the bustling city below. You couldn’t stay still, not wanting to be cooped up in the hotel while Elvis was off having the time of his life. So it was then, that you decided that you would sneak off to have your own fun. You stepped out of the suite, holding your purse in your hands as you made your way to the elevator. You pressed the elevator button, tugging at your dress to ensure that it was in place as you waited for the car to make its way to you. As the doors opened, your heart jumped into your chest at the sight of your father in law, Vernon.

“Where are ya going in such a hurry, girl?” He chuckled, stepping aside to let you into the car. “I’m going down to the casino, I already told Elvis that I would spend some time at the slots.” Lies. Nothing but lies. Vernon watched you intensely, looking for any indication that you were telling the truth before smiling softly in your direction. “Well, make sure you’re careful. You know how Elvis is when you’re not careful.” He chuckled as he stepped off of the elevator, shooting a hand up in a slight wave before the doors closed. You let out a sigh of relief, grateful that Vernon didn’t ask many questions because you weren’t sure if you could have kept up the lie much longer.

The elevator made its way to the lobby floor, your feet picking up briskly as you raced out of the hotel. The breeze from the Vegas weather filled your lungs as you took in a deep breath, reaching into your purse to put a pair of sunglasses over your eyes as you walked down the busy streets. Vegas was much more beautiful than you even realized, your eyes roaming every patron that lined the streets. You had a limited amount of time, knowing that Elvis would be done with rehearsals before the sun fully set. So, you decided that you would do some window shopping while taking in the sights before you would head back to the hotel. While you were out, you didn’t know that Elvis would end rehearsals a bit earlier because he knew how much you wanted to have a few nights to see Vegas in all that it had to offer.

Elvis made his way back up to the penthouse, a smile on his face as he was excited to share his plans with you. He opened the door to his suite, that smile wiping off of his face as he noticed that you were nowhere in sight. His daddy was in the suite, going through documents that he needed to show the colonel but you weren’t anywhere in the rooms. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenched once again as he pressed his fingers at the bridge of his nose. “Daddy, where is Y/N?” He spoke, the tone of his voice was borderline tense as he placed his hands on his hips. “I saw her when I was getting off of the elevator. She said that she was headin’ to the casino, she said that you said that she could.” Vernon looked confused, not quite understanding why his son was pent-up.

“She never told me she was going to the casino. God damnit, daddy. She lied.” Elvis turned to head out of the door, stomping to the elevator. You had better hope that you were in the casino when he found you, because if not, you were in deep trouble. He didn’t like being demanding towards you, but he knew that if he didn’t keep you under his line of view, you would get yourself into trouble. He made his way into the casino, not leaving one stone unturned as he searched for you. The more time that passed that he didn’t see you, the angrier that he became. You weren’t in the damn casino and he knew that you wouldn’t magically appear. The anger that bubbled deep within his body was soon joined by fear because he didn’t know where you were.

“Elvis! What are you doing down here? What are you doing?” Joe pulled Elvis to the side as he noticed that people were starting to take notice of him pacing the casino’s floors. “I’m lookin’ for Y/N! That little girl ran out and I don’t know where she is.” He roared as he stomped out of the casino, his eyes searching the lobby for any indication that you would walk through the doors. “I’m sure Y/N went out to sightsee on her own, you know how strong-willed she is, she should be back soon. She knows to be back before you get out of rehearsals.” He chuckled, quickly shutting his mouth as he noticed that Elvis was not seething with rage. “God damnit, Joe. Where is everyone? Why isn’t anyone with her?” He rambled on as he pressed the button to the elevator to head back up to the penthouse suite.

“Everyone is busy trying to make sure that the colonel stays off of their ass. You know how he is when it comes to show business.” Joe muttered as he followed Elvis on the elevator car, pressing his fingers to his lips as he knew that Elvis couldn’t care less about the show right now. However, Joe knew that he had to keep Elvis from tearing up the hotel while he was looking for you. “Just wait in the suite, she will be back soon.” Joe replied as he stepped off of the elevator as it reached his floor. “She damn well had better, I don’t know she continues to defy me. I swear to god, this woman.” He grumbled as he decided that it was better to wait for you in the suite, knowing that you would be back soon. When you returned, you had best bet that you were in for a world of trouble, Elvis would see to it.

You decided that you had your fair share of sightseeing for the day, deciding that you would return back to the hotel before Elvis noticed that you were gone. You made your way back to the Hilton, a smile on your face as you walked through the lobby. You pulled your sunglasses off of your face, placing it back into your purse as your finger pressed on the elevator button. As the elevator opened, you stepped inside but a dread filled your stomach as you neared the penthouse. You didn’t know what was wrong, but you pushed it away as you figured that you were just overthinking things. You walked up to the door, stepping inside quietly before closing it shut behind you. It was slightly quiet, which you figured it was because Elvis hadn’t returned yet.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you saw Elvis sitting in the loveseat that was in your view. His electric blues burned a hole into your form standing in the foyer, his jaw clenched as he held on tightly to the armrest. “Fancy to see you here, Y/N. Where in the hell have ya been?” He gritted out, his hands squeezing tighter to the armrests before he stood up, balling up his fists. “I-,” You began to speak before he cut you off. “I know ya didn’t fuckin’ go to the casino, Y/N. Daddy already told me what you told him.” He spoke calmly, trying to keep his temper at bay, but you knew that he was seconds away from blowing his top. “I went out.” You whispered under your breath, eyes trained on the floor. “Out where! Where did ya go, little girl?!” He raised his voice as he stomped over to you, grabbing you by the arm.

“Elvis, I couldn’t stand being stuck in the penthouse all day. I went out. That’s it.” You tugged your arm from his grip, placing your purse down on the couch before brushing past him. Suddenly, you heard an animalistic roar, turning around to see Elvis following you before picking you up before placing you over his shoulder. You beat against his back, yelling at him to place you down before he tossed you on the bed. “How many times do I have to tell ya that it’s not safe to be out on your own, hm? You never fuckin’ listen to me. You wonder why I’m always so demanding and fuckin’ bossy. It’s because you’re fuckin’ doin’ my damn head in.” He grumbled as he yanked you up by your arm before placing you over his knee.

“Elvis, what are you doing?! Let me go!” You screeched out, squirming as you tried to get out of his hold, feeling his hand pulling your dress up over your ass. “This is what happens when little girls don’t listen to their daddy!” The burning sensation suddenly consumed you as Elvis’ hand landed across your cheeks repeatedly. He was spanking you, the punishment that you were given because you disobeyed him. “I swear, you are never satisfied until I’m punishin’ ya. You’re such a disobedient little bitch.” He spat as his hand continued to slap down on your ass, your legs rubbing together as the feeling caused juices to pour out of you. You bit down on your lips, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to keep the moans at bay.

It was hard, little whimpers passing your lips as the feeling of his hand coming down against your ass was satisfying. “And look at ya, fuckin’ enjoying Daddy punishing ya.” He spat as he pushed you off from his lap, spreading your legs as he eyed the moisture that was forming in your panties. “Fuckin’ keep those legs open, little girl. I wanna see how wet ya got from me spankin’ ya.” He spat out, demanding you to follow every direction that he gave to you. You whimpered out as you nodded your head, not wanting to upset him further. Elvis grunted under his breath as he hooked his fingers into the band of your panties before pulling them off of your legs. You hissed at the coolness of the room, shutting your eyes as you waited for what he had waiting for you.

SMACK. Your eyes opened immediately as his hand smacked across your pussy, moans passing your lips as you eyed him in disbelief. “Elvis!” You shouted out, moans passing your lips as he slapped your pussy a few more times, each time, his hand becoming covered with your juices. “Shut your mouth, little girl. The next time you speak is when I tell ya that you can speak.” He gritted out, sliding his finger against your vulva lips, collecting as much of your juices as he could. He pulled his finger up, eyeing the glistening of the digit before he looked down to you. “You should be ashamed, gettin’ off to your man slapping yer pussy.” He spat out before sliding the same digit inside of you, dragging it against your walls. You hummed out in pleasure, grinding your hips against his finger as it pushed deeper inside.

“Did I tell ya that you could move?” He removed his finger, eliciting a groan from you as you shook your head. “No, daddy. I’m sorry.” You whimpered out, biting down on your lip as you pushed your hips back down on the bed. Elvis stepped away from you, fiddling with his belt as he pulled it from the loops of his trousers, his darkened eyes glaring into you before he threw the belt on the floor. He popped open the button of his pants, unzipping the zipper before pushing them off of his body, his hardened length pressing against his stomach before he climbed on top of you. “You’re already ready for me, there’s nothin’ left to do but to pleasure myself since ya wanna disobey me.” He whispered in the shell of your ear as he pushed your thighs further apart.

He plunged deep inside of you, filling you to the hilt as groans passed his lips. He didn’t give it any time for you to stretch around him as he furiously pounded inside of you. You could feel the anger burning off of him as he rutted on top of you. Moans passed from your lips as you dug your nails into his biceps, throwing your head back from the pleasure of him sliding deep inside of you. “Look. At. That. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ well and I didn’t have to prepare ya for it.” He hissed as his balls slapped against your ass, grunts passing his lips as he continued his assault on your pussy. You hissed as the tip of his cock rubbed against your cervix, your nails digging deeper into his bicep as you created crescents into his skin.

Incoherent moans passed from your lips as the thought of Elvis’ temper turned you on further. You knew that his temper was something to be fearful of, but you also knew that he wouldn’t ever hurt you. Even though he was angry that you disobeyed him, he held back the rage that he was feeling as he pounded his anger away. “I should keep you locked up in here, maybe then you’ll understand that I mean business.” He grunted into your ear as he pulled out of you, pushing you over onto your stomach before he plunged back into you deeply. He wrapped his fingers around the strands of your hair as he pulled you closer to him, his hips pushing deeper inside of you. “I should punish ya for the hell of it, lord knows you’re always doin’ something.” Elvis chuckled as his eyes stared deep into yours, shivers passing through your body as you returned his gaze.

“Are ya gonna keep disobeyin’ daddy? When I tell ya somethin’, I mean it. Answer me, little girl.” He spat out as you nodded your head. “No, daddy. I won’t disobey you again. Please, I’m gonna cum.” You whimpered out, your orgasm crashing over you as your legs shook. You could feel the juices pooling down your thighs as your pussy clenched around his cock as he grinded into you. Elvis wasn’t far behind you, roaring out as he filled you full of his cum. He let go of your hair, your body falling on the mattress before you as you whimpered from the feeling of his warm seed coating your walls. Elvis pulled out of you, smirking as his cum seeped out of your pussy. His finger scooped up the sticky substance before he shoved it into your mouth. “Suck me clean, little girl.” He spoke in a firm tone, watching as your lips wrapped around the digit, sucking the substance off.

He patted your ass softly before turning you over, pulling you up by your arms. “I hate to do that, mama. I hate bein’ rough with ya; but I need ya to understand that when I’m bein’ demanding and bossy, it’s because I want what’s best for ya.” He pulled you into his arms as you smiled up at him. “I know, daddy. But, I loved it. I won’t leave without your permission again, I promise.” You giggled as you nuzzled into his chest. “Did ya have fun out today at least?” Elvis whispered, looking down at you before pressing a little kiss to your forehead. “I did, but it was much better when I came back to you.” You replied, shutting your eyes as you laid in his arms. “I left rehearsal early because I wanted to take ya out tonight. We still can, ya know? Maybe, a little dinner?” He spoke, hopeful that you still wanted to have some time out.

“Of course, baby. Why wouldn’t I want to have a night out with the man that I love?” You tilted your head up to look at him. Elvis returned your glance, a smirk crossing his lips as he placed his finger under your chin to still your gaze. “Well, why don’t you go get ready. Leave the panties off.” He spoke firmly, a fire burning in his eyes as he bit down on his lip. He could get used to bossing you around a little, seeing that you adored when he did so. “Yes, daddy. I’ll go get ready now.” You beamed as you untangled your body from him as you skipped into the bathroom. Elvis was definitely not tense anymore, the night ahead had unquestionably changed his mood. He knew that you kept him on his toes and even though he would get too demanding or too bossy, he knew that he had you to keep his head on straight. Maybe, he should ease the reins a bit on you. After all, Elvis had nothing to worry about, especially not when he had you by his side.

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