#all support/comments/likes/kudos/reblogs are appreciated!
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I'm going to start this post off by saying that I write fic, and I know the pain of putting something out there and not getting a response. It sucks and it hurts and it puts a dent in my self-confidence. If I have the choice between posting a work on AO3 and getting only comments or posting a work on AO3 and getting only kudos, I'll probably choose comments let's say 8 times out of 10.
But with that in mind, posts that attempt to shame or guilt readers into commenting don't actually work.
Negative reinforcement (in the form of shame, guilt, or other worse emotions) doesn't make anyone want to do the thing. It just makes them want to avoid the guilt, etc. Rather than encouraging someone to talk to you about your writing, you're making that person want to avoid you so that they don't have to feel bad. That's just human nature.
I've said before that I think a lot of writers are looking for community rather than comments, and I still think that's true. The reason I love both writing and receiving comments is because it makes me feel like I've made a connection with someone. I may never know their real name or what they look like or where they live or anything else but what fandom we have in common, but we've reached out to each other in this text-based medium and we've shared words that made each other feel something.
I know that these posts are written out of frustration or loneliness or needing support or a hundred other reasons I could list off the top of my head. But when I read "you should be grateful for the things I give you and show me proper appreciation" it just reminds me of my parents telling me to clean my room or to follow the rules while I live under their roof.
It's so much more vulnerable to admit, "I don't know if this story is any good and I really wish someone would reassure me right now."
It's much harder to say, "I feel so alone in this fandom, and I want to make friends with someone."
It's difficult to admit, "I worked so hard on this for so long and I'm so tired, but if someone out there likes it then all of that effort will be worthwhile - and if no one says anything, then I'll feel like my effort was wasted."
I'm not trying to shame the people who made those posts, and if that's how this comes across then I'm sorry. I'm just trying to explain why I think those posts will harm more than they help.
I also hope that any readers who see this post will understand that those writers are just people who are feeling a lot of different ways, and they're venting their frustrations. I've been there. I've reblogged those posts before when I was feeling frustrated like that too.
If you're able to comment, those comments are appreciated. If you're not able to comment (for whatever reason), that's okay too. ❤️
#writing fic isn't a job and comments aren't a salary#and if it starts to feel that way then you might be experiencing burnout#and it could be time for a rest - or to think about one anyway#I obviously don't know your situation#but that's what it was for me
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There's always that one person that comments on every fic no matter what that fic is.
The dedication and I appreciate.
#shoutout to people who leaves comments and kudos and reblogs#honestly we have so many posts that have to tell people to show support#and let's be honest a lot of them don't care to#but let's put out more posts to show appreciation to those that do#doesn't even have to be like all the time#you doing it is enough#kiya writes#kiyaedits#just kiya's thoughts
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My takeaway from the past 24+ hours...
There are so many of us that rely on ao3, whether you're a reader or writer. It brings us joy, it gives us an escape from the real world, and it lets us come together as a community to share stories and scenarios about our favorite fandoms and characters. The amount of posts I have seen on multiple platforms lamenting over the DDoS attacks is overwhelming - but with most of them comes a delightful cheer to the volunteers working to resolve this issue.
I've seen so many statements of praise for those volunteers, which is exactly what they deserve, and more. Can you imagine working for over 24 hours straight, on a volunteer basis, against something like this? They're the real MVPs, and I think our appreciation for them gets lost until moments like this rise.
With that said, here is my first real takeaway...
Don't bitch when ao3 does a donation drive. They work hard to keep the archive up and running, and with that costs money. Every server, every new addition or feature you want to see added to help make the site better, it costs money. The legal team that is defending fanfic authors??? MONEY. SO! DON'T! COMPLAIN!
I'm not saying you have to go out and donate your paycheck to ao3 - but I will say that, especially with this situation, if you can donate even a little bit to show your support, it means more than you probably realize, and even if you can't donate (which is totally okay), be kind to those who work on the archive. Send them kind words of encouragement, rather than flaming the archive because it's under attack - because yeah, I've seen people bitching AT ao3 for not working fast enough, or for it still being down. STOP IT.
My second takeaway...
Don't believe everything you see on the internet. Ao3 themselves have advised that the group claiming to take credit for this attack is to be treated with skepticism. And not only that, let's NOT automatically make assumptions about who is responsible just because of an organization's name. It's just a NAME, it doesn't identify a person's origin, background, etc. But I'm not here to dive into that much further. Point: I better not see any Sudanese hatred on my dash, or I will bite you.
My third takeaway...
Treat your fanfic writers with respect. We all now see first hand how much we depend on these stories. As I said above, for some it's an escape, a creative release, and a way to communicate with other people through similar interests. It's a beautiful creation, neither above nor below any other kind of literature.
Consider commenting, reblogging, kudos, anything you can to let the authors know you enjoyed and appreciate their works. Everyone is free to communicate in the way that suits them best, but every little bit is appreciated - as a fanfic writer myself, I can tell you that even a little heart emoji has made my day. It's like receiving a second kudos, and tells me that someone appreciated my efforts enough to give me a double thumbs up.
Any form of communication with the authors is appreciated. It lets them know that people are genuinely interested. We live in a world where INSTANT GRATIFICATION is taking over, but creations such as this take time. Talk with the authors, ask them about their wips, tell them they're doing a great job. Do NOT pester about "when are you updating next?" or the dreaded AI option - again, I will BITE PEOPLE if I see you doing this. Just...have some respect, show your appreciation, it's more than JUST FANFIC.
At the end of the day I guess this post is about being kind. Not pointing fingers or slandering people due to a name. It's about appreciating the things we do have, and not taking them for granted. Whether it's the brave cyber warriors currently fighting these DDoS attacks on the frontline, or the authors writing for not only their enjoyment, but for others too. Let's all respect one another, and show our support when and where we can.
HUGE THANK YOU TO THE VOLUNTEERS AT AO3, YOU ARE THE REAL MVPS!!!
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Supercorptober 2023 Day 31: Spookycorp
It's been a busy month and I didn't get to do as many of these as I have in previous years but I've really missed writing supercorp and this month has been fun. I really appreciate all the support through likes and reblogs (and comments and kudos on ao3), I would not have written as many as I did without you guys.
Enjoy this final prompt (even if it is something silly) and thanks again for reading :)
ao3 fic link. series link.
---
Kara is dressed as a banana. And Lena thinks she might be in love.
“What do you think?” Kara asks, a stupidly beautiful grin on her face.
Yep, Lena’s definitely in love.
“I think you’re by far the brightest person in the room,” Lena comments. They both glance around and Lena is right, there are a range of different costumes around the room but Kara’s is, by far, the most eye-catching costume.
Kara grins again. “Alex bet me five sticky buns I wouldn’t wear this tonight, but guess who is going to have a delicious breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Lena’s not sure how one person can eat so much but there is no doubt in her mind that Kara will eat them all tomorrow. “I’m guessing you?”
Lena’s not sure how she does it, but Kara’s grin gets even brighter. She really is like the sun, bright and beautiful, drawing Lena in like no one else has before.
“It’s going to be so good,” Kara says. “She’ll also owe me a carton of ice cream if I can do five costume changes this evening.”
Lena takes a moment to process what Kara has said, thinking she’s heard her wrong. “You’re not going to wear this all night?”
“You think I’d come to a fancy party just dressed like a banana?”
“Honestly? Yeah. Somehow, this is very you,” Lena says, gesturing to Kara’s body.
“I don’t know what that means but I’m taking it as a compliment.”
Lena’s not quite sure what it means either. “You should. What other costumes do you have to wear?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Kara winks, and Lena’s knees go weak. “I better go, I have lots of outfits to wear tonight if I want that ice cream.”
---
The next time Lena sees Kara is not long later, but it takes her a moment to realise it’s her because she has in fact changed costume. Lena has to take a breath before she makes her way towards Kara.
“I see you’ve changed,” Lena says, trying to keep her eyes from the distracting view of Kara’s now bare legs. She’s wearing a skirt, but it’s a short one.
“What do you think?” Kara asks, swinging the tennis racket she’s holding up to rest of her shoulder. She’s dressed all in white. White shirt, white skirt, white shoes, and even white sweat bands around her wrists and forehead. “Think I’d make a good tennis player?”
Lena has to take another breath, because this is a look she never expected to see on Kara, but one she knows will now be burned in her brain.
“I’m not sure, maybe we should play some time and find out?”
Kara’s eyes light up, which Lena is pretty sure is just the competitive nature in her.
“Deal.”
---
Lena spots the Scooby-Doo costume from across the room, the head towering over most people, and she doesn’t need to get closer to know that it’s Kara.
“Why are you dressed like a dog?” Lena asks when she does get closer. Because how can she stay away from Kara? Even if she does look a little ridiculous right now.
She’s drawing attention from other partygoers, clearly not used to people like Kara. But that’s the rich for you.
“I’m not just any dog, I’m Scooby-Doo.”
Lena rolls her eyes. “I know, because you made me watch both of those movies.”
“This was part of Alex’s bet, I think she’s trying to embarrass me.”
That sounds exactly like Alex. Lena presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “I think you look cute,” Lena comments. “But I think you made a cute tennis player and a cute banana too.”
The costume hides half of Kara’s face, but Lena’s pretty sure Kara is blushing. Or maybe she’s just hot from the full body suit.
---
Lena hadn’t realised it was something she’d wanted to see until the next outfit Kara appears in is a Supergirl costume.
Kara looks incredible. She has a similar build to Supergirl, so from a distance, no one could be blamed for mistaking her for Supergirl.
Actually, close up, she wouldn’t blame someone for confusing the two either. The blonde hair definitely helps, so do the sharp blue eyes that Lena finds herself lost in thought about far too often.
“What brings you here tonight, Supergirl?” Lena asks, eyes dropping of their own accord. Lena knows Kara is quite muscly under her usual blouses and sweaters, but it’s something else seeing her in a suit like this. Lena’s pretty sure the suit isn’t padded, that it’s all Kara.
Another short skirt isn’t helping Lena’s attention either.
“A Luthor party is always a target, I thought I should stop by to make sure everything was ok,” Kara smiles.
Lena’s actually surprised the real Supergirl hasn’t stopped by, she usually does to any L-Corp event. Most times, just a visit from her is enough to deter any possible threats.
Lena smiles, still playing along. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“Anytime. I better check the perimeter, make sure there’s nothing I’ve missed. Have a good evening, Miss Luthor.”
“You too, Supergirl. Stay safe.”
Lena’s about to break character (though she’s technically playing herself) but she’s cut off when Kara floats off the ground and then disappears into the air, leaving a very surprised Lena in her wake.
---
Kara’s next costume is an angel, which goes well with Lena’s devil outfit (which consists of a black dress and horns on her head) but Lena can’t even admire that, not when her whole world has been rocked.
She wonders for a moment whether she’d just gotten the two confused, but there was no doubt in her mind before that she was talking to Kara.
Kara is Supergirl, and she’s not sure how she didn’t see it before, she’d even just thought about how similar they both look, and she still didn’t make the connection.
At least Kara’s hurried excuses to leave when they’re together make sense now but still, she’s smart, she should have figured it out.
Now here she is, not sure what to do with the information. Or she does. The answer is nothing, she’s not going to tell anyone. And she wants Kara to know she can trust her too.
(And part of her can’t help but wonder why Kara hasn’t told her yet. She thought they were friends. Thought they were best friends but it turns out Kara has been lying to her this whole time).
“Looks like you’ve won your carton of ice cream,” Lena says.
There’s no time like the present.
Kara frowns. “No, that’s only four.”
“No, that’s your fifth outfit.“ Lena holds up a fist, raising a finger as she counts each one. “Banana, dog, tennis player, angel and…”
Lena trails off, for a moment wondering if she should just keep quiet. But they’re alone near the food table, no one close enough to hear them. And she wants Kara to know that she knows.
Before Kara can cut in, Lena holds up her last finger. “And Supergirl makes five.”
Kara freezes, Lena can see her processing what she’s just said. Lena’s not sure what she’ll do if Kara denies it.
Kara glances around, voice quiet when she finally speaks. “How did you know it was me?”
Relief washes over Lena, she’s not sure what she would’ve done if Kara had denied it.
“The better question is, how did I not see it before? You don’t even wear a mask. But tonight I was watching the crowd, waiting for you to appear. I think I saw you before I realised what you were wearing.” Lena shakes her head. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it, you literally look the same.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, no one sees it.’
“But I’m your best friend, I should have known.”
“I think I should counter that with, you’re my best friend, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” Kara reaches out, takes Lena’s hand. “I promise, it was me and not you. I trust you, I just didn’t know how to tell you with all the history between you and Supergirl. Or you and me, I guess. I just didn’t want to risk losing you.”
Lena squeezes Kara’s hand. “You’re never going to lose me, I promise. But no more secrets, okay?”
Lena feels like a bit of a hypocrite asking that, when she’s hiding a secret herself. But baby steps, she can work up to telling Kara she’s in love with her another time.
“No more secrets,” Kara nods. “I promise. After the party, do you want to come over? I can tell you everything.”
Lena swallows down the emotion that rises in her throat. “I’d like that.”
The moment lingers and Lena finds herself caught in blue eyes she’s often distracted by.
She breaks the moment, she has to, before she does something stupid. “So, tell me, if Supergirl wasn’t your fifth costume, then what is it?”
“You’re just going to have to wait and see. I still need that fifth costume change because I cannot tell Alex one of them was Supergirl and that’s how you found out or she’d kill me. She already thinks I’m not careful enough, next she’ll make me wear a mask or something.”
Lena laughs. “Your secret is safe with me.” She pauses. “All of them.” Kara needs to know she won’t tell anyone either.
Kara smiles, tangling their fingers together again. This time she doesn’t let go. “I know.”
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wrestling fic writers!!
i have decided to be the change i wanna see, so lets do a nice little thing for each other, as a community full of incredible and talented writers. yes this is writer specific only, but thats cause thats where the main problem of people not interacting with creative works lies in this fandom as far as i can tell and have seen people talking about it especially in the last couple of months
if you read this, please add links to your written works. it can be just a single fic youre really proud of, your writing blog, your writing tag, your ao3 account, anything where your works can be found
and if you leave your link here, PLEASE check out someone else that has left their works, and interact with them. leave them a comment, even just a kudos, REBLOG their fic, etc. interacting is the keyword i want to emphasize here, along with building a sort of a masterpost of where to find people writing in this fandom
and if you are not a writer, youre still highly encouraged to interact with this post and share it and show love to the writers in this fandom, obviously!! i think that should go without saying, but adding it in anyways
a bit more about my vision and resources and such under the read more, but thats the gist of it. happy linking and please be kind and supportive to each other!! 💜
nobody is too big or too small to add their things on this list. if you write and post anything in this fandom whatsoever, be it fics or drabbles or headcanons, any companies or any kind of ships or reader inserts or any content whatsoever no matter how 'dead dove dont eat' or hell even if its just meta, we welcome all here and nobody can say that one thing is less valid than another. just please tag your content accordingly, especially if theres content warnings, and feel free to mention what you write, who you write, any info you wish to leave that would help people before they click on your links. but even so, that should not and hopefully will not deter people from interacting, no matter what it is. someones trash is another ones treasure, i promise you
and unless the amount gets really overwhelming, im personally going to be checking out everyone that leaves something here. unless it squeaks me out, but even then, i'll spread the word. and i just wish as many people as possible will do the same, and not just use this as a potential board to only get eyes on their stuff. ofc thats also the point, but you should give as much, if not more, than you get. we need to be kind and supportive of one another (besides, from personal experience, if you show love to someone else, they are more likely to do it back than without you taking the first step, so... pay it forward)
as for resources, heres a few links that should be helpful in leaving comments and feedback. of course everyone does their own thing and no comment is too big or too small to leave, but for those who need them. if you have anything you'd like added to this list, dont hesitate to get in touch or drop it in the post yourself!!
101 comment starters
ao3 floating comment box
kudos html
dont know how to comment? easy solutions
a quick hot guide to commenting (by yours truly)
an overall guide to appreciating fanfic writers
and just in general.. leave people comments. leave them asks about their projects. just go over and gush about their work. i know it sounds embarrassing but writers love nothing more than to hear that someone likes what they are doing. if you find a fic that hasnt been updated in forever, comment on it. it might just be the spark the author needs to continue. while kudos and likes are nice, and just as valuable to some, its definitely in the words the people leave for them that matter the most. im not saying this to put pressure on anyone, its just how it is, and i feel like unless people are writers themselves, and even then sometimes, thats just hard to grasp, especially if the writer is a smaller and less popular one who doesnt get a lot of traffic in the first place
i think thats all. just be nice and considered to everyone, reblog peoples works, this post with others add ons and so forth. and if i find anyone talking shit here or at other writers for something they share, you'll be blocked and im probably taking your kneecaps. be fucking nice. we are all struggling here and we need to stick together
happy sharing and commenting 💜💜
#wrestling fanfiction#wrestling fic#aew fanfic#aew fanfiction#wwe fanfiction#wwe fanfic#i hope this make some sort of coherent sense#despite being a writer im really bad at words lmao#i also dont know what to tag this with without clogging main tags so im going to trust moots to get this going first#just. this is a topic im passionate about. i love writing i love writers and having seen the wrestling fandom as of late really struggling#with this. we need to do something. even a little bit helps. actually get people leaving feedback and commenting again#supporting each other. we can do this together#dont let dreams be dreams lets fucking do this#just be nice and help each other out#im gonna stop now before i get overly emotional. if theres any questions let me know tho i think i got the main parts pretty clear here#again moots. im trusting you to get this started. im not gonna add my own shit here immediately this isnt about me#this is about the community as a whole#i also hope nobody is afraid of adding themselves here. you are all valid and worth the attention no matter what#just remember to also give if you leave something here. look at the previous links. look in the notes to find more people#okay thats it i need to make dinner now#lets just be kind and support one another. promise me that 💜#night is an absolute mess on main
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Good Fences (Fluffuary #28) - Finale
FEB28: Reader Request - John Needs a Shave
Concept idea from my besites, @ofdivinity01 and @glitterypirateduck! Hope y'all like it!
xoxoxoxoxoxox
John’s hand was cleaned and bandaged, but he had hurt it pretty badly. He had been cleaning a huge fish outside on the patio, one that he had caught himself from the river behind your house, and the knife caught and slipped, jamming into his palm. It was healing fine, but he was struggling with his grip.
“Bloody hell!” He shouted from the bathroom, and you heard a metallic clatter follow with it.
You hurried to check on him, rushing to his side,
“John? Are you alright?”
“Yeah, love,” he sighed out of frustration, “It’s just this hand. Can’t grab my shaver properly. Tired of this messy face, and I’m sure you are, too.”
He smiled down at you, half-shaven and half-wild. You shook your head,
“It’s okay, babe. But, we can’t have you walking around half-finished. Can I help?”
“Ever used a straight razor?”
“No,” you sighed, “But, I can go slowly.”
“Aye,” he nodded, “Alright.”
“Here,” you said, staring up at his great height, “Why don’t you come have a seat in the kitchen.”
You set him up by the sink, filling up a bowl with water to wash the razor, and squirting some shaving cream into your palm. He was sitting in the chair, and you hovered over him, smearing the soft foam onto his skin, making sure to leave his chops and sideburns untouched.
“Chin’s the hard part, so just do little strokes,” he instructed, “And, hey,” he grabbed your arm, “Thank you for this.”
You kissed his forehead,
“No problem, John. I’ve got you.”
You set to work, shaving off his chin bit by bit. The razor made quiet little scraping noises, and you tried to cut as close as you could to the skin without nicking him. It was hard to get the right angle.
“Sorry,” you said, “Do you mind if I sit in your lap. It’s hard for me to –”
“Tha’s fine, love,” John uncrossed his leg and patted his thigh.
You straddled him, trying to ignore the fire that rose in your belly. You focused back on your work, moving down to his neck. With each little swipe and swish of your blade, you noticed that he was breathing a little harder. You stopped, looking up at him,
“Are you alright? Do you need a break?”
There was a low rumble in his chest that was almost a moan, and then he answered darkly,
“No…”
He put both of his hands on your hips in a very familiar fashion, and you shifted your weight. As you did, you felt him, hard as a lead pipe beneath you.
“Ahh…” You smiled, “I see. Be patient, mister. Almost done.”
He grunted in response, choosing to remain silent.
You didn’t spare him any mercy while he was under your body. You shifted back and forth, teasing his rigid cock, shaving even slower, taking longer than you needed to. And by the time you were done, cleaning up the stray foam, your husband was a panting, growling mess.
The last wipe of the dry cloth brought his face down to yours, his mouth only inches from your lips, and you could taste his warm breath.
You kissed him languidly, not giving him any room to be ravenous with you, and you smiled coyly,
“All done, babe. How does it feel?”
He scooped you up, leaving the chair in the kitchen, and lay you on the couch, shucking your pajama pants off of your body and spreading your legs apart with his rough hands. He chuckled,
“Why don’t you tell me?”
That's all, folks! Here lies the end of our smutless, fluffy adventure. Thanks so much to everyone for all of their support. I would've stopped weeks ago if it wasn't for y'all. Looking back, I think this exercise really helped me improve, and it got me out of my rut.
If you had a good time, please consider donating to my coffee fund. This derpy cat needs caffeine, and your hard-earned dollars are very much appreciated.
Reblogs, comments, and kudos (AO3) also bring me so much joy, so thank you for interacting with me and my work. More Price is on the way!
Y'all are the best ✌️🩷
P.S. Do these two deserve a smutty follow-up tomorrow? I think they do. 😈 It is a leap year, after all.
AO3 Link
#the californicationist does fluff#fluffuary 2024#fluffuary#john price fluff#john price#captain john price#captain price#john price x reader#john price x you#captain price x reader#captain price x you#captain john price x reader#captain john price x you#cod#cod fanfiction#call of duty#call of duty fanfiction#cod mw2#cod mwii#call of duty fanfic
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Tension
Pairing || CollegeProfessor!Bucky x Student!Female!Reader
Summary || Professor Barnes would like to see you in his office…
Word Count || 1915
Contents & Warnings || Smut — [N]SFW, 18+ Only, Minors DNI, [e]xplicit content/language, undefined age-gap, professor x student relationship, Professor/Sir [k]ink, [t]easing, [t]ouching, [f]ingering, mention of bodily fluids.
Disclaimer 1 || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!
Disclaimer 2 || Do you find the use of [ ] throughout my fics annoying/distracting? You can also read this story on AO3 and Wattpad! But remember to come back to this post and reblog to show support! I would appreciate it if you left a Kudos on AO3 and a Vote on Wattpad! And a comment as well on whichever platform you decide to read on :) I must apologize for this workaround! Thank you for being kind and patient! And for the continued support <3
Professor!Bucky Masterlist
Whenever Professor Barnes called you into his office, it was not to discuss your ongoing assignment, but rather for some mind-blowing and secretive [s]ex.
You expected him to wait for you right by the door when you walked in, as he usually did—pushing you up against it, trapping your hands above your head, while locking the door with his other. His [l]ips would quickly find yours in a hurried and desperate [k]iss before moving you over to his desk—[b]ending you over, lifting your [s]kirt, and [f]ucking you [h]ard into the mahogany wood.
But no. That was not the case this time.
This time, as you entered, the was no ambush. No riveting [t]ouches or intoxicating [k]isses. Instead, he was seated at his desk, scribbling away on some papers.
He lifted his head as the door opened. The thin line between his [l]ips curved upwards into a bright smile once he saw who it was.
“Hey,” he greeted cheerfully. “Lock the door and come on in.”
You can’t deny that you were disappointed at the lack of special attention as you walked to his desk and stood opposite where he was seated, fiddling with your [f]ingers and looking nervously at your feet. Maybe he actually just wanted to discuss your assignment this time—be a teacher to his student instead of secretive [l]overs.
“Professor,” you greeted casually, “you called me to your office for…?” You tried to keep your voice normal—masking the disappointment and confusion in your tone.
He reached his hand out to you across the desk with an encouraging smile. So this was more than just a teacher-student moment after all.
You hesitated for a second, but placed yours in his nonetheless, and you felt a surge of electricity spread through your nerves as you [t]ouched [s]kin. His thumb brushed the back of your hand, and your heart fluttered at the affectionate contact. His eyes sparkled behind the black-framed glasses as he gazed into yours, which made you feel at ease.
“Just wanted your company while I work. I hope you don’t mind, Darling.”
An unusual request from him. It was not something he’d ever asked of you. Your relationship was either; [h]ard and [d]irty [f]ucking, or, on rare occasions, actually discussing assignments and academic work. But this request was somewhere in between, and you didn’t mind at all. You were just happy to be in his presence and that he wanted you with him.
“Of course not,” you reassured and squeezed his hand before stepping to his side of the desk.
His eyes widened behind the glasses when you stood beside him. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before on several occasions. The [t]high-[h]igh socks, the short [l]ittle [s]kirt, and the [t]ight long-sleeve shirt—a [s]choolgirl fantasy come to life.
He had gazed and [l]usted for you over it in the morning lecture today, as he did most classes, and he definitely noticed when you walked into his office just now. But having you this close in that [c]ock [t]easing outfit was challenging. He wanted to reach out and [t]ouch you [s]eductively all over. He wanted to hoist you on his desk and [f]uck you like the [n]aughty [g]irl you were for [t]easing him. But he kept himself composed and smiled at you sweetly again.
You noticed the shift in his behavior but pretended like you were completely oblivious to the [a]lluring impact you had on him as you sat on top of his desk, [l]egs crossed, right beside the papers he was grading.
It would be so easy for him to reach out to [t]ouch and [c]aress your [t]empting [s]kin. It was so close. He could practically feel the [s]oft texture of your [t]highs on his fingertips. But again, he held back. Shaking his head mentally before gripping the pen tightly with his tense and [n]eedy [f]ingers, before burying his head into the papers again, scribbling away.
You failed at hiding your satisfied [s]mirk as you picked up a random book from his desk and pretended to be engrossed in the words. But in reality, all your consciousness was on him, and his was on you.
Although this could have been a sweet moment between you and him where you just appreciated each other’s presence and silence, the [s]exual tension in the office was almost suffocating. So strong that it invaded all your senses and manifested itself so deep in your core, making you [n]eedy for him beyond belief.
He pretended to be engaged in his work, but you could tell from his mannerisms how uneasy he was as well. The [f]ingers holding the pen twitched, making his handwriting lose its finesse. His leg anxiously bounced up and down, making his chair shake.
And you could see out of your peripheral that he was ever so often eyeing you out. Trailing his darkening eyes from your [d]angling [f]eet, up your covered [c]alves, before settling on your [l]uscious [t]highs. Lingering his gaze on your [e]xposed surface for a moment and [s]ucking in a low breath at the mouthwatering [s]kin. He continued his journey upwards towards your [c]lothed [b]reasts. Spending the same amount of time eyeing them up—the [t]ight top hugged your [c]hest to perfection.
He found this [s]exual tension just as riveting as you. Although he wanted nothing more than to give in and toss his papers on the floor, bend you over the desk, and make you scream and [c]ome in his office, he wanted the tension to reach the breaking point, knowing how explosive the outcome would be.
And after about 10 minutes, you reached that breaking point. The tension had become completely unbearable, and you were ready for the outcome of yours and his touchless and nonverbal [t]easing.
Placing the book back in its place, you leaned back on your palms, pushing your [c]hest out and uncrossing your [l]egs, allowing you to play.
You dragged the hem of your [s]hort [s]kirt up your [t]high. His eyes, which were already fixated on you, got a glimpse of your cotton [p]anties. The material was already damp with need and [d]esire for him. His eyes grew wide and darkened upon the sight. And he swallowed thickly.
You hummed softly as you dragged your [f]ingers through your covered [w]etness—paying close attention to your deprived [cl]it, circling the aching nerve.
“Please, Professor,” you mewled as you fussed on his desk, “[t]ouch me.” You wanted, needed, for him to [t]ouch you like only he knew best. Only he knew how to make you truly satisfied.
His gaze lifted up to you, and he could see the outright pleading expression on your face—frustrated with need and longing for him.
He gripped the pen tightly with one hand, and the other clenched into a fist in his lap, resisting the [t]emptation again to [t]ouch you, but this time was for good reason. He wanted, needed, to hear more of your sweet and soft pleas for him. He wouldn’t give in to you so easily.
And you could tell by the growing [s]mirk on his face that those were the exact thoughts running through his head, so you had to step up your game and play even harder.
“Please, Professor,” you practically whined, almost sounding pathetic with need. “I need you to [t]ouch me.” You [a]rched your [b]ack and thrust your [h]ips forward, hoping it would convey how [d]esperate you were at this point.
He let out a chuckle at your [d]esperation, but decided that you’d been good enough, so he would give you what you [d]esired, at least to some extent. He placed his warm palm on your [t]high, digging his [f]ingers into your [d]elicate [s]kin.
The [t]ouch was [h]ot and electrifying, satisfying beyond belief, and you couldn’t help but [m]oan softly as he made contact. But you needed more, needed for him to just reach a little bit higher to [t]ouch, [c]aress, and play with your aching [s]ex. But it still didn’t seem like he would give in entirely.
“Please, [t]ouch me, Sir.”
He found it riveting to watch you fall apart at such a simple [t]ouch, still yearning and pleading for more. And if he could, he would continue to [t]ease you, loving the whining mess you became when he did, but he could tell that you were on the verge of a breakdown.
“You didn’t tell me how to [t]ouch you, [s]weetheart.”
You huffed in annoyance and took his hand in yours, done with the [t]easing and playing, and guided his hand further up and lay it flat against your [c]overed core. He groaned deeply as he felt you. Felt you pulse against his palm. Felt the dampness of the material. And that’s when he reached his breaking point.
The next part happened so fast.
He pushed the chair back, legs scraping across the floor. Definitely loud enough for someone walking outside the office to hear. He was up from the chair in a flash, towering over your sitting form. With one hand, he pushed your [t]highs apart and stepped between them. The other hand grasped the back of your [n]eck firmly, making you gasp loudly. All your attention was on him now—waiting for the explosion that he would make of you.
He took his [g]lasses off, and you knew it was serious business when he did that, making you emit a [n]eedy approval that you were finally going to get what you [d]esired.
He [g]roaned deeply as he lightly brushed his [l]ips with yours. The bass of the sound rumbled in his [t]hroat, making your [c]lit flutter in excitement at the [e]rotic music. His eyes were now dark with [l]ust—no more sweet Professor.
“Tell me again what you want, [s]weetheart.” His tone was mocking and cruel because he knew exactly what you wanted, but he needed to hear you say it one more time.
“I-I want you t-to t-[t]ouch me,” you mumbled in a breathless [m]oan. You were losing focus and started slipping into the world of [p]leasure as he pushed your [p]anties to the side, lightly brushing your [s]lick [f]olds with his [f]ingertips. “[F]uck, Sir, please,” you pleaded again as your eyelids fluttered.
He chuckled at how sensitive you were at such a simple [c]aress, and he couldn’t wait any longer to have his entire force on you, knowing how insane it would make you.
So he brought the [f]ingers up to his [l]ips and [s]ucked them, [m]oaning at the [t]aste of you on his [f]ingertips, before bringing them down again to your deprived [s]ex. His mess mixed with yours, making his [f]ingers rub against your [s]lick and [n]eedy [f]olds in an effortless manner, paying close attention to your [c]lit.
The [m]oan of relief and satisfaction you let out once he finally [t]ouched you was blaring, and you bit your [l]ip, drawing [b]lood, to keep your [w]hines, cries, and [m]oans at bay. It was still business hours, and the campus was still bustling with students and teachers in every hall.
“Is this what you wanted, [s]weetheart? For me to [t]ouch this [n]eedy [l]ittle [p]ussy of yours, huh?”
“Y-yes, Professor,” you [c]hoked out as you thrust your [h]ips into his [f]ingers, desperate for him to go further, knowing that he had more to give.
And without needing to [b]eg much more, he pushed two digits into your entrance—fitting inside of you to [p]erfection and making you [f]eel whole and truly satisfied.
“I’ll make you [c]ome so good, [s]weetheart. So [f]ucking good….”
Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people!
Follow @bucky-barnes-diaries-library and turn on notifications to never miss out on my writing!
Apologies for the [ ] on some words! I’m testing it out to see if I can evade getting a Label put on this.
#professor!bucky#professor!bucky barnes#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x f!reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fandom#sebastian stan#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan smut#marvel#marvel x reader#marvel smut
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THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR
《 PART 2/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》
After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.
《WORDS》 2,748 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3
《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader
《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship
《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing
《TAGLIST》 @tild3ath @iiirhiane-g
《NOTES》
This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.
Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷
This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃
Please consider reblogging if you enjoy the read ❤️ (Thanks for all the support you've given my lil story so far!)
《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)
You push yourself to your feet and hurry over to his kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting overhead. The kitchen is as bare and spotless as the other rooms you’ve seen, its countertops clear of the usual clutter you’d expect. No rags nor paper towel roll. No knife block nor coffee maker nor toaster—the appliances are the ones that come standard with the unit. No stacks of unopened mail nor candles nor cookbooks nor a sink full of empty dishes. No signs of life except for the adorable houseplant and some liquid hand soap beside the sink (which is good—you need soap).
You pull open drawers and cabinets, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading his privacy like this but it can’t be helped. Even those are mostly empty, only containing the barest amount of necessities like cups, dishes, and flatware—run-of-the-mill kitchen items that were probably provided with the furnished unit. You do manage to find some clean rags and paper towels (and a coffee maker), but nothing like sandwich bags for the ice. On a whim, you check his freezer and bingo! No food or decapitated heads but plenty of ice packs along with an unopened bottle of vodka. You arch an eyebrow at the curious yet amusing stash. Perhaps coming home injured is a typical Friday night for him.
You turn on the sink faucet then tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the roll, wadding them up and wetting them before adding a few pumps of soap then working up a lather. You can’t get the sight of his bleeding face and swollen neck out of your head. It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that to him against his will. He’s an intimidating guy, to say the least. Over a head taller than you, powerfully built with broad shoulders and thick thighs (and a nice ass). Perhaps he got jumped on his walk home—an all too common occurrence on these crime-ridden streets—and his stubborn pride was too wounded to go to the ER. Or maybe it was a gang thing… some sort of hazing ritual? That could explain the bloody letter on his cheek, too, you suppose. But then you remember his shaking hands and fumbling fingers as he tried and failed to unlock his door, and how he jumped at the sound of your voice. He was scared, you realize, your heart swelling with sudden pity. He was more afraid of you than you were of him. Afraid, and probably hurting, too. That thought makes your heart swell even more. It also leaves you a bit shaken. What in God’s name could frighten him? You can only hope that whatever it is doesn’t plan to make a house call anytime soon.
With the items in hand—ice packs, wet and dry rags, soapy paper towel wads, paper towel roll—you return to his side. He still doesn’t appear to have stirred, which is troubling, you have to admit, but you put it out of your mind for now. You set the items down on the floor beside the corpse-like body before grabbing a throw pillow from his couch. (Yes, a throw pillow. There’s a throw blanket on the couch, too. It’s the strongest evidence yet supporting your furnished unit presumption, since he definitely doesn’t strike you as a throw pillow kind of guy.) You kneel down at his side, then, ever so gently, you slip an arm behind his neck and lift his head enough to pull back his hood and slide the pillow beneath him. Next you take off his cap, revealing a mop of sweat-damp black hair. You sweep the soft locks back from his forehead so that you can place a cold rag against that warm, sweat-slick skin.
That’s when you notice the scars. You’d never been close enough to him to see that his face is absolutely covered in them. Faint white lines that cut through his features: his dark brows, his full lips, his freckle-dusted cheeks, the bent bridge of his nose. The worst one (aside from the J on his cheek, that is) is a deep gash that slashes across his right cheek and his nose, all the way up to his forehead. Another knife wound? Is this guy a masochist with a knife fetish or is there some freak out there who gets off on slicing up this poor guy’s face? Those marks on his neck imply the latter—the more sinister of the two—and that sends a cold chill shuddering up your spine.
Almost magnetically your eyes are drawn back past the (cute) cleft in his chin to those sunken bands of red ringing his throat. A thin line of blood has surfaced along the outer edge of one of the bands, where whatever was used to strangle him had cut into his skin. As you wipe away the blood with one of the soapy paper towel wads you spot several scratches on his neck, and for a moment you wonder if the assailant also used his hands to choke him. But then you feel your own throat constrict as the horrible realization sets in: those are claw marks. Gouges from his own fingernails where he desperately struggled to pry the ligature away and free his windpipe so he could breathe. Defensive wounds where he fought for his life.
You set aside the wet wad, then, driven by some morbid curiosity, you find your fingers returning to his throat. Ever so delicately, as if trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you touch one of the raw indentations in his swollen flesh, tracing it with your fingertip, feeling how the abraded skin had folded inward around whatever had coiled around his neck and tried to choke the life out of him. His throat vibrates gently against your probing fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You lay one of the dry rags across his throat, hiding the hideous damage, then place the ice pack on top, as instructed by the health article you Googled. You do the same for the back of his neck as well.
Now you turn your attention back to his scarred, haggard face. After swiping away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth you press the soapy paper towel to his cheek, which gradually turns from white to pink as it soaks up the blood seeping from the J carved into his flesh. Once you staunch the bleeding, you lift the towel to replace it with a fresh one, and you get an unimpeded view of what was hiding beneath the cut and the blood, beneath his hat and hood all of those times you passed him in the hallway, all of those times he ducked his head between hunched shoulders to avoid eye contact with you. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s not a J-shaped scar; it’s the letter J branded into his cheek. You can tell by how the skin is puckered around the too-precise curve of the raised letter, by its faint red outline, by how it seems to tug uncomfortably at his cheek.
Your mind rewinds to a few weeks back when you accidentally burned your neck with your curling iron. You’d shrieked like a banshee then thrown the damn thing across your bathroom. The blistered patch of seared skin had throbbed for the rest of the night, and was still sensitive to the touch for the following week. That was the result of hot ceramic glancing against your skin for maybe half a second, if that long. You can’t even begin to imagine how much it would’ve hurt to have held the infernal thing against your neck for long enough to melt a fucking letter into the flesh. And not just any flesh. His cheek; that tender skin right below the orbital bone, less than an inch from his eye. It probably felt like his eyeball was boiling in his eye socket from the immense heat. And the smell! His own flesh barbecuing like meat to be served at a cannibal cook-out…
You don’t want to think about it anymore. You can’t think about it anymore or else you’re gonna be sick. And luckily you don’t have to because a low moan slips from his lips and his lashes begin to flutter. A rush of relief floods through you at the small signs of life, and you absently begin to stroke his soft hair with your hand. Heavy eyelids strain to lift then glassy blue eyes are peeking out from between the slits. You smile down at him, your fingers caringly combing through his tousled hair, easing his way back into consciousness. You expect him to groggily ask where he is or what happened to him.
Instead his eyes snap open, and the romantic portrait you’ve painted inside your mind of this moment is ripped to shreds.
He bolts upright, sending rags and ice packs flying away from him, then that massive wall of muscular torso turns on you. Time seems to somehow speed up and slow down simultaneously as those large, dangerous hands of his are reaching for you, and in that terrible instant you know without a doubt that he means to strangle you. A tiny, panic-stricken sound—the choked cry of ensnared prey—comes from your mouth as you throw up your arms across your face and neck in an comically feeble attempt to defend yourself from certain death, and the thought that flashes through your mind—maybe the last thought you’ll ever have in this lifetime—is that you’ll never have the chance to open that bottle of merlot.
But his hands don’t wrap around your throat; they land on your shoulders, and then you’re sliding, falling backwards from the force of a violent shove, your vision flashing to black as your head bounces off the hardwood floor.
“Ow!” you squeal as a bright burst of pain rings through your skull, leaving you stunned for a split second until your fear takes over, clearing away the haze and stars. You push yourself up on your forearm, blood pounding through your ears as your eyes frantically search for your attacker, heart lurching as you find him.
The guy is scrambling backwards away from you on all fours like some frightened beast, slamming into a floor lamp in his haste to escape. The lamp reels drunkenly, throwing light madly around the room as it whirls, like a waving searchlight at a festival. Then he’s pressed into a corner, able to go no further, yet his hands and heels are gripping the floor for purchase, as if he’s trying to push himself into the walls. As the lamp settles, somehow still upright, its light illuminates the hulking figure backed into the corner behind it, and you notice for the first time that the front of his red hoodie is splattered with an even darker red.
You’re sitting up now, frozen like a deer in headlights, your fight or flight reflexes canceling each other out because you’ve realized that you’re the toothless predator, not the prey, and the guy you’re gaping at with his bloodless face and wild eyes is a cornered animal who’ll do anything to survive. Then, to your horror, that cornered animal seems to remember his claws and reaches for the gun that’s not there, and you thank the universe and every holy entity within it that you disarmed him.
His wide eyes narrow as they lock onto you, and the fear that had filled them only a heartbeat ago has vanished, replaced with a look so cold, so devoid of anything but shadows and darkness, that it turns the blood in your veins to ice.
“Who are you? What’re you doing in my apartment? What the fuck did you do with my gun?” Some of the wildness returns to his eyes as he shouts at you with a scarred voice, wheezing between each sentence. You shrink back, shocked that the guy can speak louder than a mumble, then your attention is caught by something more unnerving than his shouting, something that clutches at your insides. His eyes… The little hairs on the back of your neck stir again as you study those pale blue irises flecked with green, barely visible beneath his blown-out pupils yet still trained on you like a sniper’s laser sights. There’s something wrong with his eyes… But before you can figure it out he roars: “Answer me!” and you can’t help but jump at the hateful ferocity, his deadly strength palpable in his tone.
Your heart’s in your throat again, and your mind is racing out his door, terrified all 200-something pounds of him are about to pounce on you, so you’re surprised when you not only find your words, but shout them back at him, just as vicious.
“Take it easy! I'm your neighbor, remember? You passed out. I was trying to help you. I thought you were fucking dying!”
You see a flicker of recognition flash over his face before a coughing fit takes him. Then it hits you, like a punch to the gut as you watch him clutching at his blood-splattered chest again as he gasps for a breath. His eyes… they’re red where they should be white. All of the binged episodes of Forensic Files come flooding back to you and you even remember the term for it: petechial hemorrhaging. Burst blood vessels from strangulation. His strangulation.
The rush of pity that wells up in your chest at the awful realization calms your fear enough that you crawl a tiny bit closer to him. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, trying to keep your nerves from shaking your voice. “Your neck…”
You trail off as his eyes snap back to you, pupils still blown wide. You try to hold onto his skittish gaze, praying he won’t notice his gun behind you and lunge, but his eyes fall away to the floor. He raises his free hand to his neck, as slowly as if his wrists were chained to the floor, and touches one of the red furrows there. Then his trembling fingers move to his brand, where fresh beads of blood have surfaced. You hear him mutter something so low and tremulous it’s barely audible, but you think it sounded like… “Plan J”?
“I cleaned it with soap and water,” you reply as he stares blankly at his bloody fingertips. “But it’s deep. You may need stitches. I can bring you some Band-Aids,” you pause, feeling really fucking stupid for suggesting Band-Aids for the guy who’s been strangled and cut and branded. You blurt out the rest: “If you need them… for the time being.”
His eyes have glazed over, as if he’s gone somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible, because his rasping breath quickens and his whole body starts to shake, as though he’s reliving something. His attack? His branding? All of the times that monster of a person cut his face? You desperately want to reach for his hand, to pull him back from whatever hell he’s been sucked into, but you’re too scared to wake that cornered wild animal again.
Finally he snaps out of it, and his eyes close as his hand drops limply to the floor. You watch helplessly as the tension drains from his body and he sags forward, like he’s been crushed by whatever was waiting for him in that flashback.
“You should go,” he mumbles to the floor, barely louder than a whisper.
“Yeah,” you hear yourself agree. As you stand you remind yourself that you can finally have that glass of wine, but the notion isn’t as appealing as it was earlier in the night.
You gather up your phone and bag. You start to ask if you can get him anything before you go but you know his answer so you turn to leave.
“Thank you.” His small voice cracks like a little boy’s when he speaks, and you know he’s started to cry.
“Yeah, sure,” you say softly as you turn the knob and push open his door. You glance over your shoulder at him one last time. The sight of the broken boy—the boy whose name you still don’t know—huddled in a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, weeping into his hands, wrings your heart out like a wet rag, and you feel your own throat tighten up with tears. You hang your head as you shut the door softly behind you.
#sands writes#jason todd#arkham knight#arkhamverse#jason todd x reader#arkham knight x reader#jason todd x you#arkham knight x you#jason todd x y/n#arkham knight x y/n#jason todd x female reader#arkham knight x female reader#reader x jason todd#reader x arkham knight#jason todd imagine#arkham knight imagine#jason todd fanfiction#arkham knight fanfiction#dcu#fic: the sus boy next door
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To all the participants of Tamlin Week:
First of all, HI!! WE LOVE YOU!!! yall are so creative and dedicated, we are so proud of this corner of our fandom! As event mods, we feel like one of the most important things we can do during a fandom event is be supportive. Me (Reyna) and Lady Midnight will be doing what we can, by reblogging every post onto our personal blogs and added comments/kudos to all the fics.
Unfortunately, we cannot pause real life, not even during Tamlin Week. Both of us have had to work quite a bit this week. I especially have had NO TIME since I've been at sea most of the week, and am starting a long, strenuous field day tomorrow (I set my alarm for 4:30 AM tomorrow with hatred in my heart). This means that Lady Midnight has been handling every single submission to make sure it is reblogged to the Tamlin Week blog in a timely manner, with tags. Therefore, she also hasn't had much time to focus on actually enjoying the submissions.
All this to say, we appreciate you so much, even if that appreciation isn't being shown right now! We want to make sure we have time to really sit down and enjoy those fics and leave thoughtful comments, because you deserve them! We want time to really appreciate the beautiful art, moodboards, and poetry that you have spent the time making. That means that it'll probably take several weeks for us to go through every submission.
We have 2 requests at this point. One, please be patient with us, and know that your work brings us so much joy, and we will be able to share that with you soon. And two, please help us pick up the slack by supporting your fellow creators. Even a simple reblog with a heart emoji in the tags can mean everything to a creator, especially since we're all making content for an unpopular character. Leave replies, comments, send messages, write funny tags, etc, to make up for us mods not being able to right now.
You are all amazing, and let Tamlin Week continue!
#tamlin#tamlin week#idek if our absence has been noted#BUT we had Sunday off and both of us could be super active and since then have been working!!!#anyway we love u all so so so so much#HUGS AND KISSES#and give each other hugs and kisses!
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Writing fanfic can be a lot like trying to make a recipe that you’ve seen all over social media. Sometimes, you try it and you kill it. Other times, not so much.
You see everyone is raving about how good this recipe is and how much they love this one particular ingredient (we’ll say cheese) that just really makes it amazing. So you think, I can do that, I’m great with cheese!
So, you start cooking. You measure everything just so. You even go a little hard on the cheese because, cheese. You are super proud of your dish. It looks delicious. You think it’s all kinds of tasty. It is, perhaps, the best thing you’ve ever made. You can’t wait to share it with everyone, because c’mon, everyone is raving about this thing and here it is! You made it! And it’s gonna be awesome.
You take it to a potluck with your friends and some people you don’t know. Your friends are like, yeah, this is great! Maybe a couple of people grab a bite, and one of them even tells you it’s pretty good. But there you are, at the end of the night, with your casserole dish still basically full and you’re wondering, what happened? You did everything right, so why didn’t everyone go crazy for it?
Posting a fic is very similar. You see the things people seem to love (a particular trope, for instance) and you give it a try. You think you’ve got all the elements and you put it together perfectly and you put it out there. And then you don’t get the response you were hoping for or expecting.
But you used (1) one beloved trope + (2) two characters + a dash of canon + witty banter! Maybe you even sprinkled in a liberal helping of a fandom favorite dynamic. What happened?
Honestly, it’s kind of devastating when a fic flops. You wonder what you did wrong. What did you miss? You’ve seen other people do it and readers just ate it up, so it must be you, right? Are you not a good cook (writer)? Are people tired of trying your dishes (reading your fics)?
Yes, you should always cook (write) for yourself first. But when you decide to share something with other people who have similar tastes/interests, that’s an act of bravery. You’re putting yourself in a vulnerable position by putting this little piece of your heart, of something you love, out for people to see. Of course you want them to like it. You want them to think it’s a tasty treat (whether it be for your tastebuds or eyeballs). You want that pat on the back (kudo). It’s not greedy or inappropriate to crave validation and support.
Writing is a creative, personal process. A lot of writers are frothy little balls of anxiety.
If you’re a fan of someone or their work, let them know. Yes, comments are like crack and everyone wants them, but an emoji or a kudo is extremely gratifying as well. Reblog the snippets you enjoy. As a fan of something showing the creators you appreciate the time and effort and parts of their heart that they put into what they do matters so, so much.
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Hey everyone,
It's been a minute so I wanted to drop in and give a little update. Things have been busy and stressful and I haven't had the bandwidth to do much these last few months, but I promise I'll be back with more fanart and more chapters of A Lovely House of Bones when I can. The story especially. I have so much I want to get to in it, and I'm really excited to get to all the good parts and share them with you! So thank you for everyone who's been reading and leaving kudos and comments, and for those of you who like and reblog my art on here. I really appreciate the continued support, and I hope to have new art and story for you soon. ♥
The longer version of why I've been away is that, aside from multiple illnesses, my boyfriend needing surgery, and a continually flooding basement leading to health problems and strife with our landlords, my job has been killing me.
One of those "this job was already hard, but upper management made decisions that doubled everyone's workload, doesn't want to hear that it's not working, and refuses to give us the staff or resources we need to function" sorts of things that's breaking everyone down physically and mentally. We've been dealing with it for 9 months and it's only gotten worse and more exhausting over time. So as much as I miss writing and making art I just haven't had the ability to do it for it for a while.
The good news is I'm quitting.
Might be a stupid decision, but I hit my breaking point and had to. I've only got one more week, and then I'm out. I don't have new employment lined up yet, but I've got places I'm interviewing at and I'm keeping hopeful it'll all work out. And honestly, a few weeks off to rest, get my head back on straight, and hopefully get back to creating again is what I need.
So uh... when you start seeing new art (and especially writing) from me, you'll know things have gotten better. In the meantime, wish me luck on the job hunt. And really, thank you for all the support. I really love the Undertale community and I can't wait to be in a place where I can contribute to it again soon. ♥
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How this works:
I (the moderator, aka: L) was tired of my fic recs getting lost on my main blog so! Here is a shiny new place for them to live!
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Pink Scarf - PART 18.2 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)
Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)
Requested: kinda
(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)
Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]
TW: Sex. SO MUCH ANGST. Medication/drug use/overdose. Dub con (sort of?). References to medical trauma, miscarriage, infertility. Blood. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.
Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 16.3k (LOLOLOLOLOL)
A/N: Y'ALL, I'M SO SORRY, it's a monstrosity. I couldn't help it. There was just so much to be said while still in E's POV, so that's how we ended up here, over 16k. But we finally learn Elvis' BIG SECRET and experience the mighty fallout from that in his eyes, so hopefully it's worth it. This is my Thanksgiving gift to all of you, but you may want to pace yourselves. I feel like I had to rip my heart out a little bit to really get in E's headspace. Prepare yourselves emotionally. That's all I will say.
A quick note about the pictures...the first is actually from when he bought Graceland in March 1957 and it just works PERFECTLY for the beginning. I couldn't resist the pics from Red West's wedding in 1961, even though I know the timeline and the people don't match but the VIBES, the VIBES my friends, are oh so Jack and Reader's wedding so I just had to include them. The one for 1960 was taken the night of the Rollerdome. *sob*
If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Some of you have been asking about this, and of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜
Speaking of Thanksgiving, I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY which is always evident but especially so when someone tried to steal PS last week and y'all went 'ride or die' for me instantly, without question, getting it taken down in record time. I didn't in a million years expect this kind of support and response for Pink Scarf, and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋
If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!
I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!
Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.
(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my AO3 account, as well as my NEW Wattpad account. so if you are so inclined, you can check it out/support me over there with kudos and votes and whatnot!)
(Elvis in March 1957, Graceland)
March 1957
Elvis parks in front of your house, his mind whirling with noise. He’s not exactly sure how he ended up here, but as soon as he’d gotten off that train, he knew he needed something that he couldn’t get from any of the guys or even his mama. So, he finds himself unexpectedly here.
Turning off the car, he seeks any sort of relief from the heartache he feels. He’s been holding it all in since the train stop in New Orleans, the one that sent the world crumbling under his feet, destroying the pretty picture he’d had for the future. But all that is gone now and here he sits, hands tapping on the steering wheel with nervous energy.
He nods to himself, finally leaping out of the car, and then he saunters down the walkway to the front door. The chime of the doorbell can be heard through the door, and he listens carefully, grateful to hear light footsteps from beyond.
When you open the door, it’s like he can breathe again for the first time since the train pulled away in New Orleans. You look surprised to see him, those big eyes of yours widening the slightest before you speak.
“Elvis, you’re home?” you ask with a hint of confusion, but overall, you seem pleased at finding him on your doorstep.
“Just got in, baby,” he says, that boyish smile curving up. He gathers you up into a big bear hug and instantly feels better as he breathes in the unique scent of your shampoo and lingering perfume. A scent that feels like home.
“And you came right here?” you ask, brow furrowing when he pulls away. He notices that you look a bit worn around the edges, darker circles rimming your eyes as if you haven’t been sleeping well.
You’re right to be confused. Of course, he hadn’t planned to see you right away. He’d planned to sweep June off her feet in New Orleans, wanting to show her Graceland immediately, the home he’d thought they’d share together for the rest of their lives. But all that had been dashed as soon as she’d blurted out that she was engaged to another man. Engaged. His June.
“I want to show ya something,” he blurts out instead of saying any of this. “It’s a surprise! Will ya come?” Oh, god, you have to come, he thinks. His heart might shatter if you don’t, though he’s not exactly sure why. You’re not his—you and Jack have been dating for nearly a year—so it’s not as though if you don’t come that it really means anything. Yet, still he hopes. He needs this. He needs to share this moment with someone he cares about.
Despite the fatigue in your eyes, you nod quickly, and then as if you can’t leave the house fast enough, you grab your purse and coat and shut the door behind you without a word.
He smiles gratefully, and relieved, he grabs your hand and practically skips to the car. Once he has you tucked in safely, he runs around the front of the Cadillac, jumps in, and peels away. It’s not too far of a drive, and he yammers on about the last few months he’s been away, the words flying out of him. You nod and ask all the right questions, but he notices that you are pensive, quieter than usual.
His verbal diarrhea halts for long enough for his brain to take into account that you don’t seem your usual self, and he asks, “Are you okay?”
You look down at your hands and then out the window, as if contemplating if and how much to share, which makes him a little nervous. Your fingers twist in your lap.
“Honestly? It’s been a hard few weeks, E,” you finally say, still unable to meet his eyes. “My nana passed last Tuesday.”
He’s mortified that he’d just been going on and on about himself and here you were dealing with such a loss. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know. I know how close you two were,” he says remorsefully, reaching his hand over to clasp one of yours.
You shake your head, sniffling back tears. “It’s okay, you’ve been away. There was no way for you to know. And I keep telling myself that she’s in a better place now, but that doesn’t really help all that much. I guess it still doesn’t seem real.”
He nods, because he can’t seem to think of anything to say that will make any of this better for you. “We can do this another time, baby, if you’re not feeling up to it,” he finally gets out.
“No, no. I need something to do instead of moping around the house. I’m worn from being sad and worrying about the rest of it. No, I’m glad you showed up, E. I can’t wait to see your surprise,” you add quickly, trying for a smile.
“The rest of it? What’re you so worried about, baby?” It’s obvious you don’t expect him to pick up on that because he sees the quick look of panic that flashes over your face at the question, so he’s quick to add, “I mean, you don’t hafta talk ‘bout it if ya don’t wanna, but I can tell somethin’ else is weighin’ on ya.”
“You could say that,” you sigh, raising your eyes to the roof and back down again. The twisting fingers are back. “God knows I haven’t been sleeping, and it’s giving me these terrible headaches.” You pinch the bridge of your nose for respite. “I…well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell you, Elvis, because it’s about Jack, and I really don’t want him to think I’m running around telling everyone our business.”
A warning rush rolls over him at this because he suddenly and very desperately wants to know what has happened with Jack, and that is a dangerous game for all kinds of reasons, many of which he’s not ready to admit to himself.
“I swear and cross my heart I won’t say a word, if you wanna tell me,” he says instead, a little too eagerly, so he quickly adds, “If it’ll help ya feel better and all.”
He forces himself to watch the road and not you, but he can practically hear your mind whirring.
“Oh, fine, but not a word out of you to anyone, Elvis Presley, I mean it. I know how bad you are with secrets,” you glare at him.
“I promise, I promise!” he concedes, crossing his heart. “I swear on my mama!”
“Well, in the midst of all this with Nana, I found out that Jack was dating other women a while back while we were going together. Apparently, I thought we were exclusive, but he didn’t, and well…” you trail off bitterly.
Elvis has to bite his tongue and bite it hard because somehow this wasn’t what he expected, and oh, lord, he knows too much for comfort.
Thankfully, you take this as him listening intently, because you continue, “I know I shouldn’t be too mad at him. I suppose it’s an honest mistake, seeing as maybe we didn’t communicate clearly enough about where we stood with each other. But it was so obvious to me, and I don’t understand how it wasn’t obvious to him. It’s not like I was going around with other guys all the time! I know it was months ago, but damn if it doesn’t really sting. Part of me feels like such an idiot, you know? What else don’t I know about him and what he’s doing? It just makes it hard to trust him, even though he was truthful about it when I asked.” He can sense the conflict in you, as your voice fills and shakes with the emotion of your held-back tears.
His heart is beating fast now, and all he is seemingly able to do is nod furiously, as if agreeing vehemently with all you are saying. The problem is that Elvis is complicit in all this and you have no idea. You have no idea that he was the one who pushed the showgirls onto Jack when he came to visit him in Vegas in November. You have no idea that “dating” didn’t have much to do with it at all. And now he feels altogether shitty for being the one to put Jack in that position in the first place. He’d managed to spread his own unfaithfulness and debauchery right on over to Jack, and now you are the one paying for it.
Shit.
Although, knowing Jack, it’s also possible that there was other dating happening, too. Either way, Elvis knows he’s got to tread real careful here and needs to keep his trap shut.
But Elvis can’t stand that hurt look in your eyes when he dares to take his eyes off the road to glance at you. He hates how angry and sad you look, the blue-black circles under your eyes conveying your distress.
And his emotions feel complicated, too complicated for comfort. He suddenly wonders if he didn’t present Jack with those temptations on purpose because there is a very deep and selfish part of him that desperately wants you to kick Jack to the curb for this, and that terrible, selfish part of him wants you to finally see Elvis in the same way he sees you.
Maybe there’s a reason that things didn’t work out with June, that voice pokes at him hopefully.
Stop that shit right now.
All this is playing through his head and leaving him outwardly silent. He realizes he has to say something, anything, because you are waiting for him to do so.
“I-I’m sorry that happened, ‘specially finding out at the same time as all this with your Nana. W-What are you gonna do about Jack?” he says, trying not to gulp.
He watches your eyes narrow and then he quickly looks back at the road. He can feel you shift in your seat.
“I…well, right now, I wanna pummel his brains out, so I told him I need some space to figure out what I want to do. I just—I thought we…” you trail off dismally. “I don’t want to go through this again,” you add quietly.
Elvis knows you are talking about Ted. Stupid Teddy who stepped out and got Judy Cole knocked up and then left you brokenhearted in his wake. It still pisses him off, even though he knows he’s got no right to judge Ted, not now, not after all the foolin’ around he’s done.
But when it comes to you, he can’t help but be protective. It’s in his bones, the way he wants to take care of you. In fact, he wouldn’t mind punching Jack in the face right about now for hurting you like this. And he’s even more pissed at himself for his part in it all.
Elvis just wants you to be happy and to be with a man who deserves you, and deep down, he doesn’t know if that man is Jack, even though he loves Jack like a brother. But the real problem is he’s not sure if he thinks any man will ever be good enough for you.
But his brain is wary to dwell on the meaning of that, wanting to avoid anything else that feels uncomfortable, so instead, he lets the excitement of showing you his new home overshadow any other unwanted feelings he might be experiencing.
“Okay, baby, we’re almost there, so close your eyes,” he says excitedly, changing the subject abruptly, before pulling up the long drive.
“Alright, Elvis, this better be a big surprise with how hyped up you are,” you chuckle, letting the mood turn by doing as you are told.
“The biggest,” he breathes, sliding to a stop in front of the Colonial mansion. “Don’t open your eyes yet! I’ll come around!”
You wait until you hear the car door open and feel his hand take yours. He gently brings you out of the car to standing, an excited energy vibrating through him.
“Okay, darlin’, open!” he drawls dramatically.
You do, blinking out the early Spring sunlight. He watches your face light up as you take in the architecture.
“Oh my god, Elvis, it’s beautiful,” you say in awe. “Is it yours?”
“Yes, baby, it’ll be all mine very soon. And for Mama and Daddy, of course,” he adds hastily, as if you’d thought he’d abandon his parents.
“Of course,” you smile, looking at him with those pretty, though tired, eyes of yours. “Can we go inside?” you ask.
All he can do is nod excitedly. Elvis takes your hand, pulling you up the steps and past the huge white columns on either side. He can’t unlock the door fast enough, the keys rattling and shaking in his hands. Once inside, he pulls you through the house, mouth running a mile a minute about what he wants to do in each room, how he wants it to look.
Finally, you make it to the top level, the last room. “This is gonna be my bedroom,” he rambles on. “I’m gonna get the biggest bed you’ve ever seen in your life, made special.”
You gently pull your hand out of his, and he watches as you take a small pill bottle out of your purse and pop two of the pills before downing them dry. Aspirin, probably, for the headache you were talking about in the car.
“E, stop a minute,” you say. “This is all amazingly wonderful and beautiful, and I am so excited for you, but…well, what exactly am I doing here?” You look at him with curious and concerned eyes.
“I…uh…I…,” he stammers, unsure of what to say or how to say it, as it’s all been spinning inside for hours and hours. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes. He certainly doesn’t want to put any of his stuff onto you, not now, not after what you told him earlier. His hands fall to his sides, and he shakes them, wiggling his fingers like he does to come down after a show. It doesn’t help. There’s just too much emotion rolling through him all the sudden.
You step to him, first putting your hands on his shoulders, then you run them gently down his arms before grabbing his flailing hands, absorbing some of that wild energy. The feeling still manages to send little electric shocks through him, even after all this time. Only then does he finally still and dare to look at you.
“E, what’s wrong? You let me talk earlier, so why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” you ask, your eyes searching his, open and concerned. He should’ve known you’d see right through him. Maybe that’s why you’re here, because he knew you’d understand, that you’d be able to tell he wasn’t okay when no one else cared to.
It takes a moment for him to gather his words as his emotions get in the way. Emotions he stoically hid from the guys the rest of the way to Memphis. Emotions he pushed down when he saw his mama because he just couldn’t bear to break her heart yet with the news. God, he’s spent so much time recently learning how to hide everything real about himself in order to become the man everyone wants him to be. But here, now, with you, it all begins to overflow.
“I-I-I told June to meet me in New Orleans. I-I w-w-was gonna bring her back here, to show her w-what I-I wanted to buy…for us,” he says, bouncing on his toes, tears welling and clouding his vision. He hates how it’s tearing him in two to say this.
You squeeze his hands, urging him to continue, and for you, he does.
“But when I-I got there, she was acting so strange. There w-wasn’t much time and, uh, she told me she’s engaged to someone else.” He blinks and the tears run over, finally spilling down his cheeks. Saying it out loud suddenly makes it feel all too real. His chest aches with betrayal, with loss.
You look at him with such care, though you do not look shocked at this news.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, E. I know you how much you loved her,” you say, squeezing his hands again gently.
‘Loved.’ As in past tense.
“Did you know?” he asks suddenly, stepping back, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
You take a conscious deep breath. “No, I didn’t. But she did call me a few times wondering where you were, if you were okay. She said she hadn’t heard from you in months…” you say awkwardly, petering off.
“Aw, shit,” he curses, running a hand through his greased hair. A wave of anger rolls through him, burning him from the inside, but as much as he wants to put it on June and her spiteful engagement, he knows the anger is mostly towards himself. He fucked up. He fucked around. And he’d expected June to just sit back and wait for him while he did it. He didn’t even make the time to call her.
And you know what he’s done. He can see it on your face. He looks down, unable to meet your eyes.
You don’t speak. You don’t lay into him or tell him he’s an asshole, although it might be better if you did. God knows he’s already thinking it. You just look at him with sadness and understanding and forgiveness, even though he doesn’t deserve it.
With that ache in his heart, he finally realizes that he couldn’t have loved June the way he said he did and then leave her hanging like that. But he did love her…at least, he had. They’d had such a beautiful summer together and he was sure he wanted to marry her, once his fame was settled. Three years, he’d told her.
Shit, I didn’t even make it six months, he thinks absently.
And then everything changed almost overnight. His fame exploded. There was Hollywood, then Vegas. And the girls, good god, there were so many beautiful girls who wanted him, needed him, who threw themselves at him. He’d been weak. He hated being alone. He couldn’t help it. It was just sex, he’d told himself, just a way to blow off steam as his world became smaller and smaller and nearly suffocated him. A thousand excuses run through his head, but in the end, it was his choice not to pick up the phone. It was his choice to screw around, to live this life.
It’s no wonder that June moved on, he thinks. I’m a first-rate asshole.
“Y/n, I messed it all up,” Elvis finally chokes out. The sob fully breaks the dam holding him together, the pressures of his fame and the realization hitting him like a truck: he is never going to be able to have that normal life with a wife and kids he’d once dreamed of. His knees buckle under the weight of all of it—his decisions, both good and bad, the fame he doesn’t know what to do with, the unexpected consequences of this privileged but isolating life he’s chosen.
He sinks to his knees, defeated, on the carpet of his future bedroom, the one he’ll probably never share with someone who loves him for who he truly is. Because he isn’t just Elvis Aron Presley anymore—he is “Elvis Presley,” the celebrity, the commodity, the fantasy.
While he relishes in the luxuries of it all, in being able to provide the life his family deserves, a small part of him cannot help but feel like he’s made a deal with the devil. That this talent he has been blessed with will also be the thing that damns him. He is overcome by the feeling that he’ll never know ever again if he is loved for who he really is, or if it is his fame and his image they love. And there is something about that that crushes his soul.
But he can’t say all this to you because it sounds dramatic and indulgent, and he knows there are very few people in this world who’d actually understand. This is his cross to bear.
And yet you still comfort him. You are still here. “Oh, hon, I know. It’s okay, I know,” you say, kneeling down with him.
In the midst of all he’s achieved and gained these past few years, June is the representation of all that he stands to lose, all that he’s already lost. “She was my last chance, y/n. I’m never gonna be able to trust that a woman loves me for me and not for my fame after this. And I screwed it all up,” he says quietly, tears running freely. “I just feel so fucking alone.”
“Oh, that’s not true, Elvis, it’s not,” you say, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll find her, I know you will. And you have so many people who love you for just being you, not for the fancy cars or the mansion or the fame. You’ve got your family, you’ve got Jack and your true friends. And you’ve got me.”
The way you say it, so softly, yet so matter-of-fact hits him hard, so hard that his heart stops beating for a moment. If he wasn’t already kneeling, the honest way your tired yet beautiful eyes search his face might knock him right off his feet.
It’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you, he thinks suddenly. This is the feeling he was avoiding in the car. The feeling he’s been avoiding since he watched Jack kiss your cheek in the diner a year ago.
It takes his breath away. You take his breath away, you always have. He’s been enamored with you since you plowed into him all those years ago in the hallway at Humes High.
Suddenly, June is all but forgotten because you reach up, cupping his face in your cold little hands and wipe a tear off his cheek. He cannot help the way his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation of the pad of your thumb dragging softly across his face. His breathing, rapid from his cries is now labored for another reason entirely.
Opening his eyes slowly, he shouldn’t be shocked to see tears in yours, your grief and sorrow, not only for yourself, but for him, too, welling there, as if you are connected to him. In fact, Elvis feels like his brain is short-circuiting because you are too damn close and the tension in the room is suddenly so thick, he feels like he might suffocate.
Every cell in his body feels on fire as you lean in closer and closer until your lips press against his forehead. You’ve never kissed him, not once in all these years, and this alone sends heat rushing through his young body. Then when you kiss his nose, and then one tear-stained cheek, he holds his breath, feeling like he might die from this chaste sensation.
Warning bells explode in his brain because suddenly he wants you more than anything in this world, always has. And now you are so close. This is Jack’s girl, he thinks, and she’s my dear friend. Don’t be an idiot.
But when you lean in to kiss his other cheek, you place your lips alarmingly close to his, his tears wet underneath your soft lips, and his body is on high alert as only a twenty-two-year-old’s could be. His heart flutters as you pull back just enough to look deeply into his eyes, tears shining in your own, and then you lean in once more.
This can’t be happening. This should not be happening, his mind screams, but then your lips are grazing his and all rational thought ceases to exist.
You taste so sweet.
Heat blooms through the ache in his chest, and in his disbelief, he freezes. Part of him wants to devour you whole, but he is terrified that if he moves, he might spook you and he cannot bear that.
His confusion is overridden when your hands, shaking but demanding, pull him closer. Your lips are soft and sure, and he cannot help but be swept away by them. He’s kissed so many girls, too many to count, all over the country, but not one has ever made him feel like this, like his heart is going to leap out of his damn chest.
But this is a betrayal of a monumental kind, for both of you. While he is no stranger to betrayal, he does not want this for you. As much as he wants you with every fiber of his being, he does not want to be the source of your regret or heartache. He’s already done enough in that regard already, though you don’t know it. Mustering up every ounce of his self-control, Elvis pulls out of your kiss.
“Y/n, baby, you don’t want this. I’m no good for you this way,” Elvis says in a hushed tone, his forehead resting against yours. “I-I can’t have you regretting me, I-I-I couldn’t bear it.”
You lean back the slightest bit, and he thinks you might be listening, reconsidering, making him feel mostly dismay but also a little relief. What he does not expect is for you to press your little pointer finger up against his lips, hushing him, as you stare into his eyes. It’s as though your soul is as weary and needy as his and it feels as though you see him, truly see him, which is a new feeling for him. This sends a welcoming shiver down his spine, and he knows that despite every scrap of logic and propriety he is trying to lean on, with you he is powerless.
When your finger drags down his lips, catching on the bottom one, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his groin. Yet still he resists (even though he wants more than anything to see where this is going), thinking you might realize your mistake, and this will all be over in an embarrassed, yet still salvageable, flash.
Instead, you very deliberately scoot closer, your knees bumping his on the carpet. You lean in again, your lips grazing his again with a yearning he cannot help but return in kind. It’s barely a kiss, but the intent is there and when you pull up, effectively opening your mouth to him, the way he can feel your warm breath mingling with his own has him struggling to control himself.
You are testing him, testing the waters, hesitant but somehow insistent at the same time. His long lashes flutter closed when your fingers brush his jaw then rake into his perfectly styled hair. But it’s when the tip of your tongue touches his, sending a hot shockwave through him, that he can stand it no longer and closes the gap between your mouths with a longing sigh.
Pressing his pliant lips to your yielding ones, he rolls his tongue softly but firmly against yours, earning him a quiet moan from you. This is like fuel on the fire, finally spurring him into action, and his hands fly to the back of your head, pulling you closer.
If there is one thing besides music that Elvis excels at and loves to do, it’s kissing. He plays with it the same way he plays a crowd, listening to you and adjusting his performance as necessary. The buzzy way it makes him feel, like every nerve is magnetic, is one of the only things in this world that is anything like how it feels for him to perform for an audience. He loves the way it makes him feel.
But kissing you is unlike anything Elvis has experienced before. It’s as though you are tuned to the exact same frequency, finding his rhythm immediately, adapting easily. The usual fumbling of people getting acquainted in this way does not seem to apply to the two of you, the ebb and flow so natural it’s as though you had done this with each other many times before.
But the passion of it stokes a fire that has been denied a long time. Intense heat crashes over him, sending tendrils of warmth through his limbs and deep into his belly. He drinks you in as deep as he can without being desperate, and oh how close he is to being desperate for you. His grief over June melts away the more he tastes you, and he wonders how he ever lived before having the taste of your lips on his.
It's all very dramatic and romantic, which he is both at heart. From just a few kisses, he suddenly knows that if he could kiss you and only you for the rest of his life, he would be a happy man indeed. This surprises him.
But what truly shocks him is when you lean so far into him that it pushes him over, his knees screaming a little, and he falls back into the wall with a thump. He scrambles backwards, maneuvering his long legs into a more comfortable seated position while you don’t even miss a beat or attempt to come up for air. And when you crawl into his lap, hoisting the flowing fabric of your dress up just enough so your warm, bare thighs are straddling his, his heart actually flies right out of his goddamned chest.
Speaking of which, you are currently running your hands down his, pulling his silky shirt up enough to dance your fingertips over his stomach. His breath hitches then hisses at that, his arms involuntarily encompassing you, large hands splaying across your back to draw you ever nearer.
And you go willingly, inching up his lap until you are straddling his hips. When you grind down into his lap, he thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven, his blue eyes rolling back into his head with a low moan.
He'll admit he’s dreamed of this, fantasized about this, but nothing could truly prepare him for the reality of the way you are making him feel. A trickle of attraction that began six years ago is now a roaring river, and is so, so much more than anything he’s felt before with anyone else.
He doesn’t understand it. He loves women. He always falls in love too fast, enjoying the rapid descent into the madness of it all. There have only been a few that he feels were true, though every girl he’s with, he loves in his own way.
But you are not like any of them, not at all. With you, it has been slow, so gradual sometimes that he didn’t even realize it. A teenage crush turned into friendship, and within that has blossomed a love that he didn’t know he was capable of. It is not until this very instant that he realizes it truly for what it has become. He doesn’t just care for you. He loves you.
He is in love with you.
Fuck.
Realizing this as your hips begin to rock steadily over his crotch is not the best timing. He’s as hard as a rock, fighting both the swell of his physical need for you while wrestling with the emotional needs he’s quickly realizing at the same time.
If he didn’t love you, he might not care if this is just a quick fuck between friends, but he does care. And he’s worried about where this is coming from, likely your overall grief and your anger at Jack. No, he doesn’t like the messiness of that at all.
But another grind of your pelvis into his, coupled with your tongue down his throat has the physical quickly taking over any and all rational thought. He wants you, more than he’s ever wanted anyone. And he desperately wants to give you what you need, which based on the mewls escaping your lips, is a physical release, a connection.
God, he can feel the wet heat of your cunt now through your panties and his pants as you slide over his length, back and forth, again and again. He clings to you as your hands wind through his hair, burying his head in your neck, his lips taking in as much of your skin as he can. He revels in the scent of you, your perfume and your irresistible musk that is permeating the room. He is positively dizzy with it.
You are frantic in his lap now, chasing something he’s not entirely sure you’ve ever had. He knows about Ted, but he highly doubts Ted knew what to do with you. And with Jack, well, he’s not sure how far the two of you have gone, but he can only guess based on Jack’s recent actions and your desperation for no one to know that Ted had popped your cherry that you’ve been trying to be good and pure and wait.
But as you reach for his belt, pawing at him, for the first time in this whole event, he gets the distinct impression that you’re not sure what to do next, only that you are needy for something. And goddamn him, he is willing to give you what you need, but only if you really understand what it is you’re asking for.
“Wait, baby, just…wait,” Elvis pants, stilling your hips with one hand while grabbing the hand at his belt with the other. You whimper a little at the interruption, rolling your hips for emphasis, but despite the groan he can’t help, he’s having none of that.
“Baby, I need to know that you really want this,” he says, brushing your hair off your deliciously pink cheeks, your lips swollen from his kisses. He looks into your eyes, almost getting lost in them and forgetting what he set out to do. “You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes,” you whisper, and then add, “Elvis, please,” in a begging tone that sets him completely aflame.
“Oh, damn, okay, baby, okay,” he breathes, barely able to contain himself with that. He’s only human, after all. He races to help you with his pants, pulling them over his hips and down his legs in record time, his erection springing free, precum already glistening the tip. You lift up on your knees, you move your panties aside, and touching the silky soft skin of his cock, you help him line up with your entrance. He can’t help but gasp at the feeling of your cool little fingers circling his shaft, losing it a little more when he feels how incredibly soaked you already are.
He can’t believe this is happening. It shouldn’t be happening. But all logic is gone from him, replaced by the sweetness of your mouth and the wetness of your pussy and his desperate need for whatever love you have to give him.
He watches as you bite your lip in concentration, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you try to take him in. You are incredibly tight around the sensitive tip of his cock, and he moans a little at the constriction. That’s when he knows for sure that no one else has touched you like this for a long time. You aren’t ready for him, not yet.
Reaching under your skirt, he deftly finds the delicate little bundle of nerves there and begins to work it ever so gently. He shifts his hips down, his cock regretfully released from your hold on it. Sliding his fingers through your folds (oh, god), he gently slips one finger into your tight heat, then two, allowing you to adjust around him before pumping them in and out. Your eyes go wide and you gasp with the intrusion, but then they flutter closed with a sigh, and then another, and another before your hips begin to rock again.
He watches you in your ecstasy, taking in every delectable reaction he can and committing it to memory. The way your brow scrunches and your mouth falls open into a little O. The feel of your thighs clenching around his hand as he massages and fingers your dripping pussy. Those alluring little breathy moans escaping your lips. Every part of you has him completely mesmerized and he knows it. He knows his mouth is agape and he is moaning softly right along with you. He is so aroused just by watching you, he feels like he could come without you even touching him.
“E, I need more…I need you,” you breathe with your eyes closed and brow concentrated, and oh sweet lord, those might be the best words in the English language with the way they come out of your mouth.
He is utterly unable to deny you this. He can’t even speak, he just pulls his fingers out of you, lifts your hips, and maneuvers his cock back to the place it wants to be most. And you are more ready for him now, your tightness yielding much more easily around the sensitive tip of him.
It’s in that moment, as you sink down ever-so-slowly onto him and he is enveloped by your wet heat, that Elvis realizes he is utterly ruined for any other woman, ever. They cannot and will not ever hold a candle to you. He should’ve known before. He should’ve stopped this while he still could. But as you finally settle in his lap, taking him in completely, your fingers relaxing and your eyes bright and glassy, he knows he is well and truly fucked in every way.
He kisses you deeply again and again, memorizing your mouth, as you begin to raise and lower yourself on his cock. You feel so good, so completely perfect, it’s as if you were made just for him. He is drunk on you, hands wandering your body, finding what makes you keen, and he’s unable to get enough of you.
But you are so needy and ready that unfortunately it doesn’t take very long of you riding him and him playing with your clit for you to begin falling apart at the seams. Based on your surprised gasps, he’s not sure you’ve ever come before, so he does his best to help you get there while holding on to his own release for dear life. You begin to shudder around him, clenching his length, and with a strangled moan you hit your peak. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the way you are coming undone on top of him, around him, your eyelashes fluttering closed and then popping open, all wild-eyed and rosy cheeked as the hushed sound of his name falls out of your perfect mouth.
He's so fucking enraptured that his orgasm hits harder and faster than expected, chasing yours almost immediately, not giving him time to pull out like he should have. But he can’t bring himself to care because it’s all you. All he’s ever wanted or needed—it’s you.
Oh, sweet Christ, I love you, I love you, I love you, he chants in his mind as he follows you over the edge.
He clings to you, head pressed into your breasts as he pulses hard into your warmth with a grunt, then stays there as he comes down from the high. And then you are both gasping in the silence, and there is an air of disbelief that fills the room that the two of you just did that, together.
This is making love, he realizes suddenly. It must be, considering the incredibly overwhelming feelings he has for you that are pouring through him in unreasonable amounts. He never wants to let you go, not ever.
He pulls back enough to kiss you tenderly, lingering a little too long. There is a sinking, nearly unbearable feeling that this may never happen again, and it threatens to break him, so he pushes it as far away as it will go.
You press your forehead to his, silent, you still enveloping him as he eventually begins to soften inside you. Neither of you rushes to move. He cannot read what you are thinking and that makes him nervous.
“Are you okay?” he finally whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek.
You nod but say nothing.
“Okay, baby.”
You both sit there a while, simmering in what you have done, and he wishes you would say something, say anything at all to let him know what is going on in that head of yours. But you are quiet, unreadable.
Finally, you remove yourself from his lap and stumble your way into the ensuite bathroom to clean up.
Elvis runs a hand down his face, wiping away the mixture of salty tears and sweat that has collected there. He uses his handkerchief to wipe himself off and then puts himself back together. Blissed out in his refraction, he is so full of love for you that he almost can’t stand it. He thought he’d known love before, and perhaps he did, but this realization of love for you is so big that he doesn’t know what to do with it. God, he feels like with you by his side, he could conquer the damn world.
But you’re not his girl.
Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.
His head falls back onto the wall with a thump.
Somehow, he’s both on top of the world and completely buried by it at the same time. You interrupt his thoughts, coming back in quietly and falling, exhausted, into his arms. He takes off his coat and puts it on top of you both. He can’t help but pull you closer, up into his lap, so your head rests against his chest. This is where you are supposed to be, he can’t help but think.
He knows the two of you need to talk about this. While he has been having his epiphany, he has absolutely no idea what you are thinking. He has no clue if you feel anything even close to what he feels for you. It is possible that all of this was just some sort of revenge on Jack, and that breaks his heart a little. And even if you did do it for that reason, you chose him. You felt safe enough with him to choose him.
But something deep inside him tells him it isn’t just that, not with the way you kissed him, not with the way he felt like his damn soul was connecting with yours. That deep connection he’s always felt to you, it can’t possibly be one-way.
But what if it is? a worried little voice creeps in.
He wants to ask you, but he looks down and sees you passed out on his chest. Fatigue begins to hit him, as he hasn’t slept in over a day.
It’s not long before he, too, falls into an exhausted slumber.
*
He’s not sure how long you sleep, but when he wakes, the sun has moved and the room is nearly dark. Disoriented, it takes a moment for him to realize that it’s you in his arms, and when he remembers why, his cheeks flame with heat.
Oh. Oh.
Drowsy, he rubs his eyes with one hand, trying to wake up. As the memories of your lovemaking resurface, his heart beats faster, and he knows the moment you wake you will both have to face what you’ve done. You’ll have to decide what comes next. And more than anything, the hopeful little voice inside him realizes that he wants to share this all with you—that’s why it is you he brought to Graceland today, and why it was so important to him that you like it.
“Y/n, honey, wake up,” he says quietly, not wanting to shock you awake, but you don’t even stir. He shifts under you, hoping that might get you moving, but you just lie there.
“Hey, baby, it’s time to wake up,” he says at full voice now, but you remain still, too still, and silent.
His heart starts to pound. Something isn’t right.
“Y/n! Honey, I need you to wake up!” He is getting frantic now, his hand gently tapping your face, which feels too cold. But still, you do not wake.
“Fuck. Fuck! Y/n, wake up!” He shakes you. Panic and confusion roll over him as he tries to figure out why you are knocked out. His sleep-addled brain runs through what happened before you both fell asleep, before you made love.
Her headache, he thinks. She took pills for her headache.
He had thought they were aspirin, but as he frantically rummages through her purse, pulling out the little prescription bottle, he reads “Percodan, one tablet every 6 hours for pain and sleep relief” on the label.
Elvis swears you took two tablets, not one, way too much for a girl your size. You hadn’t read the bottle.
Shit.
Having been in Hollywood, he knows that this happens. People overdose from taking these narcotics, usually to get high, but he knows that you did it on accident. Based on how full the bottle is, he’s guessing that you maybe hadn’t even taken the meds before today.
Regardless, he’s not taking any chances with you. There’s no phone hooked up at the house, so with his adrenaline now working overtime, he lifts your unconscious form and quickly carries you to the car. He peals out, driving to Baptist Memorial Hospital as fast as he possibly can.
The those few hours are some of the most terrifying of his life.
He bites every nail down to the quick in that waiting room, pacing there as your family sits, equally worried. He can’t help but feel that they are judging him for letting this happen, even though it was an accident.
He can’t bring himself to call Jack.
Guilt eats away at him, even though he knows he had no idea about the pills, but if he hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe he would’ve realized sooner that something was wrong. Part of him feels like this is punishment for his sins, for what he let happen in the house. He prays and prays to God, harder than he’s ever prayed before.
Please, God, I love her. I can’t lose her. Do what you want to me, just let her be okay.
His prayers work.
You wake up. The doctors say you are going to make a full recovery. His heart nearly explodes with relief.
He offers to stay while your family goes home to get some rest. It is past visiting hours, but being Memphis’ own superstar, the nurses take pity on him and let him stay, as long as he doesn’t keep you awake.
When you finally stir, it’s the middle of the night.
“E—Elvis?” you croak. “What happened? Where am I?”
He sits up straight and leans forward to take your cold little hand in his. “Y/n! Oh, baby, you took too many of your headache pills and I couldn’t wake you up. You scared the hell outta me. You’re in the hospital, but you’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.
“Wake me up? Why—why was I asleep?” your brow furrows in confusion.
His heart drops into his stomach, dread like ice in his veins. He doesn’t want to ask, but he knows he must:
“What’s the last thing you remember, honey?”
Obviously still groggy, you close your eyes for a moment to think. “Um, I remember you picked me up and took me to…to your new house,” you say, then your eyes pop open, “You were showing me your beautiful new house, and then my headache got really bad, so I took some of my pills, and then…” You stop, looking at him blankly. “And after that, I don’t remember. You said I fell asleep?”
Oh, God, no. No, no, no. He feels like he’s going to vomit.
The force of his dread hits him like a tsunami as he runs through what happened in his head again. You took the pills first and then he told you about June and then you kissed him.
But you don’t remember. You don’t remember because you were accidentally fucking high.
“Elvis, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you say.
“Sorry, baby, I-I-I was just really worried about you, is all. I-I guess it’s all kinda hittin’ me at o-once, now that you’re o-o-okay,” he says, unable to keep his voice from shaking, unable to keep from stuttering through the half-truth.
“Please, go get some rest, E. I’ll be fine. I’m so tired, I feel like I could sleep for days…” you say, drowsily, eyes fluttering closed.
“Okay, okay, baby, I will…Get some rest,” he says, kissing you on the top of your head as you drift back into slumber.
In a panicked daze, he manages to make it down the hallway and to the men’s room before his stomach rolls and he is violently sick into the toilet.
Oh, sweet Lord, he took advantage of you. You were drugged and didn’t know what you were doing, and he had sex with you.
He vomits again, tears running down his face.
I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have ever let it happen if I’d known! I would never hurt her! the reasonable part of his brain cries out.
Shame eats at him from deep inside, cutting him. He deserves it.
How could he do this? How could he let this happen?
I should’ve known. I should’ve known the moment she kissed me that she wasn’t in her right mind.
But he didn’t, and what the hell does that say about him? He’s fucking selfish and he took something from you that you weren’t in your right mind to give.
He dry heaves, wanting desperately to expel his regret but knowing that he never will, not until the day he dies.
And what’s even worse is that he is still left with the fact that he is desperately in love with you. You don’t remember what, up until a few minutes ago, was one of the most amazing moments of his young life. You can’t share that with him. And that makes him feel even more selfish because the last thing he should be thinking of is his own damn feelings.
Sitting there on the cold floor, he tries to convince himself it’s for the best. It’s much less complicated for you this way. For you, there was no betrayal. For you, making love with him can never be a mistake you once made in a moment of anger and desperation. For you, there is only the love of friendship between you two.
Yes, it’s better this way, he thinks. He can carry the burden for both of you. He deserves to.
Because he knows he cannot give you what you need. He cannot be there for you, day in and day out, holding you tight and keeping you safe. Especially not now. Not after what he’s done.
He has to lock this away. You can never know, not ever. He must protect you from this and from his guilt. He knows you wouldn’t be able to look at him if you knew.
Oh, God. Please forgive me.
He can’t stop crying. He has to stop crying because he has to go out there and he has to look fine. He has to be fine, for your sake. You’re alive and going to be okay, and it’s that which he latches onto as a mantra in order to slide into the persona that has made his name.
He manages to make it to the car without losing it again, as the dawn starts to break on another day. He can’t bring himself to go home; he can’t look his mother in the eye right now. So, he drives aimlessly, for hours, his sins eating away at him until he finds himself at the church.
He waits for Reverend Hamill in a pew, his thoughts dark and churning. This is just the straw that broke him, for he knows that since his fame began two years ago, he has fallen so very far. He has been self-centered and vain. He has fornicated and broken hearts and caused pain to those he claimed to love, all in the name of this new life of his. And he’s pushed his friends to do the same. His stupid, selfish actions have had a ripple effect that has completely ruined lives.
Not only had he driven June away and into the arms of another man, he’d played with your life and Jack’s as well. If he hadn’t pushed Jack to cheat, you would never have needed those pills in the first place. You almost died because he didn’t want to be alone in his debauchery, and he knows that some sick part of him pushed Jack to it because he wanted to sabotage your relationship.
Then he realizes that, on top of all that, he did another incredibly selfish and stupid thing. He came inside you, which means that you could be pregnant. And that would ruin you completely, and you wouldn’t even know why, you wouldn’t understand. He would do the right thing, of course, and maybe, someday, you would learn to forgive him, but it would ruin you all in the process.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Jesus.
He thinks he might vomit again.
When the Reverend emerges, he looks surprised to find Elvis sitting there.
“Pastor, I am the most miserable man you’ve ever seen. I am doing the things you taught me not to, and I’m not doing the things you said I should,” he sobs, “Please, please pray for me.”
“Oh, son…come in,” Reverend Hamill says.
Deflated, consumed, and heavy with his guilt and the repercussions of his actions, he follows the pastor into his office. He can’t bring himself to admit what he’s done, to admit how horrible he is. He just cannot get the words out. Instead, he weeps and prays, over and over, the Reverend praying with him.
All he can whimper out is, “Please, please forgive me for my sins. Please.” He’s not sure if he’s asking the minister or God or both. He only knows he cannot live with himself for hurting you, even if you don’t know it.
After over an hour of this, by the grace of God, he finally calms some. His entire body and soul aches.
But he knows what he has to do now. He understands the deal he has made.
It doesn’t matter what he wants or needs. You being okay is all that matters. He has to make sure you’re taken care of. He has to make sure that you are happy.
In the days and weeks and months that follow, Elvis pretends he is having the time of his life, becoming every bit the budding superstar that the country insists that he is now. Sometimes, he even believes it; sometimes, he even forgets. Though every time he sees you, his heart breaks a little more, his love for you permeating him to the core.
But he knows he can’t have you. He knows he doesn’t deserve you.
Instead, he plants seeds in Jack’s ear. “You love her, don’t ya, Jacky Boy? When are ya gonna make an honest woman of her?” He pushes Jack to fully commit to you. He even goes with Jack to buy the ring, though he stops himself from paying for it. Jack has his pride, after all.
Instead, he throws himself into work, grateful for the grueling cycle of touring and recording and appearances and acting. He throws himself into fixing up Graceland for his family, building a life of extravagance that he never could’ve dreamed of.
And, God help him, he starts seeing other girls. He leans into the image of the playboy they all want him to be. He dates and he fucks, thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of these girls will make him forget the perfect way you fit into him, forget the way your face looked when you came undone around him. That maybe one of them will come close to the wonder that is you. That they will help him forget his past sins by cutting new ones. He cannot seem to help but do the sinful things he swore he wouldn’t do, lest he drown in his sorrows, but the girls help keep him from the one thing that is off limits: You.
When Jack finally pops the question in the summer, and you accept immediately, he can barely keep himself together. He convinces himself this is the right thing, that he is happy for the both of you as he stares into the night sky knowing deep in his soul that it should be him. He reminds himself that this is the deal, this is what he wanted, to see you happy and taken care of.
And he will damn himself for your salvation every time.
December 28th, 1957, Graceland
Oh, God, what have I done?
The moment you appear down the aisle, looking ever the most beautiful, blushing bride, every part of him aches with love for you. He’d thought that by giving you the life you dreamed of, the life you needed, that it would be enough to let you go. But as Elvis stands by Jack’s side at the altar, he realizes that no matter what has happened, no matter what he has done, he is always going to love you and it’s never not going to hurt, especially not after this.
Not after the quick look you shoot him as you step up to meet Jack, your pretty, wide eyes full of excitement and emotion. Not after seeing you all in white and wishing to God that it was him marrying you right now. Not after he keeps his peace after the minister asks if there’s a reason these two should not be married.
He somehow manages to keep himself from openly weeping during the ceremony by biting the inside of his cheek repeatedly but still finds himself caught in your radiance more than once and must force himself to look away. During the wedding pictures, he cannot help but maneuver himself close to you to press a lingering kiss to your cheek, to be memorialized for all time on film. The press of his soft lips into your warm cheek sends that tell-tale shiver through him, one that drives in the fact that he still loves you. He gives himself this tiny thing, and no one questions it because they all know you are close friends, and a congratulatory cheek kiss on your wedding day is not strange.
Discretely, he makes sure to let the photographer know he wants copies of the pictures, with the excuse that he is paying for them and wants to make sure they are perfect. This, too, is not questioned, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.
To torture himself even more, he offers Graceland up for the reception. These are his two best friends, after all, now cleaved together in holy matrimony for the rest of their lives. No expense should be spared because they deserve all the happiness in the world.
And they do, he reminds himself throughout the day. They do deserve all the happiness in the world.
At least if you are with Jack, he thinks, he still has you in his life. He can still see those beautiful, wide eyes whenever he wants without question or suspicion.
He clings to this.
Even so, he feels as though he is being sucked into a riptide. It seems fated that his life is going in a much different direction than the newlyweds. The draft notice he received a week ago confirms this, weighing heavy on his heart and feeing like a nail in the coffin of his hopes and dreams.
God is testing him, he thinks. It is all a very clear and stark reminder that where he goes, you cannot follow. He cannot help but feel that God is punishing him for his sins by taking him away from the fame he has just settled into to, taking him from the people he loves and the things he loves to do. He wants to lament that it isn’t fair, but part of him knows that he deserves this, too, for what he’s done and for what he’s done to you.
And perhaps God works in mysterious ways, as while he is loathe to leave his parents and his career and his fans, he cannot help the small part of him that is relieved he doesn’t have to watch you and Jack in your newlywedded bliss for the next two years. It’s the only upshot to this entire disaster.
But he won’t let his sorrow overshadow your big day. With a smile plastered on his face, he gives a charming and loving speech of how wonderful it is to see his two best friends find such happiness with each other. He only stutters once or twice, which comes across as endearing rather than damning. But the thing is, even though he is miserable, he is still happy for you two. He wants more than anything for you to have everything you’ve ever wanted and more, and if that is with Jack, then so be it.
The only time he truly falters is during the dance.
Your little sister (who at 18 is not so little anymore), Rosie, as the Maid of Honor, dances with Jack, while he, the Best Man, dances with you. The moment he touches you, sparks fly through him and down his spine, and he cannot help but pull you in a little too close, even though everyone is looking. His large hand wraps around your smaller one and the other clings to your waist.
The thing is, you do not react to this at all, not outwardly, anyway. You let him hold you and press his cheek against your temple. You let him breathe in your scent and lean into you, as if memorizing everything about you. You let his hands contract, pulling you in closer. You let him lead because it’s like somehow you know, in your soul, that he needs this, even if you’re not exactly sure why.
And for that he is grateful. He is grateful as he takes in every bit of you, committing you to memory, knowing that soon that is all he will have of you. All you will be is a memory, imprinted on his heart, for the rest of time.
When the song comes to an end, he leans back slowly, his eyes searching your face for any recognition, any understanding of his plight, any feelings of your own that might linger in your subconscious. You stare back at him openly for a moment, and for a second he thinks he sees a glimmer of something in your eyes, but then Jack is pulling you away and the moment is gone.
As the party continues into the night, he feels like he is suffocating and escapes upstairs to his room. And as people know not to enter his bedroom without express permission, he feels safe to let out the shaking sob he’s been holding back for hours.
He’s not sure how long he cries before a tap at the door startles him into motion, frantically wiping at his face.
“Bewbie, sweet boy, can I come in? It’s just me,” his mama’s voice echoes through the door.
“Yeah, Mama, come in,” he croaks out, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. While he is relieved that it’s her and not one of the guys, or God forbid, you, he still doesn’t know how he’s going to explain the state he’s in.
His mama comes in quietly, shutting the door quickly behind her. She looks him over and in one fell swoop seems to understand, even though he’s said nothing, even though he’s spent months perfecting his nonchalantness for the world, what is going on.
But a mother knows.
His mama sits next to him on the edge of the bed, putting her arm comfortingly around his broad shoulders. “Oh, my wittle baby, it’s her, isn’t it? Our beautiful y/n. You love her,” she says, less of a question and more stating a fact.
That does him in, the way his secret is exposed so easily by his mama. It terrifies him that she knows him so well, and terrifies him that if she knows this, what else does she know? There’s no point in denying anything, so he curls into her like a child and lets go of it all, the tears streaming once again down his cheeks as his body shakes with quiet sobs.
His mama has always loved you, taking quickly to your genial ways and how you always made time to spend with her. Maybe she suspected something from the start, he doesn’t know, but she doesn’t judge or scold him now.
“H-hurts so bad, Satnin,” he hiccups out. And it does, now that he’s letting it. It feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest.
“I know, baby, I know,” she coos, rubbing his back. He can sense all the questions she wants to ask but doesn’t.
“I-I-I couldn’t…I-I ain’t w-w-what she needs or wants, Mama,” he stutters out. It’s as close as he’s willing to get to telling her the truth.
“It takes a brave man to let the girl he loves marry another, when he knows that’s what she wants, though I can’t say I wish it didn’t work out the other way,” his mama tuts.
“Y-you knew?”
“Course I knew, Bewbie. A mother always knows. To be fair, I been watchin’ the way ya look at that girl for the past few years and it didn’t take much t’put it all together, baby,” she says. “But the question is, does she know?”
He stills and stays silent for a moment, before answering truthfully, “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t think so.”
“Hmm,” she tuts, “I’m gonna trust you had good reason for lettin’ that wonderful girl go without tellin’ her how ya feel?”
His heart constricts, causing him to doubt his choices, but he can’t explain how he nearly killed you with his terrible decisions. He certainly can’t tell his mama that he made love to you when you weren’t yourself, no matter that it was you came on to him. And he knows his mama would balk if he told her how much he doesn’t deserve your love because of his sins.
“It’s better this way, Mama,” he says quietly, sitting up and staring at his hands. “And she’s happy, both she and Jack.”
His mama nods, resigned. “Alright, my sweet baby, puttin’ your friends’ happiness before your own…I know ya made the choice ya thought was best,” she says, wiping his face and pinching his cheeks, “but ya get yourself cleaned up now ‘n go be at least a ‘lil happy for your friends, okay?” She leaves the obvious unsaid—that he’s leaving to film in a few days and straight from there, it’ll be into the Army, so this will be one of the last times he can spend with them.
He nods. “O-okay, Satnin.”
And with that, he does as he’s told.
*
And then, in a blink of an eye, she’s gone. His mama is gone and his world fully collapses and it’s all his fault.
You are the only one who saves him from being completely swallowed in the blackness of his despair, and he’s not in his right mind to think or care how that looks. All he knows is you’re there when he needs you the most. You’re there to get him through the absolute worst of it before they send him a world away, and then, he loses you, too.
He loses everything that means anything to him—his mama, you, his career—and he wonders how long God will continue to punish him for his misdeeds, until he can’t bring himself to care much anymore about anything at all.
Germany feels like a cold fog that clouds his brain, even when he brings his Daddy and Dodger and Red over to live with him off base. In his haze, he writes Anita promises he wishes he could keep but deep down knows he won’t. Then, he turns around and does all the things he shouldn’t do because he can and what does it even matter if it’s all lost anyway? He takes the pills they give him to keep him awake in the field, and those make him feel pretty good, for a time anyway, and then he starts taking other pills they give him to bring him down after. In his off time, he screws and tries to forget the life he used to know.
And in those horrible quiet hours when he lies awake, trying to sleep when even the pills won’t let him, trying to escape and can’t, he thinks of you. He thinks of his love for you and your hold over him even now, a world away, and when he’s extra lonely, he imagines you on top of him, writhing and beautiful. And when he comes undone, there’s nothing left but a gaping hole in his heart and a mess in his hand.
*
March 1960
Elvis bites his nails to the quick on the long journey home. It’s not just because of the planes and the exhaustion and not knowing if he’ll ever get back to being “Elvis Presley,” but he knows he’ll be seeing you in a matter of hours. Not years or months or weeks, but hours.
And he thinks that maybe he is finally over you, that maybe he’s healed enough from everything and that he’s on his way to start something new, something fresh.
But, God, somehow you are more beautiful now than before, but you act so strange around him, and his heart wants to leap and implode all at once. Somehow everything has changed…but you, you still own his heart.
Once he discovers your pregnancy, he is over the moon for you because he can sense how badly you want this. He doesn’t care that the baby is Jack’s—he loves it more than anything because he loves you and seeing you so happy brings him true joy for the first time in a long, long time.
His career is taking off again, his new image impressing those who denounced him a few years ago, and he already has appearances and recordings and films lined up to go. Life feels…almost good, like maybe he’s finally paid his karmic debt.
Then you almost bleed to death in his arms.
His terrified confession of love is spoken in an act of desperation, a singular hope that if you know he loves you, you won’t be able to go, that the string of fate that draws you both together cannot be broken, that he can somehow will you back to life with the power of his love.
He begs God, begs as he’s never begged before, an inner wail of blood-soaked prayer that does not cease as he rides with your near-lifeless form to the hospital, nor when he calls Jack and your parents, nor as paces the waiting room.
Singularly focused on his pleas to God, he doesn’t even realize he’s covered in your blood until Charlie and Jerry arrive shortly after the ambulance and look at him in shock.
“Jesus, EP,” Charlie gasps quietly, taking in the macabre scene, “We need to get you changed and cleaned up before Jack gets here.”
That’s when he looks down and sees your life’s blood staining his pants, his shirt, his arms, his hands. God, it’s even under my nails, he thinks as he watches his hands shake, feeling utterly disconnected from his body.
He’s frozen, unable to move, repeating his prayers again and again, until Charlie whisks him away and has to physically help him strip down and wash the blood from his body in the bathroom. As he watches the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, he cannot bear the thought that maybe it’s the last thing he has of you, these stains, and that maybe he’s truly lost you.
He just got you back. He can’t lose you. He won’t.
No, his inner mantra of prayer doesn’t cease until he is absolutely sure you are going to be okay.
Though “okay” is relative, he learns quickly. You have a long recovery ahead of you, the surgeons say, wiping their sweating brows, and the next few days will be crucial. The baby is gone, and the doctors say that more tests need to be done once you are well to see if that is even an option in the future.
He is heartbroken for you, and for Jack. But you are alive. You are alive.
Lamar and Red have to physically drag him from the hospital in the morning to get him ready and put him on the train to Florida for Frank Sinatra’s special, which is the very last thing he wants to do. But it is absolutely pivotal in his career comeback, so he tells Rosie in no uncertain terms that she is to keep him posted about her sister and any developments.
As he showers and packs, exhaustion seeping into his bones, it suddenly hits him that he told you he loved you, and it’s likely there will be fallout from that. It makes him incredibly worried, and he is even more loathe to leave until he knows where he stands with you. It’s possible you won’t even want to see him again.
Or it’s possible she loves you, too, a little voice hopes. But he knows better than to feed that monster. You don’t love him, not like that, and it’s selfish of him to even consider at a time like this.
“It’ll take your mind off things, EP,” Jerry tries to convince him, seeing his trepidation, prodding him along to get on the train. “And it’ll give y/n and Jack and her family time to get situated.”
The message is clear. Elvis is not in the inner circle of your life, not anymore, not as he wants to be. This fact is both sobering and cutting at the same time. It reminds him yet again that where he goes, you cannot follow, and where you go, he is not always welcome or needed.
He nods solemnly, thinking he finally understands, yet again, the terms of his deal with God. You live and he keeps his distance, he keeps his sins from tainting you. You live and he lets you go.
He pops a couple of pills, brought over from Germany, to wake him up, to get him in the performing mindset, to rev him up to being THE Elvis Presley. “Anything she needs, anything at all, comes to me,” he tells Jerry, “Hospital bills, recovery costs…and I want the best doctors helping her figure out her pregnancy issues. Oh, and send flowers, every day.”
Jerry nods, eyes observant and keen. “Of course, EP. Anything for y/n and Jack.”
Yes, anything for you.
*
You don’t remember a thing from that night, he learns from Rosie, and most of him thinks it’s for the best. But a small, egotistical part of him thinks bitterly that you certainly have a knack for forgetting anything monumental that happens between the two of you.
But he is busy. So busy, in fact, that he barely has time to think of you at all after that.
Except half the songs he chooses for his comeback album have something to do with you, which he only consciously realizes when he steps up to the mic to sing. And just as he thought of you the night of the talent show, he thinks of you now, singing about the girl of his best friend and how it feels so right being with you. He pours his hopes and dreams and frustrations and sorrows right into that album.
Perhaps it will cleanse him of needing you. Perhaps it’ll help him let you go.
When you find out that children are likely not in the cards for you and Jack, he sends more flowers, every day for a week. Jack is devastated and practically begs to come out to Hollywood to escape the sadness, so he agrees.
Anything for his friend, right?
He takes care of you from afar. He takes care of everything. Anything you could possibly want or need is yours. But he keeps his distance.
That is the bargain.
He falters at Christmas, almost letting his grief and yours ruin everything. He swears that you feel something for him, that maybe your impulse to be with him was not entirely driven by the drugs all those years ago. That maybe you do somehow remember his confession. Part of him swears if he had let it happen, you would’ve been his once again.
But you are not his, you never really were.
And while he knows this on a logical level, the more he is away, the more he fills his days with mindless movie making and wooing his costars and taking pills that bring him up and more that pull him down, the more he lets himself imagine you are his. From a distance, he can take care of you. From a distance and in the deep recesses of his mind, you belong to him and him alone.
“Elvis Presley” becomes a household name, now with a clean-cut image, alluring to both housewives and teenagers alike. His fame and wealth grow, and so does his isolation and loneliness. So does the need for the pills and to bring the rest of the guys into it all with him. Even Jack.
Especially Jack.
But he doesn’t like to think about why that is.
He manages to destroy his relationship with Anita along the way. He loved her, in his way, he really did. But she was not you. Neither is Ann, though he thinks for a moment that she may be the answer to his prayers, but in the end, he screws that up, too.
As the years drag on, he thinks he finally understands why he sabotages every relationship he’s ever had—it’s you—none of them are YOU. So he flits from fling to fling without ever truly landing because all he really wants is your love. But he doesn’t deserve it, he never has.
He knows this as he watches Jack descend into alcohol and drugs and women, and a small, horrible part of him wants Jack to self-destruct, and even though he knows this hurts you, he is too selfish to stop it. And the guilt of this, coupled with the downturn in his career, pushes him to self-destruct, too.
Still, he keeps his distance. When he’s home, he tries not to shoot you too many lingering glances. He reins himself in, most of the time, but in moments of weakness, he allows himself to get too close. He catches you alone, he makes a pass. But because you are you, you always rebuke him with a laugh. Silly Elvis, ever the jokester.
But sometimes, in the dark of night, in your beautiful, wide eyes, he sees something else. That deeper connection that drew you together in the first place, mixed with a heat he has only seen once or twice. And it is that which keeps his hope alive.
In an attempt to bury it and fill the hole in his heart, he almost marries, but in the end, he can’t go through with it. He’s wildly unhappy and dissatisfied, and it’s not until he finally gains some control over his career again that things take a turn for the better. He finally starts to clean up his act. He seeks knowledge and spiritual clarity. He finally finds his passion for music and performing again after nearly a decade.
But it’s too late for Jack. He managed to drag Jack to hell and while he made it back, Jack has not. And you are miserable because of it. This breaks his heart.
He tried to give you everything you wanted and needed by stepping back to let Jack do so. He kept his distance. He did what he’d promised God, and yet life still destroyed your dreams.
Jack no longer makes you happy. Jack is no longer the man who can give you what you need.
And suddenly Elvis wonders if he was wrong all along. That perhaps he wasn’t the man you needed then, but he is now. Perhaps his sins have been forgiven. Perhaps the more he pushes you away, the worse things become for both of you because you are indeed supposed to be together.
You are his. You’ve always been his.
So, riding high from his first Vegas performance, he finally allows himself to pursue you. He pushes away a decade and a half of guilt and shame and lets his charm and confidence entice you. He lets the sparks fly between you, finally free after all this time, and more intense than ever. To his gleeful surprise, you accept him willingly, if not a bit hesitantly.
Maybe it is just sex, he thinks at first, this carnal need he has for you, but he knows better. As soon as he tastes you after all these years, he knows he can never let you go again. As soon as he coaxes, then watches you come undone again and again, he realizes that still, after all this time, this is it for him. You are it. You always have been. And he will do anything to keep you, to make sure you know that you are his.
He thinks you might remember it all after that first night, but you don’t, not right away. He senses your fear to let go, to let yourself have him, to have this affair. He knows you want this to be only sex. And maybe it is for you, at first.
But he will have you. He doesn’t care how many mountains he must move or what he has to do to convince you to stay, but he loves you more than anything in the world and he’s not willing to part with you, not anymore.
It’s true that his fame, wealth, and influence have spoiled him into always getting what he desires. Of course, what he truly desires always has been you. Now unlocked, his love and want and need for you is insatiable, and he will do anything to keep it that way.
Anything for you. Anything but letting you go.
*
As the blackout of his rage starts to dissipate and he comes to, he assumes that his friends are holding him back from quite literally killing the disheveled and beaten man who used to be his best friend, and he watches with deep satisfaction as you slap the shit out of your husband.
He also feels the immense guilt of letting it get this far, of not knowing just how bad Jack was to you, and his part in all of it.
But when you vomit and promptly fall to an unconscious heap on the ground, his fear is what overshadows his rage and guilt. Something is wrong, he knows it.
Not again, not again, not again.
Triggered by your history, Elvis, with untold strength, wrenches himself from the four men holding him down and clamors to your side, everyone else forgotten.
Pulling your limp body into his lap, he screams for someone to call the doctor. His heart pounds so hard he thinks he might need one, too.
Please God, please God, please God. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.
That deep-seeded, old shame creeps back in as he rocks you: This is your fault. Your selfishness did this. You destroyed Jack, he took it out on her, and you’ve put her at risk, yet again. You are a scourge on this woman you claim to love so much. A pestilence.
He’s getting lost in this fearful despair, and then Jerry’s voice in his ear snaps him back: “EP. EP! You have to let her go, man. The doctor is here.” Jerry pulls his arms off her as the doctor examines her.
Elvis’ fingers go straight to his mouth, his obsessive habit of biting his nails taking over as he watches the doctor carefully.
The doctor looks up, taking in the scene. He looks at Elvis, then at Jack bleeding against the wall, and purses his lips. “Will somebody tell me what happened to this young lady?”
“There was an incident…” Jerry begins diplomatically.
“Her husband slammed his fist into her face!” Sandy yells over him, furious, earning scathing looks from the entourage. They knew better than to give details, knowing to keep things close to the chest and avoid any legal issues, to protect him at all costs.
“Sandy!” Jerry admonishes her.
“No, it’s okay, Jer,” Elvis says firmly, waving him off. “I’m sure the doctor knows to be discreet.”
The doctor looks up at his hovering, intimidating form, and says nothing for a moment. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I need to get her to a hospital and stabilized as soon as possible. She needs x-rays. It’s likely she has a serious concussion, Mr. Presley.”
The men start to argue, knowing that as soon as she leaves this room, a whole host of problems could fall down on them, but that’s the last thing he cares about right now. All that matters is you.
Elvis holds up his hand and everyone goes silent. “Do what you need to do, Doc. Anything she needs.”
The doctor nods and asks that someone phone for an ambulance.
Elvis looks up and sees that the men cleared the room at some point, leaving only the major players. Jack still sits, leaning on the wall next to Red, his face battered and bloody, watching the doctor. Elvis can’t tell if Jack is sorry or not. Elvis walks towards Jack, his anger tempered only by his concern for you.
“EP!” Jerry says in a warning tone, signaling for the men to flank him.
“I’m fine,” he commands, crouching at Jack’s side.
Jack flinches.
“Are you proud of yourself, Jacky Boy? Are you satisfied, seeing her laid out on the ground like that? Is this what you wanted?” he hisses.
Jack says nothing. He sees the tears in Jack’s eyes, the regret through the pain, and for a second, Elvis almost sees the man he used to know in there.
“Hmm,” he tuts, looking over his friend with disgust, shaking his head. “I’ll deal with you later. And you, too,” he says, with a low, deadly calm, pointedly to Red. Then he rises easily from the floor, his attention on the men with the stretcher who just entered the suite.
“It’s never enough with you, EP, you selfish motherfucker. The man who gets everything he wants, no matter how many lives he has to destroy to get it. The rules never apply to you, do they? Dammit, you coulda had anyone, anyone! Why did it have to be y/n?” Jack spits out mournfully from behind him.
Shame snakes through him, through the anger that continues to boil under just the surface, covering the sorrow that flows under that. There is truth in Jack’s words, he knows that, even though he wants to deny it.
“How long, Elvis?”
He supposes he owes Jack that much, though he doesn’t even turn his head.
“Opening night.”
“No, you bastard. How long have you been in love with my wife?”
The room goes silent yet again.
Elvis turns around, but he cannot bring himself to look Jack in the eyes for a moment. A lifetime of memories flashes through his head, of times much better than this, of times when they had each other’s backs. Ultimately, he knows what Jack has become is partially his fault. Ultimately, he knows it was wrong of him to want you when you weren’t his, wrong to have sex with you, even before the debacle of you and the pills. It was wrong of him to manipulate Jack into marrying you.
As much as he hates Jack right now, he once loved him, and still, he betrayed him.
Jack chuckles darkly, “That fucking long, huh?”
Elvis finally looks Jack in the eyes but says nothing. Nothing he can say will make any of this less of a fiasco. Nothing he can say with make it right, no matter how much he wants to jump in to defend himself, to tell Jack he saw you first, to tell him he wanted you first, to fucking explain that you’re his goddamn soulmate and he’s had to watch you be with someone else for almost two fucking decades.
“Ahhh, and she didn’t even know, did she?” A hint of a smile plays on Jack’s bloodied lips. “Didn’t even give the King the time of day! Well, at least I got that goin’ for me,” he laughs.
His brow furrows as he fumes, and he steps towards Jack again. Lamar puts himself between the two men.
“It’s fine, Lamar, let him at me. What do I have to lose now anyways?” Jack laughs, which turn suddenly to sobs, “You were my brother. I gave up my life for you! I loved you, man!”
The words cut Elvis to the bone, flooding his fury with more guilt.
“And I love her,” Jack sobs.
“You don’t fucking love her,” Elvis says, infuriated, pushing past Lamar to grab Jack’s chin, wrenching his head to look at you being put on the stretcher. “You hurt her. You been hurtin’ her. And Jack, if she dies, I don’t care what brotherly love was between you and me—I will fucking kill you,” he says, low and vehement in Jack’s ear, for only him to hear.
He pulls back to stare Jack in the eye, to let him know just how serious he is, to make sure he understands that through the pain and the alcohol and whatever pills he might be on.
Jack blinks through his tears and nods his head once, shakily.
Elvis releases him.
Then he steps in behind you, still unconscious, on the stretcher as they take you out of the penthouse and to the elevator.
“EP, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to…” Charlie starts, hustling behind him.
He turns, seeing the stares of the men who have given him their lives to stand by his side. Some of them are befuddled, some understanding and resigned, some even a little suspicious after tonight’s events.
“I don’t give two shits if it’s a good idea or not, I’m goin’ with her. Anyone wanna argue with me about it?” he says impatiently, shooting up an eyebrow.
No one does.
It’s good it’s the middle of the night, otherwise he would’ve caused a huge scene at the hospital. But the nurses and doctors seem to gather by his demeanor that now is not the time for autographs. Instead of putting them in the waiting room, they set up an empty room at the end of the hall for the lot of them, a gruff old nurse warning them they best be quiet and not wake any of the patients before she closes the door on them.
And for the third time in his life, he waits to know your fate.
He waits for you, just as he’s been waiting for you for the last 18 years.
He waits and he prays, though this time, he makes no bargains with God.
He stills when the doctor finally comes to tell him that, yes, you do have a concussion and though you will likely experience symptoms as you recover, you should recover fully. He feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.
When the doctor leads him and him alone back to your room, the doctor mentions the other symptoms you’ll likely experience and that you might have issues with your memory leading up to the event. Elvis cannot help but chuckle at that.
“Oh, I’m betting she will,” he says under his breath, though this time, he thinks it might be best after what you went through tonight.
He sits by your side in the quiet, dimmed room, and is taken aback by the angry bruising already spreading over your beautiful face. His fury at Jack swells through him once more, followed immediately by sadness. You look so innocent and fragile lying there. Suddenly, he feels afraid to touch you, as though you might break.
So, he waits. He waits for you to wake and he prays. He thinks of the lifetime he’s had without you and the life he wants with you going forward. And this time, he knows he won’t be leaving your side for anyone or anything.
But his secrets still lay heavy and dark on his heart. There are those things he cannot tell you of that day at Graceland so long ago, and the things he still cannot bring himself to admit to, like his confession of love as you almost died in his arms and his meddling in your life. He doesn’t want to tell you how all of it has led to you lying here in this hospital, hurt and fragile but somehow still his, he hopes.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about it yet, so for now he just waits for you to come back to him.
He’s been too rough with you, he thinks, in his quest to show you how you are his. Pushing you too hard to keep up with his rockstar lifestyle and his insatiable need for you sexually has not been good for you. You’re exhausted, not eating, and have been on an emotional rollercoaster for days, and he was too consumed by his own selfishness to listen, so much so that he almost drove you away. The hurt, the feeling of pure panic that shot through him when you said you were leaving was enough to bring him to his knees, but of course, he could not tell you that. He couldn’t show you that weakness. Instead, he’d covered it with anger and passion, fucking you into submission.
He realizes his dominance, while fun in the bedroom, is perhaps masking his true feelings. He has told you in so many words how desperate he is for you, how he wants you to be with him, to let him take care of you, how he is yours, that he needs you. But in truth, he is afraid. Afraid that you don’t and never will feel the same towards him as he does towards you. That it is only his coercion, manipulation, and his sexual prowess that keeps you here with him. No matter how much you say you are his and that you will stay as he fucks it out of you, he’s not convinced that you’ll feel the same in the light of day, of your own accord.
Lord, the way you said you needed him tonight flashed him right back to that first time with you at Graceland. The time you don’t remember. He is putty in your hands now, just as he was then. But that need of yours was only sexual. If it is truly just sex for you and you are only staying for that…well, that scares him and makes him want to hold onto you so tightly that you can’t leave even if you wanted to.
If you don’t ever feel that same pull inside your heart, in your soul, that he has for you, he’s not sure what he will do.
Gone is the bravado and confidence gleaned from years of being Elvis Presley. Instead, he sits here at your bedside feeling stripped to his core: a nervous, stuttering boy with a funny name who loves you more than life itself. He is that boy who picked your books up off the ground, the one who you calmed backstage with your sweetness and wit. For you and you alone, he is just Elvis. And he’s worried he won’t recover if you don’t ever grow to love him.
Anxiety courses through him, a throbbing pulse that serves to remind him that for all he has and is in this world, he is still only a man. And you are the girl who has comforted him through some of his worst moments, yet now after all this time he’s still terrified to let you truly see him. If he lets you in, you will see him for all that he is and all the terrible parts of himself he’s ashamed of: his selfishness and possessiveness, his overindulgence, his obsessive tendencies, his goddamned vanity and ego. His secrets. If you know the things he’s kept from you, he’s not sure you’ll ever forgive him. Certainly, you could not love him.
His heart aches at that thought, flooding him with despair. He needs you so badly that he cannot bear to risk showing you everything; however, a deep part of him wants to flay himself bare to you, to expose himself in a way that he has never done before, not with anyone.
Elvis puts his head on the bed near your hand. He is going to be gentler with you, especially after tonight. He will prove to you that he is worthy of your love, that this is so much more than just sex. He’s going to take care of you and give you the life you’ve always deserved.
God has humbled him once again tonight, and he knows he must do better.
He loves you so deeply he can hardly breathe.
So, he waits. He prays.
And he hopes that one day, you will love him, too.
*
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@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis
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#Pink Scarf Part 18.2#Pink Scarf#elvis#elvis presley#elvis presley x reader#elvis x reader#if you're looking for trouble#you came to the right place#austin!elvis presley x reader#austin!elvis x reader#elvis x y/n#elvis presley imagine#elvis presely smut#elvis smut#elvis x you#austin elvis x reader#austin elvis imagine#austin butler elvis#austin butler#elvis 2022#elvis movie#austin!elvis smut#austin!elvis x y/n#austin!elvis imagine#elvis fic#elvis fanfic#austin!elvis fic#elvis presley fic
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happy rwrb thanksgiving! :D
in honor of how ridiculously grateful I am for the space and community this fandom has brought to my life, I wanted to create something to give back in the lead up to thanksgiving!
below the cut you'll find an (incomplete) list of ways that you can support the writers and artists that continue to give us such wonderful content. <3
+
firstly, of course, you can support casey + the crew by streaming the film or buying the book!
ways to support writers/fics:
(on ao3)
☆ subscribe to the author
☆ leave kudos
☆ leave a comment
☆ bookmark + add a nice comment in the bookmarkers tags (they're public!)
☆ check the recent works for the fandom to find some lesser known works + subscribe to the pairing for notifications
☆ if you don't like/agree with something or don't have something nice to say, kindly press the back button
☆ this is a good source for other ao3 related support!
☆ this is a good source for learning how to compose comments on ao3!
(on tumblr)
☆ reblog the author's fic posts
☆ leave nice comments in the tags
☆ send a nice ask/anon about their work
☆ create a fic rec list
☆ comment underneath the post
☆ follow their blog for updates/etc.
☆ follow the tags you're interested in to stay updated on the latest works
☆ once again, if you don't have anything nice to say, you can always choose not to interact with the content! be kind!
ways to support artists/artwork:
☆ purchase from their shops (if they have one!)
☆ commission them (if they accept custom orders!)
☆ 'buy them a coffee' / donate to their ko-fi (if applicable)
☆ reblog/retweet/share their art on whatever platform they post on (but do NOT repost/remove watermark/etc.)
☆ reach out to the artist to find out how you can best support them
☆ follow their accounts to stay updated when they post new pieces!
☆ talk about what you liked in the tags or in a comment/message
☆ if you don't like the art/etc., kindly scroll past!
self-promo:
☆ reblog/re-share your own art/writing to make sure it reaches different time zones and demographics
☆ make sure you're tagging your fics and art accordingly to reach your target audience
☆ interact with your readers/viewers for more engagement
☆ get involved in tag games etc. here on tumblr
☆ join (or create!) fests and challenges that you and other writers/artists can take part in
☆ support others in return & be kind!
--
feel free to reblog and add your own ideas if I missed any! there are a million ways to show appreciation, but this is a good start!
no matter why you're here -- whether you're an author, an artist, any other kind of creator, or someone who enjoys the art created by them, publicly or privately, you play such an important role and are actively making this space an uplifting, inspiring community to be a part of. thank you, and continue to create, support, and be kind to one another! :D
I hope you're all having a lovely week, and happy early thanksgiving!
-- anincompletelist / sarah
#rwrb#red white and royal blue#henry fox mountchristen windsor#alex claremont diaz#alex and henry#rwrb fanfiction#rwrb fic#alex x henry#henry fox#firstprince#ao3
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💙 Welcome Everyone 💙
Welcome to my buddie/911 blog where I basically shitpost about these two gay firefighters, as well as share my fics on ao3. Since I’ve been getting a lot of new friends joining me here, I’m making this post as a sort of Get-To-Know-Me hub that will be pinned on my blog for any newcomers.
If you would like to read any of my fics, you can find me on ao3 under my pseudonym LoversAlwaysLose- I write exclusively buddie content as of right now, but might branch out into other pairings from other shows in the future as I get back into writing regularly after a few years of inactivity.
-=- Get To Know Me -=-
- My name is Louis
- I am currently 21 years old, and am a Libra
- I identify as nonbinary, and gay
- My preferred pronouns are he/they, but I am also open to any you use for me as long as it is in a respectful manner!
- I am a buddie truther at heart, and am not a multishipper (though i don’t fault those who are) but if you are looking for anything other than buddie content, you probably will not find that here (aside from the occasional bathena, henren, and madney post/reblog)
- If i miss an ask here and there, I apologize! I am a full time college student irl finishing my last semester before I graduate in August so sometimes asks will slip through the cracks. I will do my best to reply to every ask, but sometimes it just isn’t possible, and I don’t mean it as a slight against you <3
- This blog stands with the people of Palestine 🇵🇸
-=- Some Ground Rules -=-
- Please keep my blog a kind and respectful place- I do not typically enjoy engaging in discourse unless I or someone I know on here is on the receiving end of negative feedback, so I try to keep my blog as upbeat and fun as possible
- Please feel free to send me asks on different topics! I am always down to talke about buddie, headcanons, fanfics, answer questions about my own works, things about me that you are curious about, etc. I simply ask that you refrain from asking me questions focused on fandom discourse, as well as plot speculation as i have anxiety and topics like these don’t help the situation.
- I will not stand for any negative comments on eddie diaz, and will not interact with any asks or comments about him on this page. if my user wasn’t blatant enough, eddie has been and always will be my favorite character through his faults and i will not welcome any eddie antis here
- Please do not repost any of my fics anywhere else. If you wish to share them, please tag me as the original creator, and if you wish to create fanart based on my fics, please share the work as well as tag me in the artwork because I would love to see it!
- Comments and Kudos are always welcome on my ao3. I love hearing feedback from everyone who reads my fics, and I try my best to respond to comments when I can!
- If you dislike/disagree with something I post/reblog, please feel free to unfollow or block me! It’s that easy.
- I won’t stand for any intolerance of minorities on this blog, so if you find a specific minority invalid for whatever reason, please leave this blog now <3
-=- Links -=-
AO3: This is where i post all of my fics. Pls do not repost on any other platforms, and if you share, please tag me 💕💕
Kofi: Pls do not feel obligated to tip me, but tips are always appreciated 💕💕
#eddie diaz is my husband#welcome to my blog#get to know me#get to know the blogger#get to know the author#ao3#ao3 author#buddie#ao3 buddie#911 buddie#buddie 911#911 abc#911 on abc#911 fanfic#buddie ao3#eddie diaz#evan buckley#buck and eddie#eddie diaz x buck#eddie diaz x evan buck buckley#eddie x buck
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Jonerys Falling for You 2023 - Masterpost
Thank you so much to everyone who participated, whether by sharing your talents or by supporting writers and artists! This was a blast and we feel lucky to be involved in such a creative and supportive community ❤️
If you haven’t had a chance please be sure to check out the wonderful works and show your appreciation with kudos, comments, and reblogs! The full list of submissions are below the cut!
Our next event is planned for February, and we will be posting prompts soon.
Day 1 | Comfort | Warmth | Wearing His Hoodie or Cloak
Burn and Consume: Red as Autumn by @arielchelby
All my life I felt alone, except with you by @rhaegarblackfire
Falling for You: Wrap me in your arms by @filhadoboto
Falling for You: The three heads of the dragon by @filhadoboto
this love is like fire and ice (still falling for you) by fae_changeling1492
Wondering by @moon-ruled-rising
Day 2 | Fall Colors | Harvest Festival | Back-to-School/College AU
Weirwood in Autumn by @tatticstudio55
Maroon by @moondancer71
Falling for You: Harvesting Love by @filhadoboto
Seasons of Change: The Next Fall by @littledancer9
Secret (Storeroom) Shenanigans by @jellybeanficwriter
Day 3 | Witching Hour | Monsters/Demons | Haunted
Inner Demons by @arielchelby
Falling for You: Have We Met Before? by @filhadoboto
Watch the world burn; i set it all alight for you by @thebeastunderyourbed
Monsters by @rhaegarblackfire
Day 4 | Coffee Shop AU | Second Chance Romance | Road Trip/Exploring Nature AU
Falling for You: I can't fool my heart by @filhadoboto
Wild Hearts Unveiled by @evax3
Prey by @rhaegarblackfire
like freedom, like rosemary and thyme by @girlwithakiwi
Day 5 | Halloween Party | Trick or Treat | Free Choice
This is Halloween by @moondancer71
Hocus Pocus by @arielchelby
The Secret Histories by @mysnowdragons
Falling for You: The warg in my path by @filhadoboto
#jonerys#jonerys fanfic#jon snow#daenerys targaryen#jon x dany#jon x daenerys#jon snow x daenerys targaryen#jonerys falling for you 2023#ice and fire jonerys discord#masterpost
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