#elvis my love | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

h0unds-of-h3ll · 4 months

Text

Don’t worry darling

Another year with Elvis has come and gone. Since you first started a serious relationship with him he’s given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Now that it’s your turn to return the favor everything has just gone wrong. Don’t you worry, he knows how to make it all better.

Elvis Presley x reader fluff.

Word count: 2k.

Warnings: making out, dirty talk, heavy touching, talk of insecurities, crying.

A/n: happy birthday to my beloved showman. Released early because I couldn’t help myself.

Getting Elvis a birthday gift was always difficult. Arguably one of the most troubling tasks given to a person. What didn’t Elvis already have? He had everything, so what could you give him that would be substantial? For some strange reason, you decided to bake him something.

The old wives tale is that the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so why not give it a shot? The thing was, you weren’t a baker and not that good of a cook to begin with. Sure, you tried to bake miscellaneous pastries and desserts, and Elvis would eat them along with everyone in Graceland, humming and oozing with admiration as they ate, telling you that it was amazing once their mouths were empty. You can’t help but feel like they lied to you; they were too scared of breaking your poor ole little heart if they told you the truth. Maybe it was Elvis telling them that if they said anything bad about your cooking, he’d tan their hides.

You’d hum a tune to one of his songs. Strumming the tips of your manicured nails on the tops of the marbled counters, you wait for the bread of your cake to rise. Nervously, you smile. An anxious flush turns your body warm. It’s not going to turn out the way you wanted; you just had a strange intuition about it. Knowing that you put in way too much sugar and flour. You wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t rise at all. You chewed down on your bottom lip, the nervous anticipation getting the best of you.

You could hear the mafia and Elvis yelling and playing football out front, with their wives and children cheering them on. That just filled you with more dread. What if he stumbles in on you when it’s not done? Or even worse, what if he saw your mistake, and you made him disappointed on his birthday?

Sighing, you stick one of your fingers into the icing you had laid out and stick the pad on your tongue. The sugar lifts your mood, but the ding of the oven going off sinks it.

Opening the top, you gasp and are instantly hit with emotion. It didn’t lift. It stayed flat, like a pancake. Reaching up on your tiptoes, you turn the dial off. Tears are pricking behind your eyes. You didn’t want to look at it; you didn’t want to admit your failure. Oh, how disappointed Elvis is going to be! You stood there, hands flat on the counter, as tears slipped down your painted cheeks. Mascara streaked down the apples of them.

What if you just decorated it pretty to hide the fact that it’s ugly? You sniffled with a swift nod, deciding that’s what you'd do. Opening the oven once more with a mitt over your hand, you take the side of the pan and take it out.

Staring at it with sorrow. It had so much potential, and now it's as flat as it can be. The tears began to fall again. A soft sob falls from your mouth. Taking the white frosting, you stream it over the round top, smoothing it over the sides with a spatula. Then make big white dollops over the sides. Follow it with a pink, then a red. Sticking a few cherries in the dollops too. Relieved to know that it wasn’t such an ugly duckling anymore, but now a little swan that’s beginning to understand its beauty. In a gold shimmery yellow, you write haphazardly “happy birthday, El” since Elvis didn’t fit. That was what truly broke you. Your chin wobbled, and with sticky frosting on your hands and fingers, you balled your hands up and rubbed the tears from your face. Truly just shattering in the kitchen.

His cologne filled the air, and before you could even turn around, he pressed himself up against your back. His large, wringed hands spread over your stomach. He kisses your shoulder lightly before placing his chin on your shoulder. You shook his entire head as you cried. His fingers swirled over the wrinkles in your dress.

“Why are you weeping on my birthday, Satnin?”

His acknowledgment of your sadness only made you feel worse. You knew that Elvis had a heightened sense of empathy, which is what prompted him to be so generous. He was like a dog; he could walk into a room and know immediately how everyone felt.

“Is it because I’m gettin’ older? Gon’ become a decrepit old man; is that what you’re cryin’ ‘bout?”

You giggled lightly, your eyes still cloudy with tears. He smiled at your laugh.

“Mourning my youth, is that it?”

You sniffled and moved around in his arms to where you were face to face. His hands fall onto the counter, caging you between his body and the stone. You don’t look into his prying blue eyes. Those of his made you weak.

“Not quite. w-why aren’t you playing football?”

His lips turned into a soft smile, warmth radiating off of him. His eyes filled with mirth. It might be his birthday, but he still looks as young as when you first met him.

"I noticed you weren’t out there, honey. I missed you, cherrin’ me on.”

He takes his hands off the bar and places them on the sides of your face. He sweeps the frosting and cake mix off of your face. He sticks the cream in his mouth and makes his cheeks hollow as he sucks it off. Humming at the sweetness. His eyes close as he truly soaks in the taste. As they open, your stomach is twisted in knots, and your thighs itch for his touch. His eyes linger on your lips, and his palm runs down the side of your face to your neck. He cranes his head down and presses his thick, plump lips over yours. It’s electric and warm. The way he kisses you feels like he’s starving.

He tastes like sugar and honey. A hint of a cigar he’s smoked earlier in the day on his lips. His tongue sweeps over the part between your lips. His hands travel south to your back. Smoothing over the silk. He squeezes the thickness of your hips, then the softness of your ass. He takes big handfuls and palms at your backside. You squeak as he lifts you up and places you on the counter. The marble is cold on the backs of your thighs, making you shiver and your skin prick with bumps.

His hands continue to knead at your thighs. Your dress bunching around your hips. Your heels dangling by his legs. His nose nudged against your cheek. He pulls back. Breathing raggedly.

“You never told me why you were cryin’.”

He mumbles on your lips. You can’t even think straight; your head is foggy with emotion. Eyes half lidded, you look up at him through your lashes.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

He shakes his head. His hair moving on his head by the motion. His eyes flick down to your lips, staring longingly. His hand reaches up to the side of your neck, his thumb traces along your jaw. His other hand lays flat on your thigh.

“Darlin’ if you don’t tell me, I’ll bend you over right here and tear your ass to seven different shades of red.”

He mumbles when he says it so casually, like he does when he jokes, but this wasn’t a joke nor a threat. It was a promise. Your pussy flutters, cheeks warming at his statement. Your eyes look towards the floor, becoming shy. All too self conscious.

“T-tried to make you a cake."

“Mhm,”

His chest rumbles. It vibrates under your palms.

“And it turned out ugly.”

He snickers once you finish, at the idiocy. He loves you but sometimes you are too naive to understand simple things. That’s why he was here to be able to moderate your helpless self, he gets antsy thinking about the person you’d be without him.

“Nothin’ you do will ever be ugly.”

Your brows furrow, and you look up at him. Suddenly feeling insecure.

"Are you sure, El?”

“I know so.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes as you digest his words. Nothing you would ever do would be ugly to him, and that made you want to cry all over again.

“So, where is my birthday cake?”

He curled up his eyebrow as he asked. You pushed him softly away by his shoulders; he helped you down from the counter. Always being a gentleman. There, in all its chaotic glory, was your cake. He smiled, taking the pan and moving it to the edge of the counter.

“You made this?”

He doesn’t look over his shoulder when he talks, he’s too enamored by your creation. You nod quietly. Wringing your hands in your lap, head cast downwards.

He sticks his long index finger in it, up to his golden ring. Placing the white, red, pink coating in his mouth. He moans. This is the type of moan you hear when he finishes. It was just that good. His eyes roll back, and he goes for another swipe.

Your eyes bulge out of your head as he devours the cake in front of you. It started out with his finger, and now it’s in his palm as he eats his way through the small dessert you made him. You were shocked, to say the least. Amazed at how fast he ate it. You’d be sure to hear him whine about his stomach hurting later.

After he was done, he took one of the cherries in his mouth. You watched as his tongue poked at his cheeks. You were confused as to what he was doing. He took a kitchen rag and wiped off his damp fingers. He stared at you. Pretty little woman, his woman making him stuff. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to eat the other cake that was bought for him by the Mafia wives. He much preferred the one you made with love than the store bought one. Even if it was too sweet it was made by you, and you were always too sweet. That’s one of the reasons he loves you so much, but truthfully you give him toothaches.

“Did you like it?”

You whispered under your breath. He laughed heartily, loud and boisterous. It filled the entire house. He took a step over to you. Holding your arms. You looked up at him and he had frosting smeared over his cheeks and lips.

“Darlin’ I ate the whole damn thing.”

You blush, smiling sheepishly. He kisses you, he pushes the tied cherry stem between your lips into your mouth. He pulled back, kissing you on your lips with a quirky smile.

“Somethin’ I learned back in high school.”

You smiled softly imagining a young Elvis buying milkshakes with cherries on them just to practice tying the stem with his teeth.

“Happy birthday, Elvis.”

He smiles in return, one arm over the back of your shoulders as he walks you out of the kitchen and to the front door.

“You’re the best present I could’ve asked for little darlin’”

He adores the light that flickers in your eyes after he compliments you. He kisses your head again, leaving frosting on your skin. He opens the door for you. Waiting for you to walk out before giving your ass a little spank. Amused at your squeal and little jump. You bring your hands back to massage your aching cheek. He’s just happy to have his little cheerleader back.

#xreader #fanfic #fluff #elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis #happy birthday Elvis #elvisaaronpresley #elvis my love #elvis my beloved #i love elvis #elvis x reader #obsessed with him

140 notes · View notes