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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

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Fireside - A Pink Scarf Universe Story 💗🧣💗

A/N: Apparently, I am not able to stay too far away from our darlin' Reader and Elvis, no matter how hard I try! I just love them too much. So, here is a sexy little blurb taking place in February 1970. I hope you enjoy, and maybe if this gets enough likes and traction, I'll release more and grow the "Pink Scarf Universe" lol, who knows?

If you haven't read Pink Scarf, read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist (though honestly you could probably read this without knowing their story it just won't be as fun for you without the background info 😂).

I will also say this isn't as heavily edited and revised as PS, but hopefully it's still readable...

TW: MINORS DNI 18+ SEXX. PS Daddy E is back! The usual filth with these two. Fluff. A tinge of angst at the beginning. 😏

Word Count: 4.4k

Fireside

Graceland, Late February 1970

Shivering as you make your way across the lawn, you pull your arms across your coat in tight, feeling a bit insolent and annoyed that you even have to trudge out here in the middle of the night. But Elvis had insisted, in that spontaneous way of his, that he must have a campfire tonight, of all nights, even though they all had just returned from his second engagement in Las Vegas and were all beat to hell with exhaustion. So, he and the guys had all tasked at building what you considered to be a too large and dangerous fire in out on the back lawn.

Perhaps you might be feeling more understanding if you hadn’t just spent two weeks away from him—the longest amount of time you’d been apart since August. You’d been sent home early after catching the monster flu that had been going around, which had turned quickly into a terrible bout of bronchitis. The desert air had done you no favors, and Elvis, along with the doctor, had sent you home to Memphis despite your protests. You were furious because Elvis, too, had caught the flu, but in that stubborn way of his had insisted on performing through it like an insane person.

“All these folks paid good money and flew in from all over to come see me, Satnin. I ain’t gonna disappoint them,” he’d said to you as you both coughed and raged with fever.

You were so mad he’d sent you home during your first engagement as one of his back-up singers that you were still stung by it. But you were also finding yourself increasingly needy for him along with your moodiness.

Which is why you find yourself out in the cold, sniffling, desperate for your fiancé to come inside and shower you with attention instead of living it up out in the cold with the guys he just spent a solid month with.

Your grumpiness is fueled as you approach the roaring flames and spot Elvis in his low Adirondack chair, laughing it up with the guys. You don’t like the feeling of jealousy that creeps over you at his attention being pulled away from you by these men. It’s silly, you know, just as you know it’s part of the package. Elvis’ light and charisma demands attention whether he means it to or not but having been away from him the past few weeks made you miss him in a way you haven’t felt before.

Part of you can’t escape how handsome he looks in the firelight, his smile wide and crinkling his lovely blue eyes. And that damn laugh of his is so contagious and musical that it almost—almost—pulls you out of your funk.

That tether between you has been pulled tight for too long and yanks you towards him out here in the cold. You stand over him sullenly for a moment until he raises those soulful eyes up to yours.

“Why ain’t you in bed, Satnin? You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll catch another chill,” Elvis says in what to him is a caring way yet to you feels almost dismissive. But he must see the needy look in your eyes and the tears brimming there because his voice softens and he adds, “Come ‘ere then,” and lifts the heavy blanket over his legs. A sense of deep relief falls over you as you slide sideways into his lap, throwing your legs across his, his warmth cocooning you. He pulls the heavy blanket up over you both and you snuggle into his chest.

Yes, this is what you need, you think, collapsing into him, his spicy familiar scent enveloping you, the heat of his body burning into yours. One arm circles around your back and his other hand rests on your thigh, pulling you ever closer. God, you missed this. You missed him. To think you spent so many years near him but without him… No wonder your brain concealed so much from you for so long—this yearning you feel is nearly unbearable and he is already yours.

You sigh into his neck, and he presses his chin down to look at you. “What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers in your ear, his hand slipping under your coat to rub comforting circles at your waist. His slender fingers are cold, but you don’t care in the least.

“Missed you,” is all you can eek out in your sensitive, tearful state, your hand clutching at the front of his coat.

“Aww, darlin’, I’m right here,” he says, kissing the top of your head, then pressing his fire-warmed cheek to your cool one.

You can’t help but pout, your mood worn from weeks of being sick and without him to comfort you. It’s not like you to act this way—for years you built a stoic shell around yourself to cope with Jack being gone all the time—but Elvis managed to break that shell into pieces last summer. Since then, you’ve found yourself feeling every little thing and unable to hide it from him. Perhaps it is because he is so finely tuned into you that he just knows when something is off, but you can’t seem to hide things from him even when you’ve tried.

“Mhm,” Elvis tuts in your ear, “you’re still sore that I sent you home, ain’tcha? I’m not gonna be sorry about that, honey. You were too sick and the doc was right—that Vegas air was doin’ you no good.” He shakes his head.

You huff stubbornly and bury your head into his long neck. Of course, logically, you know they were right to send you back, but you are still upset and not just about that. You can’t seem to voice exactly what you are mad about, only realizing that you are annoyed and sad and small and needy in a way you’ve never been before. And this overwhelm seems to steal your ability to express any of those emotions in words. You’re not sure what exactly you need, other than being as close as possible to the man you love.

“Oh, don’t you be obstinate, now,” Elvis warns quietly, the slightest edge of temper in his voice. Your only response is to cling to him harder, to nuzzle yourself further into the warmth that emanates off him.

He says nothing for a moment, staring into the fire, but you can sense the gears turning behind those pretty, worn eyes. Finally, he seems to come to some conclusion because his countenance shifts and he forces your chin out of his neck with his finger so he can look you in the eyes.

“Is all this because you need Daddy to take care of you?” he asks quietly, firmly. His voice is low and rumbles right down to your toes, the words setting every one of your nerves on fire along the way.

A whimper escapes your lips. You are suddenly grateful for the inky darkness of the winter’s night, at the heat of the fire, because they conceal the blush that suddenly blotches your cheeks as Elvis stares deeply into your eyes. The gaze has you squirming to get off his lap and you want to pull him into the house where you need him, but his large hands clamp down firm.

“Be still,” he commands sternly, but only loud enough for you to hear.

Your heart is galloping at the implication of those two little words.

“Now are ya gonna be a good, quiet little girl for me?” Elvis asks, his hand gripping your chin so you have to look at him. His face is the picture of controlled calm—it’s only the flames dancing in his darkening eyes that gives him away.

You hadn’t realized just how badly you needed him to take control until this very moment.

You manage to nod solemnly as all the blood in your body seems to rush into your core. You don’t know what he has in store for you, but the fact that he is not making any attempt to leave the company of the men surrounding you makes you nervous (and maybe a little intrigued).

Elvis releases your chin and pulls the heavy blanket up over your shoulders, encouraging you to snuggle back into him by tightening his hand around your waist. The warm wool now covers you both from head to toe, and it is only then that you start to glean why that might be important.

You rest your head on his collarbone, waiting with bated breath, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart begin to quicken under your hand as you slip it into his coat. You’re unable to help the impulse to place a fluttering kiss at the pulse point on his elegant long neck, and his lip curls up in response. Before long, he begins drawing small circles with his fingertips up the inside of your thigh, and when reaching the hem of your dress, he slips under without compunction. You stiffen as he continues, unhurried, up, up, up until he reaches your panty line.

Your eyes widen and you wonder if Elvis is really going to do this with all the guys around. It’s bold, even for him, even with the blanket tenting and concealing his movements. A snake of apprehension in your gut is overrun by the thrill of the risk. The conversation around the fire flows on without either of you, and the crackle of the flames conceals a lot, and for that you are grateful.

The light brush of his fingers over the cotton of your panties makes you jump despite yourself, and in response, Elvis grips your waist hard, stilling you.

“Be good,” he orders through clenched teeth, “or I’m gonna stop and leave you to fend for yourself. Or maybe I oughta pull this blanket off and let the guys enjoy the show.” His lip quivers up slyly at that.

The threat stills you either way.

Elvis chuckles darkly. His fingers resume their teasing, dancing over the cotton at your core delightfully as you attempt to stay as still and quiet as possible. He is maddeningly patient, doing this until you can feel the throb of your pulse blossoming between your thighs, and it has you oh-so-quietly panting into his neck. But it’s not until he feels the fabric dampen under his touch that he finally slides his naughty, slender finger underneath, grazing through your slick and up to your sensitive bud, forcing you to bite down to keep from keening loudly.

Fuck, you’ve missed him.

By now, he knows how to play you like an instrument, his instrument, knowing exactly how much pressure to use as he circles your clit again and again, enough to get you sufficiently worked up. His casualness suggests he has all the time in the world while you’re sitting in his lap beginning to shudder from the pleasure coiling low in your belly.

Occasionally, he’ll stop, just to listen to your desperate breathlessness, your carnal wanting of him quelled by trying to be a quiet, good girl like you promised. A hint of a smirk plays on his face, making you want to crush your mouth to his or slap him for his teasing. Instead, you settle for clawing at his shirt.

The wetness that gathers between your legs has your panties soaked and sticking to you now, which might be embarrassing except for the fact that you are so damn needy for him, you couldn’t care less about your ruined underwear. Elvis discovers this fact as he finally dips lower, running the length of his finger back and forth through your sopping, swollen folds, taking his sweet damn time.

You tense. You are nearly ready to come undone just from his teasing, but you know that’s not what he wants. That’s not the game he’s playing. You raise your head from his chest just long enough to give him a pleading look.

He's doing a decent job of keeping his handsome features neutral, looking to a casual observer as though he is following the conversation around the fire and not driving you to madness under the blanket. But knowing him as you do, you can see the tiny giveaways that he, too, is flustered: the way his nostrils flare with his increased breathing rate, how his brilliant blues gleam with arousal, the way his plump lips part when he finally presses his middle finger deep into you.

Your wetness devours him readily. To hide the gasp and roaring flush on your cheeks, you pull the blanket up even farther. You clutch at his chest and your nails scrape his skin. After a few agonizing minutes, there’s no helping the instinct to grind your hips against his hand, wanting him deeper, wanting to consume him.

But while he smirks and is pleased with your desperation, he also will not relinquish control. He stills completely, one hand gripping your waist hard as a reminder of who is in charge. Your warm, wet heat clenches around his finger.

“Be good and stop squirmin’, little one,” he whispers low in your ear, “and maybe Daddy will keep finger fuckin’ you ‘till ya come.”

You stop moving but whine in response to those dirty words coming from his perfect pouty mouth—you just can’t help it—but it’s so quiet he can barely hear you. Your reward is another finger sliding deep into your heat. He picks up the pace in an unforgiving way. Gasping, you bite your lip when he curves those fingers just so, hitting that spot deep inside that is only his.

The blanket barely moves, and you have no idea what magic he is using to keep things so incognito, especially considering he naturally has so much energy that his limbs are usually vibrating uncontrollably. You still feel completely on display, though, especially when the pad of his thumb begins massaging your bud in time with his expert fingers pumping in and out of you.

I’m going to come undone, right here, in front of all the guys, you think in horror. You have no clue how you are going to keep quiet and still and good if that happens. Panic begins to build behind your arousal because you just know that coil is going to burst and you’ll cry out in ecstasy any second now (but a dark part of you is even more aroused by the scandalous nature of it all).

Elvis must sense the change in you because he edges you right up to the point of no return but not over. He halts his ministrations. You clutch desperately at his expensive shirt, certain you are going to shred it to pieces by the time this little game of his is through. Your heart pounds hard and fast against your ribcage, in time with his, and you wait to see what he has in store for you next. Because even though a part of you is embarrassed by this game, you are drinking in every drop of attention, relishing his command over you, needy for every morsel he deems to give you.

He’s considering his next move, you think, by the way his eyes narrow slightly and his grip on you shifts. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you almost moan for the loss of them, but catch yourself at the last second. Brazenly, he wipes his sticky fingers down your inner thigh, his eyes dancing with amusement as he does so.

You gape at him. He can’t be finished, you think dismally. He can’t leave me like this.

No, you don’t think so, not with the way you can feel his hardened length pressing into your hamstring.

He kisses your temple sweetly. “Now listen carefully, little girl: Imma need you to shift onto one of Daddy’s legs for a second. Nice and slow now, don’t call attention to it. And hold those ruined panties of yours to the side. I wanna feel that pretty little kitty weepin’ for me,” he rumbles in your ear.

Oh my goddd... The urge to moan long and loud fills you but you just nod instead.

You follow his directions and move your weight so one of his lean, muscled thighs is between yours. The rough fabric of his pants scrapes your bare pussy as he bounces his leg a few times, sending a cascaded of shivers into your belly. His pants will need to be dry cleaned for the soaking spot you’re leaving there, and part of you feels a sense of pride to be marking him in such a way. Mine.

Holding the blanket up to your shoulders dutifully, you stare at the golden flames licking into the air in front of you. No one seems to notice or care that you have shifted.

That’s when you feel it. The slow, deliberate way he undoes his belt, the ticking of his zipper. You blush furiously, then feel the spring of his heavy cock being released. Before you can react, he unceremoniously and quickly lifts you fully onto his lap, lining you up then impaling you down upon his length.

You cover your surprise and choke with a cough—not unusual considering you’re still recovering from bronchitis. Thank god you are as wet as you are because, even so, it’s a damn tight fit with him having been away these past few weeks. You have to keep yourself from rolling your eyes into the back of your head because he’s finally filling you the way you need him to.

Yes, this is what you wanted. This is what you needed. You just didn’t expect it to be in front of all his (albeit unaware) friends.

By the way Elvis grips your waist and from the soft grunt that escapes him, you know he’s struggling to contain his own reaction to your heat, despite the air of control he’s been exuding. He adjusts you how he wants you: leaning your back over his chest, your legs draped over his, his chin resting on your shoulder. With the way the seat of the chair tips down to the ground and with blanket pulled all the way up, nothing looks amiss.

You close your eyes and sigh, relishing the feel of him stretching you, his cock buried deliciously deep inside you. He envelops you in his arms, one under your breasts, the other at your lower belly. His warmth burns into your back, but he does not let you move. Those wiry but strong arms have effectively pinned you to him. Almost frantic, you try for some semblance of friction, anything at all to ease the tension, but he just chuckles at your near-silent gasps, holding you fast against him.

Finally, once you relent and relax, Elvis swivels his hips, again and again, in a slow rhythm not unlike one monumentally famous performance on TV in the beginning of his career, the one that sent the church ladies off their rockers and the teenage girls fainting. Suddenly, you want to giggle at the fact that his damn hips resulted in both his skyrocketing career and in his censorship because those same hips have certainly become even more skilled in the many years between then and now, but for different, more scandalous reasons. Maybe those church ladies had a point, after all, you laugh quietly. And it causes you to clench around his cock.

Then you hear a low growl in your ear: “What a dirty little girl you are, letting Daddy take you like this in front of all these men. Bein’ so good for me. You like this, baby girl?” Each statement is accentuated with a shallow but pointed roll of his pelvis.

You bite your lip, nodding. His dirty talk has molten heat flooding down your limbs and directly into your cunt. With the warmth of the roaring fire coupled with the passioned heat at your back, your arousal grows with each small movement, each scandalous word, and has you feeling like you might combust before this is all said and done.

So desperately do you want to ride him within an inch of his life, but he won’t allow it. No, this is his show, and you give into him, fully resting back onto his chest. He rewards you by finding your clit again, massaging it in slow time with his barely moving cock. The result is both torturous and delectable, working you into such a state that you dig your nails so hard into his clothed thighs that he hisses.

“Fuck, little one, you feel so good,” Elvis breathes jaggedly into your ear. He presses a hand to your lower belly, then rolls his hips up. In this position, he’s big enough that you both can feel him there. “Takin’ my cock so well.”

You do your level best not to mewl, to stay quiet for him. Instead, your breathing pants through your nostrils and you try to keep your wits about you, trying to stay good as he fucks you so slowly within an inch of your life. Fucks you with all the guys around, who seem none the wiser.

He must feel you begin to flutter around him, your climax drawing ever closer. You feel like you’re about to burst because you need to scream, to moan out his name, do something that will let you release this pressure, but you tamp it all down as far as you can.

“Daddy’s gonna make you come now, sweetheart,” he purrs.

“N-not h-here,” you breathe out, panicked, knowing you can’t hold on much longer.

“Yes, here,” he chastises. “Right in front of ev’rybody. You’re gonna come so hard, baby, cuz Daddy treats you right, doesn’t he?”

You almost sob at that and nod, that coil poised to explode at any moment.

“But you’re gonna be good and so, so quiet cuz it’s just for me baby. You ain’t gonna cry out or move a muscle, okay?” he whispers and though he’s commanding, you know he’s close to losing control himself by how labored his breath is and how tightly he’s holding you.

You nod, and he flicks your clit with expert, rapid precision. “Now, lil’ one. Come now.”

That’s all you need. Quite suddenly, you are consumed by fire as hot as the one blazing in front of you. Your body tenses, then shudders violently in his lap and he holds you to him as you careen over the edge, lost to the dark night. It takes every ounce of self-control in you to not cry out, resulting instead in your huffed breaths. Long nails bite into his arms, clamoring for some outlet for your pleasure. Your eyes close, stars dancing behind them. Your walls clench and flutter around his length and you feel his slow rhythm begin to stutter.

“Fuck, baby, Jesus fuck, so good for m-me. Daddy’s gonna fill y-you up now. All mine. Aw, h-hell.” He pulses inside you, covering his own orgasm by biting deep into your shoulder, so hard you can feel it through the heavy winter coat you’re wearing. His thick, hot arousal throbs and coats your insides and you ride him through it with the tiniest rocking of your hips, feeling lighter than air but also grounded by him.

That’s what life with Elvis is like, you think. He grounds you to him, to his orbit, and sends you both shooting to the moon and the stars.

Completely blissed out and spent, you fall into him, and he slumps back in the chair. As you come back down to Earth, you feel your breathing sync with his. You close your eyes and revel in the wonderful way he’s made you feel, this man you are so wildly in love with.

You’re no longer upset.

You’re just glad to be back in his arms.

Elvis nudges you and you realize you may have dosed off, as he is now soft inside you and the fire has dimmed some.

“I think you made quite the mess, lil’ mama,” he whispers, nipping at your ear.

Indeed. You can feel the cool pooling of your collective arousal coating you and his lap.

“I made the mess, huh?” you whisper back with a roll of your eyes.

“Oh, most definitely.” You can feel his boyish grin as he kisses your neck.

“Sure. And how exactly are we supposed to get back in the house without everyone knowing we had sex in front of them?”

He pauses and then you can feel the vibration of his chest as he starts to chuckle, that way he gets just before he has a laughing fit.

“Oh, don’t you dare start, E,” you warn. It’s contagious, of course, and you feel your own laughter bubbling. “You didn’t think this all the way through, did you, love?” you shake your head.

“That’s what I have you for!” he laughs.

“Well, I guess we’re just gonna have to sit here and simmer in our juices until everyone decides to go to bed, now won’t we?” you try to whisper sternly, but giggles escape at the complete ridiculousness of the situation.

“Not in our juices!” he cries with laughter. He’s completely beside himself, pressing his forehead into your back in an effort to hide his amusement.

“What was that, EP? Thought you both fell asleep over there,” Lamar says.

“N-nothing!” Elvis hiccups. “Just go about your business! Y’all must be getting’ tired, right? Time to go inside! Time for bed!” He flails his arms in the general direction of the house.

You are both trying, quite unsuccessfully, to hold back your laughter, and the guys are looking at you two like you’ve grown horns.

“Um, sure, EP? I guess it is getting late,” Charlie throws out.

Quizzical, the guys grumble a bit and begin to mosey their way towards the house.

“You comin’?” Lamar shouts.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it! We’ll get there!” Elvis calls, shooing him away, then dissolves into another peal of breathless laughter.

“Okay, Crazy,” Lamar mumbles.

Elvis is sniffling and snorting by now. Your face is red and tears poke at the corners because the more he laughs, the more you laugh.

“I love you, Satnin,” he says, kissing your cheek gently once everyone is gone and your giggles have subsided.

“I love you, too, baby boy.” You press your forehead to his. “Now please tell me you have a handkerchief or something cuz otherwise you’re gonna need to wear this blanket around your waist to get inside.

“Anything for you, baby, anything for you,” Elvis says, holding back another peal of laughter.

And you know it’s true.

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