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bangtangalicious · 5 months

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nexus (m) part 5

focus: jungkook x reader, seokjin x reader, taehyung x reader | smut: seokjin x reader

summary: a notorious casino conglomerate took you in when you were young. you grew up alongside their sons; inseparable from the oldest, infatuated with the middle, and engaged to the youngest. after a shocking murder, a detective with a vendetta drags you into unraveling a web of dangerous lies that cause you to question who you trust, and who you love

characters: detective!jungkook, ex/bartender!yoongi, bestfriend!seokjin, ceo!namjoon, fiancee!taehyung, model/gangster!hoseok, therapist!jimin

genre: 18+ smut slow burn angst romance thriller mystery eventual yandere casino!au organizedcrime/mafia!au arrangedmarriage!au revenge!au

wordcount: 7.5k

warnings: proceed with caution. soft yandere vibes but nothing too explicit, angst, arguing, pool sex, unprotected sex, pet names (princess), arms dealing mentions, jin has some dom energy i guess, taehyung gives solid yandere vibes tbh, choking, strip tease, masturbation, LOADs of sexual tension, flirting, a sickening amount of making out, taehyung tries to kill you but not really, manipulation, firearms, discussions of mental instability (inaccurate), power dynamics, misogyny, feelings of betrayal, heartbreak, anxiety, fainting, taehyung is cold as ice ice baby, jungkook is angsty, jin is a sexy bitch, character death

taglist: @raynom @gimmythatjib00ty @yoshiure @greezenini @victoryscreech61 @tbzhubrecs @namjooningelsewhere @sugarcoffeemochi @jiminie-08 @jinssexytoe @kooookie @only4sana @pinkcherrybombs @taeslarityy @natalie-rdr @mageprincess7 @hopeonysus @bibbykins @sameifnn @shadowmoon21 @juliemae80-blog @gaeguuliii @dvalitaes @satorinnie @fournia @kassandravictoria @jazmine2904 @marslena @iloverubberduckiez-blog @manchuria @btseverafter7 @jamlessstars @doublebunnykoo @you-are-my-wind@toughbook@mini-euphoria-deactivated202302 @lvrseok @n4mina @imjinvolved @rp171198 @codeinebelle @itsallabouthedetails @btseverafter7 @just-me-and-myselfs @blonde-bummer @hcneybees @babycoffeefire @totallynoanalien @seokjinkismet @itslanaanditssad @rhyperia @sporadicfuryface @azazel-nyx @hani-neko-nee-chan (rest of tags on reblog)

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Your eyes fluttered open. A familiar feeling of unease sweeping over you as your mind calibrates. No longer were you dreaming of Jungkook’s strong arms around you. His fingers exploring the expanse of your skin.

His lips—his eyes, everywhere.

No.

He was a Jeon.

You couldn’t fall in love with a Jeon.

There was a shadow casting over you. At the edge of your vision, an ethereal silhouette standing in your doorway. Enveloped in a dark silk robe. His open collarbones striking in contrast.

Eyes sharp. Precise. Memorizing you.

“Morning” You rubbed your eyes. He said nothing.

“I said good morning, Taehyung”

“It’s 3 in the afternoon” His voice was ice.

“Well,” You sat up, running your fingers over the expanse of your soft blanket. “I hope you haven’t been waiting for me”

Taehyung scoffed slightly.

“I know better than to waste my time waiting for you”

A knife twisted deep in your heart. His words were so bitter. Tone nonchalant. Running his fingers through his jet-black hair. Taking a better look, you could see the ends of his hair were damp. Beads of water on his neck.

He went to your bedside, pouring a glass of water. His arms—those subtle veins—flexing as he did. He looked up at you. His expression shifted. Glossing with rage.

The glass shattered in his hand.

“Shit” You got up, pulling him away from the shards. Brushing fragments off of his robe “Fuck Tae—”

“I see the hickeys all over your chest.” Your eyes widened.

“Excuse me?”

He reached out shamelessly, fingers tracing along your collarbone. A subtle trail of his blood. Dipping into the sweetheart of your neck. His fingers slid up to your throat, pushing your chin up with his thumb.

“Taehyung—”

His grip tightened. Every single one of his fingers wrapped around you like a vice. You could feel the hate in his touch. The resentment on his skin.

“It would be so easy to send you exactly where you belong.” The edge of his lip quirked. “In hell, with my bastard brother. You two deserve each other”

His dark eyes possessed you. You became hauntingly aware that he could probably just kill you. That 10 years of resentment and isolation would brew all kinds of complicated problems.

He released you. You gasped for air, collapsing over yourself as his menacing eyes remained steady.

“What do you want, huh?” You folded your arms over your chest, “I apologized. I begged for forgiveness. The least you can do is tell me what I’m apologizing for.”

Taehyung was younger than you. But watching the expression around his eyes you could tell he’d been through a lot. He was dark—tortured, hurting inside and all you wanted was to take it all away.

“What the hell did they do to you?” You sat back down on the edge of your bed. Taehyung towered over you. Tongue rolling against his cheek.

“Detective Jeon’s father” Taehyung started, “Killed your mother.”

Oh so we’re just diving straight in. Inhaling sharply, you gave him a nod. “I know”

Of course you knew. It was fueling your latest dilemma. Your mantra every time Jungkook kissed you so deliciously and you had to pull yourself back to the reality that he was, in fact, a Jeon.

“Well, I’m the one who saw it happen” Taehyung began to tremble slightly, sliding onto the barstool with you next to him. You set a hand on his knee. “I told hyung, because I was so fucking scared. I thought he would hurt you next. When hyung gets angry he…”

A small smile spread over your lips. You were no stranger to Jin’s anger. How terrifying he could be in the, albeit rare times he would lose his otherwise charming demeanor.

“He had me point out who killed her. He took me with him and he shot Mr. Jeon. Like a maniac. Then he turned around and told the Chairwoman that I pulled the trigger. And my mother…was furious. I think she may have been having an affair with him”

Not just an affair. You mused. She ordered the fucking kill.

But he didn’t need to know that.

“She was furious at me. I was young, and I allegedly had killed someone. Naturally, she sent me away to get psychiatric help. Jin was her shining star, of course. The first son. She believed him over me”

Taehyung’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. It reminded of you when you’d watch him doze off in your lap. He really did have such beautiful eyelashes.

“That man who was impersonating me, Dr. Park—he was on my care team. He was instructed to give me pills to keep me from being stable enough to leave the facility. Jin orchestrated all of it. He kept me locked up for 10 years, just so he could have you all to himself. I figured it out. Stopped taking meds. I figured out he was trying to impersonate me so I began to lie to him. Hoping that someone I trusted—you, Namjoon—someone would notice he wasn’t me”

You held your hands out. Reluctantly, he placed his palm against yours, letting you squeeze. His eyes flashed. They were starved for affection, you could tell. He must not have had anyone to support him. To touch him. To keep him out of his mind.

“What do you need from me to fix this?” You blinked up at him earnestly. He simply held your gaze. Words apparently caught, as he gulped. “Because I will do anything”

“Time”

Fair.

“You’ve changed” It was meant as an insult. Of course, considering what Taehyung knew of you. A naïve, innocent girl who believed in fantasies. “Do you still play cards?”

Your grip on him tightened excitedly. “I do. Would you like to play?”

He squinted at you. “Later. Detective Jeon called for you” His eyes went back to your bruised chest. You wondered how he was able to figure out so much without any words.

Letting his hand go, you rose to go get changed. Taehyung’s hand brushed against your elbow, stopping you.

“Princess” He breathed shakily.

“Yeah?” You looked back at him.

“Did you and my brother…were you together?”

You smiled. Thinking back to the last night you saw him. The sweet moments before chaos erupted.

“No” Your fingers twisted against the fabric of your tank top. “We did not get together”

Taehyung nodded, heading for your door. He slowed down, for barely a second. Not even looking at you.

Hauntingly soft, he whispered:

“I’ll always know when you’re lying to me, princess”

- The night of the murder -

His plush lips melted against yours. He kissed you like you were a craving he couldn't shake. Like those lips weren't the very same ones spewing the lies that made it impossible for you to trust him. As if he could break through to you through the tug of his teeth against your bottom lip. Or the soft breaths he'd breathe into you.

It was everything. From your fingertips to your head, every inch of you brought to life. You’d never felt anything like it. Dizzy with need, you kissed him back harder, wanting to get lost in him.

He exhaled, barely able to catch his breath. His eyes were so sincere, so in love, you felt your throat get caught. Your chest burning.

“I love you Y/n” He had said it in one fell breath, cursing as his lips continued to move against yours. You could have been flying, you’d never quite felt so high.

“I-I love you too, Jin please”

“Fuck” The growl in his voice had you weak in the knees, “Princess you say my name like that I swear I’ll” He bit into your bottom lip softly, nose tracing yours. His words were caught, and you felt him stiffen.

“So do it” You blinked at him, gripping his shirt so tight it could tear. “Come on, Jin. I won’t tell. You won’t tell.”

His hands circled your hips. Pinching the fabric, tugging at it unconsciously.

“But then what, hm? Princess? I can’t let you go once I’ve had a taste”

“So don’t let me go.” You pleaded. Jin looked away. “You hate that I am getting engaged. You hate when I flirt with your friends. You hate that I have Yoongi. You’re jealous.”

You dropped your volume “Because you want me just as bad”

Jin looked into your eyes and you swore you could see his heart breaking. He was so beautiful, so twisted and yet you adored him.

“Princess…your mother” Jin stroked your waist tenderly, speaking softly. “She didn’t like me. At all. She specifically put in her will that if you and I ever got married you would lose control of her company. Of Nexus. Otherwise”

Jin smiled in defeat, gazing into your starry eyes. “I would have made you mine the second I could”

And just like that. Nothing—nothing was going to keep off of this man.

The safehouse was surrounded by a pine forest. The air was chilly, the stars glimmering in the sky. The back pool was glowing with underlights—the blue marbling reflecting off your face as you sat poolside, legs like a pendulum, kicking against your thoughts.

Jin slowly made his way outside after making the two of you a drink.

He handed your glass to you. Clinking it against his own before you both took a sip. A mutual decision to lose inhibition.

“You okay?” His question was sincere. You stared back into the pool. The edge had a small, sleek fountain. Pouring in more and more—but never overspilling.

You downed your drink. Welcome the burn down your throat. Jin took a seat on the firm cushioned pool chair. Legs spread, resting his elbows on his thighs. Swirling the glass against his wrist as he watched you.

His chest muscles pressing against the fabric of his button-down. He had popped a few buttons open, revealing his smooth chest. The glowing light reflected in his smouldering eyes. Eyes that were on the edge of danger. One word away from snapping.

You set your glass aside. Leaning back on your palms, stretching your neck back.

“You didn’t touch me in the shower this morning”

He took another sip.

“We’re just friends”

You got up, the water dripping down your legs. Facing him. Your dress was already scrunched up, but you looked Jin straight in the eye as you hooked your fingers under the straps, letting it glide down your frame.

“You’re right” You responded. A grin hooked on Jin’s face.

“You really are beautiful, princess” His voice was breathless. His compliments only fueled you. You loved his words like they were silk ribbons against your bare skin.

Next was your panties. Dragging them down your legs—you tossed them towards Jin. Without flinching, he caught them.

He was clearly amused. Intrigued to see what you would do next. Your naked body shivered in the crisp night. Nipples hard and aching to be touched.

“You like playing games with me, right Jin? Making bets”

You jumped into the water. Wading your way to the other end of the pool.

“Sure, princess”

“Then I bet you can’t come into this water and not fuck me”

“What’s in it for me?” He tilted his head, taunting you.

“I win, you take me out of this stupid marriage deal. You win—and I’ll give you Nexus”

His eyes flashed with interest. Thumb running against his jaw and he considered your offer.

Without an answer, Jin finished off his drink. Kicking his shoes off he stepped into the pool—clothes on. Wading towards you.

You could see his chest under his shirt now—the water bleeding through the white. He approached you. Inches away. Not touching.

And then your fingers slipped into your cunt. Without leaving his gaze.

Lips parting, you gasped. You pumped yourself, your other hand falling onto Jin’s neck. His pupils widened when he realized what you were doing.

“You really have no shame”

You let out a soft laugh, but the heat in your core was overbearing. Your fingers trailed up Jin’s neck, cupping his jaw before you pushed your thumb between his lips.

And he sucked it.

Shamelessly.

You surged with wetness.

You floated closer to him still, watching the way his mouth moved, Imagining against your throbbing pussy.

You added another finger to your cunt. Jin’s tongue pushed out your thumb.

“You feel good, princess?” His voice was coarse. You bit your lip, whining as you nodded.

“Yeah” Your voice was embarrassingly whiny. “M’ wanna come”

“What’s that?” Jin taunted, his gaze darkening on you. You could feel the heat radiating off of his skin.

“Wanna come…for you” You slide your mouth against his. He kissed you firmly, his hand reaching down, gripping your wrist hard and pulling you out of yourself. Replacing it with his own two fingers.

He cursed, as you clenched down on his fingers. His thumb rubbing against your clit. Slowly.

Your foreheads pressed together. Mouths open, breathing each other in.

“Wanna come”

“Not yet” Jin growled.

“Please” You whimpered softly. “Let me come”

Jin smirked, his other hand curling around your neck. “You listen to me.” He growled. “You come when I fucking tell you to come. Is that clear?”

How were you not supposed to get more turned on by that? You soaked his fingers and his grip on your throat tightened.

He pulled his fingers out so fast, it made you dizzy. The night thing you knew he was lifting you up, pulling your thighs apart so you could wrap your legs around him. His jaw slacked against your neck, sucking your skin as you cried out into the night.

“Fuck” He hissed, “You’re so hot” He cupped your breast, pushing it up to meet his lips. He sucked on your nipples in tight tugs—before widening his mouth so his tongue could flick at you.

Flipped you around—you back against his chest. The buckle of his belt pressed against the cushion of your ass. His hands fisting your breasts. Lips behind your ear.

You were so overstimulated, you wanted to cry. You could come from these teasing touches alone—and you knew he knew it. Your body was glowing despite the cool water it was submerged in. Every cell alive with desire.

He gripped your throat again, pulling you back to him so he could kiss your neck. His hair brushing against you, making you feral.

And then he unzipped his pants.

Pushed himself inside you.

“Go ahead” He ordered. “Come”

The pressure of him filling you up had you shattering. You screamed as you came all over his cock, squeezing the life out of him as he hissed violently. He didn’t move, just let you spasm with wetness while he felt every bit. You lost your balance, held up only by his fingers on your neck and breast which were still squeezing at you.

He filled you up so painstakingly good. And the fact that he just snapped so suddenly had you twitching all over. You’d never come so hard in your life.

If anyone were to see you right now, they’d see a man dressed in drenched business attire fucking a fully naked woman against a pool wall.

Fuck.

“You lost” You mumbled, reaching back to touch his cheek. You turned your face as much as you could to look into his eyes. “I won”

“I don’t give a fuck” Jin growled. “You’re mine now”

You smiled blissfully as his heavy cock dragged out of your cunt before slamming back inside you. The water in the pool spilling out over the edges. Splashing wildly.

“Jin—yes” You pouted with pleasure. “Oooh fuck, yes”

He took his time. Each thrust harder than the previous. And he watched your expression. The way your eyes rolled back, lips parted almost drooling at how good he was fucking you.

“So fucking tight for me, Princess—fuck” He dug his teeth against your ear. “You know how many times I’ve thought about this—ramming my fat cock into you while you whine and beg for me just like this”

He slid out, turning you to face him. He took a moment to smile, a look of incredulous disbelief in his electric eyes.

“My good girl” He tugged your bottom lip. “My pretty girl” His lips glued to yours. Lingering “You’re mine princess”

You nodded, humming against him. He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit—not leaving your lips for more than a second.

“Why’d you give in?” You asked him.

He slid back into you seamlessly. And you felt right at home. Gazing into his eyes, lips locked, with him inside you.

He rolled his hips, bouncing you up and down on his length. Your fingers scraping against his back. Finally grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging it. Jin hissed, biting at your lips. His hands on your ass, squeezing the flesh, digging his fingers in.

He licked your teeth, then your lips, before pushing his tongue into your mouth.

He gripped your jaw, tilting your chin up.

“Look at me, princess”

You did.

He sheathed himself inside of you. “Come”

And you exploded.

He had you on command. The power he held over you was absurd but you loved it. You loved him.

“Good girl” He stroked your face. The aftershocks consumed you as you whimpered. He coaxed you through it. “There you go, princess, you’re doing so good” Pecking kisses at the edge of your lips as you cursed out.

He slid his hand between your hot bodies, rubbing your clit as you writhed in his hold. He kept you cumming until there were tears in your eyes. And you were begging him—screaming for him to stop.

All the while, he kept digging into you. His pace picking up but his gaze never leaving yours.

And by God the way he looked at you—that was someone in love. So possessed with the flaming adoration and desire that reason flew out the door. He’d kill for you. He’d die for you. You had no doubt in your mind.

And then darkness came knocking into your mind and your high dissipated. You were supposed to kill him tonight.

Your eyes softened at him. A tear rolling down your cheek. Jin slowed his pace, looking at you with concern. He swiped the tear away with his thumb.

“Princess” He whispered, nudging your cheek, “Everything okay?”

The tears began to stream down faster. Jin move your arms so he could hold both your hands, still inside you.

“What’s wrong?” The possessive edge in his voice was evident.

You sniffled.

“I love you so fucking much Jin”

Jin buckled over, digging his nails into your wrists. You could feel the hot pressure burst between your legs.

“Fuck” He cursed loudly, pounding into you at a punishing speed as spurts of cum painted your walls.

He calmed down, pulling you into a tight embrace. Kissing the back of your shoulder.

Facing you again, cupping your face in his palms. He searched your eyes.

“The only way you’re getting engaged tomorrow is over my dead body, princess” He promised. “You’re mine now, forever”

- Present Day -

Jungkook wasn’t sure if you’d even want to see him after how the two of you left things the previous night.

Guilt seized him.

“Why exactly are you putting us in a room together?” Across the room, Park Jimin sat, handcuffed to his chair. The light hanging above illuminated his glimmering eyes. Hair tousled. “You know I can just tell her that it was you. I was Jin’s therapist—I know you two were—”

Footsteps echoed from the hall.

“Shut up.” Jungkook rolled his eyes.

He felt his heart get lighter as you walked into the room.

You. Causal. Jungkook’s cock twitched. Those little shorts that made him want to just grab at you. A long-sleeved hoodie that covered your hands. This version of you, he swore he was obsessed. The version not hiding behind all the Kim’s blood money.

Jungkook knew you were attractive. From the time he lost his breath seeing you at your engagement, until now. But right now. Despite the tiredness in your eyes. He swore you’d never looked hotter.

He reached out for your hand.

The moment you touched; both of your eyes met. Some sense of understanding passed between you.

I’m sorry.

I know. Gazing into your eyes had become such a familiar thing. He couldn’t pinpoint when, but you went from antagonizing him to being a source of comfort.

You were still a brat. And he’d tell you as much.

“Sure, don’t mind me as you eye fuck each other” Jimin’s voice interrupted the tender moment.

Jungkook's fingers intertwined with yours, forming a reassuring grip as he guided you to a seat beside him. The warmth of his touch lingered, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the inside of your wrist—a silent promise that he was there by your side.

"Y/n, Dr. Park. I want to walk through the timeline of the murder with you both to see where your stories diverge. Now, I don’t think either of you did this," Jungkook stated with a calm resolve. “I think it was Jung Hoseok.”

Jungkook felt the tension ripple through you.

He watched as you looked at Jimin. Examining him with distaste. Thoughts running rampant in your mind—he just wanted to climb inside and hear what you were thinking.

“No.” You cleared your throat. “It was me.”

“What?” Both Jungkook and Jimin were startled by the sudden confession.

“I killed Jin. Arrest me”

Jimin’s brows furrowed. Jungkook was simply shocked.

“Y/n this isn’t funny.”

You brushed off his question, pulling your hand out of his grasp. “I hated Jin. I knew about his years of scheming and lies. I knew that he was trying to get hold of my mother’s company after his mother gave everything to Namjoon. And I knew that he wanted me to get married to Taehyung so that he could deem him mentally unstable, send him away again, and steal my shares through the board once we got married”

“Y/n” Jungkook tried to get you to look at him, but you wouldn’t. Your eyes were on Jimin, communicating who knows what to that crazy manipulative bastard. “If you confess, I will actually have to arrest you”

Jimin was quick to interject. “Wait. Hoseok was there that night too, wasn’t he?”

You flinched.

“Y/n. For the love of God just walk us through what else happened that night. Don’t leave anything out. You can trust me” Jungkook urged you.

You pursed your lips. You were playing another game—he could see it in your eyes. Were you lying—why were you lying—and who exactly were you trying to protect?

“Yeah. Fine. Hobi was there. Luckily for me, because Jin and I got into an argument as I figured out what he was up to, and he got so angry that he—” You inhaled sharply “He hit me. So Hobi punched him”

A ringing struck Jungkook’s ears. He hit you. Kim Seokjin laid a hand on you.

A seething rage ran through his veins. He stood up, unable to contain the anger. Needing release.

His fists clenched as he did his best not to punch through the wall.

"That bastard. God, if he wasn't dead, I'd kill him myself,"

Your words from the previous day lingered in Jungkook's mind: "I've grown up around men like that."

For all he knew, Jin had been abusive this whole time.

Jimin smiled, “Funny you say that Detective” Jungkook shot him a look.

"I'm fine, okay. Hoseok and I go way back. He had been setting Namjoon up for months, putting the idea into his head to kill Jin by making Namjoon jealous that I was going to get engaged to Taehyung, and that it was Jin’s fault," you explained.

"Namjoon... and you?" He searched your eyes for an explanation. You avoided him once again. “Well couldn’t you have married him instead, I mean?”

Jimin chuckled, "That was Jin’s doing. Namjoon was totally in love with her. But Jin made sure that she was alienated from him after he assaulted her. He made Namjoon promise it would be Taehyung, convincing him it was what their mom wanted"

“What?” Jungkook’s jaw twitched.

“He did not assault me” You assured him, “He tricked me into giving him my virginity. How’d Jin even know about that?”

“Baby girl,” Jimin spoke steadily, “Jin knew everything about you. I wasn’t lying about the cameras. He monitored you like a hawk”

A disturbed look passed over you.

"Okay. Hoseok came and punched Jin, and then what happened? Did he shoot him? " Jungkook urged you on.

"No. I did”

Jungkook ran his hand through his hair, frustration evident. “You and me. Outside, now”

Jungkook directed you to an empty investigation room. Worn out and frustrated as he shut the door behind you.

He didn’t say a word. Hands finding your hips.

Lips taking your life away.

You craved him. He groaned against your mouth, breath hot and fingers desperate. Lips tangling under a cloud of denial. Searching for a sweet escape.

“Y/n—we do need to talk—” Jungkook hissed in pleasure, forcing himself to part with you. He inhaled you, tracing his nose against your jaw as you arched your back into his touch. Chest heavy with want.

“I missed you” You moaned softly against his mouth.

Jungkook bit back a smile. Eyes ghosting from your eyelids to your lips “I’m sorry” He took on a more serious tone. His thumb running up and down your throat. “About last night”

“Jungkook, I loved last night” You spoke breathlessly. “It was the first good night I’ve had in a while”

Jungkook's fingers traced gentle patterns on your skin as he spoke. The soft glow of a nearby lamp accentuated the contours of his face, casting shadows that danced with the weight of his words.

“Why are you still lying to me, Y/n?”

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and your fingers found solace in the tousled strands of his hair. The scent of his cologne lingered, a familiar comfort amidst the chaos of your thoughts.

“Have I not proved myself to you? You still don’t trust me”

“You don’t trust me either, do you?” you asked, your voice a mere whisper that hung in the charged air between you. “Are you gonna let me go?”

You nudged him with your nose, a silent plea for honesty. “Are you gonna arrest me?”

He held your gaze, a storm brewing in the depths of his eyes.

“I—” Jungkook's voice caught, emotions raw and unfiltered.

“I hate that I’m falling for you.”

Your eyes widened. His confession was wildly uncalled for and sent you into a vortex of your thoughts.

Blush painted his cheeks. Speaking from the heart was evidently new territory for him.

“And I can’t stop.”

Your heart trembled. Fuck. You felt the same. You knew it, despite everything. You didn’t think it was possible to love so soon after Jin. Jungkook wasn’t Jin. He was simple. Exactly who he showed up as. He wasn’t playing games.

You were. And you couldn’t hurt him like this any longer.

“You know this doesn’t end well, Jungkook,” you whispered, fingers tracing the contours of his face. “I have to marry a Kim to get my company back”

The realization hit you. You couldn’t marry Taehyung—Taehyung hated you. He would murder you in his sleep, and you couldn’t have that.

Your plan failed. You couldn’t blame this on Namjoon anymore. You needed him.

"You’d marry someone just for a company?" Jungkook asked, his low voice laced with disbelief and frustration. "I thought you hated the way the Kim’s controlled you. Why would you willingly tie yourself to them?"

Your shoulders tensed, a defensive response bubbling up. "It's not just about them, Jungkook. Nexus is my birthright, and I have responsibilities. It’s all I have. I can't just walk away from it because you don’t like the world it comes from"

You knew he wouldn’t understand. People like you were groomed to take over family businesses. All you wanted was revenge. On a life that robbed you of choice. To do that, you needed power. You needed Nexus.

"Why not?" Jungkook shot back, his eyes searching yours for a glimmer of understanding. "Nexus is dangerous—isn’t that the whole reason Jin was trying to keep you out of it?"

"I don't need you to rescue me, Jungkook"

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing in a mixture of frustration and hurt. "This isn't about rescuing you! I can't stand the thought of you tying yourself to a family that's suffocating you when I could offer you something better."

"And what is that, Jungkook?" you challenged, your frustration mirroring his. "A life where I’m with the son of the man who murdered my mother in cold blood?”

Pindrop silence.

Aside from the harmony of your haggard breaths.

“What?” Jungkook’s large eyes quivered with shock. Did he really not know?

“You think your dad was killed for no good reason—well there was one. Actually.”

Jungkook looked down, “Y/n.” But you knew there was nothing he could say. He couldn’t change the fact that it happened. That the two of you had history before you’d even met.

A bitter laugh escaped you, "We could never work"

"You think I wanted this?" Jungkook exclaimed. "I despised everything about you. And I tried to resist it because I knew it would be complicated. But, fuck, I want you. You want me. I don’t know why, I don’t know when, but somewhere along the line, I stopped hating you”

Your heart melted at his words.

“And you became everything”

You stared at him. Disbelief. And then you were running into his arms. He was lifting you up into a kiss. The kind of kiss that drowns you. The desperation, the pent-up frustration from your argument—the hopelessness of what you felt for one another—was a beautiful concoction of flames dancing between you.

“Y/n” Jungkook mumbled but you wouldn’t leave his lips. Afraid if you did, the moment would end again. And you didn’t want to think. You wanted to fade away.

Your fingers slid under his shirt. Searching his muscles.

Growling lowly, Jungkook pressed you against the wall again. Eyelashes brushing against one another, his expression softened seeing your swollen lips and desperate eyes. Stay. His eyes called to you. Stay with me.

“I’m sorry” You whispered so softly, your words feathering against his skin. “I’ll go, Jungkook”

He grabbed your wrist.

“No” Jungkook closed in on you, “I’m placing you under arrest”

Hobi’s manicured nails traced along the sleek contours of a pistol. Custom made. In his pocket, he felt the vibration of his phone.

Setting the gun down on the glass table, he placed his phone against his ear.

You have a call from—

“I accept the charges” This should be good.

“He knows your name”

There was no time for greetings with you. You weren’t into the charmed bullshit like Jin was.

Hobi inhaled sharply. Fuck. If the investigation moved in his direction, everything would be at risk. All these years, he had been meticulous and careful. Flying under the radar of any and all authorities. You’d only know his truth if he was in business with you. To the world, he wore a carefully curated mask. A budding model. To explain the money.

Explain his sin-stained wealth.

You paused for a moment, “He knows you and I have known each other. He also knows you dated Jin”

The last comment was an accusation. He heard you loud and clear. He knew you well enough now after the last three years spent plotting this intricate web to recapture Nexus for you. After the Chairwoman died, he approached you. Told you the truth about Jin’s intentions.

“How long? When were you going to tell me—before or after we planned to kill him?”

Kim Seokjin was a good fuck. He talked too much for one thing, but Hobi didn’t really mind. He liked to be in control of the situation. Play both sides, if you will. Dating a man like Seokjin meant letting him think he was in charge, when in fact, the reigns were in his own hands all along. He knew about Jin’s psychotic past. His twisted quest. All of it.

Lying was natural to him. One of the first skills he learned. “I was just doing it to make sure he didn’t know what we were up to”

“But he did know. Before you showed up that night, that’s what we were arguing about. I knew what he was up to. He knew what I was up to. And I think you told him”

“Careful darling” Hobi’s voice was silk, “I’m not someone you want to play against”

“They were going to pin the murder on you but I got them off your scent because if they find out about you—they find out—”

“That your mom was a mobster” Hobi spoke plainly “And that Nexus distributes weapons”

Thus the reason Hobi knew about you. Your mother. His family. They were in business together. You’d grown up as loose family friends who lost touch as life materialized until Hobi decided to make his move. Everything precise. Everything calculated.

“Yeah. So I confessed. It was a bluff. I didn’t think he’d arrest me but”

“You poked the bear, I assume”

“We’re not pinning this on Joon. I need to marry him to get control. I refuse to marry Taehyung—swear to God that kid will kill me in my sleep. Figure something else out, or I will whip that Detective around my finger and get him to blame you for it anyway.”

Hobi felt bored, suddenly. Meaningless threats were of no consequence. He owned the police for all he cared. He was untouchable.

“I’m not sure little unhinged Taehyung will react well to you marrying Namjoon. Perhaps you should consider staying in jail. Considering you did pull the trigger”

He could feel your energy shift through the phone. And what you said next was the only time you’d ever managed to tilt him off of his high-horse.

“I did. But he didn’t die. After we left, I saw him again”

Namjoon was back in his home office, urgently responding to some emails. Even among the chaos—he still had an empire to run.

His phone rang. “What?” His tone snarky.

“Y/n’s been arrested” Hoseok’s amused voice filled his ears, “She confessed to murdering Jin”

Namjoon’s brows furrowed, “Why the hell would she do that? And why do you know about it before me?”

“Namjoon. Someone innocent is going to rot in jail for something we both know you did”

Shit. Namjoon sunk into his ergonomic chair. Hobi was right. But if he went to jail then who the hell would run the company?

“I can watch over things for you until you cut a deal. I’m sure they’ll offer you something” It was as if Hobi could read his mind. “I know you, Joonie. You won’t be able to live knowing she’s in jail because of you”

But the truth was that, Namjoon had doubts. He remembered going to the safehouse. He remembered getting into a fight with Jin—Jin who was already battered up.

He didn’t mean for him to die. He had been drunk out of his mind.

“Namjoon” Hobi was persistent, “Don’t be like Jin. Do the right thing. Confess”

Fine. Namjoon shut his laptop and reached for his keys. He hung up the phone, rushing into the hall.

“Taehyung” He searched for his younger brother. He was still reading in the same position Namjoon had seen him when he returned home. He had to tell him what was going on. You were going to come home to him and he needed to know you’d be safe.

“Y/n’s been arrested for Jin’s murder. She confessed but—” He gulped, “She didn’t do it. It was me. I killed him, because I was jealous. I didn’t want her to get engaged to…well you…and Jin was the one forcing her”

Taehyung sat, soundless. Not a word, not a breath.

“I won’t let her go down for this. I’m going to confess. I may have to serve some time in jail—but I can cut a deal. They want to get to me anyway. She will come back alone, and my friend will be watching the company but” Namjoon panted.

He kneeled in front of Taehyung, palms to his knees. “I want you to know I missed you. I know we were never very close. But I hate what happened to you, I hate our mom for it, I hate Jin for it. You’re adjusting. You’re angry, and I understand. But you need to take care of Y/n. She’s our responsibility”

Taehyung nodded, as Namjoon stood up and rushed towards the door.

“Hyung wait!” Namjoon stilled. Taehyung never called him that before.

He walked up to him, before wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Come home soon”

Namjoon’s otherwise cold heart was flush with love. He had almost forgotten what it was like to have family who cares. His eyes became teary—but he had not time.

He was going to save you.

“Dr. Park”

You sneered at the smirking face before you. In the shared cell, for the first time you faced him alone since everything went down.

“You’re so interesting, Y/n” Great. Not even here for a minute and he’s already psychoanalyzing me. “We both know you didn’t go through with it”

You sat down in front of him, making sure there was a good amount of space. He tapped against the wall aimlessly. The air was musty—even a little cold. You regretted not wearing leggings. Legs bare against the bench.

Jungkook's confession replayed in your mind like a broken record. His hopeful, big, gorgeous brown eyes turned wounded. He opened up for you. He lay down his vendetta, for you. And you simply couldn’t do the same.

Because this is so much bigger than him.

“You can tell me what’s wrong you know” Jimin said. For once, his voice wasn’t laced with amusement. “I know you don’t trust me, but I am a therapist”

“Why’d you even do this?” You spat, hugging your arms against your stomach. “What was in this for you?”

Jimin smiled. “Jin was unlike any of my other patients. He asked a favor, and honestly I was just so interested to see how this would all play out. It’s a house of cards blowing over. Brick by brick”

You frowned. “What would have happened if we didn’t figure it out? Were you planning on actually marrying me? Living with me for the rest of your life?”

Jimin shook his head. “That was never the plan. He needed someone to show up at the wedding. Jin never let Taehyung out because he was terrified that Taehyung would want revenge. So I was to stand in. Get married to you, and then disappear. After all, Jin wanted you to himself but he didn’t want to share you. He can’t marry you—it ruins his plans. After I’d disappear, Jin would say that Taehyung was back in in-patient treatment to the board and take your shares”

You raised your eyebrows. “My mom ran nexus without a man by her side for years. I don’t understand why I had to get married to get access to them”

Jimin clicked his tongue. “That was Jin’s doing. Chairwoman Kim oversaw your trust while you were in her guardianship. Jin leveraged the threat of Taehyung to get her to add the provision. Jimin grinned widely, “Then he killed her”

Your mouth went dry.

“Slowly—and made it look like cancer. But she also knew it was coming, so she didn’t give him the company. Kim’s will do what they do” Jimin marveled, almost in admiration. It made you sick.

Something in your gut twisted so violently, you wanted to hurl.

“And Hobi” You went on despite your state, “When did that start?”

“Oh that had been going on for a long time” Jimin waved his hand, “On and off. They were a bit toxic.”

“Did Jin know…about Hobi?”

“You mean who his family was? Of course he did. He knew about Hobi and Hobi helped him plot all this out. Later, Hobi said he found out you knew everything—I don’t think Jin knew you two knew each other. But they both stood to gain. If Jin got control of Nexus, Hobi and he would be in business together. Though in my opinion I think Hobi was also planning some sort of seduce, marry, kill type thing to expand his own power”

Was there even a single person in your life who was ever honest with you? A stampede trailblazed over your chest. You were bleeding out on the inside so much that it all began to go quiet. All began to feel numb.

“Why wouldn’t Jin just ask me for Nexus? Why go through all this—he knew I’d do anything for him?”

“Y/n, I’m a doctor. I work with intense patients and sometimes in in-patient facilities. People who see me are truly twisted. You can’t hope to understand why they act the way they do. Besides, your mom had gone to great lengths to make sure that Jin specifically kept his paws off you”

Why? You thought back. If your mother hated Jin why would she have let you spend so much time with him? With his family. The two of you had been inseperable.

“Wanna know something else that’s fun?”

You glared at him.

“Jin truly, genuinely believed that everything he was doing was for you”

Don’t say it. You looked down, blinking back tears.

“He loved you. He wanted to keep you safe. Away from gun dealers and mob life. He just wanted you to have everything you wanted without a care in the world. Jury’s still out on if it’s romantic—or just insane”

Namjoon burst into the precinct. Jungkook was at his desk, staring blankly at the screen in front of him. “It was me. Not her. I killed Jin. There you go. Let her go right fucking now” He went on to corroborate his story. It matched up. Him being drunk, arriving at the safehouse no doubt after you and Hoseok had left. A gun was there. Jin was already down. And Namjoon had oh so much motive.

Jungkook couldn’t help but wonder if all your lies and games had just been to protect Namjoon. You acted so indebted to this family of psychopaths—after what Namjoon did to you you were trying to keep him out of Jail?

He was thrilled suddenly. Namjoon away meant you were free. You wouldn’t be able to marry him, not yet—and he had time to show you that you belonged with him. Away from these freaks.

“Okay” Jungkook said, satisfied with the confession. He motioned to guards to take Namjoon into the cell. You and Jimin both were dragged out in exchange.

“You’re free to leave” Jungkook looked down, pretending to shift around the papers on his desk. He couldn’t look you in the eye—the pain was still too tender. Jimin didn’t need to be told twice. He fled immediately. But you, you stayed.

Jungkook looked up at you, annoyed. “What?” He was back to the spiteful tone with which he spoke to you when the two of you had just met.

“I know you hate me” You said quietly. Jungkook noticed the queasy look in your eyes, “But Jimin just told me—everything. And Taehyung is at home who terrifyies me. I guess what I’m asking is—”

“Thought you can take care of yourself”

There was real, raw hurt in your eyes. Jungkook felt a little guilty. He knew this had all been emotionally traumatic for you. He’d seen you fall apart and put yourself back together again multiple times already.

“Jungkook” You gripped the edge of his desk, losing your balance. Alarms went off in his chest. His pride dissipated as you fainted—he rushed to catch you before you hit the floor.

The light began to filter through your eyelids. Slowly you blinked, trying to understand your surroundings.

There he was. Your shadow.

“You’re awake”

Even lying on a hospital bed, Kim Taehyung didn’t give a flying fuck about you. Great.

“I’m glad”

You struggled to sit up as Taehyung neared you. He gently traced the edge of your face. His fingers were tender. Soft. You leaned into his touch.

“Don’t do that ever again” His voice dropped low. Flattening his palm against your cheek, his thumb brushed against the edge of your lips, “I can’t lose you”

Your lips parted in shock. His face was serious as ever.

“Also, there’s something you should know” He stood up, turning his back to you. Staring intently out the window.

Your chest seized with concern. You wondered what happened to Jungkook—if he was alright. You assumed he was the one who brought you to the hospital.

“Dr. Park was found dead last night” Taehyung paused. “He was murdered”

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a/n: its been a while since ive written so! pls let me know what you think!! scream with me!! who are you suspicious of! who are you falling for! i wanna know ;)

thank you for reading <3

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precious-little-scoundrel · 6 months

Text

Let’s Fall Out of Love

Divorce Part 1

Fully co-authored with @elvisabutler 💋

Thanks: are due to so many friends on here who helped craft this timeline and concept and helped me hone the motivations into something I trust our readers will find evocative and sympathetic. Y’all know who you are, thanks for being my buddies

Warnings: 18+ for thematic and sexual material. Strong language and bitter accusations between spouses, mentions of drugs, divorce proceedings, lying to spouses (for their eventual good???) mentions of past infidelity, Colonel Parker being the worst, poor Elvis being in a bad place with his health and mentally -and dub con smut. It is in no way non con but the context, the lack of voiced or implied consent and the aggression make it dubious. It is fairly clear both parties are engaging in hysterical bonding, still the scene is dubious as is the language used by the man regarding a wife having no say in it. So please heed that.

Note: it was the attempt of the writers to craft a rather cinematic experience with this fic, one aim was to skip times and have plenty of fade to black moments. Please note the time stamps above each scene to keep track of progression. Anything that is not clarified in this chapter will either be clarified in the next part or else in others. You’re of course welcome to ask questions.

|| 10th, APRIL 1977 ||

Divorce. Lil Tink is divorcin' him. Lil Laney is gonna be his ex-wife.

The thought rattles around in his aching brain as he chases her up Graceland’s stairway, past the portraits of their children and the plaques celebrating their successes and haunting likenesses of younger selves. Both of them home for a brief stint after Vegas Showrooms and California Courtrooms.

Home -it won’t be his home much longer, she’s gonna see to that.

Divorce.

It had taken up half his year already but he was so sure, so damn sure all she needed was to make a fuss and threaten like she does and then it would cool down, smooth over. He was ready to humor all sorts of shit and then she went and pushed for more. More money, more assets, took out a damn lien. His Tink who happily chucked half of custody at him without a fight has now drug this little show on for months, all for a couple more bucks.

She’s takin' everythin' he's worked so hard for, takin’ it all, going back for more even, just to make sure she can still be taken care of in the conditions and standards he had raised her to.

Spoiled lil middle class girl grown into a spoiled, hardened rich woman.

“Till death do you part”, he hurled the promises at her over the phone, as soon as that court order had landed in his hands -but if ya ask Elaine, he's been dead more times than she can count. Maybe he's dead to her in everythin' but body. Ain't that the other joke, he feels half dead even in body.

"Elaine Presley! Turn 'round when I'm talkin' t'ya! Ya know I hate it when people do that” As if she’s required to listen to him or required to pay attention after two decades of focusing so much of her attention and time and energy on a man who has forgotten all of that. On a man who’s forgotten that he’s married to her. That’s forgotten he has children with her, a life he promised her, and not to his manager who's twisted so much of what was between them into this. Whatever this is.

"Why?" She spits still climbing stairs she's climbed a thousand times before. Faintly she hears Marie playing in her room and a surprising amount of silence from Jack's and her heart twists. They don't need to hear this. None of her children do but her youngest- oh her youngest deserve to think their father is still something resembling a good man.

"Why?" As if Elvis is some sort of parrot, he repeats the question back at her. His confusion colors his face, warring for control with his anger and frustration as he follows her through the padded master doors. "Why? The hell kinda question is that?”

“I told you come by and grab those things you said you needed so badly.” she hauls open one of his drawers and the thing squeals on its track from her violent tug. “So do that. If you wanted to chat then we coulda chatted somewhere else. Or, you know -a year ago? Ten?”

“I’m just askin’ why.“ He embraces her own wording and tries to get nearer her, hem her in against the dresser like he’s done countless times before in this very room with dazzling success.

Elaine slips away between them like water and he’s left bracing himself on the smooth wooden top.

“I’m not actively trying to be a shrew.” she murmurs as she turns away and goes to the other side of the room, opening the wardrobe, “No matter what you believe. I told you that you’ll be welcome in this house no matter what, so that’s why.’I’m not allowing you to come around -you just can, it’s your mama’s house still, for all I’m concerned.”

“No, no I mean- why’re you throwin’ this away?” He emphasizes it with his hands, a pleading gesture that sweeps the whole room and its host of sacred memories. He’s used this before but that was back when he figured it was all one big tantrum. Signing custody papers has rather shaken that hope, delusion, comfort.

Tink purses her lips and he notices her face has gone so white this summer, rarely in the sun and addicted to wearing black like some melodramatic Prima Donna. She does look stunning in the papers all decked out in veils and heels, he’ll give her that. He doesn’t know when she turned from being the heart of the operation to the glamor of it all -and he the opposite.

“What’s my favorite color these days?” she asks him instead.

He stares at the sable color he’s seen her wearing for months now and sighs in exasperation, “Shit I dunno -black?” he swings, knowing it’s a miss the second he says it.

“I can’t do this anymore.” she informs him, like color has broken up a twenty year long marriage and he grinds his teeth so hard he thinks he cracks a filling. The pain adds to his headache that matches the pounding in his chest and the roaring in his ears builds to such a degree he’s honestly terrified for them both.

“Stop this.” he warns her, quite sure she knows the red hot fit she’s stoking with her callousness and hurt that she won’t help him out of it like she used to, that she’ll let him go into a blind rage and then blame him for it, no doubt. “I know when you’re lyin’, woman, and I ain’t ever seen a more lilly livered liar than you right now.” he snarls and tries a last appeal that comes out as a barb anyways, “You wouldn’t be goin’ on so rash if your daddy were still alive,” he jabs a finger at her, “guess I can be grateful he ain’t, so he’s not breakin’ down my door for explanations ‘bout a offense you won’t admit to me!“

Elaine absorbs this blow with a wavering face before the nonchalance cloaks her features once more and Elvis would resort to smacking it off her if he were a different sorta man. “Black is practical, that’s why I wear it. It’s not my favorite though.” she simpers, clutching at the shoe she’s picked up from the floor, something for her hands to worry, to hide her own anguish at having to keep him in the dark. To lie repeatedly to him as he breaks apart, she didn’t know it would cut him up so much.

It’s a mess, this web of connections that used to prop them up, used to be a community. Now it’s a den of tattle tales and if one of them suspects she’s anything but angry at Elvis, that this this divorce and seizing of assets isn’t a scorned wife gone nuts, but rather a calculated endeavor to get at his manager once and for all -well Charlie will spill to Vernon and Vernon will spill to Elvis and Elvis will have all the fuel he needs to plead her right back into complacent heartbreak in his arms -before he goes on tour again and murders himself from the workload.

“I’m on orange kick, actually.” her voice is hoarse.

“Then I’ll buy ya some fuckin’ orange curtains and you’ll stop divorcin’ me.” he jabs a tinged finger at her and he looks like he might fall over, his face is so flushed and sweaty, from pills and passion. Elaine readies to catch him, break his fall if he tips. At least here there’s carpet, unlike the hotel hallway that busted his head last year.

“I’m rather in the mood to buy my own from now on.” she lies and sweeps past him to get to the closet.

She never gets past him. His hand darts out and engulfs her dainty wrist, tugging her back and in a spin like he practiced in his movies so many times, a romantic, gallant, possessive gesture that lands her smack against his broad chest, locked in with an arm around her shoulders.

"Buy your own, hm? Gonna sell my mama's house to do that? Gonna sell ya children's home to do that?"

“Elvis, you get your damn hands off me.” she bites back, throwing her weight on his forearm that might as well be made of steel, so little room does she gain from her effort.

"Never minded my hands on ya before. Even 'fore I married ya, it was fine for me to touch ya. To inspect that lil house of yours to make sure it could have all those lil babies ya wanted. Gave 'em to ya didn't I? Gave ya every last one and two've ‘em are even still with ya till they leave." Never mind that Jack's been bouncing between here and California in an effort to do what he's wanted to do since Elvis would play sharks in the bed with him. "But now you're wantin' my hands off. Goin' on 'bout gettin' new curtains yourself."

His words are punctuated with spit and a hissing anger Elvis doesn't normally indulge in. The bitter anger she used on the road with champagne making her head float in a sea of lies and wants and needs and a twisted sort of love till she had to call it. She can feel her jaw tensing up at his calloused fingers finding their way under her chin, tapping at first to try and have her look up at him before clenching around it and tilting it upward instead.

"Who is it, Laney? Who's the person who's gonna take care of ya? Gonna help ya buy those curtains? Get Marie those cameras? Help Jack and Rosie pay for those commie schools of theirs?" With each passing word Elvis’s voice drops lower and lower in octave until he's reaching levels Elaine's never heard. Against her will, her body shivers in his arms. A sneer crosses his lips- a twisted version of his raised lip that everyone knows and loves. That raised lip she's kissed before with laughter and jokes on how "if you keep doing that your face'll stay that way, Naughty." It shouldn't be there like this and yet it is. "That why ya dragged me to our lil Ella Bella's weddin'? Figured the Martins could spoil our daughter rotten away from you and your new caretaker? Your new piggybank? Don't get shy on me now, Laney! Who's the lucky sonuvabitch who gets to have my wife?"

Elaine's learned how to be composed in every situation with Elvis. She'll shoot at the Colonel over love handles and movies that killed her Elvis's spirit. She'll titter at army wives mocking her house and implying she couldn't keep up with being Mrs. Presley and growing a second set of twins in two years. She'll handle losing little Joesphine with a body that betrayed them all and with a smile on her face because Mrs Kennedy had just lost hers and then John died and the US can't handle their Irish Catholic and their Southern Baptist Camelots falling to pieces all at once. But this, this is too much. This is her soon to be ex husband mocking her. Like she'd have had time to find someone else who would take care of her, like taking care of Elvis and their children allowed her to seek any other comfort than in the aging movie star her husband sought to emulate once upon a time before realizing he's just a man too. The aging movie star she considers one of her nearest and dearest friends and who'd- who would be her caretaker if she let him.

Knowing her luck it'd end up worse than this.

No, this is Elvis throwing out an insult to her character, the one he'd have defended till his dying breath except for when she turns on him like Red and Sonny did. Their book's gonna be coming out sooner rather than later and- she's made it obvious he can't trust a soul any more.

It won't do either one of them any good to react. It's not going to help her escape from his grip that's a vice around her. It won't help him see what she's doing and how she’s doing it for him. But she is only human just as he's only human and her lipstick covered mouth opens in defense of her own honor.

"What makes you think you deserve to know?" He can't see through everything to see why shes doing this, so why should he get an answer. "You won't have to worry, we'll all be taken care of. And you can be rebranded! A seasoned entertainer who's free as a bird to do whoever and whatever he wants. Or oooh -maybe the colonel will pick you out a new wife. Pretty little fool to take my place, without trappings like children -or brains."

“I chose my wife.” it sounds like a beg, anger and hurt battling for the upper hand in Elvis’ heart, his hand squeezes her chin stronger, watching her lips pucker just that little bit. Such a soft mouth has no right being so stern and derisive as it’s been these past months, once upon a time he knew how to make it gasp and smile with a word, a kiss, a mere glance. “I chose you, and you promised. It ain’t me breakin’ that promise, ain’t me sayin’ I can’t do this no more -I-I-I’ve spent my goddamn career givin’ you all this, I gave up w-women for you, I gave up movies for you, when you come to me with what’s wrong I do my damndest to fix it. Now you won’t tell me nothin’ but orange curtains, and if I thought those’d fix us I’d be out the damn door right now, headed to find you the best in the country. I would, Laney, you know I would. I’ve given-“ he stops to gasp in a ragged breath, unsure of what part of himself he hasn’t poured into his Tink, entrusted to her once caring little hands, vulnerability poured like so much oil into her heart for safe keeping, his flaws and secrets tucked safely in the little nooks and crannies of her generous mind. “I’ve given-“

-So Damn Much.

“I’ve given you my life.” His Laney stares back at him entirely unmoved, her eyes hard and sharp with their ebony liner, the squish of her lips beneath his fingers barely dismantling her disdain for him, “And seven children from my body. I never said you weren’t a good man,Elvis, or that you're not generous, but we both know we don’t want to go toe to toe in measuring costs for twenty years in heaven. And I’m saying, -I can’t do it anymore.”

“Anymore?” it’s bothered him all these months, that word and he wonders what she thinks she’ll have after this, like they’re not so intertwined and connected that, like twins, they will forever feel what the other feels, want what the other wants, a string tied between them from countless, immeasurable amounts of time spent merged as one, “I ain’t ever not gonna be in you, woman, once mine -always mine. What’s there for ya after this, huh? Seven children -twenty years! -Goddamn I’m in you!” he shakes her at that and sees a spark of something he knows light up her eyes.

Elvis slides a hand from her shoulders, down over her sternum and feels her heaving intake of breath at the missed feeling of his hands on her, down past the tie at her waist, down to the planes of her firm belly, just a little swell and some soft skin that speaks of the souls they once made with their love. He presses his hand, large and warm and cupped to that precious sanctuary, kneading it, lifting it, weighing it just that little bit in his palm.

The little house is empty.

Elvis outright laughs at his mistake then, a booming, jarring laugh at having forgotten just who he’s got in his arms. He can feel Elaine’s violent shuddering along the entire length of him at the strange sound in their gloomy bedroom. Or maybe it’s from the dig of his fingertips at her womb, like he’ll claw inside it from the outside if he’s barred from plundering her the natural way.

Sweet Miss Phipps, Elvis thinks, with her hungry mind and starved body, so damn eager to be possessed, to be made good use of, to be pumped full and burdened with child again and again. He shoulda kept her swollen this past decade, prioritized her hunger over the tours and then, maybe then, she’d not have gotten notions like this.

“God gave me a remarkable woman.” he murmurs to himself in realization, his hands loosening their grip on her jaw to run the backs of his fingers against against the soft swells of her cheeks and Elaine’s heart speeds up in recognition of the shift in his demeanor, that thrumming resolution taking over his body behind her and helplessly her own responds to it.

As if she's another person, someone she would counsel to resist, to stay strong, Elaine feels her face turn towards the caress of his ringed fingers, towards the admiring touch that’s been her joy to wake to a million times, a touch that’s brought her purpose and comfort for twenty years. Her mouth falls open with a surrendering quiver and she makes no move to avert her mouth when his fingers sweep over her face and across her lips in a revenant mapping of his wife’s well known features. Her tongue darts out to taste even a sliver of his salt, she tastes metal instead as his ring glides by. It’s a heady feeling for anyone to realize Elvis Presley intends to fuck them, it’s entirely heightened by a familiar knowledge of his capabilities and a divinely witnessed right to his person.

It’s no villain staring down at Elaine, pressing himself to her -the distance has been necessary all these months to keep her anger and fear prominent, to remind her of the need for such dire action as divorce, the slightest, kindest of touches from him would dismantle that resolve, that garish image in her imagination. Now she’s close to the finish line, so close he’s fully panicking and she can feel the lightness of soon being free of her deceit. He’s no villain, he’s just a good man who has hurt her, who hurts himself more often and worse than how she’s hurting him. And soon they’ll be able to save each other. Just not today.

His hand slips to her throat and he kneads it, contemplating the give and delicacy of her pale flesh, and her responses, the languid subjugation of her body to his touches, just like he’d taught her in this very bed across from them.

She sees when his eyes flick up from her throat to their marriage bed and it’s like a million hummingbirds erupt in her belly in disbelief, in panic, in a frantic sort of hopeful missing.

“Elvis-“ she doesn’t know if she’s trying to warn him, trying to remind him of the wrongness of what he’s thinking, or if it’s a beg for him to ignore her sensibilities, to take her and make her that new little wifey with the carefree face and the mindless little head.

His face is dark and flushed like he gets when he’s aroused, his features seeming to get richer with the heightened intensity of his feelings and she can feel the sweat break out behind her through his silk shirt, slicking up her own back through the gauze of her dress. Elvis’ eyes drop back to her face, remaining there with a million intentions painted therein but not a single flicker of wavering shows.

Elaine had no reason to be as startled as she was when she felt his hands drop to her waist and spin her around, picking her up beneath the ribs with his astounding strength and tossing her like he would rag doll on his karate mats. She landed with a silly bounce amongst the bedding. It could have been romantic if he had any blue left to his irises as he looked down at her, sauntering to the foot of the bed himself and surveying her where she lay.

“Wife.” he greeted before taking hold of a footsie in each hand and spreading them apart for him to step between her legs.

"Elvis." A whisper as if saying his name any louder would unleash something they might both come to regret. As if it'd cause the dam she's locked her emotions in this entire ordeal will finally break. If she calls him husband it's over. He knows her inside and out, every crevice and dip in her body and soul has been mapped by him. The lie will come apart with a simple utterance of his title that he still has in this moment. The title he still has for three more weeks.

"Elaine." Her name comes out in a shaky breath that she can tell he's attempting to control, to rein in. Those blue eyes she's fallen in love with more and more as years had gone by are an inky void, pupils covering every inch they can and not just because of some pill he had to take or because she had watched him die right in front of her. Both their tongues dart out to wet lips and catch errant drops of sweat before she hears the *clink* of his belt.

That noise isn't new to her, the jangle and clanging of the metal a familiar sound. In the quiet of the room, in the quiet of the house? Of their home? It steals a breath from her lungs as sure as his body pressing down on her would have. The belt sounds like one of the heaviest ones he owns and a shiver unbidden rolls through her body as the cacophony of that gaudy belt gets louder and louder in her ears. Each breath takes effort, forcing air between the two of them that threatens to stifle any calming thought or action. A final puff of air- of his breath- warm and humid runs across her hair, forcing a loose strand of it to move.

Elaine doesn't. Elaine doesn't move an inch even as his belt finally comes off in a subdued flourish and a minor curse. Her eyes focus on the gaudy little harem lamp above them even as Elvis drops the belt ever so gently next to her body. It still clangs against the rings of his hand and its own golden links.

Sweaty and warm, his bejeweled hand moves to cup her cheek. "Mrs. Presley." he breathes her title into her lax mouth like it’s Holy Spirit anointed before slotting his mouth against hers with firm conviction in the rightness of his claim to her.

"Elvis."

It's not fair that all this force, all this passion, all this wanting that has -if she’s being honest- waned for her at times over the years is coming out of him only now, now when he thinks he’s lost her. Now that he’s more fool than he’s ever been. They’ve been alone too often in their marriage, if not separated by miles and oceans, separated by intent and interpretations of it.

“Still mine, for a few more months you’re still mine. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. You jus’ take it, jus’ take me, Laney”

And if she weren’t blinded herself by a heartache the proportions of which were only matched by losing a child, she might think every grip and clash of their bodies tells her he wants her every bit as bad as she wants him.

Still.

Mindless and hazy she waits for him to notice how every give and shudder of her own frame declares her want for him. He thinks he’s forcing the matter -but all he’s doing is giving her some false hope to curl around and cry over when the fissure finally splits apart.

I wanted you. But I thought I was alone in it, she thinks she hears them both saying it with every lewd squelch and pant.

It’s cruel confirmation of how entwined they’ve become, how much knowledge of the other they’ve collected over the years that he can make her writhe even under these circumstances, have her shattering beneath him effortlessly like older, kinder, gentler times. It’s made worse when she can feel him slow, stopping partway in that familiar way when he’s edging himself, intending to make her go round the loop once more, the familiarity of it makes her want sob, not from any hurt of the present, but at the notion this may be the last time she feels it -they both want this to last. And that unity is a mocking thing, all context considered.

He’s sweaty and she’s trembling, there’s so much warmth coming off his angry frame that she feels like curling inside the furnace and letting him make her forget anything beyond this physical connection that was never in doubt, the sheets are cold and dry and foreign against her back by comparison and she thinks of sleeping alone amongst them for the rest of her life. Elvis seems to sense this weakness of hers, one he wished he supported sooner, taken advantage of back when she looked so indestructible but was privately fraying at the seams, trying to hold the whole fairytale together. He shoulda done this sooner.

Old dog, new tricks, maybe, but Elvis has always been clever, opportunistic even, and he keeps his thrusts shallow and tantalizing as his wife gasps back to life beneath him and he keeps her close, his hands wound into her hair, hairy forearms beneath her shoulders, her ankle caught somewhere near his ear and his sweaty nose dripping onto her cheek.

“C’mon now Tink, you’ve thrown your fit,” he reasons to her in a coo that is underscored by the cajoling gait of his hips rocking into her, it has her clenching around those first few inches of him again, “ya made your point. Don’t -don’t do this to us baby. You c’mon back now. Ain’t anythin’ out there that’d satisfy you like us. Ain’t nobody else needs ya more dan hims does, satnin, don’t leave hims, baby.”

A good fuck, that’s all she needed, he’s sure of it. Or a couple of ‘em. He shoulda started dishing them out in Palm Springs but he’d been so angry when she filed and she’d been so cold. A couple of good fucks, that’ll solve it.

And to be heard. Which -she’s gotten that, all of America’s been hearing how he can’t keep his own wife.

Whatever bit of sentimentality he’s feeling right now, the sort that makes him wanna spill over how pretty she looks, vanishes in the angry tumult of his recalled humiliation. It fires him up instead and he snorts in his breath above her like an angry bull, perfectly capable of making her pay, making her see some sense, too. The longer she doesn’t reply the more this feeling surmounts the gentler ones and if Elvis were being honest, he knows denial had given way to rage and now bargaining and he’s full on panicking, trying to keep a woman who he shouldn’t have to chase.

She’s his wife.

“Elaine?” even to his own ears he sounds frantic and rough.

She is crying beneath him now, he thinks, that’s not all sweat making her face shine and her lips are taut like when she’s trying to hold it in and he wonders why the hell she’s the one crying. He feels like crying, he’s being left without an explanation or a pot to piss in. And all that while he’s still perfectly capable of proving he’s the best she’ll ever get. It’s like she’s agreeing with him when her hips start to move on their own accord, disagreeing with his teasing thrusts and instead she impales herself up on him, rough and sloppy to the rhythm of her fits of crying.

“I loved you.” Elaine sobs into his neck and he could wring hers for the confusion of it, for the way he just doesn’t get her after a lifetime of trying and how only this, this communion, this passion, this fucking is the only thing they make great sense at. Back when it had a purpose, back when it was to bring joy, to make a baby or five, and even now -to tie her to him somehow.

He folds her body viciously and plants his foot on the bed, thrusting so hard into her with all that wild abandon he knows she’d been jealous of him expending on his audience and not his family. “You greedy lil bitch, you love me,” he growls, “-what a revelation.”

‘Just an ounce of all that passion would go a long way, Elvis’ -he can hear the echo of her stupid little voice even now.

Passion? You want passion, Tink? He doesn’t think he’s ever been so passionately furious when he’s climaxed before ever in his life. For once it’s quite obvious he’s not ‘made love’, war maybe, but not love -and ain’t that another joke, he’d meant to make her love him again.

Elaine tears at his back with her fingernails and hears him snarling at her that he won’t stop, can’t stop, why can’t she stop this nonsense? She grips him harder, she seizes herself as he starts to slow, claws at his back with each vicious pump -seems they’ll both be shifting in their seats next time in the courtroom.

“Elaine?” he sounds so broken, like he does those times when they bring him back from heaven’s gates, it’s mumbled into her neck again like always but this time there’s no drugs to blame, not directly, not if she’s honest. She’s the one killing him. This little plan of hers to save him, just might finish him.

She prays God will be kind, prays he’ll keep her man alive long enough for her to finish this ugly business and restore his freedom, prays that maybe the hot slosh of spend coating her womb won’t be a waste. That she’ll have something of him left, just once more, please just one more. Something left of the man she married. Something to remind her of why they married and of what it was like to be happily married. Maybe just once more she wants to carry his entire world inside her.

“No, Elvis. I-I’m sorry, no.”

When he pulls away, it's not just sweat coating his lashes and his face. This plan of hers might just finish them both.

_______________________________

Every day in that courtroom is another layer of pride and image stripped away from Elvis and her and their perfect Southern Camelot. Every day is another headline for the papers with pictures of Elvis making a fool of himself in a way that can’t be smoothed over by anyone. Every day has cameras being shoved in Elaine’s face as she leaves with another hickey on her neck, bruising and blossoming in a way that looks grotesque when she sees it on the news later that night. The black outfits don’t help the contrast.

Every other day is being thrust against a bathroom stall’s wall with heels digging into Elvis’s back.

“E-Elaine-" He’ll stutter out, the feel of her clenching around his cock making it hard to focus or maybe it was the bite of her nails through his dress shirt. "You stop this. Been grovelin' 'n I deserve to have my wife listen."

"Ex. Wife." Elaine will huff out, words slurring into a quiet mewl as his cock brushes that one spot.

"Wife." An argument and a fact that he'll hammer home until the very last second he can. She never corrects him after the first time, too worried the knowledge would crush him to the point of everything finally giving out.

Jesse has taken to looking askance at her, worried and haunted little looks with fluttery hands at shoulder level that remind her of Elvis before he married her. If she had Elvis’ grit she’d ask her son if he had something to say and tell him to say it.

As it is she just pats his elegant hands, a man’s hands, she realizes, and thanks him profusely for his support, for being there at court with her day after day, missing practice and missing dates, letting a youthful spring and summer slip on by. They’ve been at this for close to a year.

“It’s nothin mama.” Jesse insists, almost offended at the idea he’d be anywhere but by her side.

________________________________

|| 5th, JUNE 1977 ||

When Ann makes her call, Elaine’s heart fills with all the old butterflies and girlish excitement of a past decade. They’ve kept in touch, of course they have, but between the touring, the marriages, and the unspoken acknowledgment of life falling apart from one and coming together for another, there’s less common ground to chat about compared to the days when Elaine used to share her husband and two little vixens named Thumper and Tink got to pick him apart in gleeful adoration like girls with their crush.

“Can I come by?” Thumper asks her, soft and kind but without the playful undercurrent that precipitated all her other visits.

“Well of course you can, you know you can.“ Elaine puzzles, finger worrying the wire in a nervous tick that has nothing to do with anticipation, dread pools in her belly instead.

There’s no children to greet Ann when she comes to the door, Marie at school and Jack away at his apprenticeship in California, Jesse has taken to spending his days in the studio when he’s not needed elsewhere, Daisy on the road and Rosalee in College, Ella married and attempting to assimilate with her in-laws. It feels like a ghost house compared to what Ann recalls. Maybe it’s just the passage of time but something terribly wrong and lonely strikes her at the lifelessness of the grand house, like it’s become haunted without a single death.

Unless it’s the death of the Presley’s as a whole. That would do it.

Elaine stands at the top of the stairs like old times, but there’s no gambit of children to wait for and so she speeds down the stairs at a breezy gait, smiling soft and subdued even as she refuses to be coy with her hug. She wraps Thumper up in a deep embrace and Ann squeezes her back, saying a million things at once by their clutching hold, murmuring little half sentences of condolences and “missed you’s”.

“What’d you come for?” Elaine asks her at the dining table after having supplied ice water and coasters for her guest. Ann turned down the saltines Elaine devoured with peculiar relish.

Always a straight shooter, Elaine. It makes Ann sigh and smooth out her skirt, clearing her voice to repay her candor with like. “I came to see what on earth was going on. To see if you were ok. And, I guess I came to see if it’s really happening. Nobody really thinks it’s happening. Or -I don’t know.”

“It’s happening.” Elaine replies with grim resignation.

“I don’t understand because Elvis says you’re the one divorcing and I always thought if one-“ Ann stops herself to scoff, “-I actually never thought either of you would ever divorce. You’re sincere?”

“It’s happening.” Elaine repeats, shielding her saltine chewing with a manicured hand. The action also flashes her still worn wedding band.

“So it’s not a threat?” Ann marvels, “When Roger insisted it was true, I thought it must be some drastic measure, something to get Elvis’ attention. His cooperation, you know, something to just-“

“-I’ve tried many drastic measures to gain that.” Elaine responds, “ all of them failed. I’d never ‘threaten’ something as horrible as this.“

“But…you’d do something…this horrible.” Ann murmurs, scared to play devil's advocate but utterly confused.

“You don’t know what I’ve been dealing with and, what you saw in the early days of residency, even the stuff on the film sets, it’s like aspirins compared to what he’s on now.”

“So it’s the drugs?” she whispers, heartsick, “You can’t handle being…around them? Around him?” she asks, then adds after careful consideration, “I have noticed you seem, seem still very tactile with him. I see the-“ she waves her finger at Elaine’s collarbones, “-I see the marks. Are you scared of him?”

It is unthinkable of Elvis. It really is, and Ann knows her face must show disbelief even when presented with her friend's mottled skin, and she hates herself for doubting a woman’s account, but if Elaine were to say she’s scared, Ann isn’t sure she’d be able to buy that. Not of Elvis. Even under the influence.

“Gosh no.” Elaine scoffs, a beat too late. “I just can’t do it anymore. All of it. Just the typical little things that build up in a marriage, I suppose.”

She tries to grin and Thumper thinks it’s the weakest acting she’s ever seen. Elaine more convincingly played a virgin in their home movies when deepthroating cucumbers for Elvis’ enjoyment.

“How’s Roger? Elaine asks, through with defending herself and Ann feels lost, adrift and unable to get near like she once did.

“Roger is fine.” Ann replies, “He sends his best. How is Ella?”

“Tell him I’m sorry they brought your name up, last week.” Elaine sighs, no apology offered to Thumper. They both know she’d be offended at an apology for being associated with them. “Ella is decidedly pregnant, that’s what she is.”

“Is she?” Thumper coos, followed by an alarmed quavering of hope and concern on her face. “Elaine, that’s-“ it is wonderful despite the circumstances but Elaine’s brittle posture suggests a to-do about it might sink her. “Congratulations, Grandma Tink.” Thumper settles for, daring to reach across the table top, seizing Elaine’s hand and squeezing its saltine dusted elegance.

“Thank you.” she whispers hoarsely, “She calls me everyday. Reminds me of you and me back when … her man he -he sounds sweet. Of course he’ll be gone awhile and so I’m all she has got to talk to about throwing up each morning and watching things swell.” None of this is how they expected or intended, Elvis and Elaine should both be hovering about and annoying their first grandchild before they’re even out in the world. Instead Ella’s perched down in Texas, no doubt terribly homesick, and Elaine’s talking about grandbabies like it’s another addition to the carport. “Tell Roger we’re sorry they brought your name up. Please tell him.”

“We don’t care.” Thumper insists and Elaine hopes that’s an accurate representation of Roger’s feelings. “He only asked-“ Ann stares out the front windows and down the drive towards the gates, summer colors brilliantly lush outside the house, she’s seen this view so many times it hurts, “-he asked that I make sure that…any…videos, and such, were disposed of.” she winces as she gets it out, once her manager, always her manager that man. “I wasn’t sure which of you to ask about them.”

Elaine stares at her intensely as if trying to read her soul. “I’ve most of them upstairs. Ruined by pregame juice mainly but the labels are sentimental so I’ve kept them.” Ann wonders if they’re ruined at all, and if they are she wonders if it’s by orange juice or by something far more lewd. Elvis never had great aim, “I’m sure Elvis has the ones we sent him under lock and key. Either way, you know neither of us would endanger you. You know that, Thumper.”

“Yes, yes I do.” Ann breathes, resting her chin in her hand, mournful at having insinuated otherwise.

“So you can tell Roger they’re not a worry.” Elaine prods with the shadow of an old smirk, “And you never know, in future it might not be so hard to track Naughty and I down at once.”

“Oh?” Ann squints at her in confusion.

“Mhmm.” Elaine just hums and shrugs her shoulders, the purple little mark on her clavicle shadowing with the movement. “Are you saying the night, Thumper?”

Ann leaves that evening more bewildered than when she arrived. “You were right, Roger,” she tells her husband as she settles beside him late that night, “she didn’t tell me a thing. Not really.”

___________________________

|| 9th, JUNE 1977 ||

“They’re gonna stop pressin’ ‘bout Thumper,” the murmur of his voice registering before the hand on her arm does as they both find themselves heading to the bathroom. It’s a flimsy sort of an excuse and one she’s beginning to think the papers and the news cameras see through.

“That’s good.” Her voice is a little too airy but today’s been a back and forth of yelling and excuses and all Elaine’s thinking about is how one of Daisy’s bandmates called her up from a payphone telling her that they almost couldn’t wake her for the show. The show she shouldn’t be doing but the show that Elaine let her do because she’s been playing being an adult for so long that who was she to argue against it?

“Told her we’d make sure it was- nothing came out. Roger was worried about it. For her image and for his, maybe.”

After all, it’s one thing to just be married to Ann-Margret, another thing entirely to be married to Thumper who’d rolled in the hay literally and figuratively with the Presleys at their lowest point. He’s never minded her continued friendship with them but that was before whispers of infidelity turned into whispers of sexual romps that were taped and stored or pictures that were taken and used as masturbatory material. He's never minded until Joe E, bless his soul, implied he might've seen copper locks in a video from Circle K that Elvis had shown a few of the members of the Mafia. Not that the court or anyone could find such a video.

The lock to the bathroom clicks behind Elvis and he turns around, raising an eyebrow. “Now hold on a minute, she- Thumper thought we’d- I’d never-”

“She didn’t. Roger was concerned. She knows us well enough, Elvis.” Still reassuring him as if they’re not going through what is turning out to be the messiest divorce the world has ever seen and likely will ever see. “I told her as much and she felt bad about asking.”

About the tapes and the photos, not so much about their divorce, Elaine reasons. As much as she wants to fault one of her oldest friends -it’s understandable. That was the purpose of the divorce. To come out of left field and appear to all concerned as if the faithful wife has finally grown unable to force herself to put up with Elvis Presley any more. The Colonel wouldn’t question that and had wanted it for years, if anyone were to ask him. Ann- their lil Thumper wouldn’t have been able to keep her plan a secret, her loyalty to Elvis and Elaine would have put her in a spot that Elaine didn’t dare want to shove her into. No, it was better for her to question the same as everyone else. Maybe if this went well they could all have a laugh about it in Hawaii. Or at the very least, Ann could forgive her.

“Don’t know why she didn’t jus’ ask me, ‘m the one who-'' Elvis's voice trails off when it hits him. Why would she ask the person who likely doesn’t hold most of them. Who’s fixin’ to lose everything in a divorce he desperately doesn’t want. “Least she knows now."

Elaine should agree with him, she should agree with him that at least Ann knows now, but she only knows part of the story. She only knows that the man she fell in love with on a movie set and his wife she maybe sometimes loves as more than a friend won’t damage her the way they’re damaging each other. How even Elaine had to joke that maybe it would be easy to run into them together in the future. Even during these hellish days in court they can’t escape each other’s orbits.

Pretending to not love and care for Elvis is an impossible task when what she’s doing is because her love and her care for a man who is sometimes brutish and stupid and selfish is so overwhelming it threatens to choke her.

At her silence, Elvis allows himself to crowd into her space, hands grasping at her hips ever so gently. "How's Rosalee?"

They're both too tired to fight in this bathroom, their energy having been spent outside of it for everything else. Asking about his favorite daughter, the one who's lived and breathed for her daddy for years feels safe.

"Not- she's not very good, Elvis. It's been- she hasn't really been the same." Since what happened. If things were different maybe she'd be taking the time to relax at home and maybe Daisy wouldn't have run off from guilt and - no. Elaine can't dwell on that even as her eyes start to water.

"It's hard on them." His tone isn't accusing, instead managing to just state a fact. This whole divorce has been hard on all of them. Even if Elaine's the one instigating everything he sees how unhealthy she looks. Feels how her body seems to be breaking down in ways that aren't as flashy as his body but the signs are there.

God knows he's not always been the most pious of men in action, that somehow all his good intentions and gospel songs haven’t managed to pull him back as he skidded down the road to hell, yet he’s got such a hankering to hide in the cleft of the rock once again. Acknowledge he’s a man, a failing man, a wayward husband, a prodigal son.

He finds himself reaching for Laney’s hand, palm up in a way she recognizes without a word. She clasps it without hesitation, in a time worn manner they’ve used before marriages, births, trips, shows, bedsides of sick and dying friends and here in this tiled little haven of the courthouse where they’re allowed to be as vulnerable and broken as their Heavenly Father knows them to be.

They bow their heads and Elvis finds himself begging his Almighty not for a return of fortunes but merely a cessation of tragedies. Elvis’ hand twitches, a pinky disentangling from Tink’s clasp and tickling her belly, like a presentment, like a benediction of nothing more than a heartbroken hunch on his part.

_____________________________

|| 29th, JULY 1977 ||

Elvis regrets answering the door to his penthouse the moment it swings open to reveal Johnny Cash with that sort of frantic and half crazed look in his eyes that Elvis thought he'd given up at the beginning of the decade. Wasn't that a hoot, the two of them swore up and down they had gotten clean for their women, the loves of their lives- the ones that God blessed them with to live out their present and future everlasting lives with- only to fall back into those old habits. What a cosmic joke.

"You're a fool, Presley." Short and to the point in a way that only Johnny can manage. Elvis exhales, wondering what exactly he's done to God to earn one of his oldest friends calling him a goddamn fool at the closest thing he's got to a home nowadays. His lil Schnucki comes to visit him, and Jesse's called once or twice but ever since that- ever since he realized how serious his Laney was about leaving him- Graceland ain't his home anymore.

"Ain't gonna say anythin'? No fight left in you?" The door to the penthouse is kicked in and if Elvis was any other person, or Johnny was any other person Elvis might've jumped. As it is, all he manages is a shrug as he pinches his nose. His head's achin' and his eyes hurt and all he wants to do is sleep. Take something to make every whisper floating in his head die down. An older brother telling him how he's ruined his life isn't remotely something he's got the patience for. Not after today's courtroom.

"Whatcha want me to say, John? Ya know everythin', so whatcha want me t'say, hm? Laney's leavin' me, takin' what she wants and leavin' me poorer than I met her."

Not monetarily, no, Elvis figures he could handle that better than the reality of his Laney, his Tink, the bjggest part of his soul other than his mama leaving him. Elaine's leaving him a man with barely any soul left in him to fight and go on. And he swears- lord he swears he felt something different about her recently. Something swelling that shouldn't.

"What I want'ya to say is that I'm gonna go back to my hotel and me and June are gonna tell each'otha that this whole thing's jus' you all been stubborn as a pair o'mules. Cause if it ain't, I gotta be real concerned June's gonna up and do the same thing on me." Johnny's always been someone who doesn't let Elvis get away with half the things everyone else does. Maybe it's because of how they started things together or how Johnny knows that half the reason he's got June is because of Elvis. Or maybe it was some misplaced need to be a brother to Elvis- to fill in a spot he figures his twin would've.

"June ain't gonna-" Elvis starts before Johnny uses the two inches he's got on Elvis to his advantage, staring the other man down as he cuts him off.

"Lane wouldn't've. Shouldn't've. Yet she is. This ain't- this ain't 'bout whatever damn excuse she's got. Can't be. There's somethin' you ain't tellin' everyone."

More and more Elvis has to laugh at his life and how everyone seems to think he's got some power over his Laney. That this whole divorce and the way he's embarrassing the both of them day after day is just another show. A snow job as the colonel would put it. This would be so much easier if that was the case. It isn't the case though, it isn't the case and Elvis feels his laughter escape him like the boom of a cannon.

"If there's anythin'- The whole damn country thinks I'm an idiot who can't keep his wife and here- I don't need you to be thinkin' 'm an idiot who don't know some grand plan his wife's cooked up. Ain't no plan. Ain't nothin' I ain't already groveled about and cried about in those hallowed halls. Laney jus' don't want me any more."

A silence settles between the two men at that revelation with Elvis breathing sounding so labored that even through the haze of his own drugs Johnny levels a look at his friend. It’s only after he’s sure that the other man won’t pass out and die on him that he actually speaks.

"You- You ain't me. She ain't Vivian. She- Elvis there ain't no way she's- that ain't it. You're both- you two can't keep your hands off each other even divorcin'. She- she still wants ya.”

“She wants my cock, John. Wants my money. Wants my house. My mama’s house. Know I said it was hers the moment we got hitched but- it wasn’t ever supposed to be hers. It’s- It’s ours.” Elvis isn’t one to break down, not in front of certain people and Johnny might be one of his friends that are near and dear to him but he doesn’t want to lose it in front of him. Doesn’t want to cry and blubber like he has been in the courtroom, pleading and begging for Elaine to just see sense. “We don’t- She don’t love me any more. T-That’s all there is to it. No grand con-spear-ah-see. Jus’ my wife wantin’ to be my ex-wife. Don’t know if I blame her. I ain’t-”

“You been a better husband than I was. Better husband than a lotta men. If- if 'Lane wanted to leave ya? She'd have done it back in the 60s. When you were carryin' on wit' what's her name- Swedish girl- fire hair. But she went 'n made friends wit' her. That woman's supposed to be yours till Kingdom Come 'n beyond. This doesn't make a single lick of sense and ya know it!"

One would think that nothing could echo in this penthouse and yet somehow Johnny's booming yell, filled with bass that Elvis is sure have made men greater than him bend and cower, echoes and reverberates in his ears. A stark reminder that Elaine and him seem to affect everyone around them for better or worse. Elvis's heart pumps a little harder as he tries to wrap his aching head around everything for what feels like the millionth time.

"I-I know it don't. This- you know these things don't take this long, John. I've-I been draggin' this out. Stickin' my damn heels in the mud. Anythin' to get her to come back, to see what- anythin' to not lose her. And she's jus'- ain't none of it workin'. Daisy up'n'ran off, Rosalee jus' wants me to be near her mama or her mama near me. Jesse's lookin'-"

"That what it is? Her doing it for the kids?” Johnny’s question has him tilting his head, not entirely unlike the millions of dogs Elvis’s children have had over the years. He ought to be offended Johnny cut him off so easily and without a care in the world and yet Johnny’s one of the few people he’d let do that. “She’s doin’ this for your kids.”

For once, Elvis has to look at Johnny and guess at what he means whether it’s because the man is too stunned to put it into words or because he doesn’t want to even entertain the idea, Elvis doesn’t know. He can hear his heartbeat going a bit too and a bit too hard in his ears as he answers.

“Ya mean- have i been failin’ them too? Have a been as bad of a father to ‘em as ‘ve been a bad husband?” The laugh that leaves Elvis sounds more like a sob than anything else. Johnny purses his lips even as he listens. "Ya mean how I found out I'm havin' a grandbaby through Laney? Or how Daisy's worse than you’n’I together on whatever she's takin'? Or how my boys acted like superheroes for their sister? How my lil Schnucki had- how I had to find that out from the Harrisons and my boys? ‘N I wasn’t there to blow those fools’ heads clean off their necks?”

Johnny realizes right then he’s made a mistake coming here. Or maybe just made a mistake pressing this point like it’s honestly any of his damn business. “You haven’t-”

Elvis cuts him off with a wave of his hand as he steps away, trying to feel less like a caged animal. “That’s right, I haven’t. I haven’t, John. Haven’t been there, haven’t given ‘em what they need. I had one job. Take care of all of ‘em and love ‘em. Failed so- I don’t blame her, John. I- I love her. Ya know I do. You know this sorta love but I can’t, I can’t make her love me again. S-she ain’t gonna love me again. Not the way she has.” His breath comes in short pants as his hand shakes and his leg jitters like he’s a man twenty years and nearly ten children younger. “I tried fixin’ this. The kids- the kids tried fixin’ this. But they can’t- can’t get through to her, these days! They’re all beggin’ and cryin’ and torn up and the Tink I know wouldn’t’ve lasted a week after causin’ such hurt to our babies. Well this new edition of her’s done made it close to a year.”

Johnny opens his mouth to speak only for Elvis to hold up a finger and force himself to take a deep breath, like Laney told him to those times after she thumped his heart back to life for him. Laney’d get what she wants if he died but he’s got a grandbaby he’s gotta see. Wants to try and see. “A year. Been nearly a year and it ain’t workin’. Nothin’- been tryin’ to remind her’ve what we had. What I give t’her. It-” Elvis starts to trail off, the fight that Johnny had put inside him slowly deflating till all he’s left with is the shell of a man who’s bone tired. Bone tired and losing everything no matter what fight he puts up. His shoulders slump.

Watching someone who’s as larger than life as Elvis Presley seemingly fold in on himself feels wrong in Johnny’s mind, but it gives him the answer he needs. It gives him the answer he’s looking for when it comes to just what’s going on with this whole divorce and what’s going on with Elaine and Elvis. His legs cross over to where Elvis is in only a few steps and without missing a beat, his arm wraps around Elvis’s shoulder. Elvis might not be his brother in blood but they’ve gone through enough that- that he wouldn’t leave him out in the cold without a hint of comfort.

“You gotta make peace wit’ it, then. Gotta- The Lord ain’t gonna want to see the two of ya fightin’ till ya keel over and die. Gotta give- If what she wants is to not be your wife any more, ya gotta give it to her. Just to make peace.” His voice isn’t much louder than a low rumble and yet Elvis can hear him clear as day.

“She won’t be my Laney any more. Won’t be my Tink.” A response as if he's a child being denied his favorite toy. Johnny doesn't stop himself from huffing out a laugh.

"But she'll still be Elaine, your children's mama. It ain't like you won't ever see her, EP." But that’s not the problem, that’s never been the problem and from the way Johnny’s looking at him, he knows that. “But ya gotta- it’s not doin’ either of ya a bit o’good to be draggin’ it on and on. Not after everythin’. Been livin’ ‘part for so long-” Johnny trails off, hand moving to rub at his eyes as he shakes his head. “Nothin’ you’ve done’s fixed it. Might not be meant to be fixed in those ways.”

“I-I- I don’t have anythin’ to fall on, John. I leave her it’s jus’ me and-” The medicine I got coursin’ through me, is what he should say. “I don’t know how to not be her husband.”

A silence settles over the two of them, punctuated only by Elvis’s heavy breaths and Johnny’s sharp and quick ones until Johnny settles himself against the wall, crossing his arms and raising his leg to press against it.

“Never said ya had to stop actin’ like you were.”

__________________________________

|| 6th, AUGUST 1977 ||

It’s a supreme irony that after a year of wishing for a cessation of that old stubbornness, that bitter pride of his, when such submission comes in the form of a mute and sullen husband opposite in the courtroom, Elaine feels her heart hammer in her chest, bewildered and terrified as he concedes one settlement after another in quick session.

Jesse gasps beside her at the change, even looks ready to beg her to reconsider her greediness as 90% gets handed over without a hint of the raging qualms her opposition has been voicing for five months.

Only Colonel Parker appears scared as shit, angrily grabbing at Elvis’ limp arm and trying to interrupt his directions with the lawyers. Each new verdict gets waved through by a lazy flick of a bejeweled hand and Elaine thinks the repetition of the gavel granting her all she wants could make for a decent backbeat in the studio.

After an agreement to give up 90% of his catalog, Elaine and Jesse both share a look, heartbroken and relieved that he’s really, truly, finally given up.

It’s obvious to all that it’s a bodily wearing out, Elvis looks awful and no amount of jewelry or eyeliner or Snow Job paraphernalia can hide the fact Elaine’s husband is a sick man. Even the papers who’ve found him easy pickings for ridicule and blame suddenly find some heart for his obvious suffering, even if the compassion is wedged between headlines about his expanding waistline and her latest money grab.

“What’s with you?” she demands and this time it’s her hand around his wrist, the unsteady clop of his boots following her heels after the click of the bathroom latch. When she drops his wrist his gold studded hand lands heavily by his thigh, he makes no move to crowd her, to grip her hair and kiss her like old times. “What was all that about?” she finds herself angry instead of relieved, mimics his lazy hand waves and scoffs in his face. She knew and planned on this day coming, but it doesn’t make it less unsettling as she takes in the victory of her spirit over his. He’s her man after all, her daddy and her provider, tough and proud and one of a kind and she’s beat him at the game of wills. She can feel her eyes pooling and angrily runs a hand under her nose as he stares at her with a blank, droopy expression.

“M’tryin’ to make peace.” Elvis shrugs, it was Johnny’s advice. Whatever it took, even if it meant giving in, he’s the man of their house and he’s here to make peace. Maybe if they end on a kind note he’ll be thought of, invited into the inner circle even even, by the time Ella pops out their grandbaby. “Never cared about the fuckin’ catalogue Tink, was only ever about buyin’ time to convince you to stay.”

The colonel’s panic at this latest settlement, one that finished the final prying open of his carefully constructed facade, one that’s exposed him to years of investigations, jail time maybe -though few outside of Elaine, Mr. Corleone and the FBI know that yet- is like sipping a mojito after a long day baking in the sun for Elaine.

Two decades of her saying he wasn’t right and Vernon telling her to go mind the carpet bill, change a diaper, redo a curl.

It should be refreshing, it should be a tonic to the way she feels shaky most mornings and ravenous in the evenings. Instead she finds herself trembling and laying an icy hand to Elvis’ burning forehead, registering the unnatural heat even in this chilled bathroom. It’s not just the stupid velvet coat, one blue eye is far more dilated than the other now she’s pulled his glasses down. He flinches from it, whether from the brightness of the bare bulbs or her touch, she isn’t sure.

“What’ve they got you on?” she sounds like a frog, throat all constricted and voice thin. She cares, she still cares so much and it could’ve been just yesterday she folded her handsome young groom into that bathtub in Germany and held him through the shakes. She wishes she could ask him ‘why do you always waste my love?’ But somehow, even after all her cruelty, that feels a little mean. “Baby, talk to me, what’s -“

Elvis grabs her hand, gently this time and he folds it with her other in both of his, a tan, sparkly little cage, she wonders how long it’ll take him before he pulls his wedding band off. Will he discard it before they make it out of the courthouse today? “Don’t you fret yourself, lil mama, those days are over.” he rumbles as he squeezes her hands and she wonders if he means days of fretting or drugs, they coincide often enough, “You jus’ take care of y’self, ok?” he sucks in a trembling breath and his glasses pinch between her fingers in his squeeze, “Without me there to nag ya bout it I-I -you take care of y’self.”

“Oh Elvis-'' she whimpers, moving closer, wanting to beg for some forgiveness, all clever plans and well timed revelations beginning to fray as she watches him rally his old magnanimity despite his grief.

_____________________________

|| 28th, SEPTEMBER 1977 || >>

He’s not alone in this concern, Elaine doesn’t know if she has Jesse or Daisy to blame for the way Marlon shows up in Memphis like that Yankee son of a bitch belongs that land bound. There’s never been a reason to see Brando except on one coast or another and it’s jarring for Elaine, seeing him take up space that’s so uniquely Elvis’ property, even if it’s under her name.

To see him in her home. Her true home.

She’s no good at hiding her nerves or the exhausted paranoia of wondering how Elvis will react when he hears of this visit. Marlon reads her like a book and leans against her kitchen counter, acting like Mary isn’t throwing them a million side eyes over the biscuit batter, and asks after her well being.

“Pretty terrible, thanks. And you?” she shrugs, wringing out a dish towel over and over. She doesn’t know when she became so fidgety, nowadays it seems she’s always betraying her nerves with restless hands and she never had that trouble before. Always a baby to hold if she needed the excuse, she guesses.

Her last baby is nine years old. And so she wrings out her dish towels and stares back at an old lover with the weary openness of a woman who doesn’t really care anymore. Elvis has been her one goal, and saving him is killing her as effectively as it is him. Those last days she wasn’t sure he was going to keep making it into the courtroom, shifting in his chair not from her nails furrows but from the repeated shots in his rump. The ones that have killed him a few times over.

Jesse made a visit to him in Vegas. Elaine doesn’t know what he said but her boy has barely spoken since. She asked her son how his father was, quite aware she doesn’t know the particulars from his fevered attentions in the handicapped bathroom of the Santa Monica courthouse. Her man would crawl out of his grave for the chance to make love one last time, it’s not a good gauge. Jesse said he keeps the curtains closed constantly. That he’s not letting anyone up. Charlie barely let Jesse up. His eyes are bad, so bad the curtains stay closed, otherwise Jesse couldn’t tell, couldn’t get a good look at him. He didn’t stay for the concert. Cissy says his voice has held up this time, at least.

“Pretty terrible.” She tells Marlon, because he’s always been more friend than lover, and that’s why he’s in Memphis when it’s a fool's errand anyway.

For all Marlon will speak his mind about this that and the other on things he cares about- yet God does he *care* about Elaine and so he bites his tongue at the first thought that pops into his head. *You've been pretty terrible for years and now you decided to care and do something about it*.

Instead: "You look terrible."

Which is a gross oversimplification of his feelings, but Elaine doesn't watch as his eyes slide over her pale and wan cheeks that look thinner than he's ever seen them. She doesn't watch how his eyes drift downward to breasts that are pressing against the dress she's wearing.

They remind him of when she was pregnant with Marie. They remind him of her breasts when she cried out beneath him against her tiki bar. If he closes his eyes he can picture them bouncing in front of his face, begging for him to bury his face in them. The boy- her oldest boy was right. Marlon doesn't even need to look at her stomach and yet some sick twisted masochistic tendency compels him to as if that'll change things.

It's small. Smaller than he figures any of her bumps have been and yet it's there. Mocking and growing at its own pace.

Proof that Elaine Phipps wants to remain Elaine Presley till one of them dies and maybe even beyond. Marlon can't help the way he exhales through his nose, unable to look away even as Elaine talks,

"Marlon, are you even listening?"

No. But he needs to.

"Mind wandered off, you know how I get, Elaine." He straightens up and tries to stay alert, “So, all this really fixed things for ya, eh?” he quips sardonically and she smiles, rolls her eyes, fully aware he’s not mocking her, he’s mocking the hopelessness of it ever working.

“Yeah. It’s all coming up roses.” she snarks.

“I uh-“ he stipples his fingers on the counter and weighs his next move, “-I heard that Colonel Parker’s recently landed in some seriously hot water. Something about the audits during the divorce and how certain things don’t match up. Got it from the papers, you know how long they stretch a few vague facts. I had to read two whole pages to get ‘fraud’ and ‘debts’ out of them. Anyways, I thought you’d find that nice -hot water, all that.”

“So hot it’ll boil his coat of lies right off with any luck.” Elaine seethes and her sudden passion takes Marlon by surprise. Stirs an old appreciation for just how much verve is always bubbling beneath her doll-like exterior. His fingers itch to let out the excess in a gush around his fingers. “Illegal alien.” She expounds, warming to her argument in the way of someone long overdue a listen, “Would you believe it? All those endless homebound tours -runing Elvis into the ground on the same circuit simply because that greedy fool couldn’t tag along. Couldn’t step outside the country. Always wondered why he never crashed our time in Germany, knew he would if could. Fake, heartless, toad.”

“Fuck him.” Marlon agrees vehemently and Elaine looks up with the same appreciative eyes of a decade past when she got no arguments from him, unlike all the menfolk surrounding her most days. Marlon abides by a simple rule: if it pisses Elaine Presley off, he needs no further research to say it ain’t shit.

“Yes, well, I’ll leave that to the Justice Department, I’ve done my bit.” Elaine sighs, her little victory crow short lived and even with his bias for the unattached Miss Phipps, Marlon can see how hollow her achievements are without Elvis to pat her pretty head for them. “It’s been weeks and I- I’m afraid he’s angry Marlon.” they’re not talking of the Colonel now, Marlon can tell by her love-sick face, “I knew he would be, with the divorce and probably with framing Parker but -he was so kind that day. So kind I thought he might’ve forgiven or just, I don’t know but now, now he won’t even answer my calls. Marie hasn’t gotten through either and -it’s not like him, Marlon, it’s not.”

“You got something pressing to tell him?” Brando asks and doesn’t even bother to hide the way his eyes flick back over her ripening form, pondering if her boy hadn’t been silly after all, going on about her not noticing. If he were a woman, a pretty woman like Elaine still is, Marlon would be weighing those growing tits each day with pride and mesmerization -but then again, Elaine’s had more on her mind than appreciating her own assets like a horny old star who never learned to aim for his own league.

“No I only wanted to-” she bites her lip as if unsure or else what she wants is unspeakably optimistic for a woman who just threw it all away. “I missed his voice.”

_______________________________

<<< || 16th, AUGUST 1977 ||

The knock at the door startled them both. Elvis pulled his back from it and faced it like he was gonna defend his wife from the mob he suspected was outside. Old habits die hard.

“Y’all?” Jesse yelled through the thick wood, “There’s half the city crowdin’ outside, there’s not gonna be a path to squeeze through soon.”

“Yeah alright son, thank you.” Elvis cleared his throat as he dropped her hands, straightening his posture fully. “You ready?” he asked dully, eager to get the worst moment of his life over.

“I gue- I- yes.” she stumbled over her meaning and smoothed out her black jacket.

"Daddy?" Jesse's voice was heard over the wood once more and both Elaine and Elvis took matching deep breaths, sweat droplets falling on Elvis’s eyes with a wince.

It's not pity that had Elaine putting the glasses back on Elvis’s eyes, her fingertips brushing against his temples in a simple gesture she's done a million times before. No, it's her last hurrah as his wife, her last action as his wife. They may have signed the papers within the past hour and legally she may be Elaine Phipps once more but until they walk out of this bathroom and this courthouse she was Elaine Presley, wife of Elvis Presley. A low hum reverbated against her chest before she pulled away, a soft smile across her lips.

"There there, Mopey, all better," she whispered in the sort of tone she only uses for the children when bandaging a hurt. "Let's- let's go face the music."

“Got me more nervous than any curtain I’ve been behind,” he joked even as it falls flat and his breath comes quicker and quicker. This was the beginning of their new life as separate entities. As an ex-husband and an ex-wife.

The door wasn’t that heavy when he shut it earlier and yet it felt as if someone had remade it out of concrete as Elvis tried to push it open once the lock clicked open. He could already see the flashing bulbs from the cameras and the press of the mass of people outside waiting for them. They were no stranger to crowds but this one was one none of them wanted to face. A look was exchanged between the three of them as their shoes clicked against the floor of the courthouse, a silent acknowledgement to try and get to their waiting cars as soon as possible.

"Jess! Mama!" Elvis and Elaine looked up through the mob of people as they pushed and pulled at each other trying to catch a glimpse of the former couple with their oldest son. They found themselves half blinded by flashes of cameras and the sun's own light, trying to find the source of the bellowed words. "We're over heyer!"

Jack then. Jack who was growing more and more into Elvis’s twin if not in bulk but in charm and whose shout sounds something like Sargent Presley’s in the army. Elaine looked at Elvis, biting her lip as she did.

"Soundin’ more like me everyday." Elvis commented as if he was commenting on the weather. It had never been hard to talk to Elaine. Yet in this moment, Elvis found himself at a loss for words. And from the way Elaine was looking at him, the feeling was mutual. Matching pink tongues darted out to wet dry lips and Elvis opened his mouth, his arm outstretched as if he was going to grab at Elaine's only for his oldest son to pop up between them, taking Elaine's arm without a second thought.

"I've got you mama. I gotcha, let's go."

The look he leveled at Elvis made every single moment in this courtroom for the past five months seem like child's play. To have his oldest son look at him like he did with any suitor that tried to come Elaine’s way, hurt. But that was his life now wasn't it? That's Elvis Presley’s life without Elaine Phipps. That's Elaine Phipps's life without Elvis Presley, protected only by her sons and her daughters from a man she once called husband. The man she once loved with every fiber of her being or so Elvis thought. Make peace with it, Johnny said. Make peace with her, Johnny said. Elvis didn't think that it would feel like this.

“I know you do, Jesse. Let me say goodbye to your father.” Elaine said as softly as she could in order to avoid the prying ears of every journalist between here and her car. “Jack and your siblings aren’t going anywhere. Not in this crowd. Even if Jack’d run them over to protect me.”

A smile unbidden crossed Elvis’s lips at the joke between their eldest and Elaine. She wasn’t wrong, but that was his boys and their love for their mother in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Capable of murder to protect her the same as him. She- she would be alright even if- even if what he suspected to be true was.

“Jack drove us here, all of us.” She explained as her eyes flitted across his form one last time to check for imperfections and for signs he might be needing anything. “I’ll make sure Ella calls you about-”

“It’s fine, Elaine. Made my bed, gotta lie in it now.” His eyes scanned across the crowd, even as he winced from the light of the sun and the flashes even through his sunglasses, finally settling on his car with Colonel Parker in the passenger seat, waiting for Elvis with a look of pure displeasure and mild panic on his face. “Gotta get him and I outta here ‘fore I give him a heart attack.”

Elaine’s face hardened at the words, and Elvis, in a fit of nostalgic responsibility for her happiness, moved to place a soft kiss against her cheek, squeezing at her hands as he did.

“S’been the joy of my life knowin’ you, Miss Phipps.”

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

the games we play

Javier Peña x F!Reader

wc: 4k warnings: angst, ex-lovers back to lovers, one bed trope, alludes to smut, but no actual smut, set in narcos season two. summary: He welcomes every touch, every dig of your nail and every placement of your palm. He takes every minute you give him as they turn into hours. written for @wildemaven and @wildemaven-prompts week 8 [this was meant to be short, i don't know what happened] javier peña masterlist

Sometimes, the heat in Colombia is gentle.

He has found there can be a breeze, a small break from the sun’s touch. It blows against his shirt and swings against the skirts of dresses.

Other times, it’s not so gentle. It can be stifling, and suffocating. It lays itself thickly on top of the weight of catching Escobar, bearing down on the uncomfortable tension from being beside someone he’s trying to avoid.

It makes things worse.

Tense. Unbearable.

Like it is today, where the heat and the day have been testing him. Hanging over them, making even breathing strenuous, not allowing him to think straight, and causing his logic and reason to be difficult to grasp.

But then, being around you makes holding onto many things difficult. Made worse by the fact you’re only speaking to him when necessary. Memories of their argument flitting in and out, a constant reminder like a foot on his neck—pressing its weight down more and more.

Boni— Do not touch me, do not look at me. Actually. Keep out of my way, Peña. I don’t… I don’t want to see you, never mind hear you.

He’s frustrated—angry. The lead they’d been sent for had fizzled into dust and ash by the time the plane had even lifted off. Leaving them with nothing when they landed. Just some files, misty assumptions and corruption—things he could have examined behind his desk on base.

Now, the two of you are stuck here.

The storm brewing in the sky, darkening in the distance—ruining his chance of getting home, away from you.

It’s why he’s been running his thumb over his two fingers—the other hand massaging the side of his skull. Desperate to ease the tension in his head, the dull ache he has from fighting all his normal reactions.

Your perfume has been wearing him down further. Intensifying in the heat and humidity the storm is causing, all prickling and ready to crash over the city.

It’s not that one he’s worried about, it’s the one crackling between the two of you.

It takes more than what he has left, to block it out, to pretend he’s unfazed.

Normally, he’s happy to be off base. To be in any bed that isn’t that one. But, it’s needling him that he’s here for another night, sitting in failure, knowing there’s nothing he can do about it. From all angles, he is confronted with his mistakes—the dwindling leads, the choices he’s made, and the way he’s hurt you.

Each time you allow your eyes to meet his, he sees it. Dancing, ever so gently in your irises, even if you try to blink them away.

He hears you sigh. Hears it over his thoughts, his faux ignorance and forced focus. Having spent more energy than he likes on trying to keep cool, avoid what you’re saying—very quickly, and very fucking loudly—and the feeling of the beads of sweat which pool at the base of his spine.

If he’s uncomfortable, he can’t envision you are faring much better. Your trousers are tightly fitted, cupping your curves to the point it’s been distracting. Your blouse, though elegant and flowing in places, is also long-sleeved—as if by covering as much skin as possible, he wouldn’t want to look at you.

Not realising it’s your eyes and smile he fell for first.

Not that you’re talking to him. In a way, it’s a blessing. He doesn’t need to scramble for an answer, bathe it in politeness before he shoots it your way. He can be sharp and bitter in his mind. Like he had been when you’d mentioned finding a motel to stay the night in.

You’d apologised to him in English—as if all of this had been your fault—that he would have to stay around you for another day. Something knotting inside of him, desperately wanting to claw out and tell you that he likes being around you, and doesn’t want your apologies.

He doesn’t say that. He said nothing.

Now you’re trying to find them a room. Lifting his head, allowing himself a glance at you through his brows, watching as your hand lands on your hip as you continue to question and plead.

Occasionally, he lets himself hone in on the odd word. Spanish rolling from your tongue with such ease. On any other day, he’d hang off your every word. Now, he tries to block you out as much as possible, fearing the way his mind conjures memories of sounds you made. The sweet ones only he pulled from you.

The ones he no longer deserves.

It’s why he hides from you, and buries himself away in a cave of his own making to keep a handle on himself and not ruin whatever is left between you both.

He’s only just got you back as his colleague. Only just being able to talk to him about work without looking like you’re about to implode.

Again, not that he blames you. He replays it, turning it over the fight. It flashes like lightning across his thunderous thoughts, clouded images of your sad face that twisted into fury, how your words slowly began to cut, laced with blades.

Fuck you, Peña. I didn’t ask for this—I knew, I knew you’d do this. And you promised me you wouldn’t hurt me, and yet… you did, you have.

His thumb slides over the pads of his fingers, catching the calluses and the healed scars. He keeps going, churning your words, over and over, not sure if he’ll be ever able to burn them from his mi—

“Javi…”

Opening his eyes, he finds you.

Your fingers holding his arm, his own slowly unpeeling themselves from his skull.

“I… I’ve been calling you for a minute.”

Javi. You haven’t called him that for a while. Having chosen to call him Peña or fucker—and if necessary, Javier. Javi is what you called him before. When the two of you blurred the lines of colleagues and stepped close to being something more.

Something he couldn’t give you. Something he tore in two because, of course, he did.

Tilting your head, you frown, little creases in an otherwise smooth pool. “You good?”

He drops his hand, half expecting your fingers to fall from him. But they remain.

Not on the part covered by his short sleeve, but his skin. Skin that he is sure is already warm, but with you touching him, feels like an inferno. Your little prints burning into him, reminding him you’re solid, real—not a fantasy his mind had cruelly conjured to taunt him.

Rubbing his arm, you offer a smile. “We’re both tired—our flight isn’t for a while, and this place has one room. So.”

You’re too fucking good for me, Bonita. Yeah, Peña. I fucking am. Yet, here I am and here you are. I shouldn’t be. Javi, what is going off… why are you here, why are you picking a fight with me, why are you hurting me for the sake of hurting me?

His silence is making it worse.

He can feel it, see it. How there’s ripples under your mask. Concern bubbling to the surface, making things for him also float to the top. The need to make you smile, to make you laugh—to put you at ease and keep you safe.

Javi has had those thoughts since the moment he first talked to you. Your spark and fire caught him by surprise, the way you wiggled your hips as you left him at the coffee machine rendering him more than useless.

If they’re going to be able to survive the night, he has to bury it all. Stuff it so far down, swallowing back everything. It takes a lot to fill his lungs because of it, the air burning his throat as does so, keeping his eyes on you.

Forcing a twist of his lips, he stares into your eyes. Boldly. Maybe too boldly. “You trying to get me to bed, Bonita?”

You scoff, slowly dropping your hand from his skin, holding the key up in the other. “No. But, knowing you, I know that wouldn’t be hard.”

He feels the space before he truly notices it. How you’d taken a step back, allowing air to flood between you both like a barricade. Then you turn, giving him your back as you jolt your head in the direction of the room.

He’d looked past the bright pink, looked past the rusting railings because he had envisioned there would be two beds.

Not exactly imagining in all the Spanish you’d been spitting that you’d have asked for one bed.

But, there wasn’t. There wasn’t even a couch. Nothing. Just one double bed, two puffed pillows and a folded towel swan at the bottom.

The room itself isn’t nice either. Bright shades and fuchsia pinks, all matching the chipped wooden door and the horrid railings outside. A part of him wonders why he thought it would be better inside.

You brush past him, placing your bag down on the end of the bed. If you mind about the room, you say nothing.

Not about the soaring heat, the one bed or that you’re now sharing a room with him. He wants to ask, ensure you’re comfortable—that you don’t mind him being here.

Not entirely sure what he’d do if you said no.

You’ve only just begun talking to him directly, and not through Steve. Steve who had warned him and he hadn’t listened. “She’s good, Javi. Don’t fuckin’ ruin it by being you”. And he had. Trapping Steve in the middle until you begun to wear thin with Chinese whispers. It took so long, he almost forgot how to speak when you finally were able to string a sentence together without looking close to stabbing him.

Javi knows he only has himself to blame. He’s aware of it—feeling it thrumming around him, whether or not your eyes cut into him.

Look, you don’t want me, that’s fine. I’m a big fucking girl. But you don’t get to sniff around like some wounded fuck because someone else does. You don’t get to turn up when I’m enjoying myself and ruin it.

If anything, Javi is used to making things worse in his personal life. He knows that he’s good with his hands, but not his words. That if you asked he could build you furniture, or put up a shelf; he knows how to please you, pull noises and expressions from you with his tongue alone. If he wasn’t so broken, he could be good for you. Not good enough, but be good.

But, he isn’t.

“You need the bathroom?”

He looks up, finding you holding a smaller bag. “N-no. You go ahead.”

You nod, motioning past him as he clears his throat. Wiping his bottom lip, he adds, “Look, tonight you have the bed—“

“Or, we can be adults and you can share a bed with me…”

He swallows, watching you pause at the bathroom door, standing a little taller.

Something he’s noticed you do more and more, having not been able to take his eyes off you. Not that he ever really has, since he met you. Watching the way you move around, the way you purposefully avoid even the space he’s in.

Fuck, you were maddening. Beautifully maddening to the point now, when he couldn’t have you, you have consumed everything.

He deserves it, deserves worse—he deserves poisonous words and sharper glares.

Now, though, you aren’t giving him that. Your look is more gentle. One he used to get, before…

“Peña, do you want this to be even more unbearable… and if you want to punish yourself, fine, sleep on the floor,” you sigh, swallowing the rest of your words as you lift your shoulders. “But, I’m not asking you to. If you want to be an adult, share the damn bed with me.”

His lips twitch, his hands moving to his hips. “You sure… about sharing the bed?”

You offer a small smile, one that’s forced, but still there. “You know I don’t bite.”

“You do kick, though.”

You laugh, sharp—almost blending perfectly with a puff of air. “Don’t you forget it, either.”

“Wouldn’t dare, Bon…”

He lets the words trail off. The pet name he calls you comes too easily to his tongue. Dissolving into the air, feeling your eyes wash over him before the click of the bathroom door sounds.

He can smell your shampoo. It’s that which stirs him from his sleep.

He peers from the corner of his eyes, noticing the room is still smothered in half-darkness—the motel lighting blaring through the shit, thin curtains.

The scent continues to tickle his nose. It’s a small respite from the smell of spice from the room service hours ago. The food hanging as heavy in the air as it made him feel when he consumed it.

It takes a second, maybe a second too long, to realise you’re curled into him. He feels your breath dancing along his chest, realising his arm is around you, keeping you in place—chin on top of your head, just like the two of you have done with ease before.

Just like the first time, your bodies betrayed you both then, as they are now.

You stained him, imprinted on him. Made it easier to sleep, your warmth has never been too much, but always the perfect amount. Your head is never too heavy, but a weight he welcomes. And has missed.

Get in the car. No, fuck you. You’re the one who said this wasn’t serious. Bonita, get in the— You have no right, Javi. Take your chivalry and your car, and go fuck yourself.

He feels you move your hips closer, brushing over his other hand. It allows him, without trying, to fan his fingers more over your hip. Feeling the softness of your skin, the curve of you—his fingers lightly, and gently squeezing.

It’s experimental, full of unsureness. Something he’s never known for, but you make him a wreck.

Make him question things. Make him want things he’s not craved in a long time.

So he begins sliding his fingers over your hip, unsure if you’re awake. The thin oversized tee you’re sporting is the only barrier from your chest being flush against his, raised above your hip, his fingers catching the hem of it occasionally.

He should put space between the two of you. Should unfurl himself from you before you wake and realise what is happening.

Before he sees that look in your eye. The one a perfect blend of ice and betrayal—topped off with a slice of hurt. He breaks good things, he’s realised. He doesn’t deserve nice souls and a person waiting for him. He’s impatient, selfish and… making so many wrong decisions.

It’s why he hasn’t challenged it, your decision.

Why he stood and said nothing when you hurled abuse at him in the street. He took each verbal punching, knowing the things he’s doing—knowing the danger he’d have been putting you in.

That night, when you didn’t answer. You weren’t at Steve’s were you? Were you? No.

He’s been haunted by you outside of work, not just in it. Images of you, scarlet staining your clothes, limbs bent in ways they should never be. Either that or you appear in his head when he’s in the shower, when his hand is on someone else’s bare hip, frustrated they don’t feel or sound like you, frustrated he can’t finish because he misses you. Misses how good you feel, how you make him feel.

Javi has spent more energy trying to fuck you from his system than he had done trying to keep you in it originally. Something he is more aware of right now, than he was on all the other lonely nights.

It’s why he doesn’t dare move, almost afraid as to what he’ll be confronted with if he wakes you. If your eyes would be murderous, burning a new print for him to hang in the misery museum he’s forged in his head.

Whether they’d be soft… almost worrying if they’d be welcoming, not sure he’ll be able to be selfless and noble again.

He should remove his hand. He should place the blanket, which neither of you wants to have over you, firmly between you. Barricade himself from you, stop you from falling and him being unable to catch you.

Your breath dances over his chest, and he strokes ever so slightly on your hip.

“Is now when you’d want me to bite, Javi?”

Your voice is a whisper.

But he hears them as clear as if you’d shouted them.

You let them land before you lift your face from his neck. You’re so close, the gap so minimal, so easy to close.

He tenses, for the briefest moment, because of it.

“Bonita…”

“Kiss me, Javi.”

He has you on your back before his name is even in the air, crashing his lips against yours, hearing the surprised muffled sound bleeding out from between both of your mouths.

It unlocks it, everything he’s stuffed into the box in his chest. His hand sliding up your neck to grip your jaw, the bed groaning as he leans down over you, kissing you desperately—needing to make up for all the minutes he didn’t. He devours, he thirsts, and he wants all at once as he slides his hand up your thigh, lifting it over his hip.

Thankfully you pull him close, tight—leaving no space for question or doubt. Your hands loop around the back of his neck, nails scratching at the base of his hair as your thighs press against his hips.

His teeth run along your jaw, the tip of his tongue leaving evidence of his path. Your soft murmurs, pleases and Javi’s circling around the two of you.

All he can think is: you taste like sweet, sugar and goodness. It’s a juxtaposition to his smokes, to the liquor normally on his tongue. Another reminder of how good you are, the cracks you proclaim you have so minimal, he barely sees them.

He just sees you.

Strong, beautiful you, who has a sharper tongue than most suits; a hook that forces blue and black to spread before someone even knows they’ve been hit. You’re all brains and strategy, and yet you’re also the most intoxicating thing he’s ever undressed.

And so, he cages you in, unwilling, and unwanting to ever let someone else taste what he gets to. Keeping you close right now as though it can undo all the times he’s taken you for granted.

“Mine,” he whispers against your neck.

Unmeaning to. The word escaping. Making him freeze and you tense. He’s nervous, for the billionth time when he’s with you, he’s nervous as he meets your gaze.

What he finds isn’t shock, but slight narrowed eyes and twisted swollen lips all illuminated in a reddish-pink hue from the outside.

Tracing your knuckles down his cheek, your back arches into him, tracing your bottom lip with your tongue. “Prove it then.”

And he does.

His mouth tastes every inch of you, his ears take in every noise he hadn’t been sure he’d ever hear again. He welcomes every touch, every dig of your nail and every placement of your palm. He takes every minute you give him as they turn into hours.

But, what he savours is the way you beg for more, how you chant his name. How your hand holds his jaw, muffling your moans against his lips as he fills you—feeling pride ballooning in his chest as you moan his name over and over again.

Javi isn’t sure how much sleep the two of you manage. Not that he cares, and not that you’re complaining either. He groans when you slide from his arms, the sun rearing its ugly head through the curtains.

You smirk, and it does something to him as you begin getting ready. Something which makes him want to throw back the sheets and put you on your back again.

But you must read him—see right into his head. Not that he fights you to stay out.

“We have a flight to catch.”

“We still have time.”

“Not the way we do it, we don’t.”

So he relents. Choosing instead to watch you. Take in every glimpse of you he can get. Watching as you style and dress in the mirror, eyes occasionally meeting him as he feels himself smile.

He wants to suggest not leaving, for a moment not wanting to entertain what goes off outside of these walls. He could rip up the tickets for their flights and keep the room for another night. Avoid the issues back where they work. The pressure, Escobar… Los Pepes.

Javi doesn’t do that. Moving closer to you, half-wanting to just pull you close. Feel the way you fit against him, how perfect you do.

He runs his hand down your wrist, wrapping his fingers around the strap of your bag. Lingering in your space, watching your lips curl, seeing the outline of himself in your lusting eyes as he presses you against the wall.

“Javi…”

“We have time, Bonita. I promise,” he whispers in Spanish, dropping your bag softly as he slides his hands around your hips.

You don’t fight him.

Sliding your arms around his neck, lips ghosting over his before you blink—and something shifts.

“Javi… Look, before we get back and things… get complicated. I don’t want more from you than we can both give. My job, I love my job, Javi. I know you do too, I know you need to catch him...”

It’s changing, switching up in front of him.

“What are you saying?”

It comes out more defensive—tense. Suddenly feeling you're slipping through his fingers, for reasons far out of his control. For reasons he hasn't even caused.

He watches as you bite the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want you to bring me coffee, I don't want dinners and... I just want the us we were before, without the…”

You’re stressed. He can feel it. It vibrates in the air until he smooths his fingers over your cheek, soothing you in the only way he can.

“It’s okay…”

“I want to be yours, Javi. But, I don’t want us to change, not while we have things to do.”

Placing his hand on your hip, he watches as your lips twitch.

His pulse quickens, watching you take a heavy breath. “I know we don’t have more to give one another until he’s caught. And I’m okay with that. As long as…”

It trails off, your words. Your eyes glare as if you can burn the unspoken words in without needing to say them.

He make you feel good, Bonita? Did he— You don’t get to act jealous when you were cock deep in a whore when I needed you, Javier.

“Long as, what, Bonita?”

You avert your eyes.

And he knows before you ask. He remembers it. Recalls seeing the number of missed calls and realising that you’d needed him. The hurt on your face, the look in your eyes.

“Please don’t fuck any more whores. You called me yours last night, Javi. So don’t—“

“Only if you don’t go on any more dates with fuckers who don’t deserve you,” he says, fingers under your chin as he lifts your eyes back.

Please. He adds with his eyes.

You hold his gaze, slowly nodding before you softly smile. One he likes to think is all his. It holds his attention when it’s there, lighting him up, and spreading warmth through him.

Both sitting in silent agreement, his fingers softening on your chin as he draws a line with his thumb.

“If we do this, you and me, there can’t be secrets between us. Not like before.”

Something twists inside of him.

“I was the one who stole your cigarettes,” you confess, his eyes narrowing teasingly, as you pout.

He kisses you, soft, and gentle. “I’ll forgive you.”

“Your turn, is there anything you need to tell me before we leave?”

His face blanks—empties. The bundle of secrets swirl in his stomach, knotting around organs and guilt and the salty chips and chocolate from last night.

For a moment, he thinks about it. Spilling all of it out, poisoning the moment and ruining what the two of you have only just managed to rebuild. His lips part ever so slightly, almost allowing the acidic ball in his throat to escape. It's all set to slip out and greet your ears.

But he swallows it. Hides it.

Shaking his head, he leans his forehead against yours. “Only that I’ve missed you, Bonita.”

Your hand clutches his cheek, cupping him gently. “I’ve missed you too, Javi.”

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