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laracrofted · 4 months

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i want your midnights

synopsis: on the coldest new year's eve in a decade, bob floyd shows up at your door. prequel to delicate.

pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors and ageless blogs dni, bob is really soft and cozy and lovestruck, swearing (barely), so much yearning and pining, kissing kissing kissing (wc: 2.2K)

note: surprise! i wasn't planning to write something for new year's, but i missed lovestruck bob. happy new year, loves! 🍾

summoning a few people who might be interested: @sometimesanalice @roosterbruiser @theharddeck @callsignspark @lewmagoo @gretagerwigsmuse @roosterforme @rhettabbotts

He shouldn't be here right now. For several reasons.

Technically, Bob should be on a plane right now – or on one of several planes because San Diego International doesn't offer any direct flights to the part of Montana Bob is from

He usually flies from San Diego to Los Angeles and Los Angeles to Bozeman and drives from there.

Except when half of California freezes over in the coldest storm in a decade on the very day Bob is supposed to head home for New Year's and grounds all of LAX.

This normally wouldn't be a big deal. He doesn't even care all that much about New Year's – New Year's is celebrated very casually in his family. He's usually in bed well before midnight. – but Bob already missed Christmas.

He and Phoenix were selected for a special detachment at the end of December, which – while an honor and a privilege, etcetera – meant Bob spent Christmas on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific. He didn't get back until December 28.

Phoenix immediately drove up to San Francisco to be with her nieces and nephews. He'd been waiting for New Year's.

Now, after countless delays and an eventual cancellation – which should've happened hours ago when Bob maybe could've found another way home, rented a car and driven the seventeen hours – Bob is stuck in San Diego.

Disappointed isn't a good enough word to express what Bob is feeling right now.

He could've driven back to his apartment – his sad apartment, already devoid of colorful lights and silver and gold decorations because Bob didn't expect to come back until January. He could've called Fanboy or gone to the New Year's Eve party at the Hard Deck, but Bob isn't in the mood to be around people right now.

He only wants to see one person.

And now Bob is here – standing outside of your apartment with a backpack and a carry-on, like Bob is about to clear out a drawer and move right in.

He probably looks like a weirdo. He definitely feels like a weirdo.

Damn. This was a mistake.

It's a brisk 40 degrees and dropping outside, and Coronado smells like ocean air and fireplace smoke. Pine needles, shed from the withering evergreens hauled onto the streets and abandoned the day after Christmas. Seawater and camphor and burning wood.

He shivers in the cold, broad shoulders rounding under the worn wool of his sweater. He should've worn something warmer – something nicer – but all of Bob's warmer coats are either deep in his suitcase or at his parents' house. He never expected to need them in San Diego.

A shaky puff of breath blows from his quivering lips.

He breathes in a deep and steadying breath. A bracing breath. And knocks on the door.

Minutes pass. Or maybe, just seconds.

Finally, Bob hears a voice from inside. Blessedly.

"Just a minute!"

Your calm voice is like a soothing balm, even muffled, even barely audible, and Bob feels like a loosed bowstring – held taut for hours on end and at the sound of your voice, finally let free. He can drop his shoulders and loosen his clenched jaw for the first time in the past day – in the past week.

Tension melts off of him like the last snow of late spring from the Montana pines. He can finally relax. He can breathe again.

A crack of light spills out of the creaking door, and Bob pulls his gaze from his scuffed brown Blundstones.

You are silhouetted in the doorway like a priceless Renaissance sculpture, glowing, curves highlighted and illuminated in the most beautiful dress Bob has ever seen.

Black satin, catching in the dim light and glimmering, like a blanket of stars on a cloudless December night.

He used to lay under stars like those in Montana and memorize the constellations. He feels the same sense of wonder, of awe looking at you.

He's always found you beautiful – even dressed in your coveralls with grease smudged on your cheeks, sometimes especially then – but now, fuck.

He's never seen your hair like that before, loose around your shoulders, curled like the ends of a ribbon on a beautifully wrapped present on Christmas morning. He shoves his hands in his pockets, slightly chapped and reddened from the dry cold, and pinches the denim between his palms, squashing the urge to reach out and wrap one of the delicate strands of hair around his finger.

A deep shade of red paints your lips, parting in a surprised smile. "Bob Floyd, is that you?" You shiver and hug your arms, and Bob, respectfully, keeps his eyes on your face. "Jesus Christ, when did it get so cold out here? Aren't you cold?"

"I, uh... run warm, I guess," Bob says. He lifts his baseball cap and runs his fingers through the mess of strands underneath, in desperate need of a trim. Sets it back on his head and squares his shoulders. "Are you headed out?"

You look down and absentmindedly shuffle your feet to look down at your heels – which reveals a slit in the fabric, exposing a line of bare skin all the way up to your thigh. God help him.

"Kind of. I'm supposed to meet up with some of the other mechanics at the Hard Deck. There’s some New Year’s thing there, I guess.” You fold your arms across your chest and look at him, still smiling curiously. “But what about you? What brings you here on New Year's Eve?"

He showed up out of the blue. Anyone else might be annoyed, but all Bob hears in your voice is gentle curiosity. Like Bob is the most pleasant of surprises.

"I spent 12 hours in the airport, only for my flight to get canceled, and I couldn't go back to my apartment after that and spend New Year's alone, but I couldn't go to the Hard Deck either. I'm sorry," Bob adds. "I shouldn't have shown up here like this. I should've called you. You have plans."

You regard him, expression calm. "Don't be sorry. I'm happy to see you."

You're happy to see him. You're happy to see him.

Is it cold enough for the pink in his cheeks to be mistaken for a different kind of flush? He hopes so.

"Do you wanna come in?"

His eyes grow wide. "Oh... well, what about your party?"

You drop your shoulder in a shrug. "New Year's is kind of lame anyway. I was really going as an excuse to get dressed up because I never go anywhere fancy enough to wear this dress. It's been in the back of my closet for months."

His eyes drop to the dress again, and absently, Bob wonders what the material would feel like between his fingers, what it'd feel like to run his hand over the elegant slope of your hip. He swallows.

"It's quite a dress," Bob croaks. His mouth is so damn dry. "You, uh... You look really beautiful. It's really... yeah."

You watch him, expression softening like warmed butter. "Thank you, Bob."

You look at him – look past the backpack and the scuffed carry-on and the slightly baggy sweater that once belonged to his older brother – and Bob feels seen, really seen. He feels safe.

You bump the door open wider with your hip and reach for his luggage, wiggling your fingers playfully until Bob passes the suitcase over. He's rewarded with a beaming smile, radiant and warm.

"Come on. You like Chinese?"

You change after Bob comes in, hanging up your dress and putting on an oversized gray sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, and a pair of fleece pajama pants that aren't quite the right length for your legs, covered in white dots and blue and white snowflakes.

You order the food and put on your favorite New Year's Eve movie while Bob calls his parents and gets comfortable, changing into sweatpants. His mom is pleased that Bob isn't spending New Year's alone, but Bob chooses his words carefully.

He is spending New Year's with a friend, not with a girl.

She'd ask questions Bob couldn't really answer in your hall bathroom.

When Bob comes back in, When Harry Met Sally is on.

You explain: "It's my favorite New Year's Eve movie. I watch it almost every year. If I start watching it 28 seconds after 10:30 PM – exactly, like down to the second – I can count down to midnight while Harry is confessing his love to Sally in the New Year’s scene."

You curl up on the couch, nursing a glass of champagne, while Bob sips from a chilled can of Ginger Ale while Harry and Sally banter and dance around each other and fall in love.

Admittedly, Bob is only half watching.

He likes this movie, but Bob is much more interested in you.

He is rarely alone with you.

He usually comes to see you on the Naval base – sometimes even making up questions as an excuse to come and talk to you, bringing coffee as a thank you for your answers – or seeks you out at the Hard Deck. He drove you home once when Bob was working late and spotted you in one of the hangars, but otherwise, Bob has never been here before.

About 30 minutes into the movie, Bob gets overheated and sheds his sweater, leaving him in a white short-sleeve and sweatpants underneath the oversized blanket from your bedroom. It's made of some kind of sherpa and smells like you.

Everything in here smells like you.

His legs are sprawled out in front of him, resting on the coffee table between a half-eaten plate of spring rolls and what’s left of his chicken chow mein. He ate his body weight in noodles and miso soup, and Bob feels warm and relaxed – if bordering on uncomfortably full.

He can barely focus with the smell of your perfume in his nostrils; excruciatingly aware of you underneath the blanket next to him, curled up with your legs folded underneath yourself, head lolling to the side, dangerously close to resting on his shoulder; smelling like cherries and champagne and vanilla and you.

A countdown begins in the background of the scene.

“Five…”

You sit up underneath the blanket, which brings you closer to him, inadvertently.

“Four…”

Your arm brushes against Bob’s.

“Three…”

You watch the screen, excited, and count along.

“Two…”

Your lips part in a wide and excited smile.

“One…”

Cheers erupt on the screen, but Bob isn’t even pretending to watch the movie anymore. He’s watching you.

You grin at him, eyes bright, looking so beautiful that Bob can’t hold the words in.

“Can I kiss you?”

Surprise flashes across your face, soon replaced with a small smile. Bob can see a lipstick stain at the corner of your mouth from where earlier, you'd messily wiped the red from your lips with a cocktail napkin. He wants to reach out and smooth it away with the pad of his thumb. He wants to kiss the spot where the smudge used to be.

Instead, Bob holds his breath. Waits.

He shouldn't have said anything. You've been such a good friend to him. You changed your plans, invited him in.

What if Bob's ruined everything now?

You've never been so close. You ask, "Like a New Year's kiss? Or like a real kiss?"

What if Bob hasn't ruined anything at all?

“Both,” Bob says softly, like a confession.

What if?

You're glowing in the sparkle of multi-colored lights, still strung along the walls, still decorating the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, blues and reds and greens, eyes glimmering, liquid warm. "Yeah. That'd be okay."

"Okay," Bob echoes, leaning in.

He presses his lips against yours in a gentle but firm kiss, cradling your jaw with a careful hand, stroking your cheek.

Bob doesn't linger. Doesn't press his luck.

He gives you a good and solid kiss and pulls back, eyes slowly opening.

"How was that?"

You lick your lips, and Bob follows the movement with his gaze, entranced.

"Kiss me again."

It's after midnight now, and uncertain, Bob asks, "Like a New Year's kiss?"

You shake your head, slow and clear, and lean in, and Bob meets you in the middle.

He kisses you in earnest now, kissing the smudge of red on the corner of your mouth, licking a drop of champagne from your bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth, running his hands over your skin.

You do the same, running your hands over his shoulders, over his neck, and knocking his baseball hat from his head, run your fingers through his hair. You pull on the ends of the strands, pull him closer, and god, it's all Bob can do not to moan into your mouth.

You're all warm skin and soft curves and sweet perfume, and Bob is drowning drowning drowning.

You knock the wind out of him, and eventually, Bob is forced to pull back and catch his breath. His chest is heaving. His cheeks are pink and warm.

You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, as if pulled from a dream, and give him a dazed smile. You murmur, low and breathless, "Happy New Year, Bob."

I think I'm in love with you.

"Happy New Year," Bob whispers instead.

end note: likes are always appreciated, but comments and reblogs make my whole day. i love hearing from y'all!

#bob floyd fic #robert floyd fic #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd x you #bob floyd angst #bob floyd fluff #laracrofted writes #fic: delicate #fic: bob floyd

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sublimitymp3 · 10 months

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for yandere aemond, aegon, daemon and criston, maybe how do they deal with their love having a lover they are not willing to give up even after marriage? Thank you very much for time you are amazing👀❤

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Aemond fell in love with you instantly when you two met. He never particularly liked the idea of being wedded to someone he did not know, but once he saw your sweet face, his worries drifted away. However, he had noticed your reluctance and apprehension to be around him. He thought nothing of it, chalking it up to you having the same opinions of arranged marriages as he once did. Aemond was sure that by the time you two were wed, you'd warm up to him

He was extremely wrong.

You were never cruel or particularly cold to him, you just never gave him any affection or attention as he would. You would dodge his kisses, wipe the ones he did leave on your cheek off, and you treated him more like an acquaintance rather than a husband. He had noticed you would receive letters from time to time, keeping them close to you and being overtly protective of them, and how flustered you'd look after reading them. This only served to make him even more curious about their apparent special contents. One night, Aemond would find the little box where you had stashed the letters. Curiosity got the better of him, and he began reading the various pieces of parchment. A silent rage began to fill him as he discovered they were love letters, exchanged with someone from the Riverlands, your birthplace. He would burn each letter that night, hatching plans to separate you from this secret lover. He'd intercept each and every letter your lover would send to you, reading them with annoyance before burning them in the fireplace. He could see the emotional toll it was taking on you. Your lover had abruptly ceased their communications with you, with no explanation. You wondered if they had grown tired of you, or if they were incapacitated. You were growing sad, and Aemond was always there, though you tried your best to brush him off in hopes another letter would come for you. Eventually, when three months had passed and no new letter was sent, you'd come crying to Aemond, and he'd welcome you with open arms.

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Aegon adored you. You were everything he was not, dutiful, kind, and cheerful. He admired you, and he genuinely felt so much love for you, despite you not knowing each other for long. While you were always friendly towards your new husband, you never were quite affectionate with him. He would try to win you over, stealing kisses from you and spoiling you with lavish gifts. He tried for months it seems to charm you, but to no avail. It was clear you had no romantic interest in Aegon, and he found himself slipping into old habits.

It was a brisk night, the cold breeze causing most people to wear heavy cloaks made of wool. Aegon was drunk in some alehouse, drowning his sorrows in his cups. In his peripheral vision, he could've sworn he saw you, huddled in the corner with a large cloak draped over you, and with some man. But he brushed it off as his drunken mind playing tricks on him. He focused back on his cups, but he couldn't shake how similar that woman looked to you. He fully turned around, squinting his eyes in an attempt to clear his blurry vision. Once his eyes were focused and clear, he saw that it was indeed you, with another man. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw you sharing kisses and loving touches with this stranger. It finally started to make sense to him why you insisted on keeping your relationship with Aegon strictly platonic.

Aegon would go classic Yandere at this point. He'd confine you to your chambers so you wouldn't be able to meet this man anymore. He would probably have his more...sketchy acquaintances deal with the man, eliminating him completely. You would cry and plead with Aegon to just let you go, to allow you to continue to see your lover, but your attempts to sway him were futile. He'd kiss you, whether you liked it or not, and he'd breed you until he was certain you were pregnant, simply another way to keep you anchored to him. Aegon was never much of a patient man, but he'd gladly wait until you accepted him as your one and only love.

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Daemon was no stranger to marriage, having been wedded twice already, to Lady Rhea Royce and Lady Laena Velaryon. He was quite sad over the manner in which his second wife had died, and he had truly loved her. Though, he didn't show his sadness, preferring to keep up his appearance of indifference. But then, he couldn't help but let his eyes linger on you at her funeral. You were the daughter of a wealthy merchant who resided at Spicetown, and he was quickly smitten with you.

You were wedded to Daemon not long after, as your father was ecstatic when Daemon asked for your hand. Your father had considered it a great honor and blessing that a Targaryen prince had asked to wed you, and he didn't care to take your feelings into consideration when he accepted the offer. Daemon had observed you were rather closed off and reluctant toward him, but figured your apprehension was either due to how your father wedded you off like it was nothing, or maybe even his reputation as the "rogue prince." When you came to Daemon one day asking to visit Spicetown so you may see your father, he agreed. He wasn't going to keep you from the only family you had, and he somewhat enjoyed the seaside town and its simplicity. Once there, your behavior changed. You were acting a bit shifty, and you weren't even spending much time with your father, instead staying out and about, always disappearing off. Daemon decided to follow you one day, not caring if you discovered him and got angry at him for doing so. he watched you go to a pier, and talk with some fisherman. Maybe he was an old friend or a friend of your father's? But jealousy began to hinder his judgment, and even more so when he saw you kissing the man.

Daemon clearly thinks little of the consequences of his actions, and so he'd stride over, cutting the man down with Dark Sister. He'd drag you roughly by your wrist back to your father and have you say goodbye. Once back home, do not think your actions would go unpunished. Like Aegon, he'd lock you in your chambers, slowly taking away freedoms and making you dependent on him. He didn't care if you hated him, in time he'd make you understand his actions.

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Ser Criston had quickly taken notice of you, a new serving girl. You were always timid around him whenever he tried to make idle conversation, something he found adorable. As the queen's sworn shield there were not many times he could speak to you, but at night when he was posted outside her door, you would walk by, holding various cleaning supplies. Then he would stop you to make friendly conversation. Slowly but surely, he was falling in love with you.

One night, Ser Criston would stop you once more. You had assumed he would make more conversation with you, but you were surprised when he dragged you off. He would sneak you both out of the Red Keep and into the city, finding some drunken Septon and forcing him to wed you two. You were so in shock, that you barely protested, and you were now his wife.

Ser Criston was so fond of you, and how timid you continued to be around him. He had forsaken his vows just to be with you, and he would not so subtly remind you of this, in some way to guilt you into keeping quiet about your marriage. And you did feel guilty for having a lover when Ser Criston had risked his integrity and honor to be with you, but you didn't ask to wed him, and that was his own doing and of no fault of yours. One day, while Ser Criston was making his way to his own quarters for rest, he saw you stealing kisses with some lowly stable boy. After all he had risked to be with you, this is how you repaid him? No, Ser Criston wouldn't stand for it.

The next night, when you were approaching the hall where the queen's chambers resided, and where your dear husband was stationed, you noticed how...angry he looked. You would slow your footsteps down, dreading approaching him, but it was inevitable. He would roughly grab you when you finally were near, making you drop your cleaning supplies to the ground. He'd hold your face tightly with one hand, threatening your position as a serving girl, your only source of income. He would make you swear that you'd never see the stable boy again, lest something terrible should happen to him. All you could do was helplessly nod your head in agreement, and hope Ser Criston would spare you both.

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syoddeye · 2 months

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the dinner

ceo!price x reader / ~4.4k words

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 Very special thank you to @sleepyeugene @greatstormcat and @mortuarywriting for beta-ing ♥️ Tagging: @sweetspicynoodles

CW: alcohol, oral sex

Straw. Actual straw. Collected, cut, snipped, and arranged by careful hands to ring a porcelain plate to resemble a bird's nest. A piece pokes the chicken egg in the center, and a thin drizzle of black truffle sluices from the puncture and soaks into the dry, flat bed of mushrooms.

You would do unspeakable things for a lamb samosa.

The drinks are delicious, though the service, along with everything else, proves an adjustment. Two sips into a kir, savoring, the waiter clears the glasses, moving you into the second dish without a word. Each course you pick through transitions the same: with a person clad in a fancy little vest ferrying away three-quarter full glasses and disassembled plates you ruined in search of flavor.

Baffling. Pompous. Wasteful.

Your work anniversary dinner. Your date with John Price.

Across the table, he dines in his own world. He methodically pierces the egg on his nest-plate-thing, peppery black truffle oozing more neatly than your own onto the mushrooms. He prepares a bite, and you trail it to his mouth. His eyes close briefly, and your lip twitches.

Holding back a sigh, you mirror him as you have the whole dinner, a plebeian to his patrician.

The conversation lulled when a former business associate of John's, wife in tow, briefly stopped at the table. You don't remember either of their names, only that their intrusion was the killing blow. Although introduced, the conversation remained limited to the three. By the time they departed for their table, the plates had changed.

John did not help the silence, seemingly content with it. While generous in material ways, the Moynat proof of that, he was stingy when it came to speaking about himself. He masterfully keeps the focus on you, with a special interest in your time at The 141 Group.

But as you reluctantly dominated the earlier conversation, you were not keen to restart it. You let the quiet continue to hold you hostage.

The server takes the remains of the cheese course, the most palatable and normal by far, and he finally speaks.

"Not a fan of French food?"

Your eyes flick up from the napkin in your lap. Unfazed, the server arranges another clean set of flatware. John's elbows rest on the table, poor etiquette for a man of his station, leaning forward until his breath makes the candle flame flicker. He doesn't move to make the server's job easier, forcing them to work around him.

You glance to the waiter, mildly comforted they seem unperturbed, then return to John's question. "I don't mind it."

"You hardly ate."

"I don't think my palate is refined enough for this," You carefully explain. This is a free dinner. This is the head of your company. You're neither impolite nor stupid to accidentally insult the man's taste.

"I doubt your tongue's the problem," He smirks, then lowers an arm to the table and extends a hand, palm up, expectant. Grins when you take it, thumb dragging over the skin. "I'll let you pick dessert."

The profiterole is an olive branch. A delicious one, vanilla cream and chocolate exploding over your taste buds, erasing the earthiness and grit of the earlier courses. Fingers pinching the dessert's accompanying demitasse, you find John studying you. His choux untouched.

"Not a fan of sweets?" You ask, echoing him.

"Not particularly," He pushes the saucer around the candlestick.

You take the pastry. With so much food wasted already, it'd be a shame to let the taste of paradise slip past.

The server never returns to the table. The meal ends when John informs you the car is waiting out front, and he herds you to the coat check with his hand on the small of your back. He helps you into your wool coat, murmuring, "Pity it's cold out."

You know what he means. It took hours and a FaceTime call with Jordan to pick a dress. Your friend wasn't so much of a consultant as she was a soundboard, reassuring you looked good over and over again.

"He said he liked the green," you explained.

"Told you, big sexy pine tree," Jordan teased, voice crackling through the phone speaker.

You wore the dark emerald dress to a wedding years ago with good results. It's formal enough the maître d' didn't stop you at the door, yet simple enough in its construction that you don't feel like a peacock or a tryhard. The silky material clung comfortably to your frame but wasn't too snug and fell to your mid-calf. The slit that cut a generous distance to your thigh invited John's eyes when you slid into the car upon pick-up, followed by his hand. The dress dipped beneath your scapulae in the back, the scoop neckline traveled straight across your cleavage, and the thin straps exposed your shoulders. You feel sexy, and you know you look it, too.

The coat's lining is cool on your skin, contrasting with the heat of John's breath on the back of your neck. Your things back in your possession, he steers you to the exit.

John pulls Alex aside when you duck into the car, and the bodyguard glances over his employer's shoulder. His attention returns within the second, but a smile forms under his neatly trimmed mustache.

With that furtive look, it occurs to you you don't know what's next on the agenda. Given the lack of edible food and stilted conversation, you'd prefer to head home and tuck into the samosas you've dreamt of all evening. Bid adieu to this alternate universe where you kind of date CEOs and own expensive purses. Yet, from your limited experience with John, leaving the man's company is easier said than done.

It's as if he reads your mind.

"Night's young. Thought we might have a drink, if I haven't completely mucked this up."

You frown. "You haven't," It's unfair he gets to self-deprecate, and your immediate inclination is to comfort and dissuade him. Knowing the man could buy your building with pocket change grates against the simmering frustration in your chest. You want to go home and ditch the date, as you have others, but instead, you are agreeable. "I could use a drink."

If he registers a hint of your inner turmoil, he does not show it. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Good. Somewhere we need to stop first."

He looks out the window and settles a hand above your knee again. You should break the habit, even if his palm is warm and the gesture scratches an itch you don't want to acknowledge.

You observe him in the periphery. Since this situation began in the copier room, you look up John Price online every few days. He's constantly in the news, whether by mention or for a quote. Each story uses one of three photos, all from the same batch of headshots. Interestingly, he seems to avoid video interviews, though there are three or four soundbites where he's been invited to chime in by a network.

His Wikipedia page contains more information on The 141 Group than his personal life. The section itself is a measly three sentences covering his birthplace, heritage, and when he founded the company. And although you knew it was a long shot, you searched high and low across every social media platform you could think of, reactivated your Facebook, and everything. Nothing. His control over his public image seems as ironclad as his control over the company. You count yourself lucky his command extends only to work. If you wanted to exit the car at the next traffic light, you're sure he'd let you out and wish you a good night.

An idle flex of his fingers on your leg, as if he really is a mind reader, extinguishes the thought.

Neon light punctures the tinted windows of the car. Your head swivels, and you scrunch your nose in recognition. John's brought you to a popular row of nightclubs, and fuzzy memories surge to the forefront of your mind. The taste of cheap tequila on your tongue and playing drunken therapy in crowded bathrooms. It's beyond you why John needs to stop here, but you're not opening that can of worms.

John reaches for the door handle, and your arm shoots out without thinking, curling over his forearm.

"John, wait."

He stops immediately. "Something wrong?"

"Can I stay in the car?" You ask, eyes moving past his furrowed brow to the few clubgoers outside. "I'd prefer to stay here."

John's face slackens, and then he turns away, his shoulders heaving with a short laugh. He shakes his head and pats your thigh. "Alright, but I'll need your order."

Confusion finds its home on your face this time until John gestures with a thumb over his shoulder out the car's rear window. A bright red food truck sits behind the private car, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. You watch a woman claim a paper tray cradling a doner kebab. The sight sinks claws into your belly.

The want must be plain on your face as John chuckles and cracks the car door open.

"C'mon. Two tiny pastries is a poor meal. I cannot, in good conscience, take you for a drink on an empty stomach."

When you order, and he reaches for his billfold, you quickly tap your phone to the register. Thanking the truck owner, you delight in the cross expression on John's face.

"You covered dinner, I assume, unless you've made an accomplice of me," You joke as you step to the side of the line with the man, your souring mood remedied with the promise of Turkish food.

John's eyes pinch as if trying to sort you out, and then his face drops into a feigned solemnity. "'Fraid so. We'll never be able to return."

"I'm gutted."

"I can tell."

The two of you stand out of the way of the groups loitering outside of the clubs. Alex hovers nearby.

You watch the short lines with a mixture of admiration and worry. It wasn't too long ago you were one of the giggling young women forgoing proper attire to stand in lines to dance and drink. Arms linked with friends, buzzing from the pre-drink, and making eyes at whoever caught your fancy. It's surreal to be back here with John, of all people. He'd look like an ordinary man if he wasn't in a bespoke suit.

A booming voice calls your number, and you retrieve the food. His serving is massive, tricky to transfer.

"I'm starvin'," He mutters, tucking in like a dog gets after a bone.

You, no better, are two big bites into your kebab. You swallow, shielding your mouth with a palm. "I thought you liked dinner. Our first dinner."

John considers you a moment, cheek bulging slightly with a bite. Before he takes another, he smiles sheepishly. "I hate that restaurant."

The admission poleaxes, and you nearly drop the kebab back into its flimsy tray. "But…I saw you absolutely relish that egg dish. With the truffle?"

"I was keeping the sea urchin down."

"That's what that was?" Your stomach twists, suddenly persnickety, recalling the slimy, coral-pink dish preceding the egg and mushrooms. It tasted salty, but you assumed it was another type of shellfish. Mildly scandalized, a bite finds its way to your mouth, but you pause, shy of the target. "If you hate the place, why did you take me there?"

"Thought you might like it."

You snort, wiping the corner of your lips with a disposable napkin. "Well, I didn't," Despite the lightheartedness, a sliver of asperity threads through your tone, and you swipe your tongue over your teeth. "You didn't ask what I like to eat, or where I might want to go for my anniversary date."

"So this is a date."

You glare, thinking how fast Alex might react to you taking a plastic fork to your employer, shelve the twinge in your chest and settle for pointing the prongs accusingly. "You have some nerve, Mr. Price. Taking a young woman, an employee, to dinner without consulting them."

The glint in his eye sharpens in the kaleidoscopic light. "You didn't complain earlier. You didn't ask."

You rapidly lose patience. "Should I ask next time?"

His mouth curls beneath his beard. "Next time?"

That’s it. You pitch the scraps of your food, dab your mouth again, and head for the car. With a huff, you bypass a hesitating Alex and wrench the car door open, your face flaming with embarrassment and irritation. Head of the company or not, he's an ass, deliberately riling you up. When you turn around, mapping the route home in your head, John's broad form cages you between the open door and the car. A quick glance at the American, and Alex turns away, forcing you to focus on the man before you.

"John." You state simply, hoping his name's magic enough a word to compel him to step aside.

"Didn't mean any harm, doll," He rasps lowly, a hair above a whisper. "Thought the place would impress you. I should've asked, I know, but I've made up for it, haven't I?" This close, his eyes appear darker, overcast with how he's backlit.

Lump in your throat, you exhale through your nose and lick your lip, tasting paprika. "I don't appreciate being teased."

John hums. "No?" His eyes switch between yours before giving a nod of understanding. "Noted. Then I'll be direct. I'd like to take you back to mine for a drink, so we can have some privacy," His hand lifts, palm cupping your face, thumb sweeping a cheek. "Get to know each other. Talk."

Talk. Uh-huh.

It's another precipice that every bit of reason in your bones tells you to step back from. Abort, abandon ship – this man is your boss's boss. No, higher than that. A man whose net worth is a question mark in every record you find. A fragmented exasperation comes out in a sigh, more surrender than defeat. As you mused earlier, leaving the man's company is easier said than done.

It's terribly stereotypical – the sleek high rise, the terse doorman, the private lift, all down to the echo of your heels clicking on dark parquet floors leading to his door, the penthouse, naturally.

However, John's home is warmer than you thought it would be for the owner of a company. A mixture of contemporary artwork hangs throughout the foyer, living, and dining area. Designer fixtures and hardware, clean lines melding with traditional pieces, and a color palette trending darker yet somehow rustic. Despite the company's technological bent, you have yet to spot a single smart home device. Whoever he paid to design and furnish his place, you figure they made out like a bandit.

Eyes cast out of floor-to-ceiling windows, you hold a glass of a Grand Cru, a Bordeaux whose name you immediately forget when you clap eyes on the year. The taste of dark cherry and smoke feels like silk and velvet on your tongue, and you savor it. The view's not too bad, either.

"Like it?"

"It'll do."

It's maddening. Going from barely looking the man in the eye in the line for a themed cocktail at a company party to standing in his home, drinking his expensive wine after he's paid for dinner and the purse currently on his dining table. As you take in the skyline, you hold on to that thought. The umpteenth time, you ask yourself, what the shit are you doing here? This is bad. There is no rationalization. The facts are laid bare in your mind: You are younger than him, not indecently so, but enough that your parents and friends would raise a brow. You are his employee and well on the way to breaking half a dozen more rules. You are an average person with bills and debt and stand to benefit from his generosity. You see it coming, the belated realization that hits like a pile of bricks.

The words slip out. Part declaration, part self-reassurance, wholly unformed. "I'm not going to be your…sugar baby, or whatever." You take a swig, fighting a wave of embarrassment.

In the window's reflection, John rocks on his heels. "I didn't think you were. I don't want you to be."

You turn, meeting his gaze when he mirrors you, squinting at the amusement written clearly on his face. "Then why the drinks? The dinner? The purse?"

"You deserve to be rewarded."

"No, no," You insist, shaking your head and lifting a finger. "You don't do this for other employees."

"Who says I haven't?"

"Have you?"

"'Course not."

You snort into the glass and drink deep. "You're impossible. How do you run a company with that attitude?"

John grins wryly in his own glass and ignores the jab. "Mm. Is this you askin' what we're doing here?"

Usually, eye contact is easy. Now, it's a challenge. "I suppose so, yes."

"We're two people enjoying each other's company," John's eyes drag down you shamelessly, ending back on your face with a polite smile as if he didn't blatantly ogle you. "One of whom happens to be in a position to give presents, and possesses the inclination."

It's an intentionally obtuse answer. "You know what that sounds like."

"It bothers you that much? To leave things as they are?"

"'As they are'," You repeat, then venture, "Casual, then?"

John faces you completely, looming. "I prefer to call it friendly."

Your chin lifts. "And you know what human resources would call it?"

"I might have some sway there."

"You'd abuse your power for me?" You scoff.

"I'd do worse, if you asked, sweetheart."

There’s a pause, an opening, and to your surprising delight, John takes it. He leans down for a kiss.

It's a mix of restraint and fervor. John's hand cradles your jaw, deepening the kiss when he realizes you're not running for the exit. His mouth's clearly the dominant player when yours opens without prompting. Any trace of stiffness in your posture melts, and it's a good thing you're holding a half-full glass of wine because you don't know what else it would reach for or where else it would head.

"Get to know each other. Talk," John said. If this is how he wants to get to know you, you accept it, and let him take you to his bedroom.

"This'll wrinkle," John rucks the sheath of your dress up to your waist, fingers appreciatively trailing down your hips until they curve beneath your knees. His eyes follow a similar path, albeit starting from your face.

"I'll bill you for the dry cleaning." You murmur, biting your lip, watching him take in the view. It's intoxicating, the shift in his breathing, the narrowing of his eyes when it reaches the pale gold silk of your thong. It's as sheer as gossamer and carefully stitched with a pretty floral design, the gusset the only solid strip of fabric apart from the band.

The look on his face makes the bit of debt it put you in worth it.

Your smug grin collapses under the crawl of a knuckle down your covered seam, featherlight.

He hums, hands sliding beneath the band. His eyes flick to yours, the blue cloudy with want. His turn to smirk. "This too?"

"John," You warn half-heartedly, knowing what he's actually asking, lift your hips a little, and plant your hands on the bed.

Slowly, John pulls the garment down your legs. A sharp, audible inhale escapes him when his eyes snap to the apex of your thighs, and he tosses the piece of lingerie aside.

John sinks to his knees at the edge of his bed, unhurried, clearly content to observe your sex like it's one of the expensive pieces of art in his living room. His hands return, gliding up your legs to draw circles into the patches of skin on either side of your pussy, smirking again when he hears you gasp. He remains fixated. "Look at you," he purrs, a thumb brushing through the wetness, spreading it deliberately over your clit.

His thumb continues its lazy swipes while his mouth starts kissing a trail up your thighs. You tremble head to toe, anticipation painting everything in a lush haze.

"Fuck," The curse slips out in an aborted hiss you bite back. It's annoying how easily John works you up, his nettling at the food truck to this – he's barely touched you, and speech is suddenly a weakness. Has it been so long since you last saw some action? The brief, scalding memory of your last romp in the sheets plays in your mind. Freshly broken up with, it was a half-baked rebound with a man from a bar you went to alone, stupidly, and took in like a stray dog. Rutted like one, anyway. Come morning, he'd gone, having apparently found the cash in your wallet but not your clit.

A nip brings you back to the present.

"Still with me?"

How many times could you make a rich man doubt himself in one night? Quite the undiscovered talent to discover. "Sorry, yes," You breathe, words working their way out through a shudder, "It's been awhile."

His stroking slows, eyes narrowing at your admission, mouth tracking to its north star.

For a moment, it seems like he might stop or, worse, ask about it. You reach a hand toward him and stop short. "Can you, just–please?"

Without another word, John parts your thighs further apart, fingers digging gently into the sensitive skin. He dips his head lower, warm breath fanning over your pussy. His broad tongue flattens and drags one long lick from your hole to your clit, circling the sensitive bud. He groans, lapping up the first droplets of arousal, huffing your scent with his nose pressing to your curls. One of his hands makes for your ass, holding you in place when you inevitably jerk from the sensation.

His tongue is a wicked thing. Fitting, given his predilection for banter.

You involuntarily cant your hips up to his mouth, his beard scraping. "John!"

His smirk stretches across his lips, and he chuckles. For a second, he pauses. It's deliciously agonizing, the sight of him licking his lip before he returns back between your legs. The delay is long enough to make the next touch of his tongue a pleasant shock.

But he stops again. "Yeah? You want more?" The question is punctuated by a swipe.

You clench at the sheer arrogance in his voice. Maybe you did like being–

"What was that earlier?" His teeth gently, gently rake over your clit. "Something about you not appreciating being teased?" His laugh is downright mean when you practically squeal.

Your face burns, leaning back on an elbow, unable to remain seated with how you shake. "John, please."

Every word laces together with amusement. "Impatient, aren't you? Just want to make this last, sweetheart."

He delves back in, and in the process, he hauls one of your legs over his shoulder. You drop the other arm back to hold yourself up. His hand on your thigh leaves its post to join his efforts, and his middle fingers slide in without preamble - no need, judging by the obscene squelch.

Your head is the next to fall back at an angle, eyes squeezing shut at the slight stretch, hips bucking when he thrusts them shallowly. Gradually pushing deeper, stroking you from the inside out. His tongue makes a slow pass over your seam, licking over where his fingers disappear, and his mouth seals over your clit.

Again, language fails. The incoherent, shattered pleas and curses erupt out of you seem to spur John on. He groans when your cunt tightens its grip on his fingers, the heat in your belly skyrocketing to the peak at a dizzying speed. You know the orgasm will hit hard if it really has been over a year since someone assisted you in reaching one.

"John, please, John," you hurtle towards oblivion, leaving human resources in the dust. You fist his bedding, knuckles flexing, and force yourself to look at him.

John's eyes are open, pupils blown, zeroed in on your face with an intensity that makes you clench once more. He grunts something in response, vaguely encouraging with his big palm on your ass, squeezing and keeping you in place.

When it crests, your back meets the mattress with a cry. John rises slightly to follow your body's momentum, tongue still working fervently, though his fingers stop. He pulls out the digits to grab the ankle of your leg over his shoulder, your own wetness painting over the joint like a brushstroke. He gently removes the limb from its perch, and his mouth slows.

The first hints of overstimulation make you whimper and clumsily reach for the crown of his head, fingers threading through short hair to pull him off.

John detaches himself from your pussy, but not without a few parting kisses.

While you try to gather the pieces of your consciousness flung about, John retracts and stands, rubbing one of your calves. You nearly short-circuit when you meet eyes at last. He's sucking his fingers with the same care he showed at dinner. The first one. He grins.

"My dessert."

You consider chucking his own pillow at his face. The crime of a rich man using a cheap line. It's annoying you still want his cock. You reach for him, fingers hooking around his belt to pull him forward and down, a knee landing between your legs. He ducks his head to meet you halfway for a kiss, your tongue licking over the seam of his mouth, tasting yourself. You kiss and kiss and kiss until your lungs hurt. Now that he's broken your dry spell, it's open season.

Only, he puts a stop to it, pulling back when you unfasten his belt buckle. He cups your face. "I'd rather focus on you right now, sweetheart."

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. "That's not–You don't have to…"

"Hm, I want to see how many times I can make you come tonight." His other hand toys with the thin strap of your dress. "Should get this off you, before I ruin it."

The dress is a lost cause, as with any intention you had of sneaking out in the middle of the night. The dress joins your underwear, and you spend the rest of the evening learning just how generous John Price can be.

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h0unds-of-h3ll · 6 months

Text

Season of the witch

Elvis Presley. One of the biggest and most handsome musicians comes through your sleepy little town you couldn’t help yourself from giving him your potent honey pie. Little does he know it’s laced with your love sex pollen.

50s Elvis Presley x Witch! Reader.

Word count: 9k.

Warnings: Elvis becomes obsessed. To the point where he’s a munch. Sex pollen. Witchcraft, little talk of religion. Manipulation. Dubious consent. Talk of being eaten out, teeth. Heavy emphasis on breeding. Little coercion. Making out. Stalking. Slight noncon. You literally put him under a spell so he’ll be your pet. Titty sucking. Period sex. He has mommy issues and calls you mama a lot. Talk of drugs.

A/n: The only reason why I wrote this is because it’s inspired by one of my favorite movies The Love Witch, the scene where she poisons Wayne and he becomes so madly in love with her. Wanted to write this for Halloween too. So have a very devilish night imagining yourself as a witch in the 50s and having a 22yr old Elvis being bedeviled by you.

It was cold, very cold for a Halloween night in the Deep South. It had just rained and poured the night prior. The streets flooded with water, and puddles grew. The gold and brown dead leaves fell into the wakeless puddles. The sky overhead was dark with storm clouds; it was barely 5 o'clock, and it looked like midnight. It was so depressing, just as you liked it in your little town.

You made a honey pie for him. For Elvis Presley. You’re not sure how the governor arranged for him to perform at the little banquet. Your town needed the money and the praise. The once-booming oil town has now dwindled into a pass-through town to get to the interstate. Nothing was there; a couple of restaurants and a grocery store were it. A few antique mom-and-pop stores—nothing to stop at. The town's population barely broke two hundred this year. Full of old Bible-thumping seniors. The governor presumed if he got Elvis to perform then newcomers would realize how interesting the town is and would get people to move. Balance the old with the young.

Children were a phenomenon; the only time you saw kids was when it was their grandparent's turn to babysit. The youngest people who lived there were you and your friend Eileen, who was a few years older than you. She was actually the one who introduced you to your way of living. The art of witchcraft. She taught you mostly everything she knew, specializing in love. The most dangerous part of crafting. She even taught you how to make the love potion in the pie. The pie that he’ll eat.

Eileen said that she’ll meet with you at the hall. A stuffy run-down chapel that no one used, that was built in the 20s. It was a bit ironic that the governor chose Elvis, he wasn’t known for his godly beliefs but for his rather devilish dances. The governor came to realize the only way he could change the town was to shift the focus of religion, so people would feel comfortable living here.

Eileen had introduced you to a cult a few towns over that allowed you to express yourself better. To allow your blessings to become stronger. The cold nips at your legs and the pad between your thighs make your skin even more sensitive. Your black stockings didn’t allow any warmth. The dark wool coat with fur-lined on the inside was your only heat source. Your black jean dress had a white long sleeve under it to give you a little bit more heat too. The wool socks under your boots helped a bit too. Your cheeks and nose are painted a dusty pink.

The pie was in a plastic round Tupperware bowl. Surely he'd only need one bite for it to hit, you made absolutely no mistake in making the pie potent. Not wanting for your only chance of him falling in love with you go to waste. Oct 31st, 1957 you were going to make Elvis Presley fall madly in love with you.

The chapel breathed with people. The seniors in town didn't bother coming. They were actually repulsed by the notion of Elvis coming here. However, the hundred or so people who did were in a two-hundred-mile radius. You're not sure how they knew he was coming but they were here. You shuffled past all the different giddy girls, trying to find Eileen. She'd most likely be in the back eating the crackers that they stored for commission.

From the amount of people who came it looked like the second coming of Christ. The governor decided to make a row of food outside for the people who couldn't get in. Handing out plates full of homemade meals. You knew that you had to hide the pie in the back closet. How you were going to make Elvis eat it would be the most important question. Maybe since you and Eileen were huddled in the back he’d walk past and you’d be able to convince him. That was a big maybe.

Your attention went back to the governor who looked at you. The governor was an older man, named Henry. Late in his 40s with dark black hair now turned gray. He was tall and wasn't ugly in the slightest. His family was politicians, founded the town even though it was his right to become governor when his legacy was passed down. His lineage extends to the church along with the police. His Father was the priest of the chapel until he died a few years ago. The only reason why you knew this was because you had a fling with him. He was cute and the town was little so why wouldn’t you? It was only until you realized that the love pollen only amplified their deepest subconscious was what warded you off of him. He was nothing but the son of Satan himself. Coming home and finding him doped up to the point where he’s incapable of thinking because the only thing he could think about was you. Thankfully, Eileen helped you reverse the spell but something still in him yearns to be with you. You learned from your mistake and made the pie far less potent.

As you stood in the long line you listened to women chatter amongst themselves about Elvis and where he was. Holding onto your plastic bowl you moved in with the crowd, slowly but surely. The table the governor was sitting at was right by the chapel's door. He smiled as he handed over another full plate.

“Thanks for comin’.”

Finally making it to the door he holds his hands out expecting you to give your pie to him with a smile. His dark blue eyes are holding you frozen. You see his smile falter when he realizes it’s you. His face drains.

“I never knew you liked Elvis.”

He crosses his arms, giving you a shocked face. You shrug your shoulders.

“You never asked, Henry.”

He nodded, his eyes falling to his feet thinking for a second before he looked back up. Excitement etched into his face.

“Say, why don’t I take you out tonight. We can go back to my house, get fat off some candy, and watch old cartoons after the show?”

You give him a sheepish smile, patting him softly on the shoulder. His eyes light up at you touching him. You almost feel bad for letting him down.

“How about a different night?”

His face falls and he nods.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

He sniffles as tears well up in his eyes.

“Jus’ miss you is all.”

You blink a few times, trying to regain your mind. You hear women gossiping about you behind you.

“I know, I’ll see you around though.”

He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands, his eyes lingering on you far longer than they should’ve.

The church pews were gone so the floor was open. There were people stuffed into corners and billowed out the doors in lines. As you made your way in you were hit with overwhelming heat from all of the energies combining together. Your wool jacket almost made you sweat.

You weaved your way through the back, getting glares shot at you. Rubbing arms with others as you went behind the curtains down the hall to the familiar door where you and Eileen hid during Sunday mass for free food. Relieved to find that no one was in the back it made it easy. Everyone was too focused on the front. You positioned the plastic bowl on your hip and knocked three times.

You stood there looking back and forth to make sure that your coast was clear and it was. Your stomach aches with a tight squeeze. Menstrual cramps settling in. You wonder for a moment if Elvis would still fuck you if you bled. The thought made you nervous, and the fur of your jacket dampened. Goddammit, Eileen, where were you?

You raise your fist to knock again before you hear a muffled voice.

“Password?”

You roll your eyes popping your hip out that has the tub on it.

“Eileen I don’t have time for this.”

Pleading doesn’t help.

“Whose Eileen? Only a witch burns here.”

After thinking carefully about what the password could be, it finally dawns on you. Witch. Eileen and her play on words are going to be the death of you. She was a highly intelligent individual, which was one of the reasons that drew you to her.

“Salem, final answer.”

Groaning the answer, she smirked behind the door.

“What year?”

Pushing your sweaty forehead against the wooden door, you shut your eyes tight. A sinner sweating in church—how comical.

“1692 through 3, let me in. I don't have time for this; he can be here any minute!”

You take your head off the door once you feel the momentum shift, and it reveals Eileen. A petite, long-haired woman whose face was practically bone, with striking green eyes, beams at you. Mouth stuffed with cheap saltine crackers—you don’t know how she enjoys those things.

“You know there’s a feast outside.”

Remarking on how strange it was that she’d rather eat cheap crackers than a home-cooked meal. She chews slowly, the tub of crackers in one hand as you walk into the small closet. Kicking the door behind you closed with the heel of your boot. A light bulb dangles in the middle, illuminating the room. Bibles and crosses line the shelves. Your skin erupts with goose flesh. The smaller woman shrugs.

“Half of the stuff out there will poison me, I know those old bats target us.”

She smiles softly, her voice muffled as she finally swallows.

“Like you with your own poison.”

She wiggles her eyebrows and smiles as you grow flustered.

“Be more quiet, Eileen! It’s like you want us to get caught!”

Scoffing, you turn around, reaching high up, and place the tub on one of the shelves next to a bible. You discard your coat over the top of the plastic. Turning back around, you watch her stuff more crackers into her mouth. Half the tub is gone.

“Do you think it will actually work this time? I mean, not like what happened with Henry; he’s a wreck out there.”

Sighing at the end of your sentence. You wanted Elvis to be in love with you; sure, so did every woman and girl in the world, but you didn’t want him to be devastatingly obsessed with you. Eileen shakes her head. For the first time in minutes, she puts the jar on one of the shelves and swallows thickly.

“Honey I watched you practice; I even asked the superiors what they thought, and they even encouraged your attempt. Yes, y/n I think you’ll be fine.”

“Promise?”

She sticks out her pinky, and you wrap yours around it. There’s a screech of feedback into a microphone and a roll of thunder as it begins to pour rain.

“As you may know, my name is Elvis Presley.”

Big, heavy policemen were situated in the front and center of the stage, holding women who threw themselves at Elvis, back into the crowd. He was only a couple of feet above the regular ground. A few managed to slip through and got to Elvis. He’d laugh and shake it off, singing the rest of Hound Dog. As the men got distracted, you and Eileen held hands and tucked yourselves by the front left of the stage. Some girls shot you dirty looks, but it wasn’t anything you hadn’t already seen before. The people in the room were stuffed so tight that you couldn’t stand still without touching elbows with someone.

He shifted his hips back and forth, his black trousers hanging loosely on his skinny hips. His orange shirt clung to his sweaty skin, and the dark brown wool jacket did him no favors. His black hair was slicked back so much that you could see the globs of gel. He’s struggling with the cord of the microphone, moving around so much that it keeps getting tangled. Throwing his head back and standing on his tiptoes, he takes off his jacket, and the girls scream at the action. One of them manages to grab the sleeve and drag it off the stage, and a couple of them fight over it. He restrains himself from laughing hysterically. His leg starts jumping. His eyes run over the vast group, and they fall on you. Eileen squeezes your hand, smiling at you. His eyes linger on you as he sings, then he looks away, breaking your spell, and walks to the other side of the stage. It wasn’t more than a second but it felt like hours.

Thunder booms throughout the sky, and the lightning makes the artwork on the windows glimmer. The storm outside grows. The song finally ends and he’s a huffing mess. He sips on the glass of water by the rest of his band. He sets the glass back down on a stool and stands in the middle again in front of the microphone.

“Never been much of a Halloween guy, but y’all are makin’ me change my mind.”

He swallows, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. His voice is quieter with the crowd roaring.

“What am I goin' to do with all you women?”

He licks his lips, his fat bottom lip tucked between his front teeth as he revels in the roar.

“Huh?”

Egging them on, you just watch amazed- speechless at how he has a hundred people at his will. Similar to how Jesus willed people together.

He cups the microphone in his big hand and drags the stand with him as he walks to the side of the stage, farthest away from you. The girls claw at him over the policeman's shoulders. He crouches down on his knees.

“Shouldn't ask this in a holy house, but I'm sure God will forgive me for it,”

“What d’ya want me to do to you after the show?”

He pushes the mic over to a young girl no older than sixteen in a white dress. She's a mess.

“I-i can't say that!”

She shrieks and it makes him smile, shaking his head. He stands and takes away the mic.

“Y’all got some dirty minds.”

He walks to the middle of the stage leaning over to a girl whose face is red and she's hyperventilating. Her big eyes almost came out of her head as she stared at Elvis. She almost weeps as he asks her the same question. She's paralyzed and can't speak.

“Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”

He smiles wide, amused by his joke.

“Or do I?”

You watch as she turns white as a ghost, her body falls lump and the girls behind her hold her up. She fainted from just talking to him. It's a hassle for everyone to part and an officer to lift her up and escort her out. Elvis shakes his head again before moving over to the side you were on. You stare at his creased leather shoes. They're polished but the creases make white lines across them. The laces aren't matched on both of them either.

“Gon’ do one more ‘fore I gotta start doin’ my job again.”

A few boos were shouted. The others screamed suggestions for him to play. He smiles before crouching to you. A cop in front is sandwiched between you two. You can see the sweat beaded on his forehead and trickle down the base of his throat. The lightning struck and a few girls jumped but you were too enchanted with his eyes. A shade of blue you’ve never seen before. It’s a staring contest between you both. Testing to see whose will is strongest. His eyes held the fire burning in your stomach. He made the fever boil your skin. He made you undeniably horny. The longer you stare the more time you commit his gaze to memory. His plush lips part and he asks the question.

The room is hot as hell itself. You can’t hear from the storm and the women, but the metal mic is placed in front of you. His hand is mere inches from your face, he has a couple gold rings on his fingers. You want to taste the sweat. Suck on those long digits until the diamonds weigh heavy on your tongue. Without hesitation, you speak into the microphone proudly. Staring him straight in his eyes.

“I want you to fuck me after the show.”

The room goes quiet. The heavy pattering of rain is the only thing heard. Gasps spread throughout the small chapel. A few applauded your bravery for saying what they wanted to say but couldn’t. His dark blue eyes with dark lashes go wide. Blinking profusely at what your voice told him. You just a little nungen wanted to fuck him. Shocked to find that a little girl had thoughts of a grown woman. His mouth is parted as he breathes heavily, removing the microphone from you back to the front of the stage. He just stares at you enamored. For the first time in years since he started performing he’s speechless. That bold dominant act of a man is gone and replaced by a blushing boy.

He regains himself with his deep chuckle, which brings your thighs to dampen with slickness. You shift your thighs together to satiate the pulse of your throbbing clit. Eileen beams up at you like a child given a bag of candy. She doesn't need to say that you did it and that your plan is working, you know it.

He leans between the cop, close to your face to where you can smell his breath. Peppermint and cola.

“Meet me in the back, and I’ll make it happen.”

He finishes the show as a heaping puddle in the middle of the stage. The last song was Crying in the Chapel which you deemed the utmost respect. The cops start to push people out of the chapel, and the doors opening makes the sound of rain louder along with the raging whip of the wind. Most people dashed out to their cars, and others had to wait beside a designated corner to be picked up. Eileen squeezes your hand once more. Leaning her lips to your ear she whispers.

“Make sure he eats at least a crumb.”

She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before she leaves. The curtains had closed around the stage so you couldn’t see Elvis but you knew the only way out was the side of the stage where you stood. A few lingered and watched as he left, giving a sheepish wave. You absentmindedly tried to walk straight past the cops but their arms struck out and hit you in your stomach pulling you back. Confusion writes across your face.

“I need to go back there.”

The cop smiles and laughs.

“Yeah, you and every girl in here.”

You shake your head.

“You don’t get it Elvis gave me permission to meet him back there.”

He gives you an incredulous look not believing you. You rub your temples and sigh, becoming frustrated before you have to pull out the card you dreaded most.

“Listen, I know the governor and he trusts me enough to be back there. I have my jacket and a pie I made for the banquet in the storage closet. I just need to go back there and get it, that's all. I’ll come right back and it won’t be more than a minute.”

It’s quiet and you’re not sure if your half-true story would work. You’re more worried that he’s left already and thinking that you stood him up. Finally, the cop shrugs and shifts horizontally to allow you to pass as you do you smile. He grabs your arm before you can get too far.

“No more than three minutes.”

“Yessir.”

He lets go and you continue to walk to the door that Elvis had walked behind. You’re not sure where you’ll find him. There are only three different rooms in the little hallway, one of them is a unisex bathroom, the other is the pastor's office and the other is the storage room. Some of Elvis’s band walks past you talking about what they're going to do after the show. They don’t even care that you’re around them as they shuffle out the back door at the end of the hall. You go to the closet and open the door not expecting to find the man of the hour there. Your stomach drops and your body burns with goosebumps. Cheeks heating up flustered.

Absolutely floored. He’s eating the pie. The lid is discarded by your jacket. He’s sitting on the edge of a square table, Eileen’s cracker tub empty by him. He takes his thick index with a chunky golden ring and swipes it through the last syrup and crumb of the pie. His legs are spread out wide, and the black slacks cover his wide thighs. He sticks the pad of his finger between his plump lips and his cheeks hollow out. He places the tub by the crackers and leans his head back. He closed his eyes and groaned deep in his throat.

You can’t even begin to fathom what’s happening. You don’t know why he would choose your food in the back. How he chose the closet rather than the pastor's office. Why did he eat the pie when there’s a feast outside but then the realization hits. None of the visitors brought food and only the residents brought some so the visitors ate all the food outside waiting so he had none. From the mere viewing of watching him eat, he was ravenous. Dread fills you as you realize he’s eaten the entire goddamn thing. Realizing someone was in the room with him he stared at you, his eyes half closed as his gaze ran over you. He licks his lips and wipers his hand on the top of his trousers. He leans back, putting his hands behind him.

“Did you make this?”

His voice is hoarse and a deep gravel within his chest. Blood rushes to your cheeks. Could he tell that you were that inconspicuous? That he could taste the pollen? No. He couldn’t, could he? You nod, incapable of speaking. Your throat is dry from anxiety.

“It’s really good. Should be a baker or somethin’”

He breathes heavily, his cheeks and neck a bit pink. His face is still glossed with sweat.

“I wanna know what you cooked in it. Jus’ something I ain’t ever tasted before.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. You’ve stood in the same spot in front of the closed door.

“It’s a secret. An old recipe that uses natural oils.”

You hoped and prayed that your answer wasn’t as suspicious as it seems. He nods his head before standing.

“‘M sorry for eatin’ all of it. Didn’ mean to, I just burn through so much energy out there. Can’t help myself.”

You smile shakily.

“Oh.”

He scratches the back of his neck, grinning. His face is becoming more red with the blush creeping up his neck. He stands in the middle of the room only a few feet away.

“Which led me to eatin’ your pie. Hope you’re not angry or nothin’”

You shake your head, wringing your hands anxiously. You can’t look at him so you look at his shoes. His smell has taken over the room. Your hormones being amplified because of your period makes his scent intoxicating. From the way he’s acting it seems like how you smell is making him antsy too. He’s tapping his foot.

“Made it for you.”

As soon as you mutter the end of your sentence he walks to you. He reaches out and takes one of your hands and it makes your heart stop. You look up at him with wide eyes. The height difference makes him overlook you, he cranes his head down peering at you. Your knees go weak looking in his eyes. He smiles wide, pearly teeth and squeezes your hand. Your back is up against the wooden door as he holds you against it with his waist. His torso pressed firmly against yours. You can feel him. Feel how solid his cock is.

“You did? I appreciate that honey.”

You wish he would kiss you, touch you more but he doesn’t. He just holds your hand, his grip makes the metal of his rings pinch your hand. You watch his mood shift in his eyes to a much darker tone. You can see the sweat bead and fall down his sculpted face. Feel the heat radiate off of his vast body.

“Pretty little thing.”

His voice has dropped an octave lower and it’s nothing more than a mumble but you hear it. Before he leans in there’s a banging by your head. It slams three times over.

“Ready to go!”

His touch leaves and your heart aches. A sheen of sadness wedges it into his eyes. He realizes that this might be the last time he sees you before he leaves for Memphis.

“Gimme your address.”

He pushes out hurriedly. It’s not a question, it's a demand. You start stuttering an unfamiliar speech impediment summoning.

“I-I don’t have anything to write on or with.”

He nods solemnly but he doesn’t take no as an answer. He removes himself from you entirely and scavenges throughout the small room. He finally grabs one of the Bibles and a pen tucked inside the book. He hands both of them to you and you take them. As you open the front page you write your address and name on the front cover. It’s strange since it’s like giving him your autograph. As you write your address he’s hovering over you watching you etch your way into his heart. The man on the other side pounds on the door once more.

“There’s a cop out here asking ‘bout some girl. You gotta open up!”

Elvis’s hand softly graces your shoulder, urging you to finish.

“Just give me a damn second!”

He bites back through gritted teeth. You jump at his sudden outburst. Finishing suddenly with a period. He smiles hugely seeing you done. He kisses your cheek and you’re stunned at the softness of his lips against your skin. You give him the book and turn around to watch him leave. As he touches the door handle he pivots.

“I want to know your name.”

You’re taken aback not understanding why, but you say it nonetheless. He nods his head, saying it to himself, committing it to memory.

“I like that name, it suits you.”

Warmth spreads over you at his compliment. You stare at his broad back as he opens the door and leaves. You listen to the rain, as the familiar cop is stunned to see Elvis so close. Before he walks into the small room watching you melt.

“I told you three minutes.”

“I know, he just took longer than I expected.”

Sitting quietly in the back of one of the officers' cars. After the rendezvous with Elvis, you watched as the cops took people who lived in town back home. Serving as a transportation hub. You waited for your turn. The cop didn’t say a lot during the ride, only a few questions about where you lived and about Elvis. You shivered every time you talked about the musician. Not only was it freezing in the car, but your furry coat couldn’t keep up. But you were riddled with the fact that he had eaten the entire pie. You traced your fingers over the plastic tub in your lap. Not only did he do that, he has your address. Will he visit you tonight? Will he visit you at all?

It’s dark outside as you pass through streetlights. Your stomach twists and fills with butterflies as you think about him being in your home. Something that you imagined for so long is now coming true.

“Is this it up here?”

The cop asks and you nod, he parks and watches you walk up the sidewalk and into your house before he leaves.

The rain manages to soak you for the few minutes you walk in it. Your house is grim when you enter. Dark and cold. You take off your jacket and place it and the tub on the island in the kitchen. Opening the drawer below the sink you take a box of matches and light the candles you had scattered around the house. The soft glow allowed warmth to spread. The smell of pumpkins started to flourish throughout your home.

Turning on your little box television to a random black and white cartoon. The last thing you decided to do to get settled in was to play a record. Your collection has grown over the past few years. You had more Elvis albums than any other musicians. Making a vital point to buy one whenever a movie of his would come out or a listening party would be announced. Making Eileen drive you to the nearest record store since the one in town wouldn’t have it until a week later. You’ve arranged his albums to be the ones in the front. Knowing that you were more likely to play those than any other. The record player itself sat between the columns. You touched the covers as you shuffled through. Deciding to put loving you on since it was fairly new.

You start to sway your hips to the first song that plays. Slipping off your boots and socks you walk to the back of the house where your bedroom was. You unbuttoned the oval buttons on your dress and folded it onto your dresser. Left in the long sleeve and little cotton panties. You opened the drawers, mumbling the words to yourself as you listened to Elvis’s singing. You grabbed a new pair of panties and a nightgown. Shedding the rest of your clothes you take the new ones with you into your small bathroom and draw a bath.

The hot water fills the tub and the room becomes a sauna, you place the clothes on your sink and grab the towel from the cupboard. You stare at your naked body in the mirror. Your body is already damp from the rainwater and the condensation that fills the air. Your nipples are already hard from thinking about him. God did the pollen work on you instead of him? You run your hands over your sides, up from your hips to the swell of your breasts. Imagining his hands instead. His song plays as you sway to his voice. Talk to me like that. Sing to me. Tell me you love me. It thunders outside and lightning flashes through the window above your bathtub.

You sigh, skin flushed from the heat. You step your foot into the hot water and turn off the faucet. Slipping deeper into the water. Completely relaxing into the oasis. You wonder what his lips will feel like on your own. What his mouth will feel like between your legs. Would he care about the taste of blood on his tongue? You close your eyes and dream. Surely you won’t have to dream any longer. You reach up, and the droplets of water run down your chest. Taking a tiny jar of essential oils you let it drip onto your neck and spread down. Cleansing and releasing your energy. You put the jar back where you got it from and lounged in the alluring water.

What if it didn't work? You ask yourself as insecurity wedges itself into your thoughts. He seemed awfully engaged in you at the chapel, but what if that's as far as it'll go? Your heart aches at the thought you did all of it for nothing. Maybe you should've learned from what happened to Henry and cut your ties. You don't hear the knock on your door, because the record is too loud. You think about how fitting it is that lonesome cowboy plays.

You hear the incessant pounding on your door like one of those cheesy horror movies where the victim runs to the house to escape the villain. You thought it would go away but it doesn't, it just gets louder. You groan, opening your eyes to stare at the white tiled wall.

“Just a second!”

You yell out and you blush as you remember him yelling that out earlier just to have a little more time with you. There's a dreadful ache between your legs as you dry off with the towel. You need something to fill the emptiness, that void that's growing oh so apparent. You need him.

You don’t drain the tub, as you put on your panties. Not caring if you bleed into them, Eileen knows a remedy to get the stains out anyway. The nightgown is dark red with the lace around your tits and thighs black. You smile as you remind yourself of a skimpier Betty Boop. You can't answer the door looking so promiscuous so you throw the fluffy bathrobe over it. The banging on your door grows, along with Elvis's slow love ballads.

Opening the door you're instantly hit with a massive gust of wind and emotions. It's him. He looks like a kicked puppy. He's sopping wet with water. His orange shirt is now a dark brown. His hair is messy and scattered along his face. His once dark blue eyes are now pale gray. He's heaving for air. As you stare longer you realize he didn't drive a car. He ran here with the Bible you wrote in his hand.

“Elvis! I-what're you doing here? Why are you in the rain?”

Your brain runs too fast for you to comprehend his presence. The faint glow of your candles from inside is the only light shining onto his face.

“Had to see you. Ever since the show, I can't stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I've never felt like this before.”

His voice is sheepish like he’s afraid to admit what he just said. As he looks at you he’s almost brought to tears by how pretty you look. If you don’t let him in he’ll sit right down on your porch in front of your door and wait until you do.

“I mean come in, you’re going to catch a cold standing out there!”

You grab onto his forearm and pull him in, opening the door wider for him. He winced at your touch. It’s too much for him, he’s too sensitive. You shut the door behind him and he stands in front of it like a statue. He sets the Bible down on top of one of his records, he smiles. He stares down at the floor, he can’t look at you. You wring your hands nervously. He’s not the same man you saw at the chapel, he’s softer, fragile.

“Let me get you some clothes, and warm up the bath. I’ll be right back hon don’t go anywhere.”

You turn to leave and he catches your hand. His eyes are glassy and his lips pout. His hand is strikingly cold, and his eyebrows are furrowed.

“Can I go with you? I don't want to be alone again.”

You nibble on your bottom lip, contemplating how you are going to fix him. God the pie worked. It worked too well. You nodded your head. You were going to have to call Eileen for her help, you can't have a human puppy always following you, especially since it was Elvis.

“Why don't we start by taking off your shoes and socks, yeah? Don't want you to leave a trail behind you.”

He nods, he's already made a puddle by your door from just standing there.

“Yes, mama.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. For some reason, your body burns alight at the name. He’s bent down and untying his shoes.

“What did you call me?”

You ask softly, not believing your ears.

“Mama, I hope that’s fine I just I lov-,”

He stops himself and chews on his bottom lip cursing himself for slipping up.

“I just like ya so much that I wanna call you mama..you make me feel so different, so-so special like my own mama does and I just- I can’t help calling you it.”

He’s rambling now, trying to justify the newfound feelings he’s having. Feelings that are too big for him to have. Too potent and unfamiliar. He’s had girlfriends that he’s loved, sure, but never so much so as he does about you right now.

He finally slips off his shoes and socks and stands upright. He trails behind you as you walk back into your room. He’s mesmerized by all your decor and art. The makeup scattered on your vanity. The frame of your bed. Your clothes. The smell of your perfume. Everything you like, he loves. He keeps asking you questions about your interests and the various cult things you have strewn about. You answer every question given honestly. It’s the least you can do. You didn’t realize how difficult it was to find clothes in your own wardrobe to fit him. The record finally stops and scratches on repeat.

You hand him a baggy white shirt and some checkered boxers he can change into. You show him the bathroom, and as you enter he’s only seconds away from following. You sit on the edge of the tub, sticking your hand into the water to see if it’s cool enough. You turn on the faucet to warm it. As you wait, he sits on the toilet by you. He stretches his long legs out as he watches you. He takes off his rings and places them on the sink with the clothes you gave him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as pretty as you.”

He mumbles and it makes you blush. He thinks you’re pretty. Not only that but he thinks you’re incomparable.

“You don’t mean that.”

You shake your head, as you reply he finishes taking off his rings, and one of his hands cups your jaw. Making you look him dead in his uncanny eyes.

“What’s there not to like mama? I like everything ‘bout you and I don’t like it when you don’t see what I see,”

He runs his thumb over your chin.

“It ain’t right thinkin’ that you ain’t pretty.”

You nod. He shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I’m pretty.”

He smiles, but it’s cold. There’s no mirth behind it. The water is finally hot enough for him to get in.

“It’s ready.”

He nods and removes his touch from you. You go to stand and he holds onto your hand. Giving you puppy eyes.

“Don’t want you to leave.”

You didn’t feel right leaving him, but you also desperately needed to call Eileen and ask her how to make him human again. You chew on your bottom lip, wondering what the right thing is. Finally, you smile at him.

“I’ll be right outside by the door. I just have to call a friend and ask her when the storm should pass.”

His eyes linger on you and he finally lets go.

“Alright, don’t go too far mama I’ll miss you.”

You give him a soft smile and walk outside the door, closing it behind you. Walking back to the front of the house you stopped the record from scratching again. Putting the plastic back into its sleeve and by the Bible.

The old rotary phone stuck to the wall is right next to the door and the player. You hear him take off his clothes, the wet smack of them hitting the floor makes your thighs burn. You dial Eileen’s number, cradling the phone to your face. She needs to pick up, if she doesn’t you’re not sure what you’ll do. The line is dead until she finally picks up.

“You’re going to have to hurry, I'm with Jim.”

Eileen says hurriedly. Jim was her latest fling and the superior in the cult. You sigh in relief at her static voice. You curl the cord around your finger as you think.

“Elvis is here. In my house.”

“That’s good!”

Eileen says ecstatically.

“No, not good. It’s Henry level bad again.”

“Oh.”

She whispers into the phone, her mood instantly changing.

“How much did he eat?”

You rub your temples as the memory of him in the chapel comes back.

“The whole thing.”

She whistles low. Your anxiety grows as the morbid thoughts come into play.

“Well, you’re not going to like how to reverse it.”

You’re happy to know that you can even reverse it.

“Really, how?”

“Mama..”

Elvis whines loudly. It’s a high-pitched whine. You listen and hear the water splashing around.

“Jim told me how to reverse it, and Elvis is going to need to taste your blood.”

“My blood!”

You shriek at the incredulity of this all.

“How am I supposed to get him to taste my blood?!”

Eileen is quiet on the other side of the phone for a few seconds.

“Are you on your period?”

You're taken aback as to why the question matters. And then it hits you. He has to eat you out. A shiver runs up your spine.

“Mama..”

Elvis whines out again.

“Yes, why?”

You can hear Eileen talk to Jim before she's rushed to hang up.

“It's going to help you out, trust me. Oh! And before I forget he's going to have to taste his semen and your blood together. It's a love spell after all and lovemaking is the best solution to get it out of him. Bye, y/n!”

The line goes dead after, and your mouth falls open in shock. Not only were you going to have to make him sleep with you, but you were going to have to make him eat you out after. You placed your head on the wall, putting the phone back into the case. Listening to the wailing man in the bathtub moan out Mama for the third time.

It was strange seeing him in normal clothes. They were all too big for him, so they hung loosely on his body. He nursed a glass of warm milk to sip on as he sat beside you and watched the old black-and-white movie play. His gold rings gleamed brighter with the candles. Your couch could only seat three people, and he chose to sit in the middle, closest to you. His arm stretched out behind you. A quilt was shared between you both. He smelled like you. It finally felt like things had died down and simmered. It felt like when a teen girl had a boy over at her parent's house just to watch movies. You couldn't help yourself from going over what Eileen had said. Make him fuck you and eat you out after.

You've only spoken to him briefly since he got out of the bath. He only asked for a warm glass of milk, and the rest was quiet. There's a sensual scene playing on the TV. A woman is arching her back as the man thrusts into her, it looks as if it was made in the ‘30s.

You feel the soft brush of his lips against your ear as he whispers.

“I think I could do that to you better than he can.”

Finally, after everything, you let go and surrender yourself to him. Not caring for the consequences, just relishing the moment. You crane your neck to the side, looking at him. His eyes are glossed over and his pale blues trail over your face. The tip of his nose is mere inches from your cheek. His middle finger swirls over the top of the glass. His lips are damp from the milk. His eyes burn into your stomach, directly into your womb.

“You think so?”

You ask and he nods, his voice dropping, and he takes a sip from his glass. His Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows.

“I know so.”

He leans forward, placing the glass on your coffee table, and sits back, spreading his legs out wide so his knee touches yours. When you look at him, you can’t resist; you take the blanket off of his lap and yours. You swing a leg over his lap and sit down on his broad thighs. He looks up at you as you lean down. His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs, and his rings are cold on your legs. Your robe is parting so he can see your cleavage, and his eyes flick from your tits back to your eyes. The woman moans in the program. You can feel how solid his cock is—warm, hard, and right between your weeping legs. His lips are parted, and his hot breath fans across your cheeks.

“Can I suck on them, mama?”

He whispers to you. You nod, shifting back so you’re sitting down fully, face to-face with him. Your robe and night dress are riding up your thighs. Taking the sash in your hand, you slip it through the rest of the robe. The sides fall open, you shimmy it off, and it falls onto your floor with a soft thud. Your nipples are already pebbled; the nightdress didn’t leave much to the imagination. He stares at the peaks. His hands leave your thighs, and they shake as they hover over your tits. You’d be shocked if he was a virgin from his rampant lifestyle, but now it looks like he’s never even touched a woman. He can’t touch you; he’ll burn. You perched on his lap, which is enough for the blood to rush to his lower abdomen. In all honesty, he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this hard- not since he first hit puberty.

He feels your tiny hands touch his big ones and place them on your tits. He doesn’t grope; he just holds them there. The warmth in his palms makes the buds perk up even more.

“Oh.”

He mutters. You wiggle your hips on his length, and his head hits the back of the couch. His eyes roll back. He slips the bands of your dress off, and the garment pools around your hips. The bareness of your body makes you shiver. He pauses, admiring from afar. He likes the swell, the curve, and the color. He likes all of it. All of you. He cups the sides of your chest, pushing them together and watching them fall. You’re too sensitive for his bemusement.

“Elvis, please..”

You urge him by pushing his hands firmly onto both of your tits. He nods, and a hand drops onto your lower back, leading you closer to him. Your stomach pressed against his. He takes one of your breasts, his mouth parting as he licks over your nipple. You arch your back to his face like the actress did on the screen. He takes the rest of it into his mouth. The wet softness of his tongue sends a wrath of fluttering to your cunt. Your hands squeeze his shoulders as his teeth graze the sensitive nerves. He gropes your hips with his free hand, encouraging you to grind against him. His eyes are closed, and his grip on your waist is going to leave a bruise. His rings bite into your skin. He nibbles on your nipple; it makes you jump and moan out his name, long and slow.

His hips jut up into your pussy, making you bounce when you come down. You feel dampness seep onto the lips of your cunt. He hits his head back onto the couch. He moans deep in his chest. He’s panting.

“Did you-?”

You ask quietly, not trying to upset him, and he nods.

“Yeah, I think so.”

He admits it absentmindedly. You smile softly, and before getting up, you press a quick kiss on his temple. It’s sweaty, but you can’t care. He watches you like a wolf as the dress falls off of you and down on the floor over your robe, leaving you in your little panties that have a dark patch under them. He adores how you look in the soft light of the candles and the TV static. The rain pours on. He lifts his hips up, slipping the boxers down his long legs. His cock springs up between his legs. Your expectations were exceeded. He’s uncut, thicker than you imagined, and what he lacks in length he makes up for with girth. The head is a ruddy color, and purple veins pulse along the side. It’s painful how hard he is—pins and needles shooting at his nerves. Even if he just came, he’s still rock solid. Cum is dripping out of his slit and down his length. Pooling at his balls.

Yours–his shirt, hangs over his taut stomach, touching the base. He crosses his arms and lifts the shirt over his head, leaving him bare on your couch. There’s a mountain of clothes on the floor, along with the blanket. The sight you imagined for so long made your clit throb. His legs spread out, his heavy dick in the middle of his thick thighs, and his arms spread out along the edge of the couch. His inky hair scattered messily along his face. But most of all, the way he looks at you, hungrily as a man starved.

You tuck your fingers under the band of your panties and take them off. His cock twitches at seeing you bare, he wets his lips.

“Can I make love with you mama?”

You smile sheepishly as you walk over to him. Sitting beside him, you cup his face. Scratching softly at his cheeks.

“Of course.”

You press your lips to his and it feels like fireworks burst within your soul. Getting a kiss from Elvis was a milestone in your book. His lips were soft, and his tongue tasted like milk. He was slow at first, letting you be in control, but as your tiny hands wrap around his broad shoulders and pull at the hair at the base of his neck, he loses himself. He becomes hungry, pushing his fat tongue into your mouth. He grabs onto your hips, making you lay down on the couch. Your head is by the end table. He moans into your mouth when he feels your soft thighs around his skinny waist. The groan vibrates into your chest, making you squirm. His body feels like a sauna, making you sweat. His body is sticking to yours. He leans back, his knees touching your ass. He takes his cock into his hand, jerking himself off a few times. Not that he needs to, but so he can keep whatever composure he has left.

His lips finally leave yours, letting you both regain your breath. It’s only then, as he looks at your pussy, he realizes you're bleeding. An inexplicable wave washes over him. Adrenaline and hormones beat into his heart. He needs to fuck his kid into you. Needs to breed you and fill you up. A brutal,l primal hunger grows within him.

“I don’t think I can go slow.”

He admits it to you, and you can’t even answer before his tip works its way into your tight cunt. His mouth falls open, and you squeeze his shoulders. Blood mixed with your slick starts to coat his length. He doesn’t wait for you to relax around him, he pushes his way to his base in one swift thrust. Your head hits the table.

“Fuck!”

You yell at his roughness. He grabs at your hips, pulling back out. His eyes stare at where he enters you. He’s obsessed with the way your pussy clings to him. How tight you are when he fucks into you. His balls hit your ass as he thrusts into you. He watches your tits bounce. You’re already overstimulated from being on your period but the heavy weight of his cock, pounding into your cervix makes tears well up in your eyes. Strangely enough, you feel that familiar wave in your stomach begins to build.

“Gon” make you a real mama.”

His grip on your hips tightens, his rings burying into your flesh. The lamp on the end table starts to wobble every time he snaps his hips into yours.

“Gon’ breed you ‘til you can’t even walk no more.”

As you look into his eyes, you can’t find the sweet boy that once was there. He’s possessed by an animal. Hell-bent on making you his forever. His teeth are gritted as he continues his rampage. You weekly moan with every hit of his intrusion. You can’t help how badly your body craves this. The first time all night you finally felt content. He’s fucking the bad energy out of you, and what confuses you the most is how he’s doing that when he is the bad energy. His chest is glazed with sweat; he’s dripping on you. His lip curls up, and he takes his hand from your waist and puts it on top of your clit. The weight of it was enough to send you over the edge. Your body starts to shake, and your pussy tightens around him to the point where he can’t move.

“That’s it, mama.”

He swirls his thumb lazily on your clit, watching your body wither on him. His thighs are becoming soaked with your cum. He watches you relax, your back flat on the couch. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly.

“Are you done?”

You nod weakly.

“Good.”

He takes his thumb into his mouth and sucks on the blood that coats it. His eyes roll back into his skull as he starts his rhythm again. You can’t take his beating on your cunt, you plead with him to slow down but he doesn’t, he can’t. The loud slap of his body smacking into yours fills the air. Tears fall down your face as he goes as fast as he can. Your nails cling to his back. Clawing red stripes down it. He’s bound to be hurting in the morning, along with you.

After one of your nails makes his back start to welt with blood, he lays his hips against yours and releases. His cum hits right against your cervix, and you feel pleasantly full.

His balls draw up and then relax as he lets his load go in you. His grip softens into a caress. He doesn’t let his dick slip out of you as he lays down on top of you. His weight is pressing you deeper into the couch. The rain finally slows to a soft patter. It’s finally calm, and the tears on your cheeks are dry.

He’s drifting off to sleep, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. Cradling you to his chest. You run your fingers through his damp hair, watching the rest of the movie. It’s only when he whispers, I love you into your chest by your heart, that you realize that you forgot to break the spell. All you can wonder is how long his love will last.

#xreader #fanfic #smut #elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis #elvis 2022 #elvis presley x reader smut #elvis x reader #elvis presley smut #elvis smut #50s elvis #season of the witch #halloween #happy halloweeeeeeen #halloween smut

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dresshistorynerd · 2 months

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Hi, while looking through extant garments in a museum collection for reference for a school project, I found several garments of different designs that were all labelled as "binder" without any other context or explanation. Obviously my first thought was the kind of binder I use, especially for the first one that looks elasticated, but I have to assume they're for something else like gynecomastia or compression..? Do you know happen to know anything about them?

This is interesting!

They could actually be the types of binders you use. I immediately thought of 19th century male impersonators - female (?) actors who specialized in male roles in Vaudeville and other similar forms of theater, in which drag was integral part of, and would also have their own one man impersonation comedy and music shows and male stage personas. Basically they were drag kings. (Similarly female impersonators, basically drag queens, were also quite popular.) They were known to bind their chest, and other actors, who didn't necessarily do the impersonation shows, but played male roles on stage, would also often bind their chest for their performance. Here's for example two successful male impersonators, British Vesta Tilley (first picture) and American Ella Westner (second picture).

Queer women and trans masc people, who dressed in masculine clothing, (which was pretty common) also sometimes bound their chests, but unsurprisingly that was not exactly celebrated like drag performances were, so there weren't binders made for queer people specifically. I'm guessing they either made their own binders or used binders made for actors. Often those actors were the same people as those queer people, since drag performance was one of the few socially acceptable ways to fuck around with gender. Not all of them were queer, Vesta Tilley looks excellently queer in her drag, but outside stage she was respectable member of high society and very supportive of her husband who became conservative member of parliament (after she had retired). And I think we can easily imagine what kind of political opinions about queer people she was supporting when he was conservative in the context of 1923 Britain. But many of them were known to be queer, like Ella Westner, who eloped to Paris with a very interesting woman, Josie Mansfield (pictured in the last photo above), who was mistress to an infamous scammer and the man who murdered him. Westner was also buried in men's clothing by their own request.

I couldn't find pictures though what did the binders used for chest binding looked like, so I decided to look into what kind of other binders were used in the era. I think the first binder or perhaps both of them could be baby/infant binders (first two pictures below). Apparently people in Victorian era (and in 18th century) believed that chilled abdomen could cause cholera and I guess other bowel issues, so they treated cholera and tried to prevent it by wearing binders and belts (last picture), which could be also made from flannel or wool knit for extra warmth. And babies are quite vulnerable to bowel issues and cholera, so they made binders for babies too. I've seen many different types for these (for both baby and adult use) with some of them like cloth wraps, and some of them kinda corset looking though not corset shaped. If the binders you found were indeed for abdomen warming purposes, I'm sure they are for babies, since those for adults would be so low there definitely wouldn't be shoulder straps like that. The proportions on the first binder especially seem to me fitting for a baby, like the straps feel a bit too wide for adult scale. The second one is harder to guess, it could be a baby binder, but it seems to have boning in the middle, which would make maybe more sense in a chest binder?

But yeah Victorian medicine continues to be... interesting.

#extant garment #historical fashion #fashion history #history #victorian fashion #queer history #undergarments #historical clothing #dress history #historical binder #photography #answers

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 10 months

Text

think post non disability sweater content is okay

slubby yarn first ever fingering sweater first ever fingering weight anything but enjoy so far. fingering weight sweater take less weight of fiber because thinner but also mean take long time.

90 superwash merino / 10 nylon don’t usually knit super wash because stretch when wash if not careful. knit wool sweater in 40°C weather 👍

color super super nice was at first worried about too much too busy but color pretty and it good kind of busy on purpose and depend on how finish look like maybe even can be part of decora kei outfit

#wool special interest #eyestrain #<tagging just in case because color + lighting make picture slight too much contrast #knitting #sweater #hand knitting #fiber arts #fiber crafts #wool #wool sweater #knit #hand dyed yarn #i didn’t dye myself but it hand dyed yarn #🍞.txt

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months

Text

I've been dreaming of the Rose-Red Ruler.

Happy birthday, our most beloved Queen of Hearts.

May your smile be like a never fading flower.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A soft knock is at his door.

Riddle tears away from his current textbook--a volume of advanced potions, open to Recipe for Happiness. On the list of ingredients were faith, trust, a little pixie dust, and...

"Come in," he calls, letting the contents of the book fall from his memory.

His mother enters, bearing a tray with a tall pitcher and a glass. As usual, her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and she is dressed impeccably: a scarlet pantsuit, heels, black lace gloves, and a necklace drawn tight across her neck, creating the illusion of beading blood. Mrs. Rosehearts gives her son a stern yet warm smile.

"Happy birthday, Riddle. You're still studying, even on your big day?"

"Yes, mother. This will be the year I apply for internships, so I cannot afford to slack off in my studies. I want to ensure I am the strongest possible candidate for the law and medical internships I'm interested in."

She nods approvingly, setting the tray upon his desk. "It's good to be thinking about your future now--but be sure to take breaks when appropriate. I've brought you some Darjeeling, first flush. Its light and delicate flavor is perfectly refreshing for a sweltering day."

Mrs. Rosehearts starts to pour the chilled tea for him. Right as the aromatic, golden brown stream ceases, she lets out a small gasp. "Ah, yes--your schedule is open tonight, correct? Your father will be fetching a strawberry tart on his way home from work, and I've prepared all your favorite foods. You can eat as much as you like!"

Riddle's stomach flutters.

There are so many things wrong with what she has said, but he exclaims the first question to emerge in his mind.

"We're having a celebration? Together?"

"Of course we are. It's your birthday," his mom replies plainly. "Why wouldn't we celebrate our special little boy?"

"I... I don't know," Riddle confesses. For reasons he cannot explain, his head suddenly feels foggy. "I just can't recall the last time we did something like this as a family."

You've never seemed happy with one another.

He does not dare say it out loud.

Mrs. Rosehearts carefully regards her child.

"Certainly, your father and I have very busy schedules on account of our work at the hospital. You've immersed yourself in your schoolwork. It can be difficult making plans that align with all three of us--but we make time to spend with our loved ones."

Mrs. Rosehearts leans down and plants a feathery kiss on his head, a hand lovingly stroking his hair. So soft, so tender. She smells of roses on a bed of vanilla and amber, the same heady comfort as the exhilaration of collapsing, out of breath, after spinning in circles in the summertime.

The frantic thudding in Riddle's chest slows. He leans into her touch, her fragrance.

"Okay," he says quietly. A slight wetness prickles his vision. "I think... I'd really like that, mom."

He stays there, in her embrace, for longer than he thinks he should. The minutes are slipping away from him, but Riddle cannot bring himself to pull away. The cradle of roses is enchanting, spilling wool over his eyes.

He is completely, utterly, certifiably entranced.

Ding-dong!

Mrs. Rosehearts lifts her head. "Hm? That's strange. That can't be your father. He doesn't get out of work for at least another hour--and he wouldn't need to ring the doorbell, he has his keys."

"It is odd," Riddle agrees.

"Excuse me, it will take just a moment to check. Perhaps it's the mailman."

Mrs. Rosehearts gathers herself and departs. From the study, Riddle can hear the front door swinging open, followed by muffled chatter. Excited, boyish.

His mother's voice, raising.

Dread fills him.

He abruptly stands, his chair harshly skidding back with an unpleasant whine.

Riddle races into the hallway and to the foyer. He's not sure which is faster: his heart, or his feet? His mind struggles to catch up, to process everything--

The front door is ajar.

His mother, on one side. And on the other...

Two young men.

One with short hair in dark green and bright yellow eyes peering out from behind thick frames. He holds a hefty cake in his hands--a shortcake iced in whipped cream frosting. The strawberries piled on top shine like forbidden jewels.

Beside him is a boy with choppy bangs, a pair of feline ears bearing a plethora of earrings pokes out from his head. He has a lazy grin and disheveled clothes, reclining like a sunbathing cat against the first visitor.

His friends spot him before his mom does, and their faces light up.

"Uh-oh, guess the cat's out of the bag now," Che'nya giggles.

"Wh-What are you two doing here?!" Riddle demands. Not angry, but fearful. He nervously glances at Trey--Trey, whom his mother had angrily banished from their home until the end of time.

"We wanted to drop by and surprise you," Trey explains. He's too calm for this situation--especially when Mrs. Rosehearts is standing right there.

Any minute now, Riddle suspects she will explode. She will scream at Trey and Che'nya until she is a darker red than her hair. She will slam the door in their faces. She will threaten to call the police. She will--

"Riddle, you didn't tell me your friends would be joining us this evening!" Mrs. Rosehearts beams, stepping aside and waving for the boys to enter. "Please, come in! You can spend some time together before dinner.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Myaaa-uch appreciated!”

Trey and Che’nya cross the threshold with ease.

Riddle blinks. “But what about my studies…?”

“Studies? At a time like this?” Trey gives a light laugh. “We’re not at school, Riddle. You can relax a little. Just let me put this cake away and then we can all hang out, okay?”

“My father is already going to be bringing a tart later…”

“Oooh, double the desserts? Don’t mind if I do! I’ll swipe two slices of both.”

“Don’t be greedy, Che’nya! You have to save some for the rest of us, especially the birthday boy.”

“Me?” Riddle’s brows crease. “I…”

“It’s fine,” his mother coaxes. “Go and be with your friends.”

“Is that okay? Is that… really, really okay?”

Mrs. Rosehearts steps toward him, taking his hands in hers. Her eyes are dewey, and her face looks more gentle than he has ever seen it.

“Yes. This is your youth, Riddle. You only live once—so live this life to its fullest. If you could promise me that, then nothing would make me happier.”

“Mother…!”

Riddle tugs her into a hug. It is fast, it is fleeting, it is a flicker of light peeking through a keyhole. He opens that locked door and emerges on the other end.

He chokes out his response.

Two simple words, carrying all his hopes and dreams.

“I promise.”

And for the first time in forever, he smiles with all of his heart.

But beyond the happy boy, cheeks streaked with tears, beyond the door that divided him from the world... a shadow hides in the shade of a rose tree.

It looks on, and smiles too.

"... It appears as though Rosehearts has have found his happily ever after at long last, fufu. How wonderful.”

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just-a-new-gi-writer · 7 months

Note

"Creator Reforged" is (chef's kiss) concise and yet Exactly What It Says On The Tin lmao, big brain! Poor Sucrose in Ch7 tho: she must be traumatised too, for lack of better description.

Oh oh! May I send an ask for the Follower Special? How would the acolytes react to a creator who crochets/knits/sews them various clothes and accessories? I feel like Childe would appreciate (and definitely smugly show off) any scarves or coats you make him lmao??? Liyue has nobles and society stuff, so maybe when Ningguang or the other Qixing wear trinkets/shawls that the Creator made, there'd be similar clothes in fashion? Inazuma and Sumeru seem pretty big on textiles (Silk, Cotton, maybe Wool/Fur?) so would they be smug at their textiles being featured in some of the creator's works??

Also, just a last thing: your writing style ABSOLUTELY gives off shounen light novel vibes. It's honestly perfect for Genshin, imo.

Yeah, no one in that situation is really in their best mind at that point. Albedo, Sucrose, and the reader are all likely not thinking straight. (Hopefully going to get back to work on it soon...)

And thank you for the compliment! I'm honestly not all that familiar with shounen light novels, but I hope that the eldritch/weird moments that undergird party of my writing don't distract too hard.

A/N: Getting back on the wagon. ...And I let myself stray to an adjacent yet (in my opinion) equally interesting version of the Creator. Hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 2.7k

CW: None?

Masterpost

taglist @iyohme

The night in Liyue was young. Though the furthest edge of the sky still wore the faintest remnant of the day’s glory, the rest of the sky glammered with pearlescent stars, crowned with a nearly full moon, and bounded in the north where an azure comet tugged at the sky as it fell.

Far below these celestial sights, the opulent city of Liyue slumbered, nestled between its towering mountains and perched beside the tranquil sea. Uncountable lanterns burned quiet and low, illuminating the streets just enough so the guards could patrol yet low enough to allow the citizens to rest.

Though the thousand hands of the industrious city lay low, not all of the city was asleep. In the city’s main hall, where the highest matters of state and commerce were conducted by words and contracts, through coins and goods, by bribes and threats, different kinds of activity were taking place. Heads of states, merchants, nobles, and the like from nearby Sumeru, Inazuma, Fontaine, and a few from even further afield, met and socialized with each other. They forged and renewed acquaintanceships, sought new avenues of commerce and trade, discussed and reviewed new discoveries and theories.

The event there was in full swing. Chandeliers with ornate carvings in Cor Lapis diffused amber light across the whole room. People clustered around the room, conversations flowing as freely as the drinks. The front of the hall was dominated by a stained glass relief of the Creator, The Forge of Days. Though no light filtered in through the myriad colors, the veiled image of Her figure seemed to glow with its own glorious light.

Gathered at the front of the room were piles of gifts and offerings. In years past, they would have been iron and copper, silver and gold, crystals with shimmering hues and gems with an unfathomably deep color.

But recently, their Creator had undergone a change of hobbies. The hands of The Forge rarely sat idle, but the items She created would change with her interests. For months, Her hammer and tongs sat idle, Her billows quiet, and Her fires cold. She’d found a new craft to occupy Her hands for a while, and the people followed Her whims.

A different bounty had been gathered tonight at her feet: bolts of cloth in all kinds of dyes and textures, spools of thread in every color imaginable, skeins of yarn that seemed to glimmer with gold spun into their material. These, the people hoped, would gather Her attention and affection enough to be worthy of receiving a gift from Her in turn. Though She chafed at formalities and ceremonies, these She would bear to see Her creations given.

Tonight, there was no shortage of people gathered to show off the artifacts that She had personally forged, crafted, or spun and then given so generously. It was hard to miss the heads of state and important nobles- Ningguang was garbed with plenty of jewelry of gold and amber and topaz. Keqing kept at her side, displayed prominently, a sword forged of impossibly sharp steel and inlaid with awe-inspiring arrangements of Inazuman amethyst.

Few were arrayed so brilliantly as them, but one person stood taller and prouder than both. In the middle of a group of weary and exasperated onlookers, a peculiar Snezhnyy man bragged about and paraded off his new gift. Tartaglia was not much loved by the people of Liyue- connections to the Fatui tended to do that- but showing off the new turquoise scarf generously pooled around his shoulders, studded with constellations of pearl stars, strained the patience of most.

“Oh, what’s the matter, Afong?” Tartaglia chided a merchant who finally had enough of him and tried to leave, “Can’t stand the sight of someone who has one of Her new styles? What do you have, just a tarnished, old bracelet? I think She’d be embarrassed to see that old thing in public! It’s probably for the best that She tosses that dull thing back into the furnace and starts over from scratch.”

A small, timid voice came up behind him, “Tartaglia, isn’t that enough?” He spun on his heel to see who spoke up, the half-adeptus Ganyu. She was carrying a tray of food in her arms which clearly had a wide selection. “You’re going too far with what you’re saying.”

“Listen, Цилинь,” Childe plucked one of the morsels from her tray, something skewered on a wooden pick, “talk to me when Her Grace decides to visit you with something noteworthy. I can tell,” he gestured down to the arm he could see, “that She gave you some pity. I remember hearing about that meager ring She made, Her last product before turning her sights to Her new craft.” He eyed the ring set with an aquamarine gem, then slid his gaze to what sat on her wrist. “But I didn’t hear about that.”

A dainty, delicate work of lace lay barely hidden under her sleeve, like a fine layer of ice had been worked around her wrist. While many would merely overlook it, it contained many curious details the likes of which would only be seen with Her handiwork- notably, the centerpiece of it was a recreation of Ganyu’s vision- frame, cryo symbol, even the subtle cracks and chips were represented through Her handiwork.

“The Forge of Days generously gifted it to me.”

“An early work of hers, probably. Most likely, she made it to familiarize herself with the craft, getting the early failures out of her system.”

“Did Her Diligence make a single weapon for you?”

There was a momentary flash of anger on his face- the first anyone had seen that night. It was quickly gone, but Ganyu had turned and left before she could notice. She heard another conversation haltingly spin up as she walked away, before fading into the noises of the party.

Ganyu left the party, following a familiar path of hallways as the sounds behind her began to become muddled and indistinct under the weight of their echoes. She turned a few corners, passing various shrines placed to honor and venerate the Adepti, mostly, but also the other benevolent beings who shared the region with the city and who helped guide its people in the past. Designed to impress and show off Liyue’s splendor like the main hall, there was little expense spared for these collections as well.

She slowed, then came to a stop. She was nearly on the other side of the building from the main hall, and her surroundings looked like it. This space was dominated by a large door formed of wood and metal, something that looked more at home in the industrial sections of the city, not here among the shrines. The walls and floor here were dirty- darkened soot seemed to almost grow on any available surface and the air was thick with the smell of earth and fire.

To a place built to celebrate the divine and the supernatural beasts that crowned this corner of the earth, this seemed wildly out of place. But Ganyu, among other important people in Liyue’s governing bodies, knew the truth of this location.

Ganyu balanced her tray on one hand and reached out to one of the enormous door handles. It took a bit of force, but the doors began gliding open, ethereally and unearthly quiet. She passed through the doors and began descending the stairs below, each one decorated with a different pattern of golden crystals that glowed in a circle around anyone walking down them. To Ganyu, it looked like the steps were being cast from the darkness just steps ahead of her as she descended. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she heard the doors behind her gently close by themselves, a soft but unmistakable noise through the space she just entered.

And what a space it was.

Lit by larger clusters embedded in the walls, not too dissimilar to those on the stairs, the room was a crafter’s dream. Uncountable machines of industry filled the space, of every type and make, most repaired by hand after their user damaged them from overuse or overapplication of force. They were distributed about the room by trade- over there sat the forge, its bellows quiet and the stockpiles of coal, iron, silver, gold, and countless other metals full and ready; there rested every tool one needed to hew art and purpose from any stock of lumber one chose; there rested

And through the middle of it all, and under the low dais in the center, ran a stream, to quench and cool the products of the forge, to supply the (currently disengaged) mechanisms with power.

And sitting there on that dais, bathed in light from a ring of crystals suspended over Her head, surrounded by an impressive array of tools and stock of materials all at Her fingertips, the Creator moved with impressive speed. Her hands flew from one movement to the next, a blindingly fast dance between Her fingers, the tools, and the dress that She was weaving on the mannequin in front of Her.

Ganyu set the tray down on a nearby table that wasn’t totally overrun with supplies and materials, pushing a few bolts of cloth out of the way. She carefully stepped through a field of bobbins, careful not to upset or step on any. As she approached the Creator, she wondered if She had actually noticed her. “Pardon?” She tried to get Her attention, stretching a hand out to Her shoulder. “Burning Forge–?”

The Forge of Days suddenly snapped out of the way, Her head whirling around to glare at Ganyu, Her eyes burning a brilliant yellow-white from the focus on Her activity. Her glare was uncomforting on the best of days, but when She wielded it like this, Ganyu could almost feel the heat of the forge pouring on, through, and around her. She could feel some of her hair begin to singe.

Ganyu took a step back, covering her face. “M-My apologies! Ningguang only wanted me to check on You!” The heat began to bleed away from her, quickly dropping to a simmering heat. When Ganyu risked a glance, she found Her back at Her craft, continuing to weave like She hadn’t been interrupted. “I wanted to check in on you as well. I know it’s quiet down here, and I know you don’t like crowds–”

Her Industriousness made a noise of frustration as she pulled the last of the yarn taut. She spun in place, planting the hook in the dress, then grabbed a plain knife and walking (at a speed that should have been called running) over to a spinning wheel. She began gathering up Her hair in large handfuls, then cutting them off with quick, clean cuts of the knife.

As quickly as She had turned away from Ganyu, the heat had faded away; only the memory of the warmth remained. Ganyu winced to see Her shear so much of Her hair off so carelessly, but she knew there was a method behind Her actions. As She stopped in front of the spinning wheel, She set the knife aside and began turning the spinning wheel, arcs of magical light started being cast from it as it spun faster and faster. When the arcs began to connect into circles, She fed Her hairs into it one at a time, and began winding the resulting golden thread around an empty bobbin.

Ganyu took the moment to look the dress over now that the Weaver of Fates was away from it. The beautiful garment looked like it was painstakingly constructed- the various materials made it look like it was spun from the condensed light that shimmered over Liyue harbor every morning, the angles and sections of construction chosen to mesh with each other so seamlessly. With how She had woven it all together, it felt like the dress was creating itself, like it was destined to simply be.

Thinking back to the excruciating minutiae of measurements that She had made of her body (after she found the demand from her Creator carved on a slab of iron which was unceremoniously deposited on her working desk…), part of her hoped that it would turn out this beautiful.

As she looked back at the spinning wheel, she caught The Forge feeding the last of her liberated hairs into the wheel and loading the last of the thread onto an overloaded bobbin. She snapped it up in one hand and turned back to the mannequin to continue her work.

It was now or never. Her Industriousness hated being interrupted.

“Your Grace?” Ganyu started speaking before She could set down the bobbin. “I was just thinking about you. I know you don’t like social events, and they’d prepared so much for the party- I thought you’d appreciate me bringing you a sample of what they had.” Ganyu began talking faster as she started threading the needle. “I-I made sure to grab some of your favorites as well, and I wanted to…”

She eventually stopped herself. If Her Unending Warmth wasn’t interested in something, it was basically guaranteed to be a futile struggle to get Her to cooperate. None in all Teyvat could match Her strength and endurance, let alone Her abject stubbornness.

Ganyu turned to leave. “I… I should go. I should see if they need me upstairs again. I’ll–” She barely took a few steps before suddenly being stopped. Turning around, she saw that the Creator had lunged towards her to grab on to her, Her incredibly strong and calloused grip, able to crush stone and deform iron, gently but firmly wrapped around her arm.

She looked up and saw The Forge’s face, one that was so used to its grim and steadfast glare that its current one, creased with worry, almost looked unfamiliar. The light in Her eyes was still bright, but had cooled to an orange glow.

“…Stay.”

The single word croaked from Her throat, gravely and unclear from disuse. It was incredibly rare for Her to speak- it was said that lifetimes could come and go without her making so much as a single utterance.

“–! …Alright, I’ll stay here with you.”

Her Grace let go of her breath and the room seemed to warm. She released Her grip on Ganyu, who slipped off to find two chairs that could easily be decluttered and dragged over to the table.

“…For all the work Your Industriousness does, I’m surprised You don’t do more to keep things tidy down here.” She moved an armful of cloth up onto a table, where it likely would be a hazard later on. “But I’m sure no one complains because they just like it when You make things on time.” She struggled to maneuver herself and the chairs around all the other clutter, but Her Grace managed to move through it with surprising, well, grace.

“There.” Ganyu set the two chairs down and it wasn’t long after She sat that She popped the lid off the tray and grabbed two different treats, offering the smaller one to her. She gave Her a light punch on the shoulder (that likely only hurt herself) then accepted it. After She started biting into the delicacy, Ganyu saw the light in Her eyes had dimmed further into a reddish glow, the natural steel gray beginning to show through near Her pupils.

The Forge labored many long hours to hone Her craft and produce all kinds of goods. Ganyu figured it was best to let Her rest for a while.

#sagau #self aware genshin #genshin cult au #ask response #I'm back baby #hopefully #Forge!Creator don't mess around

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whoahoney · 1 year

Note

hey!! could i request some fluff with josh kiszka? i'm going through a tough time and i would like him to lay on top of me while we watch his favorite weird artsy films and he enthusiastically explains what makes them so special <3

Ugh I’m sorry you’re having a rough time, my love! I hope this helps 🤍

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It hadn’t been long since you and Josh Kiszka started spending more alone time together, a few weeks of late night calls, sporadic text updates about your days, and generous amounts of spotify recommendations exchanged and discussed.

Every moment you managed to snag alone with him, time seemed to stop as you fell deeper and deeper into conversation and your fascination grew into deep admiration.

It began with Sam introducing you to his older brothers, a smug smirk on his lips as he watched Josh take you in, appraising you like his newest fixation as you spoke with an unmatched shine in your eye.

That very same night, Josh managed to find you alone—and without a drink! Which he fixed right away.

You’d sat outside beneath the stars and listened happily as he talked about what began as his influences, then quickly evolved into his inspirations, his passions and then never ending questions about everything that ever had to do with you.

The reasons you wake up in the morning, the songs that turn your day around, the foods that make your tastebuds sing, and your family and their whereabouts.

Soon you were the one caught up in a monologue about why your time in school was hard and how it affected your outlook on relationships of any kind, about how Sam was one of the first friends you’d made when you’d moved to town out of pure luck. The guy had really pulled you out of your shell and is a big part of the reason you have friends here in the first place.

Josh would be a liar if he said he didn’t worry about his chances with you based on how you spoke about his brother, but was quickly assured that you hadn’t found him to be romantically interesting, but a close platonic bond.

Before you parted for the night he was prompt to ask for your phone number, and you’d been talking ever since.

He’d invite you on late night drives, or hikes before brunch at his house, sometimes calling you up in the morning to make a spontaneous plan that almost always began with him fondly greeting you by name, melodic and mischievous, “… You got any plans today?”

And today was one of those days.

The sky was a calm downpour. The clouds a wool blanket of gray, and the lightning lit up the sky to amethyst purple with a mighty crack every now and then.

Josh’s living room had a perfect view to his backyard, a rolling green hill with spectacular trees fringing the area. The spring blooms had just blossomed and the grass was still long and thick from the lack of yard work done for the sake of the butterflies. He’d decided that morning when he opened the curtains that he needed to spend the day with you on the couch.

And who were you to refuse?

“I can be there in 20 minutes?” You offered.

You could practically hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Perfect, drive safe! And wear your coziest clothes.”

You hadn’t bothered with makeup or changing out of your pajamas, truthfully, before you shoved your socked feet into your rain boots and snatched up your keys.

You’d barely touched the doorbell when Josh appeared, beaming and reaching out to bring you inside. He didn’t hesitate to push the hood off your head and pull you in for a hug even if it meant getting his shirt a little wet.

He quickly got you settled on the couch, tucked into the best corner with a pillow and blanket draped over you. He busied himself in the kitchen with the kettle as he explained the plethora of dvds on the coffee table, “I’m still moving stuff out of my parent’s house, so when I go back they send stuff with me to bring here,“ he set down a ceramic mug that steamed with peppermint tea on the table before you and gestured to the piles, “I most recently received the treasured collection of dvds that changed my life.”

He sat down next to you, leaving a safe distance between you even though he wanted nothing more than to pull you close and hold your hand.

You’d yet to cross that line.

“Oh my gosh! Are any of these why you wanted to direct?”

He nodded and tapped a stack before picking it up, “Oh yeah, Monty Python and the Holy Grail inspired me to make my first film with my friends. It’s when I learned I liked satire! Well, that, and SNL….” He began rambling about his favorite cast and seasons, and then remembered himself before setting five movies in front of you to pick from.

“I want you to pick the first one.” He smiled and placed a hand in the middle of your back. Warmth consumed your skin in raised bumps all across your body. His touch had that effect on you sometimes.

You scan the options with difficulty, landing on a familiar favorite, “Fight Club?” You hold it up with a hopeful grin, one that Josh answers with his own, “Okay, but after we watch it, we can never speak of it.” You shoot him a weary glance, “It’s the rules.” He shrugged.

He stood to put the disc inside the ancient dvd player as thunder cracked and lighting broke the sky open for a moment. You jump, right as the flash lights up the room. Josh seems amused with this as he flops down next to you, closer than before. “No need to fear, darling.” He reminds in a transatlantic accent, throwing an arm around you. “It’s just a storm.”

You lean into his side as he presses play, chuckling and blushing at how this dork has you wrapped around his finger. He taps your nose and you reach up to interlace your fingers with his that dangled over your shoulder. He absentmindedly runs his thumb across your knuckles as the intro begins.

Josh can’t help but talk all through the movie, sharing his thoughts and opinions on the plot, frames of certain scenes he loves and hates, little bits of trivia no one else would ever know that you now know too because he shared it with you.

You revel in it all, learning about him—being here with him. It’s everything you’ve wanted since you met him. Josh never failed to make you feel special—just like Sam!

Except maybe a little bit different than Sam.

Okay, a lot different than Sam.

You’d wondered often where this was going between you two, getting teased relentlessly by Sam to thank him at the wedding someday but also never bothered to bestow upon you any information he may have about his brother’s feelings toward you.

Stupid brothers and their stupid code of conduct.

But it was moments like these, the ones where you keep getting closer and closer that make you wonder if it isn’t teasing at all from Sam. That maybe Josh really had his sights set on you and that maybe you weren’t too far off from—

“Hey, you still awake?” Josh asks quietly after a long silence. You’ve found that your head is on his shoulder and the movie is near over.

You raise up slightly before you feel his fingers curl around your shoulder in a light grip, as if asking you to stay.

So you did.

“Sorry, I didn’t even know I—“

“It’s okay! You could-uh, you could lay your head back down—if you wanted! You don’t—“ you interrupt his rambling as you laid your head down again, snuggling close to him with your knees almost in his lap. He sighed contently and placed his other hand on your knee. “Better?” He asks after a moment, and Brad Pitt slams his fist into an unsuspecting face on the screen.

You nod, “Mhm, thank you.” You can smell the lingering bergamot soap on his skin, fighting the urge to bury your nose in his neck and inhale before pressing a kiss to it.

“Thank you for coming over on such short notice.” He said quietly, his head laid over on yours.

You smile, “Of course. I… really like hanging out with you.”

Josh chuckled, his chest bouncing with it, “I like spending time with you too, doll.” He said fondly, bringing his hand up from your shoulder to stroke your hair. The affection had you stifling a sharp breath with a swallow.

The silence was thick after he spoke, your eyes glued to the TV and bodies unmoving though the energy passing between you was humming. It felt like something was about to happen.

“Y’know, when Sam told me about you I didn’t know…” he paused in thought before you lifted your head from his shoulder in question. Josh looked uncharacteristically somber, pondering his words carefully as they formed in his mouth. “I didn’t know you’d be so… beguiling.” He shrugged.

You chuckle, “Yeah, I’ve been told I’m a little weird.”

Josh smiles softly and shakes his head before finally looking at you with a tender caress of his finger down your cheekbone. “Sweetheart… I’m crazy about weird.” He smiles knowingly at your lips. “My day doesn’t feel complete anymore if I don’t hear from you.” He tsks, “It’s almost kind of ridiculous, I might even kinda resent you for it if you make me go a day without speaking to you!” He jokes.

You smile at him and lean into his touch. “I know what you mean, Kiszka. If I haven’t had my morning song rec I might as well have skipped my coffee, since I met you.” You bite the inside of your cheek as he appraises you, similarly to the night you met, the adoring smile he had on his face fading as he worded his next sentence carefully.

“They way I feel about you…” He sighed and shook his head, as if at a loss for words, “I think about you. All the time.” He whispers as if it’s a secret he’s afraid to tell.

Your eyes widen before you slowly nod, “I… I think about you too, Josh. Way too much for my own good, I think.” You admit just as softly with a glance to his lips. You have the urge to brush your thumb against his bottom lip, to take his chin in your hand and—

Josh smiles and tugs you closer, “Am I reading this wrong, or do you want me to kiss you?” He teases just as your noses brush, and instead of answering, you connect your lips to his, just as the final gunshot of the film fired.

It could’ve been seconds or minutes later when you stopped kissing, only pulling back an inch or so to linger as his eyes slowly opened. He smiled at you and swiped his finger along your cheek again, “I really like you. And I wanna do this with only you.” He said easily.

You can’t help but smile and nod before holding his face in your hands and kiss him again, “All of my kisses are yours.”

Josh’s eyes brightened at that and leaned in for more kisses, taking greedy pecks before your giggles melted into moans of content, the other movies long forgotten. You spend the rest of the afternoon laying on Josh’s chest, the windows open to listen to the pattering of the rain against the ground, and Josh’s heart beat beneath your ear, more than enough to kill you to sleep.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You didn’t leave Josh’s house after that day, three days later you were clad in his clothes and still on his couch, watching Josh’s picks no matter how gory or off-kilter they were. His commentary was your favorite part of every film, the bender filled with his laughter, critique, and praise.

You were picking the next dvd, replacing the one you just finished back into the sleeve of the book when you saw a disc labeled “Josh and Jake -2001”

“What’s this?” You ask as you hold it up.

Josh looks up from his phone as you approach, squinting as reads it before smiling fondly, “Oh, this is fantastic, put it in! You’re gonna love it.” He taps his hand on the table enthusiastically before rubbing his hands together and bouncing in his seat.

“Okay! Okay!” You giggle as you bend over, catching Josh’s intent lean forward in the black reflection of the TV, getting a full view of your ass before you straightened and pressed play. Josh held open his arms for you just as you flopped onto the couch and loud voices and a glitchy hole video filled the screen.

Two little figures stood in the middle of the grass, their hair short and their matching smiles just as large as they were today. They were shirtless, clad in denim shorts and barefoot as they sang into a small broom stick together, belting James Taylor as their family joined in.

“Oh my gosh!” You mused quietly, watching their little wiggling limbs as they danced similarly to what you’d seen on stage. Josh blushed as he watched you watch his childhood.

The next clip was the two of them standing in their kitchen, their little feet wanting to flee so badly but kept still to look into the camera lens. Their father spoke in the background, “Hi boys!”

“Hi daddy!” They chorused enthusiastically.

“Okay, so I’m gonna ask you guys some questions, and you’re gonna tell me your answers so we can remember them forever!”

“Yeah!” One of the twins yelled as the other nodded. “That’s me.” Josh pointed out, as if you thought any different.

“How old are you?”

“Five!” They said almost in tandem.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Jake shifted on his little feet as Josh began to bounce, “Purple!” He shouted.

“I like blue.” Jake added, nervously running his tongue over his lip as you’d seen him do just last week when conversation was turned to him at dinner.

“I like-I like red, daddy!” Ronnie yelled from across the room, sat at place at the dinner table.

“And Sam likes green!” Josh insisted as he pointed at the bald baby sat on their mothers knee, bibbed and slobbering with a smile as he bounced.

Kelly laughed behind the camera, “I think so too! What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

“I wanna….” Little Josh rolled his eyes as he trailed off with a gaping mouth as Jake perked up, “I wanna be a rockstar!” He said with light in his eyes and a smile on his face that Josh mirrored, “Yeah! We’ll be rockstars!” He agreed.

You giggled as they commenced their air drumming and mimicked screeching guitar riffs, finding Josh’s eyes on you as you turned to look at him, noting the warmth in your chest that grew when he smiled. “You always knew, huh?” You ask.

Josh chuckled dryly and shrugged, “Well, not always. I’ve always known I wanted to be with my brother. That he’s my partner in all things and I would do anything to make his dreams possible. Especially if I can have this much fun doing it.” He chuckles for real. “I think I’ve ended up here because I surrendered to the journey—the flow of the waters of life, if you will.” He gave you a look your quite familiar with, one he uses as he usually monologues.

“You go where life takes you?” You ask.

He nods insistently, “Absolutely. And I’m very happy with where I am, and where I’m going.” He smiled and took you in again, similarly to the night you met, “even more so, now that I can enjoy it with you.” He took your hand tenderly and squeezed it.

You can’t help your smile, and words fail you. You can only nod and press a deep kiss to his perfect lips, ready to spend this night and many more just like this.

A/N: I kinda hate this but also simultaneously love it, it’s my first time writing for Josh so I apologize if it feels out of character for him 🥲💖

#greta van fic #greta van fluff #Greta Van fleet x reader #josh kiszka fluff #josh kiszka x reader #Greta Van fleet fluff #greta van fleet fic #Greta Van fleet imagine #josh kiszka x you #josh kiszka x y/n

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