A fic request: Elvis x stand-offish girl? He's used to fawning girls, so she's intriguing and he wants to have her. The Robbie Smith encounter with Elvis kinda' inspired me. Preferably smutty, but up to you. Thank you 💖
this is might be TOO long and took forever and also covers a couple of other requests, but hope you enjoy bunny x
You and the sun
“i don’t wanna argue, ma’am...” he looks down in mock bashfulness and then straight up into your eyes. “but, uh, ain’t i your job?”
pairing: 70's elvis/reader or austin!elvis/reader whichever you prefer
rating: M, minors do not interact
warnings: oral, handjobs, vague slightly sub elvis vibes, usual elvis stuff including his healing hands. u know how it is.
four leaf clover, lucky strike cigarettes, something about… lucky sixes?
you could write this song a lot faster if that fucker would stop showing off his sub-par guitar skills in the corner. he’s strutting around like a peacock in a gaudy silk shirt, howling with laughter at his own jokes. all the men in the room, even the serious session musicians you admire, revolve around him like he’s the sun. they laugh along with him, even when he isn’t funny, totally sucked into his massive, magnetic orbit.
“man, you’re killin’ it, EP!” a big guy shouts from the corner.
he isn’t killing it. you’ve seen him fucking around all session, laughing during takes, making up nonsensical lyrics while you’ve been trapped in the corner, roped into writing something fresh for him. it’s a lot of pressure when you’re only four months into your publishing deal with the label.
originally he didn’t want a girl in the recording room but once he saw you he made a real fuss, started introducing you to all the guys in his entourage and flirting shamelessly. unfortunately for him, he’d shown up two hours late to the session and you were too tired to find him charming or impressive.
of course, if it wasn’t for all that ego and bravado, you would find him to be both those things.
his voice is beautiful. it’s rich, smooth and dextrous. in one moment he sings with such a rough grit and the next with a high angelic head register, switching between them effortlessly. his raw emotion is expertly channeled into each word, each vibrato choice, each pause. and the connection to the music is real. it moves him. he jerks and swings and shimmies and his hips. when your eyes aren’t on your own handwriting, you can’t help but gaze at the way the music moves through him.
but all of that, while impressive in bursts, doesn’t yield consistent results in the studio.
every now and again elvis saunters up to you with his guitar thrust forward like a dick and leans over your notebook to decipher your lyrics. he gives you patronizing encouragement and winks, keeps on touching your shoulder even though you shrug him off.
“keep goin’ little lady.” he says. or “stick at it honey.” or eventually “why don’t you come sit right here in front of me, see if we can give each other some inspiration?”
nothing you do dampens his mood. if anything he seems to perform even harder while the men around him feed his wild energy and chain smoke and don’t look you in the eye.
“honey…” he sighs dramatically, one eyebrow raised. “can i, uh, can i ask, have i done something to offend?”
you look up from your paper to find elvis standing in front of you, the session apparently taking a break. half the guys seem to have already left and the rest are waiting to pounce on any opportunity to get him alone. all you’ve got written down is a verse and a scrappy chorus you’re going to have to re-write.
“no, you haven’t. i’m just trying to finish this song for you.”
he’s full of manic energy, you can feel it radiating from him in waves and he’s bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. even while wiping sweaty strands of black hair from his forehead his smile is like the sun glinting in your eyes. it pisses you off.
“well, i sorta feel like you’re fightin’ me here, honey.”
“i’m not fighting you. i’m here to write you a song because your catalog is tired.”
he responds to this with a sudden burst of open-mouthed laughter, so sharp that it takes you by surprise.
“now, see, that - that’s what i mean.” he grins, placing his hand on the arm of your chair. the cool silk of his shirt brushes your wrist. “you’re just a little sourpuss.”
he smells like cigar smoke and old spice and faintly of sweat as he leans over you.
and you have to admit it. you may not like him, but those cheekbones and that straight nose… you get it. a little. it’s roman. he’s practically statuesque.
“i’m just trying to do my job.”
despite the dark glasses you see his eyes light up and he tries to hide a little-boy grin. you’ve said something he’s about to use as ammunition.
“i don’t wanna argue, ma’am...” he looks down in mock bashfulness and then straight up into your eyes. “but, uh, ain’t i your job?”
there are laughs from the few guys left in the room that overhear him and he glances back at them with a smug grin.
“my job is writing. i just wanna finish this song and go home. can you move your hand from my chair, mr. presley?”
he blinks at you for a moment under his lashes. and then, his grin never faltering, he snorts and throws his hands up in surrender. you pretend not to watch him turn on his heeled boots and walk out for his break. the rest of the musicians follow after him like ducklings, not one of them stopping to speak to you. not even the guys you like.
.
twenty minutes later, without the commotion of all the men in the room, you’re finally getting somewhere with the song. all you need is a better bridge and maybe a different second verse and for this fucking headache to dissipate.
you’re busy scrawling down bad rhymes in the margin of your composition book, heat beat street keep, when the big guy from earlier unceremoniously sticks his head around the door.
“elvis wants you to come to dinner with us.” he says with zero enthusiasm. he’s wearing a loud purple suit but he doesn’t pull it off like his boss does. you can hear the echoes of male laughter from the corridor behind him.
“tell him no thank you. i’m writing.” the guy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything and then leaves as quickly as he came, the booth falling silent again.
bristling, you settle back down to write down a few more rhymes but you only make it five minutes before you’re interrupted again. the door bursts open, no sound of laughter in the corridor this time, and elvis himself leans dramatically against the doorframe.
“still givin’ me the cold shoulder, huh baby?” he pouts.
“oh god!” you whine, throwing the notebook down on the floor and massaging your left temple pointedly. “can i have thirty minutes uninterrupted?”
he has a thin cigar in his hand and he waves it dismissively, ash fluttering to the threadbare carpet. his heeled boots step towards you and he lets the door close behind him.
“you’re workin’ too hard, sourpuss. come on outta here, come have dinner.”
“look.” you sigh, the headache now rapidly spreading across the back of your skull. “when i said your catalog is tired, i meant it. i’m being paid to write you something fresh and i - i can’t work like this. i’m not used to it.”
he frowns and runs his hand through his messy hair, glasses so dark that you can’t see his eyes.
“you ain’t givin’ me a whole lot to work with, y’know.”
“i’m working for you!”
you shake your head in disbelief. his cigar smoke is getting into your lungs, your headache is getting worse and he is so clearly getting off on the bickering.
“i’m just sayin’, you know. you’ll live longer if you cut loose once in a while.”
“you’ll live a lot longer if you tighten up once in a while.”
“spicy and sour, huh?” he drawls. more ash flutters to the carpet. “naw, i-i-i think you like our little fights deep down. i’d like you a whole lot more if you just came to dinner.”
“look.” you try again. “i have a deadline and an unfinished song and a headache, so if you could-”
“i can fix that, honey.” he interrupts brightly, springing towards you and holding out the hand that isn’t holding a cigar. the ruffle of his sleeve brushes the top of your head as you pull away from him. “lemme put a hand on you.”
“what are you talking about?” you blink, dumfounded.
“lemme lay a hand on you baby, it’ll go away.” he repeats. “it’s all energy. i- i can clear that.”
“it’s all energy? what are you talking about, healing hands?”
he’s so close to you now that his ash is falling into your lap and you’re trying to duck away from his outstretched, bejeweled hand when something catches your eye.
“wait -” you can’t help but snort a little in disbelief, still holding him at arm's length. “really? how can anything i’ve just said turn you on?”
your eyes are fixed on the front of his pants. he glances down at himself and then back up at you sheepishly.
“aw, i’m only a man, honey”
he’s wearing a cocksure smile but you notice how he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, slightly uncomfortable. a little insecure chink in the armor.
there’s an awfully heavy silence in the recording room. he is standing so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating from his body and it feels suddenly suffocating. you take a deep breath.
but you can’t help it.
for a fraction of a second your eyes dart to the glass window of the control room. it’s empty. the lights are all out in there, a couple of blinking buttons illuminated. you’re alone with him. he tilts his head and raises his eyebrow. fuck. you wish he hadn’t seen you do that.
but fuck. you could.
“c’mon, sourpuss.” he whispers. he reaches back and crushes his cigar into an ashtray.
he knows you’re thinking it.
keeping his eyes fixed on yours, elvis leans down to you as you tilt your face up. before he can kiss you, you kiss him first. and if only to wipe that smug smile from his face, you kiss hard. so hard that he’s taken aback at first and laughs into your mouth before you feel him go slack on his feet.
and it isn’t bad. he meets you with equal force but his lips are still soft and insistent, firm but not hard. with one hand leaning on the arm of your chair he grabs the back of your head with the other, curling his fingers into your hair so he can angle your face up towards his.
his roughness gives you shivers. your entire center of gravity is pulling you down, down, down into the seat of the chair. it has you squeezing your thighs together, blue dress riding up, material rough against your skin as his mouth forces you to open wider.
you can hear your heartbeat. it’s so loud that you wonder if he can too.
“aw, you ain’t so sour.” he murmurs, pulling away from your kiss and massaging your scalp with his fingers. you grab his silky shirt, the ugly patterns distorting on the fabric, his black hair getting in your eyes.
you feel such a deep irritation when he laughs against your cheek that you yank at his belt buckle, pulling it open roughly. he raises his eyebrows as he looks down at you.
“you don’t gotta be rough, honey. you just gotta ask.”
you don’t pull his pants down all the way, just the zip open and his erection out. you’re aware that the guys are only a few rooms down and your name will never escape the rumor mill of rca studios if you get caught doing this with elvis presley of all goddamn people.
you just want to make this quick.
when you wrap your fingers around him and stroke up hard, he stands straight and sighs heavily. you can see him wince but he doesn’t tell you to stop and you take a sick little pleasure from the way his hips pull away from you and his body goes deliciously slack for the second time. it makes you feel powerful, in control.
“lemme lay hand on you.” he whispers, his fingers finding the top of your head again. “i’m serious.”
you shake them off, try to reestablish the boundaries by stroking him even harder. this isn’t supposed to get soft.
but he does feel beautiful in your hands. his skin is so silky, hot to the touch and he’s so wet at the top that he must have been hard for a long time before you noticed. you ease up your movements slightly, give him a moment to breathe, and using your feet on the floor, you pull the swivel chair closer to him so your thighs come to wrap around his. he pushes his body against you, heat soaking through silk.
you try to gauge what your next move should be from the look on his face but his features are unreadable with those dark, protective glasses on.
“will you take those off?” you ask.
and it takes you by surprise but your grip loosens on him when you see those baby blue eyes. they aren't what you expected. the slight cruelness of his lean body, the sharpness of his words, the roughness in his hands isn’t present in his eyes at all. they look soft. they look open.
but this can’t get soft.
you add a second hand and twist, going harder again. he’s grimacing slightly but he still doesn’t ask you to stop and you want to see exactly how much he’ll take before he does.
“oh. you like it like this, huh?” you purr, trying to reestablish the right mood.
but try as you might, he changes the mood right back.
he leans over your chair, both hands coming to grip the armrests either side of you. it hugs your bodies together and forces your forehead to rest against his chest as he deliberately boxes you in. the embrace is too intimate for the situation, but you allow it for a little while. maybe he needs it.
“lift this up.” he mumbles, grabbing the hem of your dress and yanking it up to your waist so your panties are on show. you feel how his gold rings are warm on your skin where they brush the inside of your thigh.
the lights in the room aren’t particularly bright. but if you turn your face and rest your cheek against his chest you can see how the muscles in his jaw clench everytime you twist your hands or run your fingertips in circles across the tip of him. how even his tiny facial muscles move beautifully under his skin.
when you kiss the head of his cock he groans. the low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat makes you throb and you have a fleeting urge to kiss his neck. but you don’t. instead you take him in, hollow your cheeks and suck lightly so you can hear it again. it's like vibrato in his chest. you’re pressed so close together that he can barely thrust and can only rock his hips into you gently, smooth and rhythmic. with one hand against his leg for leverage, you taste salt.
he strains in your mouth and you prepare yourself, his thigh tensing under your palm and his groans getting louder and you can’t help but imagine the two of you backlit by the few flashing lights in the control room. you wonder what you look like, wrapped up in such a funny, awkward embrace.
it doesn’t take long before he comes with such a loud shout that you jump. you try to shush him by patting his thigh but he either doesn’t care or can’t control it so you just hope the booth is as soundproof as the studio makes it out to be. his hips jerk as his shout fades to a groan and you swallow around him, eventually pulling off and letting your head rest against his torso again.
it takes him a long time to get his breath back and you feel his chest heave under your cheek, his silk shirt soft against your skin.
afterwards he looks at you with a funny expression on his face as he buckles his belt.
“get cleaned up, sourpuss.” he orders gently, with a smile that you can’t quite read. it’s almost like he’s embarrassed.
but before you can get out of the chair, he places his palm firmly on the top of your head. this time you let him. you feel the sweaty heat of his hand against your scalp and you stay like that, very still, for several minutes in the silence of the recording room.
and the weird thing is, your headache really does go away.
