"Mama," he breathes out, eyes big and black as the nighttime sea, stars reflected off their waters.
Your chest clenches, drenched in love and drowning as you hold out his skin to him. He shakes his head, squirms under your arms, still slippery as his seal-form. When he snuggles into your chest, nosing at your plump breast nearest to him... you ache. He gazes up at you and you are worn down like the tide that laps at your knees, seaglass polished smooth.
Some Selkie E vibes because someone (cough @stylespresleyhearted cough) yelled at Ally and then Ally yelled at me. So. Fuck you both
may 29, 2018 - [id: a speech outline, pencil case designed to look like a fish, someone sitting outside] hi everyone!! i've fallen a bit into procrastination, but tomorrow i give my final speech for my communications class about why it's important to pay attention to the news, and i'm excited to try to make a difference! but also, i only have two weeks left here, and that alone is terrifying. on one hand i almost don't want to leave since the good moments are so nice, but i do think ultimately that i'll be happier going home and taking a break. i actually might have a place to stay if it works out! and i find comfort in recognizing that i can come back again, whenever i want to; it's not a permanent goodbye, and it never has to be. i'm going around for a while sometime this week to take pictures of everything, and that way it'll hopefully be a much easier transition. oh also!! during my time out of school i'll probably be documenting a little of what i'm doing, and maybe some tips on how to find things to do out of school, but idk really so any suggestions?
My chosen Mildliners to take to school! I prefer ones that show up better when you write so that I can highlight and annotate in the same color. I also visited Hollywood Cemetery with my bestie, which was so fun!
A/N: co-written by the lovely @elvisabutler who after I pointed out the BDSM cuffs E wears in the comeback special said "incubus E" and then it spiraled from there. Most of the depravity is mine but she had the original 68 special concept setting I just... expanded on. it. yknow what
*drops fic and runs*
Pairing: Incubus Elvis Presley x AFAB Reader
Warnings: Blood kink, size kink, strength kink, cervix play, possessive behavior, animalistic behavior, monsterfucking, mentions of infidelity, dom/sub, uhhh... look this is horny as hell so read at your own risk.
"It's a buffet. Steve goddamn Binder has got me a buffet of women and he doesn't even realize it." Elvis laughed, sounding every bit as evil as he did at Russwood Park and every bit as evil as every parent thought he was back in his Elvis the Pelvis days.
"You still have to perform, not just make out with every woman on the stage." You bit your lip trying not to laugh, yourself, because you love Elvis—oh you've loved Elvis since the moment he kissed your lips and—you swear stole your soul. He must’ve licked it from your mouth and swallowed it whole. But the break of being his only food source? That's something you've been wanting so much lately.
He smirked and turned around to face you before moving down to nip at your neck. "I think you and I both know I can do both. 'Sides, after I'm done you know I can try and share a little of my pep wit' you. Remember how you liked that when Ann-Margret and I—"
"Elvis." Only your admonishment just gets you yet another nip to the spot just behind your ear, and you grab his hair in an iron grip to yank him away. “Naughty, you better get up on that stage ‘afore I eat you,” you hiss, staring right into those lamplit eyes that shine just a little too bright to be human. Elvis lets his head fall back, lets you lift your other hand to pet at his throat just a bit before you pull away completely.
You hummed as you watch him walk away, admiring the way the leather hugged his ass and hips, the flex of his thighs, the way he stalked up the stairs and fingered the strap to his guitar as he put it over his head. There was something predatory to him, more than you had seen in nigh on a decade. This was no playful puppy but a starving wolf: ready to pounce, heels clicking across the stage. Even though he’d just come from makeup already his lips were wet with the sheen of your own lipstick and the way he compulsively dragged his tongue across them.
You could feel the familiar tug of his allure as you shuffled into your seat and the crowd quietened down at the signal of the producer on set. You glanced up at Steve to see him give a thumbs up, and then that tug became a yank that forced your attention to your Bitey. He thrummed with nervous energy, with power, and you found yourself having to actually focus for once in order to not become intoxicated as the rest of the audience did. They fell under his sway naturally, easy, with the first strum of the guitar in his beringed hands, everyone’s heartstrings tugged along with. Your own eyes shone brightly as you beamed because this—this was Elvis healthy, happy, his voice throbbing with energy as he fed the crowd and they fed him back.
You licked your own lips as he threw his head back, tracing the long line of his throat, readjusting how you were sitting as he collapsed to his knees, thrusting up in a mimicry of how you knew he’d fucked you this morning. Oh, it was obscene, the way his strong flanks rolled his hips even as he came up on one knee, women unable to keep their hands off of him, petting at the black leather of his shins, his boots. It was—you snapped out of your own daze, sharply looking around at the audience. This was… getting dangerous.
Elvis continued through the medley, putting out waves of thrall and enrapturing more and more people—if even you were starting to succumb, then having a room full of lust-drunk audience members was going to be difficult. Especially with the literal feedback loop your Bitey was creating. You didn’t know what would happen, but having a repeat of Russwood, in this small studio space, without any sort of police to help get your man out of the middle of an enthralled crowd? There would be injuries, you knew. There would have to be reasons and explanations that you couldn’t exactly give.
What would you say? My husband’s an incubus, sorry about that, Stevie-boy. Oh, you didn’t know your newest performer was a demon? I guess the Colonel forgot to mention. It would be a disaster, so you motioned up to Steve, who was none the wiser behind glass and far enough away to not feel the allure. Elvis snapped his head around when the backing music cut out, jerking out of his own feeding fugue. When his eyes passed over you, glassed and not all there, you made your way to him, instead.
Clambering onto the stage, you called to nobody in particular, “We’re taking ten! Or… well, maybe more like thirty!” as you tugged gently on your boy’s jacket, steadfastly ignoring the utterly tempting swell of his chest heaving for breath as you led him back to the dressing room. He was somewhere else, still, only blinking and snapping back to the present with your hands tugging his hair, away from the crowd and their energy to latch onto. Instead there was only you in the vicinity, only your familiar soul to curl around, his head in your lap.
You could tell by the way he furrowed dark brows that he wasn’t quite sure how he got here. This wasn’t like the pills, wasn’t like how he’d pass out in a dead asleep if he didn’t feed enough. Your hands on his face made him blurt out, “W’happend?”
“I think we need to have a lil talk, Bitey,” you hummed, laughter in the way your dimple peeked out as you tried and failed not to smirk.
“‘Bout?” The word was akin to lead in his mouth, heavy in ways that made him stick out his tongue trying to taste what you had taken him away from.
“Your thrall.” It was as if that explained everything as Elvis’s eyes widened. For you to feel it, to acknowledge it like this it had to have been—it had to have been like Russwood. It had to have been like he was a young one again, all bite and venom and power uncontrolled till he met you and properly gained some control.
“That bad, darlin’?”
You looked up, realizing you were finally at Elvis’s dressing room, your hand snaking out to open the door, your eyes never leaving Elvis’s, “that bad, Bitey.”
—
Elvis's eyes were limned with tears, baby blues electric on the backdrop of flushed, sweaty skin. His fangs ground against the ball of your panties, a whimpering escaping him as he tugged on the cuffs you'd chained to the headboard. Your baby wouldn't be able to hurt himself like this, wouldn't try to strip his poor cock raw with the excess energy or bite his pouty lips bloody.
You still had days of filming left in this special, so it wouldn’t do for your Bitey to do any such thing. But at least you had this time—this time between filming where you could admire and salivate over your husband all you wanted. It was fine for him to feel your spike of lust as your eyes roved over the gaping vee of the leather that led down to his hard cock, trapped as lil Elvis was. His nipples just peeked out at the edges, and the way he was squirming you could see the way the seam caught on one and made your baby whine into the improvised gag.
“Still so loud, Bitey. It’s a good thing most of the crew isn't nearby, or they might think I was keeping a puppy in here,” you hummed, stepping closer, trailing your nails over his right sleeve in a tease you knew was cruel. But he’d been taunting you practically all day, the girls in the audience getting his attention all the while you felt his allure tug at you from just behind your belly button.
“Shh,” you hushed as he jerked in his restraints, the bed frame creaking from his strength. “You’re just gonna hurt yourself, Bitey, don’t hurt yourself.” The soothing lull of your voice seemed to calm him, his pupils blowing even wider as they locked onto you fully. You loved the hazy tenderness that only you were allowed, and you rewarded him with undoing his jacket fully, popping buttons downwards in a trail until his leaking cock could finally be freed.
“Ah,” you murmured in satisfaction, “I knew it.” There in the open folds of his pants was the evidence you’d known would be there: sticky, milky white slicking his still-hard cock and smeared into his pubic hair, snail trail wet with it. Your hungry grin made him whine, throw his head back, and oh, that tempted you too much. You crawled up his body, careful not to touch him aside from when you latched onto his vulnerable Adam’s apple, gentle sucking kisses that wouldn’t mark. Because of course your boy had to be presentable for the coming days of filming, even if you were loath to not mark him up like you wanted to.
Instead you planted yourself on his lap, your own slick soaking his lap as you languidly rolled your hips, mewling as his cockhead managed to catch your clit. You hitched your dress up and off so you both could watch, beginning to pant as you stared down at Elvis, who’d taken to sucking on your panties, little fangs sharp—you caught some of his venom, leaking as it was, on your finger to suck into your mouth, sighing at the familiar buzz and taste.
“So good, Bitey, such a good boy for me,” you panted, picking up your pace as you rocked your slit over his dick, and he whined under you, pleading with his eyes—maybe for you to fuck him properly, maybe to release his hands.
“No, Naughty,” you whimpered out, splaying your hands wide over his chest, catching one taught nipple in between two fingers, pinching as a warning. “You sit there while I take what I need, hm? Be good and I’ll let you fuck me after I’ve cum—ah! Elvis!”
The cuffs may have stopped him from being able to reach out to you but you had seemingly forgotten just how potent, how deadly your husband’s hips could be. How he could arch and grind and move in such a way that had a truly annoying tendency to render you speechless and almost powerless. You saw the smirk and the glint of his fang through your panties even as his eyes still beg for you to fuck him properly. This wasn’t enough, this was a tease that he thinks he doesn’t deserve. He’d tell you all of this but your panties, your slick covered panties stopped him as he sucked on them, the taste fueling something deep within him as it always does when he’s with you.
“That’s not being good, is it, Elvis?” You asked, your voice trying to inch toward a croon even as your hips kept trying to chase after what his own promised you. It made it so the croon lost its effect, buried among your throaty desire he could feel and sense. “Do you not want to fuck me? Do you not want to cum buried inside me? Give me that pep?”
His whine, that whine sent a shiver and a thrill through you, the high pitch of it reminding you of him when he was younger, impulsive and unable to reign himself in when he revved up. You swore you heard a word, but maybe it was imagined as you watched his teeth practically gnash and gnaw at your panties. If he kept going he was liable to rip them in his frustration and want. Truthfully it had been so long since you had seen him like this that you were certain that’d be something you wanted to see. A show of his power that you hadn’t seen in almost a decade.
With every bounce over his cock you could see those little bits of—inhuman shine through. The preternatural beauty, the sharpness of his cheekbones growing to be that of a blade, the glow of the thin ring of blue that was his irises turning lamplight-bright. His fangs were long, as long as you'd ever seen them since he was but a fledgling and struggling to hide the parts of him that might get him in trouble. You could tell with one last good chew they might tear through the white fabric blocking them. It made you proud, made the little green monster in your chest quieten because this was yours. Everyone else sees Elvis Presley, or a handsome man, or what they want to see. What Elvis thinks he needs to give. But you give him what he needs.
Another mewling whine is what breaks you, what makes you arch your back as you cum, digging your nails into his chest and clawing over his nipples, twin tracks of angry red leading to the sticky, berry ripe head of her Bitey's cock.
He yowls with the pain, the throb of her hole just there but only able to feel the gentle twitching of her clenching around nothing and the drip of her slick over his length. Elvis is nigh on thrashing in his bonds, hands grown clawed and gulping down the air, tasting her scent and her ecstasy washing into their connection. He sobs through the completely soaked through wad of her undergarments as she pets the sharp jut of his hip bones, cruel in her inattention.
“So pretty here, leaking so much, hm, Bitey?” You only look up from admiring lil Elvis covered in your slick and his precum when you hear the groan of the bars of the headboard bending, the steel d-rings keeping his cuffs in place pinging free. You gasp as suddenly those hands are on you, seizing you, throwing you into the bed—and then Elvis is driving his cock into your still-sensitive entrance, your breath punched from you. You are forced apart, entrance burning even with how open you were. Your sopping panties plop onto your chest as he hunches over your body, looking for all the world like a demon prince come to devour. The leather of his pants and the unbuttoned jacket, the glistening of his sweat over so much gloriously tanned skin made you mewl at the sight. And the pinkened lines—the lines you made—that lead straight to the dick that thrusts into you with such force you can only release little “ah, ah, ahn!” noises caused utter satisfaction to well up within you, joining the coil of your second orgasm.
Elvis snarled, shoving his face into your neck and biting deep, deeper than he’d ever gone since that one night in 1954 which he’d apologized for weeks after, and you revelled in his loss of control. In how healthy he was, evidenced by the lean, ropey muscle you felt under your hands in his back, the strength of his grip, the ease with which he unlocked his jaw and bit again, working the muscles covering the razor-sharp line to push more and more venom into your system. It made everything floaty, his hips beasial in their pace, how he held your own up to get deeper that much better. He knocked on your cervix and all you could think was can he get deeper?
Instead you squirmed your hands under his waistband, digging your nails into his ass in encouragement, whimpering, “yes, yes, yes, Bitey,” into his pointed ear. You gasped as he moved his attentions to your tits, fangs nicking your areola as he bit there, too, then sucked, and you pulled him up by his hair with one hand to watch as your blood and his own venom dripped from his lips. It made you grin, wildly wide as you stared at the sight, drawing him into a proper kiss. It became messy quick, slick with the tang of iron and the buzz of his venom on your tongue, his fangs nicking you as you licked into his mouth, chasing the taste of him.
It had been so long since he had been this alive, this feral in his attentions. The power coursed through his veins, ensnaring any gentle feelings he had for you and twisting them inside his mind into something he barely recognized. The love was still there, the all-consuming, all-powerful love he had for you was still there but it needed a stronger outlet, he needed to see you as he hadn't seen you in years.
He needed to thank you for what you had done. What he was certain no one else could have done. He needed your loop of arousal and enthrallment to keep feeding into one another, a ouroboros of mutual pleasure and desire. Did that make him selfish? Undoubtedly, but he knew you had never assumed he was anything but from the moment you met him, all sharp teeth and uncontrolled spikes and flares of thrall that only you settled with very few exceptions. It had made those beginning months in the army such an unsettled torture. You weren’t his wife then but he fixed that as quick as he could, made sure no one would have been able to argue with your presence near him.
You were his wife, the only human or being he’s ever met to keep up with him. You were the one who could let him feed from you with barely any energy given back in return. He would joke that it would qualify you for sainthood if he wasn’t practically the devil incarnate. But now? In this moment he was going to remind you how it felt to be with him when he was healthy and hale. In these thirty minutes of time you had borrowed for the two of you he was going to remind you. You had already wasted ten of these precious thirty minutes and he was damned if you would waste any more.
“Teasin’ me when ‘m like this,” he snarled, the basso rumble dropping into smoothness as he said, “Ya knew that headboard couldn’t keep me there. Knew your cuffs couldn’t keep me constrained. Ya forget what ‘m like when I get like this? Forget how I earned Bitey and Naughty?” He cooed the words, watching as you continued your chase of his mouth, of the venom that had been in such short supply for so long. You had self control, you always had more self control than him but it was written all over your face how it had slipped. It was written in the pants from your mouth, the way your tongue kept darting out to lick at sweat from the clash of your lips against his, the fogginess of your eyes and the way your hole—your greedy little sloppy hole clenched around him. You wanted him—wanted the rush from his venom, the warmth of his cum. You wanted everything that made him him, both inhuman and human.
You always managed to keep your composure, always had but in this moment it was a feat to even look at him dead on, to not have your eyes watch as his hips continued to piston, allowing his cock to sink in and out of your cunt, covered in his precum and your own cum. A moan left your mouth, only to be swallowed up by another biting kiss before he pulled away, his hand clenched into a bit of a fist. “Oughta mark ya up. Make ya match me.”
“Gonna bleed.” You murmured as your eyes finally wrenched themselves from his cock. “Already bloody enough.”
“That’s right. Gotta still go back out there, can’t have it look so obvious. Can’t have ya looking like I mauled ya. But ya want it, don’t ya? Ya missed this, haven’t ya? Missed Bitey being so bitey.”
You had missed him like this, healthy and vicious and powerful. But you had dragged him back here for a reason, to let off the power, to give him enough control to be able to finish another take without an entire audience of men and women throwing themselves at him and allowing himself to gorge himself on so much food he’d be liable to make it so no one in the entire studio would be safe.
“Need—you gotta let some go, Bitey. Can’t—” Your words were a jumbled mess inside your head as you shook it. “Can’t have Russwood in here. Everyone’d let you feast. Steve. Bones—everyone.”
Elvis allowed his body to settle against yours, his cock stilled in your twitching, throbbing cunt for the time being as he nipped light as a feather against your clavicle, your neck, your pulse point up until he reached your earlobe. “Would that be a bad thing? That much food. Could share so much wit’ ya. Even let them pleasure ya. Tell Binder how to treat my wife, make her happy to make me happy.”
Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as your head slammed back against a pillow, the groan easily taken from your soul. It wasn’t the worst image, his pretty face between your legs as Elvis played with your breasts but you couldn’t allow yourself to entertain it. You swallowed your—spit? Or perhaps it was more venom from how your brain floated from one thought to another. “No. He doesn’t—they don’t know, Elvis. Can’t do that to them and still work with them. No. Gotta—rein it in, Naughty. I’m your wife and—”
“What you say goes?” he finished off the sentence with a thrust deep inside you, one that earned him an answering mewl of pleasure and distress. He didn’t need to be this deep and yet you wanted him there, wanted to feel him deeper than he had been in years. Hollywood never allowed him this much power even as he filled out with age, his muscles slowly refining themselves. “Think ya can take it, then? Think ya can take more, ma’am?”
You snarled yourself at the name, seizing his hair in a vicious grip, hauling him away in a lewd arch, chest thrust out and throat bared, as you hissed, “Give it to me, Naughty,” eyes ablaze. He mewled, grip so tight he threatened to break your pelvis as you locked gazes. And what you didn’t know was—your irises shone with power, too. Elvis—Elvis had missed that sight, of you so full up of him it spilled over into your face, bright and heavenly to the way he drew blood from his claws in your ass like a devil dog. You clenched around him in a vice, hole another sucking mouth that drove him on and on, “Only—ten minutes, Bitey! Ah!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he rumbled, allowed to bow over you in supplication, licking tenderly at his scattered, bleeding bitemarks only to add to the collection encircling your throat by giving you another on the side he’d neglected. “More,” you demanded, thrusting back into him, and he rumbled something incomprehensible to anyone but you. To you it meant as you wish.
Soon with every slick-slap you were fluttering around him, your second orgasm hurtling towards you—Elvis could sense it, taste it on his tongue along with the tang of your blood, the salt of your sweat, and he let himself tumble towards the cliff’s edge with you. Let himself really take in the sight of your neck and chest littered with evidence of his monstrous true form, the red of your blood smeared from his lips, the faint glowing pink of his venom mixing in mesmerizing trails across your skin. Mine, he thought, as he let one talon retract from your hips, already bruising purple, to pinch cruelly at your clit. Your wet pussy tightened until you scraped off your combined slick, on his next thrust in and he was so—he could sense how it pattered onto the sheets. “Wasteful,” Elvis hissed. His eyes were completely black, unhinged in this moment, torn down to the basest parts of himself.
“Give—ah! Y’more—later, Naughty,” you whimpered, every word only able to be said with scant breath caught in between his thrusts. He howled as you started to cum, shoving in as deep as he could—that little, second ring battered and bruised and he needed to get deeper, so he jackrabbit his hips again and again until he couldn’t hold back anymore, the wave of your pleasure filling him as he filled you up, so much cum it leaked out even around his thick length and the tightness of your snatch. Pearly while spilled over your ass, coating that second little hole and smearing on his own hips.
Elvis’s chest heaved, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, completely inhuman. You gazed up at him in a bit of awe and a lot of affection, how every one of his features were sharpened. His cheekbones, his teeth, his ears, his eyes—but even still, he looked at you as if you were holy, even smeared with blood and venom and seed. “My fallen a-angel,” you murmured, shaky hands cradling his face. “C’mere a… ah, a m-minute, Bitey. C’mon.”
You drew him into a sweet, gentle kiss, letting him come down, giving him time to control himself. It was always the comedown that took the longest, piecing together the parts of him that were human and presentable for the world. Your touch helped to ground him as much as it would rile him up to get him to this point. You glance at the watch on your wrist and bite at your lip. Five more minutes to get cleaned up and to settle him down enough to allow him to go back outside. Elvis let his cheek drop to nuzzle against your hand as you carefully took deep breaths because—that was the only way his breathing would settle into what it needed to.
Two minutes was what it took to have his eyes finally shift back to more electric blue than black and what it took to finally have his lip curled into a smile when he looked at you. “Mm? What’dya need?”
Your wounds already looked like they were healing a bit so you couldn’t need too much energy from him, not that he hadn’t poured it out into you through his thrusts and his cum. Perhaps you just wanted to lay here for the next few minutes. His eyes settled on the mess between your legs before his mind caught up to him. You two were a mess that needed to be cleaned up and made mostly presentable.
“Panties,” you quipped as your hand grabbed the ruined pair that had found its way off of your chest. “We need to—we’re a mess, Elvis.”
A slow nod was all he could manage as his eyes darted around the room before they settled on your bag that he knew had wipes in it. It wouldn’t be perfect but it would do until later. It took the two of you another few minutes to finally fully make yourselves presentable before you found yourself doing up his jumpsuit as he busied himself with your dress. Another few quick swipes to your hair is the best you two managed before it became necessary to leave the room. Elvis opened the door quietly and started to walk out before you pulled him back and into another kiss. “Tell me when you start to feel it again, Bitey.”
