Elvis Fanfic - Blog Posts

Title: 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬 Warnings: sexual content, p in v sex, unprotected sex, semi-public setting, possessive behavior, praise kink, 1960!E.P, riding/lap!riding

The trailer door slammed shut behind him, rattling in its frame. You barely gave him time to take off his army jacket before pushing him onto the couch and straddling his lap, the G.I. Blues costume still clinging to him like a second skin. “Woah! Well, hey there, darlin’,” Elvis drawled, “Miss me that bad?” he tilted his head a bit, rubbing his thumbs over your hips.

You rolled your hips against him, making him groan low in his throat. “You were gone too long.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking down to where your skirt was already hitched around your hips. His hands gripped your thighs possessively. “Lord, sugar. Ain’t even got my boots off yet.”

You caught his bottom lip between your teeth and whispered, “Then keep them on.”

He growled—low and rough—before thrusting up to meet your grind, his fingers dug into your waist like he could brand himself into your skin, he helped you take down your panties, and he unzipped his fly, pulling out his semi-hard cock and gave it a couple of heavy strokes, before slowly helping you inch down on his dick, until he was all the way inside you, a moan being torn from your throat.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, watching you bounce with a hungry gaze, “look at you—takin’ me so damn good.”

"Ha- Elvis-" You moaned his name, breathy and broken. Your thighs were already beginning to tremble and burn and Elvis noticed it the moment your rhythm faltered, your breath hitched more from strain than pleasure. A crooked, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in, voice thick and teasing against your ear. “Burnin’ out on me already, honey?” he murmured, hands sliding from your hips to cup your ass, grounding you.

You whimpered, trying to keep moving, but your legs were giving out. He chuckled, deep and low, before shifting his hips beneath you, planting his boots firm against the trailer floor. “That’s alright,” he drawled, voice dipped in syrup and sin, “I got'cha.”

Without warning, he took over—grabbing your hips and began helping you bounce on his cock, each thrust sharp, hungry. His pelvis slapped up into you with every bounce he controlled, and your head fell forward against his shoulder, overwhelmed.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he panted, nuzzling your neck, breath hot and heavy, “just let me do the work now. Let me take care o' you.”

His grip tightened. Your moans turned breathless, helpless, as he drove his cock deeper, faster. “Elvis— I'm gonna—” you gasped.

“I know, sugar,” he rasped, his grip never faltered—one arm locked around your waist, the other guiding your hips down harder, slower now, grinding you down on his thick cock.

The sound of your slick skin meeting him, drowning out even the distant chatter from the set outside. “Look at'cha,” he murmured against your throat, placing open-mouthed kisses along your pulse. “Makin’ a pretty mess all over my cock.”

You couldn’t answer—not with the way he rolled his hips up into you, deliberate and deep. Your cunt tightened around him, desperate for more.

He groaned at the sting, the vibration of it making you clench. “Christ, baby...” he breathed, voice shaking now. “You’re squeezin’ me like that and expectin’ me ta keep it together?”

Your body jerked as he angled just right, stars exploding behind your eyes. “Elvis—please—”

He pulled back enough to look at you, sweat-slicked curls clinging to his forehead, blue eyes locked onto yours. “Come on, then,” he whispered hoarsely, “let go f’r me, sweet girl. Come all over my cock.”

With one more thrust, sharp and perfect, he pulled you down flush—and you came on his cock with his name on your tongue.

Your body trembled in his arms, every muscle slack with release. Elvis held you close, chest rising fast beneath your cheek. Then, with a strangled groan, he pulled out of you just in time, his cock slipped free slick and aching, twitching against his stomach.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, hand stroking himself once, twice, until he spilled hot against his skin, his cock slowly softening against the crook of your thigh. “That was too close.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. “Sorry—”

He cut you off with a kiss, slow and deep. “Don’t be, baby,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky. “Dyin’ ta be inside ya, just… not without a plan.”

𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕌𝕡

tags: 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟶!𝙴𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚜, 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚜

Elvis turned toward the mirror, and smoothed the front of his white jumpsuit with practiced ease—until his blue scarf slipped forward and a flash of red caught his eye.

He stilled.

A soft chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he lifted the scarf, eyes narrowing at the lipstick print smeared right in the center. Another kiss mark peeked up near the collar of his suit.

“Well, look a' that,” he drawled, grin evident in his voice. “Sugar, y'went and branded me like I’m yours.”

He craned his head slightly, admiring the faint imprint near his collarbone that was placed on the collar of his jumpsuit , hidden just enough to be their secret.

“Guess I can’t shake you off even if I wanted to.” he chuckled to himself.

You weren’t even at the hotel tonight—back at your own place across the city—but you'dmade your presence known just fine.

Elvis adjusted the scarf deliberately, keeping the mark where it showed just a little.

He winked at himself in the mirror. “Awh... Let ‘em see it. Let the whole damn room know I belong to somebody.”

Then he turned, swagger smooth, and headed to the stage. He was marked—and grinning like a man in love.