One Shot Central

You chuckle. “Well, since you’re so persistent...it’s Y/N.”

He gives a low hoot of appreciation. “Now, that’s a mighty nice name you got there. And what’re you doin’ at my party, Miss Y/N?”

“I came with a few friends - they’ve been begging me to tag along at least once, and I figured if I came this time, they’d leave me alone afterwards.”

“Parties ain’t your scene?” he asks, coming over to lean on the countertop beside you.

“Oh, some parties are fine...it’s the company I take issue with,” you say, raking your eyes along his frame again.

Elvis feigns an affronted gasp. “Ma’am, if you think I’m any less than an upstanding Southern gentleman, I’m afraid all you’ve heard are nasty rumours. I promise I can be good.”

“Oh, I never said you couldn’t, Mr Presley,” you reply, maybe slightly more suggestively than you’d intended. You watch, a little entertained, as he chokes on his drink.

With red cheeks and pink ears, he stammers, “I-I’m sorry, ma’am, you just caught me off-guard a bit, is all. You, ah...”

“What did I say?” you ask, feigning innocence. It’s fun to watch him get all hot and bothered, and it doesn’t hurt that he looks even cuter when he’s flustered.

“You just - it was - ah, never mind.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it even messier that it was before.

You laugh, deciding to let him off the hook. “I’m sorry Mr Presley, but you’re just so easy to rile up. I couldn’t resist.”

Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before you get a chance to properly register what it could be.

“Forgive me if I sound a bit forward, miss, but I’d like to take this conversation to the bedroom.” Elvis keeps his stare laser-focused on you, and you feel a shiver travel up your spine.

“Well, I don’t let just any boy get me alone...are you gonna be good, Mr Presley?” you murmur, leaning forward just a bit to trace a finger along the column of his throat.

He slams his cup on the counter and grabs you by the thighs, hoisting you up around his waist so that you have to look down to meet his gaze. “Oh, I think you and I could have a pretty good time, mama,” he says, taking the opportunity to steal your cup and set it to the side as well.

“Well then, what are you waiting for?” you ask, sliding down his body until your feet hit the ground. “Show me just how good you can be.”

🎶🔥🎶

Elvis only just manages to close the door behind you before you’re falling onto the bed. You can barely think straight - your mind is full of his taste, his smell, the feel of his hands on every part of you. You let out a moan as his tongue teases its way into your mouth, and your nails rake along Elvis’ back, making creases in his perfectly-ironed shirt. He moans in response, hips dipping just a little bit lower in search of some sort of friction. He likes that, you notice, filing it away for later use. His reaction gives you an idea.

You break the kiss and he lets out a noise of protest, chasing your lips, but you put a finger against his to stop him. “Easy now, Mr Presley...you wouldn’t want to seem too desperate, would you? I thought you were supposed to be a playboy.” You smirk as his breaths quicken, placing a palm on his chest to flip him over so you can crawl on top. His pupils are blown wide and he’s practically panting at this point, swollen lips and messy hair simply adding to his appeal. Your hands dance along the buttons of his half-open shirt, allowing the rest of the fabric to fall away so his chest is completely exposed. You shift up his body, resting your thighs on either side of his abdomen so you can lean over and press your lips to the column of his throat. You scrape your teeth just slightly over the soft skin, and the keen Elvis lets out is something you’ll never forget.

“Shh, you don’t want your friends hearing you, do you?” you murmur, grinning wide against his neck. “What would they think if they saw the Elvis Presley so whipped for a girl?”

“I...I don’t really care what they’d think, mama, just do that again, please,” he begs, and you can feel his chest rising and falling under your own...not to mention the prominent bulge starting to grow against your core.

“Mm...” you hum, pretending to think about it. “Strip for me, Elvis.”

He scrambles out from under you and practically rips his clothes off - his shirt is on the floor in seconds, but he’s so flustered he struggles with his jeans. He lets out a groan of frustration, but still can’t get his fingers to work the zipper quick enough. You laugh, taking pity on him when he looks up at you desperately. “Come here, baby. Let me take care of that.” You deftly undo the button, sliding the zipper down so he can step out, leaving him in just his boxers.

“You’ve still...got an awful...lot of clothes on, darlin’,” he pants, looking like he’s trying to regain some of his bravado...and failing miserably. You laugh again in response. “I suppose I do...but only good boys get to take them off. Are you gonna be a good boy, Elvis?”

“I will, I promise I will, mama, just let me have another taste,” he pleads, eyes wide and shining.

You pretend to consider before getting back on top of him, pressing a trail of kisses from his throat to the line of his boxers. Good god...you’d heard he could sing, but the music he was making right now was downright sinful.

“Alright, Elvis, now be a good boy and help me out of these clothes,” you instruct, and he wastes no time. You don’t particularly like this dress, so it doesn’t really matter when he tears the seams trying to get it off. It’ll be a problem later, but you can always borrow some of his clothes...

He unclasps your bra with a snap, leaving you both in just your underwear. “Okay, now sit down for me,” you say, gently pushing him so he sits against the headboard. “No touching until I say.”

He whines, hands twitching at his sides. “Not even a little?” he pleads, and his eyes are so big and blue that you almost give in.

“Not even a little,” you reply, and take his belt from the floor for good measure. He watches as you tie his hands to the headboard, then sit back between his thighs to admire your handiwork. “That should do,” you say, and slide back down the bed until you’re in a comfortable enough position to slip your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. He lets out another breathy moan as you wrap your hand around him, pumping gently. “Does that feel good, baby?” you ask, though you already know the answer by his flushed face and heaving chest.

He nods frantically, and you tsk. “Use your words, Elvis. I know you can.”

“Feels so good mama, feels so good,” he slurs as you slide his boxers all the way off with your other hand.

After a few more pumps, he’s ready, and you take a breath, readying yourself for the stretch. “Alright, pretty boy.” He flushes even redder as you flip his nickname for you back on him, and the gleam in his eyes tells you he likes it when you’re nice to him just as much as when you’re mean. I’ll have to try that next time, you think - because there will definitely be a next time, if he’s up for it. He may have the bad boy reputation, but you may just be able to make him yours.

You position yourself above him and hold yourself there a moment, relishing the view - Elvis Presley, lip between his teeth, chest heaving, practically begging with his eyes for you to do something, anything to him - before sinking down onto him. You can’t help yourself - you cry out at the same time he does, feeling him fill you to the brim. You take a second to steady yourself and get adjusted, and just to tease him a bit longer. He makes such pretty noises when he begs.

“P-please...” he pleads. “Please move...”

You grin, turned on even more by his desperation. “I wonder what kind of music you can make for me...” you muse, and he moans at your words. “You like that? You like the idea that any of your brothers could hear what a filthy little whore you are for me?” He ruts his hips against you involuntarily at the thought, and your grin turns predatory. “Well, I don’t want to humiliate you yet, so you’d better keep quiet, baby. Can you do that for me, Elvis?”

He nods, lip pink and plump from how much he’s digging his teeth into the soft skin.

You shift just a bit, and he immediately lets out a keen. You still, and he whines. “What did I just say?”

“’m sorry, mama. ‘m so sorry, please don’t stop,” he cries.

You relent, but only because you’re starting to get desperate yourself. You ride him until the coil in your stomach starts to tighten, and you move faster, desperate for your own release. You spare a few glances at Elvis to make sure he’s alright, and he looks so thoroughly fucked out you almost cum right there.

“Can you cum for me, baby?” you ask breathlessly. “Be a good boy and cum with me.”

You only have to roll your hips a few more times before you feel him stutter inside you, painting your insides with warmth just seconds before your own release washes over you in a sea of stars.

🎶🔥🎶

You gently lift yourself off him, rolling over to lay beside him as you both pant, thoroughly spent. “Okay, I’ll say it - this party was a lot more fun than I thought it’d be,” you gasp, and you hear Elvis chuckle.

“Glad to help, mama,” he says, winding an arm around your torso. “You can be a bit meaner next time, though...I don’t mind.”

You smile and turn to face him, tapping his nose teasingly with a finger. “I don’t believe you ‘don’t mind’, Mr Presley...I think you like it,” you accuse, and his bashful smile is all the confirmation you need.

“Well,” you say, pretending to think on the idea, “I’d be more than happy to oblige on another night. Just tell me when.” You reach over him to his phone on the stand, typing your contact information in for later use. “Text me anytime, pretty boy.”

The water glass you were holding just seconds ago shatters against the floor as you let out a small shriek, scrambling to flick the lights on. It’s 10pm, and someone is in your apartment. Bond is on a mission, so -

“Glass shards are a terrible weapon. You’ll cut your palm open long before doing any real damage to me.” The voice is strained, but you’d recognise it anywhere.

“James!” You step away from the glass and finally get the lights working, revealing one double-oh agent splayed on your couch - and not in his usual sexy way. It looks more like it takes too much effort to hold himself up, sweat shining on his brow and chest heaving. “Where are you hurt? Why didn’t you go to medical? You should’ve at least had Q look at it, let me -”

“No!” He nearly roars it, hand flying up to prevent you coming closer. You freeze.

“James...you’re hurt. You can’t even stand, and you came to my apartment. If you didn’t want my help, then why the hell are you here?! Do you enjoy sending me into cardiac arrest?!”

“No, that’s not - fuck.” The agent sweeps his hair away from his face, at war with himself. His muscles are taut, like he’s forcing himself to stay put. His breaths are ragged. “I couldn’t...I couldn’t stay away. I tried.” His voice breaks, and the last part is so quiet, you’re certain he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

“Walk me through this, 007.” You only call him that when it’s serious. It’s enough to get him to focus, at least for a little while. “Last I heard, you were on a mission in Morocco. You told me you wouldn’t be back until at least a week from now, and then you show up at my house in the middle of the night looking like shit. What happened?”

“I...things went sideways.” He cracks a grin, but it’s crooked, wrong. “Target injected me with a chemical agent. Q recognised it, told me to get back to London ASAP. Filled me in, and -” he draws a shuddering breath, “- knew I had to...to stay away from you. That was five hours ago.”

“What does the chemical do, James?” Your voice is low, trying not to shake. Did he seriously drag himself all the way here just to die on your couch?

“It’s an aphrodisiac. Won’t let up until...” His eyes go glassy and unfocused for a second, and he’s halfway off the couch before he remembers himself, slamming back down. “...until I can take care of it.”

“And what, you can’t just...?” You gesture awkwardly with your hands, still trying to process what he just told you, and unable to pry your eyes away from the now painfully obvious tent in his slacks. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve done it before -”

“I’ve tried, it doesn’t work like that.” The last word tapers off into a moan, and you realise just how torturous this must be for him. You make your way over, sitting beside him on the couch and ignoring his warning groan.

“What do you need, James?”

“I need...I need...” You rub slow circles into his back, and he whines. James Bond is on your couch, whining. For you. “God, I can’t control myself when you do that, you have to...you have to...”

You let out a yelp when you suddenly feel yourself flip over, finding yourself staring up into cloudy blue eyes as the agent’s hands hold your wrists above your head. He holds your gaze just a few seconds before diving for your throat, nipping just lightly enough to not break the skin. You can’t entirely suppress a small sound of your own, and it’s enough for Bond’s eyes to clear just slightly. He shoves you away, panting, pupils completely dilated. “You need to go. Bedroom - lock yourself in. Bar the door. Put anything up against it that you can. I can’t...I’m done controlling this.” You reach for him, but he rears back like a wounded animal. “NOW!”

You’ve never heard him roar like that - not at you. And now he’s done it twice in one evening. You scramble backwards, sprinting to your room and locking the door, shoving your desk chair under the knob for good measure. You sit on the bed, knees pressed to your chest, and listen.

♥♡♥

It’s been hours. You’ve almost fallen asleep several times. You would’ve, if you weren't so afraid for James on the other side of the door. You weren’t afraid he’d hurt you, exactly - you were more worried for him, if you were honest. He was clearly in pain, and his mind was starting to collapse in on itself. Just as you start to reason that he’s probably better now, you should really go help him...the lock blasts off, and the gunshot startles a cry out of you. The door meets a bit of resistance from the chair you’d oh-so-cleverly lodged under the knob, but not much - it wrenches off its hinges, sending both the door and the chair flying.

In its place is a wreck of a silhouette - hair wild and mussed, shirt unbuttoned and baring far too much skin down the front, blue eyes sparking like a lightning storm.

“I’m sorry,” the shadow says...and then he’s on you. You have just enough time to wonder what he’s sorry for - shooting the door? breaking your chair? or is he sorry for losing the fight he never really could have won in the first place? And then your thoughts blank out, completely focused on the fact that holy fuck, James fucking Bond is ripping your fucking clothes off.

You’re bare in seconds, while he’s still in his (admittedly-dishevelled) clothes. That’s not fair, is it? You decide to return the favour, helping him the rest of the way out of his jacket and dress shirt, slipping the gun holster from his shoulders. “I thought I told you no weapons in my apartment, and I think you just shot my lock out,” you tease, shucking his clothes to the floor.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -” he mumbles, hands running wild over your stomach, your hips, your thighs...but you can’t focus on the pleasure when he keeps apologising.

“James.” You push him off you a bit, and he whines at the loss of contact. “I can get a new door. I can get a new chair. What I can’t get is a new you, so whatever you need, I’m here.” You run your hands through his too-short hair, prompting another muffled moan. You grab his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Just promise you’ll take me out to dinner first next time.” This prompts a strained chuckle. 

“You know me, darling - I’m nothing if not a gentleman.” 

You breathe a sigh of relief - he’s still in there somewhere. You adjust yourself a bit on the bed, letting go of him to shift your weight a bit higher. “I also expect you to get rid of those pants sooner rather than later if you really want me to be the one to take care of your little problem,” you advise, giving a light tug on his waistband.

They’re gone before you can blink.

You swallow, hard. You’d spotted the bulge in his pants earlier, but that in no way could have prepared you for this. And you’d just volunteered to help him with it. “Okay. James, is it in any way possible for you to give me a minute to -”

He nods, but he’s shaking. Before you even finish your sentence, he’s rutting into your thigh, low sounds emanating from his throat. “Alright, guess not. James, I need you to look at me. Look at me, or this stops right here.”

He snaps his gaze up to yours, as clouded and dark as you’ve ever seen it.

“I told you already, take whatever you need. You’re always so scared to lose control, but it’s okay. I promise.” You run your hands through his hair as you talk, providing just enough stimulation to keep him satisfied and giving you something else to focus on while you talk. “Let go, James.”

He lets out a heavy breath, lowering his head so you can’t see his eyes. For a moment, you think he’ll try to argue with you, say that he couldn’t possibly, that he’s worried he’ll hurt you...nothing of the sort happens. Instead, he begins kissing a trail of fire from your forehead...to your cheek...to your lips...to your throat...to your chest...to your stomach...and lower. You shudder, nails pressing against his scalp as his hands fit themselves around your ass to pull you closer, lavishing kisses all around you, teasing as much as he can.

“James...are you seriously...going to tease me...even with you in the state you’re in?” you hiss, about two seconds from cursing him out and ordering him to do what he came here to do right the fuck now. He lifts his head just long enough to give you his signature smirk - fuck, it’s definitely still James Bond doing all these things to you - and finally gets to work between your legs, drawing an obnoxiously loud moan from you that makes you flush scarlet.

“If I’m getting pleasure from this, it’s only fair to return the favour,” he murmurs into your stomach.

“I’m not the one that got dosed with a sex drug like a fucking rookie,” you retort, but there’s not enough breath left in you to really make it bite. All it does is make him grin a little, sweaty but a bit more focused.

“Well, I’ll just have to throw a pinch in your tea the next time I’m over. Really adds some pressure to the night,” he replies. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more, but cuts himself off with another low moan. “Sorry to cut the fun short, but I think I’ll have to skip to the main event.”

You bite your lip. Fucking finally. He pushes himself up so he’s right above you, his nose inches from your own. You prop yourself up just enough to nudge his nose and press a chaste kiss to his lips before sinking back down to wait. You don’t have to wait long - you can tell he tries to start slow, let you get adjusted to him, but his control flies out the window the second he enters you.

The pace becomes punishing, and you’re left a writhing, moaning mess underneath him as he murmurs a slurred mix of your name, “god”, “fuck”, and several other phrases you don’t quite catch.

Your vision starts to go starry just as his hips begin to stutter, and you both come undone at the same time. He collapses on top of you, and you let him, his body settling on you like the best weighted blanket.

“Hey, James?” you whisper.

You can hear the exhaustion in his voice when he whispers back. “Yes, love?”

“Feel better?”

“Of course, we couldn’t have done any of it without Y/N. If she hadn’t figured out how to re-construct that compound, Rex wouldn’t still be with us today.” You were just about to thank Holiday for her overly-generous appraisal of your work when you heard a low huff, immediately followed by a door slamming. Shit. Of course Caesar would have heard that. You quickly excused yourself and followed your hotheaded coworker.

“Hey!” His shoulders hunched, but he didn’t respond.

“Hey!” Still nothing.

“Hey!”

He spun on his heel, eyes flashing. “¿Qué putas, señorita? ¿No me humillaste lo suficiente delante de ellos?”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, Salazar. You know my Spanish is rudimentary at best.”

“Ese no es mi problema,” he muttered, but he gave in. “Fine. What do you want?”

“I just wanted to check in on you. You’ve kinda been in a mood the past couple of days and -”

“Oh, I’ve been in a mood?!” he scoffed. “I’m only in a mood because my bitchy coworker is stealing the spotlight.”

“Excuse me?!” You stared at him in shock. “What are you talking about?! I’m not trying to steal anything!”

“Right. So every time you get all the recognition for something we both worked on, that’s just a coincidence? Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical.”

You shoved him in the chest, hard. “If you want the credit, you can fucking take it! But if that’s the only reason you hate me, then -”

“I don’t hate you.”

You stopped cold. “Right, because when I want to be friends with someone, I ignore them for weeks, wait until I’m really pissed, and then attack them. You need to work on your strategy, mijo.”

“I’m not trying to be friends with you either,” he muttered.

“Then what the fuck do you want?!” you huffed, now thoroughly confused and getting increasingly frustrated.

“Oh, come on! Are you really this oblivious?!” he yelled. “I’m jealous that you get all the credit for our work, and I’m pissed because, in spite of that, I’m still fucking in love with you!”

You just stared, brain short-circuiting. Caesar Salazar was in what with who?! You checked behind yourself, even though you knew no one would be there.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean to - I just - mierda!”

“Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait.” Your brain still reeling, you held up a hand to stop him. “You - how long?”

He let out a breath, looking equal parts pissed and embarrassed. “About a year now.”

Holy shit.

He turned to go, but you grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. “Caesar Salazar, you are not walking out on this fucking conversation.”

He looked at you with a derisive snort, the embarrassment all but disappeared from his face, only evidenced in his flaming cheeks. “And how exactly do you plan to stop me?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing his jacket and pulling him in for a searing kiss. He went rigid under you - but it only lasted a second before he was clutching at your back, your neck, your hair. The kiss was everything you expected from him - hot, angry, and desperate, like he would never need to come up for air. He slammed you against the wall, and whatever breath you had left was knocked from your lungs. Your gasp gave him the perfect opening to start exploring your mouth as he hoisted your legs around his waist, letting out a low growl.

“Caesar, what if someone -”

“Shut up,” he ordered, and you complied. If he wanted to keep going, you certainly weren’t going to stop him.

Suddenly, the door hissed open, and your eyes went wide. You knew you looked like an absolute mess, hair mussed and lips swollen. Caesar somehow managed to pull it off (because he’s sexy as hell and it’s majorly unfair, you thought). Please don’t be Six, please don’t be Six, please don’t be Six -

I wish it was Six. We’re never gonna live this down.

Rex let out a wolf-whistle. “About fucking time!”

Both of you shouted at the same time. “Shut up!”

TRANSLATIONS:

¿Qué putas, señorita? - what the fuck, miss?!

¿No me humillaste lo suficiente delante de ellos? - did you not humiliate me enough in front of them?

Ese no es mi problema. - that’s not my problem.

mijo - in my context, could mean either “sweetheart” or “dude”. you pick.

What's the point of falling, when I know i'm only stalling ‘Cause I have to go back home Where I'm just one in the herd Tripping ovеr my words Trying hard to go with the grain Keeping the quirks in my brain I'm on the brink of discovеry, I think But what if I'm dreaming? That's what it seems like ‘Cause this girl thinks I'm part of her world And that new territory's scary

"Beej, I’m home!” You throw your bag on the couch, flopping down right after it. It had been an exhausting day at work, but it was finally the weekend - and that meant two uninterrupted days of Beetlejuice time. If he appeared, anyway...

“Beej?” You peer over the top of the couch, ready to defend yourself if he decides to scare you. No sign of him. That’s odd...but if he wasn't there, he was probably hiding in a closet upstairs or something. “Beej, if you don’t come out in three seconds I’m gonna make you,” you threaten. No response. Okay, fine. He wants to play deaf? Not on your watch.

“Beetlejuice...” Nothing. “Beetlejuice...” Silence. “Bee-”

A hand snakes around from behind you to cover your mouth. “No need for that, babes.”

“So you are home!” you accuse, hands on your hips. “Were you trying to scare me?”

The ghost with the most throws his hands up in self-defence, a smirk playing across his features. “Of course not, babes! When would I ever dream of trying to scare you?”

You might’ve believed him had he not been smirking like the devil himself. “Riiiiiiiiiight...well, it’s been an exhausting day at work, so can we just cuddle for a bit? I could really use your company right now.”

He smiles at you, slightly softer now. “Alright, babes. Whatever you need.” With a snap of his fingers, you were both snuggled up on the couch, one of your comfort movies playing in the background.

Fifteen minutes in, you start to drift off - you hadn’t been kidding when you said it was a rough day, and sleep sounded better than a movie at the moment. Just before you lost consciousness, your demon started talking. “I really don’t know what you see in me, babes.”

What?

You struggle to clear the sleep from your mind without alerting Beetlejuice that you were awake.

“I mean, you’re you, and I’m...me.” He lets out a heavy sigh, and you don’t have to see him to know that his hair is purple. “What could a pretty little breather want with a demon? Sure, you might think I’m cool now, but once you see what I’m really like...what I’ve done...you’ll get tired of me. Or worse, you’ll be scared. God, I don’t think I could handle seeing you scared of me. I don’t want you to leave me, babes. Is that selfish? Is it selfish of me to want to spend eternity with the one person who isn’t scared of me? Who doesn’t hate me? Who might actually...care about me?” The terrified tremble in his voice makes your heart ache...and then you feel the wetness hit your cheek. Beetlejuice is crying. “I don’t want you to leave me. Please don’t leave me...”

That’s it. You can’t let this go any further.

You sit up so you’re facing a purple-haired, wet-cheeked Beetle. His eyes go wide, and he swipes at his cheeks to hide his tears. “B-babes! What are you doing up?”

You shift, thumbing the rest of his tears away. He flinches, a streak of white flashing through his hair. “Did you hear -?”

You shush him, nodding slowly as you snuggle up to his chest. “Beej, why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve talked about it -”

“Because I didn’t want you to run!” he wails.

You startle back. Hearing him say it so clearly like that...does he really expect you to just leave him? You shift more fully, straddling his thighs so you can look him square in the face.

“Beetlejuice,” you start, making sure to use his full name so he knows you’re serious, “I’m going to say this as many times as I have to for it to sink in. I am not leaving. Now, or ever. You,” you shove lightly at his chest, “are stuck with me.”

He looks at you in wonder, eyes still full of tears - but do your eyes deceive you, or is that a green streak in his hair? “You mean it? You aren’t gonna leave? You’re not...scared of me?”

“No. Never. Nothing you can say or do will convince me that you aren’t the man I love. I’m staying right here.”

Before he can respond, you grab his arms and wrap yourself in a hug, settling against his stomach with a sigh. You can feel him tense underneath you for the slightest moment before more hands appear in your hair, twisting the strands around his fingers. After a few more minutes, another set clamps onto your legs, holding you firmly in place and making you giggle. He buries his face in your shoulder with a soft grunt, fluffy pink hair brushing your cheek. “Can’t leave now. Gotcha,” he mutters.

You let out a soft laugh, snuggling closer to your favourite demon. “Alright, Beej. Ya got me. I’m all yours.”