isthlsfate

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 ⌝

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thanos x namgyu x black!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: implied substance use, sexual content - threesome, fingering, oral fem!receiving, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), slight voyeurism - mdni, mature language (pls lmk if i missed any!)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

the mint green bathroom tile is hypnotizing, its lines blurring together, seemingly endless as you sit hunched over on the toilet. the fluorescent lights cause your eyes to sting.

your body hums, maybe even shakes—you’re not sure. you feel light and heavy, strong and weak, happy and scared. whatever pill thanos had given you was taking effect quickly.

you smile at the thought of him. a girlish giggle falls past your lips as you wipe, stand up, and flush the toilet. you stumble to the sink, glance down at your hands gripping the porcelain, then meet your own gaze in the mirror.

your eyes are blown, your cheeks warm, and that stupid smile refusing to fade.

you wish you had accepted his offer sooner, knowing now that it would’ve made the past three games incredibly easier.

you hadn’t exactly trusted him at first, rightfully so, but the moment you caught him in the dormitory, standing in the corner with that sharp gaze and lazy smirk, it was over.

the memory flits across your mind in fragments: the pinch of his fingers on your chin, the way he tucked a pill between your lips.

you’re thinking about him harder than you should. the thoughts aren’t exactly pure, either.

namgyu slips into them, too—wide-eyed, mouth always pursed like he’s about to beg for something, or cry, or both. you reflect on the way his gaze burns through you even when he’s trying to be subtle, failing every time. always so close to breaking. always so easy.

the mirror feels like a trap. you blink slowly, eyes heavy, and lean in closer. your reflection is almost unrecognizable, hazy, soft-edged, your lips parting as heat pools beneath your tummy just from imagining their hands.

a creak of the door jolts you, but you don’t move.

you can feel the weight of eyes crawling up your spine. you don’t have to turn around to know it’s them.

“you been in here a while,” it’s namgyu, voice low and sticky, curling around the syllables like he’s trying not to moan. “we were starting to worry.”

you raise your gaze just enough to catch their reflections behind you in the mirror. namgyu stands behind thanos, one hand holding his arm, hair falling messily into his eyes. his free hand shuts the door with a click that feels louder than it should.

their eyes sweep over you in unison, making your stomach twist.

you don’t respond.

“she’s floatin’,” namgyu whispers, gaze flicking to thanos before locking on you again. “you look different.”

“different how?” your voice is soft, slurred at the edges.

“beautiful,” thanos murmurs, voice smooth and low like a drumbeat in your chest.

your heart jumps at the lilt in his tone. he steps closer, his presence swallowing the room whole.

your fingers curl tighter around the porcelain.

thanos reaches out, his knuckles grazing your jaw in a gesture that’s barely a touch, yet makes your knees feel weak. “tell me, señorita,” he murmurs, “were you thinking about us in here?”

you breathe out a laugh. “maybe.”

his other hand finds your waist, fingers spreading over the thin fabric of your shirt. you swear you feel the imprint of each one, heat searing through cotton.

“so which one of you is gonna make me come down?” you hum, breathy, lips curling up.

thanos leans closer, his chest brushing your back, hovering over you.

“look at you,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t name. “you’re faded… and you’re still trying to pretend you’re in control.”

“she likes control,” namgyu says lightly, but there’s an edge of challenge there.

thanos hums. “over you, maybe.”

namgyu straightens, like he’s ready to let you prove it.

you don’t break eye contact with thanos as you reach for namgyu’s shirt, tugging him closer. his breath hitches when your fingers curl in the fabric, pulling him low enough for your mouth to ghost over his jaw without touching.

thanos watches in the mirror, a dark satisfaction in his gaze. “go on,” he says quietly, “show him.”

you press your lips to namgyu’s jaw, slow and deliberate, feeling the muscles there tense beneath you. he exhales hard, his hands twitching like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare without permission.

thanos’s hand tightens at your waist, grounding you, controlling you, even as you keep namgyu pinned.

your free hand trails down his chest, slow enough to tease, nails grazing through fabric, but you keep your back flush to thanos.

the contrast is dizzying—thanos’s steady control holding you in place while namgyu stands there, tense, waiting for you to decide what he gets.

thanos’s hand slides lower, just below your waistband. “touch him,” he says, his tone dark and final.

so you do. your palm presses against namgyu’s stomach, feeling the way he inhales sharply under your touch. his gaze flickers from your hand to your face, then over your shoulder to thanos, as if to check whether he’s allowed to want this as much as he clearly does.

thanos’s eyes in the mirror catch yours, unreadable, but his grip never loosens. “that’s it,” he says, voice like a slow drag of smoke. “keep him where you want him.”

you curl your fingers into namgyu’s shirt again, tugging him just close enough that your lips ghost the corner of his mouth, not kissing, not yet, just letting him feel the heat of it.

he exhales shakily.

and then thanos moves. his free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, angling your head back so you can’t look anywhere but at him in the mirror. “don’t forget who’s holding you up,” he says low, his thumb brushing along your cheek in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

between them—one bending to your will, the other making sure you never forget his—you’re caught in a perfect, dangerous balance.

thanos is kissing your neck before you can open your mouth to respond, a gasp falling past your lips. hot, open mouthed kisses leave goosebumps in their trail, nimble fingers moving to unzip the green jacket adorning your top.

your eyes roll back, senses heightened to an extreme you’ve never felt before.

namgyu stands meekly in front of you, mouth hanging open, eyes devouring the scene unraveling before him. a whimper falls past his lips at the sight of thanos’s hand moving in your pants.

the sound catches your attention, and just as a finger slips into you, you grip the boy tighter, crashing your lips into his.

he’s so vocal, small whimpers and moans coming from him as you slide your tongue into his mouth, exploring it with haste. with your free hand, you grab his and guide it under your shirt, coaxing him to touch your breast. he catches your drift, obediently snaking his hand under your bra, pinching and pulling on the sensitive bud before his other hand comes up and touches the other.

you whine, hips unwillingly bucking into thanos’s working hand.

“you like that?” he teases, a smug expression on his face.

you can only manage a hum, suddenly growing impatient. your hands wander underneath namgyu’s sweater before unzipping it quickly, ridding him of both that and his shirt. your hands roam his chest, leaving goosebumps in their trail. thanos glances over at namgyu, still fondling your chest, and gives him a smirk before turning his attention back to you.

he grabs your chin, pulling you away from namgyu to lock your lips in a deep kiss, all while tugging your pants down to your ankles. as he’s working on pulling down your panties, he glances over at his friend once again.

“namsu, you just gonna stand there or are you gonna help me out?”

the aforementioned looks taken aback, his eyes turning over to yours as if asking for permission.

“it’s okay, namgyu.” you reassure, fighting not to squeeze your eyes shut at the sight of the two boys lowering to their knees before you. thanos makes the first move, leaning close to your dripping mound and leaving a chaste kiss.

you moan out when he licks a full stripe up your pussy before diving in, tongue working you in ways you’ve never felt before.

instead of bringing you back down to earth, your high seems to intensify, body buzzing, head spinning. it only turns you on more to know there’s a guard outside, probably wondering what’s taking you so long. your hands come down to twist in his purple locks, tugging slightly and eliciting a groan from him.

he pulls away only to push namgyu’s head forward until his mouth is also on you, leaving soft, almost shy licks. your head lolls to the side.

the difference in their paces is enough to have you crying out, nearing your orgasm.

“i-i’m close,” you whimper, fingers running through their hair.

at that, thanos nips at your clit whilst namgyu inserts a finger, making you squeal.

your legs are beginning to ache from keeping your body upright, but you persist, yearning for a release.

just as stars begin to form behind your eyes, just as your body begins to shake, just as your moans become higher in pitch, it all stops.

you look down in confusion only to see thanos grab namgyu by the chin and pull him into a kiss, sharing your juices. the sight only makes you want more, and namgyu seems to notice as he stands back up.

his eyes meet yours with a newfound fervor, hands roaming your body as yours roam his, reaching down to palm his dick.

time seems to stand still as rids himself of his pants and boxers in a haste, lifting you up and rubbing his length between your folds.

your eyes lock with thanos, who stand still behind him, reaching a hand out to get him closer. he smirks, his presence brooding over namgyu’s. he puts his lips up to the shell of his friend’s ear.

“you sure you got the guts to please her, namsu?” his tone is teasing, egging the boy on.

with a grunt, namgyu thrusts inside you to the hilt, stilling for a moment as if the pleasure is unfathomable. the combination of you squeezing around him and thanos’s warm breath on his neck is almost too much to handle.

“please,” you whimper, and that’s all he needs to hear before he’s thrusting into you, soft but with purpose. your brain is clouded, all you can think about is the way he’s making you feel.

“such a naughty boy,” thanos whispers, kissing namgyu’s neck. “she’s taking you so well, isn’t she?”

namgyu whimpers, nodding obediently. he's not proud of it, but his hips begin to stutter, his thrusts becoming sloppy. all it takes is for him to look down at where you’re connected, to see the ring of white, for him to fall apart.

his noises are utterly pathetic, and you love it, your walls tightening around him as you reach your own climax. his head falls to your shoulder as he lets out a deep breath.

he’s stumbling backwards suddenly, being pulled by thanos and causing your body to fall back against the sink. strong arms soon grip you, moving you against the wall between two sinks, and you’re being filled again.

you mewl, still sensitive from moments before, but the pleasure outweighs the discomfort. thanos’s pace is unrelenting, a complete opposite to namgyu’s. your body is warm, sweat beads forming on your forehead, you’re sure you’ve never been pushed this hard before.

your tits bounce with every thrust, spilling out of your bra. you’re too dazed to care.

thanos looks over his shoulder, flicking his head as if to tell namgyu to come closer once again. he does, inching his way back between your body and the wall. thanos speaks through gritted teeth.

“rub her clit, make her feel good.”

namgyu doesn’t need to be told twice.

the world around the three of you truly disappears, leaving nothing but the sounds of your moans and the feeling of pure ecstasy behind.

your eyes stare up into the fluorescent lights, spots engulfing your vision as you feel another orgasm ripping through you. thanos and namgyu seem to notice, glancing at one another before both quickening their pace.

thanos whispers to you, urging you to let go, fighting his need to.

when you finally do, your mind goes blank, mouth agape in a silent scream. you feel thanos follow quickly after you, soft groans leaving his lips. he pulls out and lets you down onto wobbly legs.

namgyu, now fully dressed, comes over and lets you lean your spent body against him while thanos helps you redress.

your face is warm, your heart pounding in your chest as you stare down at the green tiles once more.

you’re finally coming down from the high of the pill, your shame returning, and you tuck your face into namgyu’s shoulder. he kisses the top of your head, soothingly, but thanos only scoffs.

“don’t get all shy now, señorita. we know what your real habits are.”

___

꩜ taglist:

[isthlsfate]

so i live like it’s the last time for a long time, at the wrong time

masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

elvis presley

i want you, i need you, i love you pt. i, ii, & iii* ⋆.˚ you don’t always get second chances pt. i & ii* ⋆.˚ the edge of reality pt. i*, ii, iii, iv*, & v ⋆.˚ only human ⋆.˚ afterthought ⋆.˚ let me down slowly ⋆.˚ confessions ⋆.˚ reverie ⋆.˚ dulcet* ⋆.˚ that’s all right* ⋆.˚ the girl who spits flowers ⋆.˚ bridge over troubled water* ⋆.˚ the other woman ⋆.˚ return to sender

choi seung-hyun

and i shouldn’t cry but i love it* ⋆.˚ the art of suffering ⋆.˚ habits*

conrad fisher

coming soon!

rafe cameron

meet me in the hallway pt. i & ii ⋆.˚ hate to be lame ⋆.˚ the weight of what we buried ⋆.˚ tethered to you

eddie munson

can’t fight this feeling pt. i & ii

when’s the right time? is it my time?

[isthlsfate]

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 kaya ⭑.ᐟ twenty2 ⭑.ᐟ she/her

© isthlsfate. please do not copy, translate, or repost my content on other platforms. this blog is designed for mobile & therefore may look wonky on web. all posts feature a black!reader, but everyone is welcome. 18+, minors do not interact.

navigation ⭑.ᐟ

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 ⌝

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: choi seunghyun x black!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, sexual content - fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it) - mdni, emotional vulnerability, & mentions of anxiety (pls lmk if i missed any!)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 850

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

you’re leaning against the kitchen counter in your husband’s shirt, one leg perched up in a triangle, sipping tea like you aren’t waiting by the door with your heart pounding.

the tv is a soft background noise now, no longer playing the interview he’d just been in, one of his first in a very long time.

the door to your apartment creaks as it opens, and you quickly set your mug down. you push off the counter, walking forward with slow steps, bare feet against the tile.

when he catches sight of you, seunghyun engulfs you in a warm hug, his lips meeting the side of your head.

“you watched it?” he asks, voice low and rough with the leftover grit of nerves. he already knows the answer, but you nod nonetheless.

“you did great, baby.”

his shoulders seem to drop in relief, like they were weighing too much. then he looks at you, and it’s like the air folds in.

“i tried to be myself,” he says, like it matters. like it’s the thing he wants credit for.

you blink slow, heart aching.

“you didn’t have to try, you just are. everyone loves you.”

his chest rises, falls. he swallows hard.

“i almost didn’t go.”

“but you did.”

his hands inch down from your upper back to your waist, fingers splayed wide like he’s grounding himself.

“you’re the reason i did.”

and when you kiss him, it’s not soft or gentle. it’s full of the ache he’s been holding behind his teeth all day. full of the adrenaline that hasn’t left his system.

his hand comes up and cradles the back of your head, tongue tracing your lips to ask for access, mouth hot and reverent in its hunger.

you walk backwards slowly, and climb the counter without him asking. he helps you, breath shaky, eyes shining like glass.

“you make me feel…” he pauses, lips brushing your jaw, then lower. “like i’m not disappearing.”

your thighs spread, slow and instinctive, making space for him.

his touch is unwavering, digging into your hips, your curves, leaving your skin ablaze in its wake.

you cup his jaw, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth, eyes locked on his.

“you’re not disappearing, seunghyun. for as long as i’m alive, you’ll have someone cheering you on.”

he leans into the words and kisses you again, slower this time. the kind of kiss that says i’m grateful. i’m starving. i’m scared.

he groans when your nails trail beneath his white button up, spine arching just slightly.

his blazer hits the floor. your tea is long forgotten.

seunghyun’s forehead rests against yours, breath hot, heart pounding.

you drag him back in with one hand at the nape of his neck.

“i love you,” you whisper, lips brushing against his.

“i love you more, sweet girl,” he replies. you quickly unbuckle his belt, lips not leaving his as his slacks fall to the floor.

his fingers slither their way to your panties, rubbing over them teasingly. you buck into his hand, always so reactive to his touch.

before you can brace yourself, he’s easing two fingers in, the pads of them grazing your sweet spot immediately.

a gasp falls from your lips, unable to keep your head from falling forward to his chest.

seunghyun revels in how easily he can pleasure you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as he keeps a steady pace. his eyes study your face: the way your mouth hangs open, eyes pinch shut, one hand gripping his bicep and the other tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck.

he can tell you’re almost there.

“oh, my god!” you cry out, legs beginning to shake, but before you can succumb to the overwhelming pleasure, he’s pulling away.

your brain is foggy, eyebrows furrowed as you try to figure out why the sudden halt.

you’re really not given much more time to think, eyes barely open before squeezing shut again as he thrusts into you.

time seems to still. you’re so incredibly enamored by this man, by his strength, by his beauty, by his ability to turn you to mush.

he grunts softly, hands bunching your shirt up just slightly, giving him leverage.

it’s obvious that he’s baring it all to you. the nerves from the interview, the fear of being in the spotlight again, and most importantly, his gratitude to you for being a constant in his life.

his hips falter, your legs squeezing tightly around his waist, short gasps leaving your cocoa butter lips.

you feel like you’re on the verge of tears, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

“so good, seunghyun. it’s so good,” you whine, egging him on. your words seem to be the breaking point, his right hand snaking between your conjoined bodies and circling your clit at a brutal pace.

you’re mewling, practically begging for him to finish, to make you his.

and he does—right there, on the kitchen counter, with the ache of survival still in his bones and your name stuck in his throat like prayer.

___

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: he looked so fine in this fit i kinda went feral and had to write about it. more works coming soon! :p

꩜ taglist:

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⌝

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: s4!rafe cameron x black!pogue!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mature language, mentions of alcohol consumption, red string theory, cheating, confrontation, rafe kinda gaslights reader, happy ending (pls lmk if i missed any!)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.1k

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

they say we’re all connected by a red string.

that long before you ever cross paths with the one meant for you, the thread is already wrapped around your pinky. wrapped around theirs, too. the idea is this: no matter the distance, the time, the circumstance, this string doesn’t snap.

and eventually, inevitably, it leads you to them.

there’s something eerie and warm in watching people orbit and find each other, no matter how tangled the thread gets. it’s that quiet realization: this was always meant to be, even if it didn’t come easy.

you hadn’t believed in any of that—not until him.

*

you don’t see the string at first.

you see the same white-linen uniforms, the same murky sunlight trapped in champagne flutes, the same boys with jawlines sharp enough to cut glass. you see sofia at the hostess stand, flipping her hair and waving at a party of donors from figure eight.

you see laughter. you see saltwater.

you don’t see the string.

you don’t notice the way it tugs at your wrist when rafe walks in. you’re too busy stacking cocktail napkins and nodding along to jeremy behind the bar as he rattles off gossip about a couple who tipped five dollars on a three-hundred-dollar bill.

you barely glance at rafe. you don’t need to. he’s here often enough. the pelican yacht club is practically his second home.

and anyway, he’s dating your roommate.

so no, you don’t look up. not when he walks in, not when he brushes past the counter, the scent of his cologne catching in your throat like smoke, and definitely not when he mutters something to sofia and slinks off to the terrace.

you pretend not to notice how your skin warms.

you stir a customer’s drink, place the garnish, and wipe the marble counter.

you don’t feel the thread around your pinky tightening, glowing, pulling.

but it’s there.

you decide to stay late tonight. sofia doesn’t.

she and rafe leave together around nine, her heels clicking, his hand on her lower back. you watch from behind the bar, expression flat, fingers tapping a rhythm against the shaker.

it’s not envy. not exactly. just a strange tightness behind your ribs, like you’ve been holding your breath too long without realizing.

by midnight, the club is quiet. a few older guests linger, but the summer crowd has filtered back to their yachts or ubers.

you’re restocking the glassware when someone clears their throat behind you.

you turn, expecting jeremy or the manager, but instead—

“you always close this place by yourself?”

your spine straightens. rafe.

he’s leaning against the counter like he owns it, sleeves rolled to his elbows. his voice is quieter than usual, not the one he uses to charm people or threaten them.

the real one, maybe.

you blink. “most of the time, yes.”

rafe doesn’t say anything right away. his gaze on you is intense. he does that a lot, you’ve noticed, watches you like he’s waiting for something.

“sofia forgot her phone,” he says finally, lifting it from his jacket pocket. “figured i’d come back.”

“how nice of you.”

“i know.” his eyes flick toward the terrace door, then back to you. “you’re good at this, you know. behind the bar.”

“is that a compliment?”

“maybe.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart skips. it’s stupid, how aware of him you are. the string around your finger—if you could see it—would be glowing brighter now.

he lingers a little longer than he needs to but doesn’t say much else. just stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes searching your face like he wants to memorize something.

and then he’s gone again.

you exhale slowly. it’s only then that you realize your hands are trembling.

*

weeks pass.

the summer thickens.

you see him everywhere now.

not just at the club, but in strange little places—places you’ve never seen him before: the gas station on bay street. the surf shop on main. the back porch of your house, where he once sat waiting for sofia but ended up talking to you for almost an hour about nothing and everything.

you’ve never had so many almost-moments in your life.

his hand grazing yours when you pass him a drink. his voice too close to your ear. the way he laughs when you say something dry, the kind of laugh that starts low in his chest and pulls a smile out of you before you can stop it.

but there’s never anything more, just a quiet awareness. a tension.

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

you tell yourself you don’t care.

and then one night, while restocking behind the bar, you knock over a bottle of rum. while reaching down to grab it, your breath catches.

there it is.

the string.

thin, red, and iridescent in the low light. it’s stretched taut between your hand and the front door, disappearing into the night.

you freeze.

no one else seems to notice it. not jeremy. not the guests. just you. like a secret only your body understands.

you don’t follow it, not yet, but you have a feeling you know exactly who’s holding the other end.

*

you don’t confront it until thursday.

it’s raining, which means half the club’s guests are indoors, drunk and complaining. you’re working late again, this time with a small gash on your palm from a broken wine glass.

“you should let someone else finish,” jeremy says, nodding toward your hand. “you’re bleeding.”

“i’m fine.”

but you aren’t.

not because of the pain in your hand, but because the string is tugging. hard.

and then rafe walks in, soaked from the storm, his eyes darker than usual.

he gives you a look that says more than you’d like it to.

you meet him outside under the overhang, apron still tied around your waist, skin prickling from the misty air.

“you knew,” you say before he can speak. “you’ve known, haven’t you?”

he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i swear, i didn’t even—i didn’t believe in any of that soulmate shit.”

“how long?” your voice wavers. his shoulders sink.

“the day i met you,” he says. “i looked at you and it was like—like i’d already loved you in a hundred lives before this one.”

your pulse stutters.

“then why—” you start, but your throat tightens. “why her?”

he steps closer. carefully. the rain paints his face in streaks of silver.

“because it was easier. i was already with her when i found out,” he admits. “and because…you scare the hell out of me.”

you flinch. “that’s not fair.”

“i know.”

“you—rafe, this whole time i thought i was fucking crazy! like i was imagining everything.”

“i was scared.” he exhales shakily. “being predestined to someone and that someone just happens to be you and you look at me like i’m worth saving. no one’s ever done that.”

your hand is still bandaged. it starts to ache, but not as much as your chest.

the string glows faintly between you.

“what happens now?” you whisper.

rafe doesn’t answer with words.

he steps forward and cradles your face in both hands, rough palms trembling. his eyes are wide with something like awe.

“i can’t pretend i don’t see it anymore,” he says, voice wrecked.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to.

you angle your head towards his and kiss him like you’ve been waiting for lifetimes.

*

the sunlight drifts through the linen curtains in lazy beams, breaking across the rumpled sheets and tangled limbs. you wake to the smell of rain-warmed pavement and cinnamon from the mug of old coffee on your nightstand. your skin warms as rafe’s arm tightens around your waist, solid and achingly new.

you lie still, tracing the slow rhythm of his breath with your fingers, memorizing the rough curve of his shoulder. it’s quiet. peaceful, as if the night before never existed.

but it did.

you slip out from under him, careful not to wake him, and pad across your bedroom floor in bare feet.

the wood is cool, grounding.

you toast two slices of sourdough, the bread crackling under the tongs, and pour coffee into three mugs that are chipped around the edges—your favorites.

you catch a glimpse of sofia’s open room door and exhale quietly, nerves fluttering.

you step out on the back porch to find her sitting on the swing, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes puffy but composed.

you offer her a mug. she takes it, hands still steady despite how much this all must hurt.

“thank you,” she whispers, voice small.

you’re quiet.

rafe walks out minutes later, buttoning his shirt, running a hand over his hair. your heart flutters at the sight of him in morning light—vulnerable and real.

sofia meets his gaze, her expression brave.

“we need to talk.”

rafe nods, his shoulders stiff.

you offer them space, unable to stop yourself from lingering in the doorway while they sit on the swing, cups in hand, feet dangling above the yard where spring grass trembles with dew.

“so,” sofia begins, voice flat. “this wasn’t the plan.”

rafe closes his eyes, nodding. “i know.”

“i love you,” she says, head lifting, gaze steady. “i still do.”

he doesn’t answer.

“i won’t fight it,” she breathes. “not when…when it’s destiny. not when she—” her voice breaks slightly. “when you two…connect.”

your chest clenches. her grace is exquisite, heartbreaking.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.” rafe says weakly.

“i know.” she reaches for his hand but stops midair. she rests it on her thigh instead. “just—be honest with me. with her.”

he meets your eyes over sofia’s shoulder, an unspoken answer.

she nods once, her shoulder brushing against yours as she steps inside.

your heart thunders against your ribs.

rafe turns to you, voice low.

“i’m sorry.”

your hand curls around the handle of your mug until your fingers ache.

“did you mean what you said last night?”

“i meant every word.”

he grabs the coffee from your hands, sets it and his own down, then coils around you so gently that your ribs barely feel the pressure.

*

one year later!

the porch glows under string lights, wax pooling at the base of old candle jars, music drifting softly from the living room.

you’re curled up in a thick-knit blanket, knees pulled to your chest, a half-empty glass of wine balanced on the railing beside you.

sofia slides the door open and steps out into the night, a fresh warmth in her smile. her curls are pinned up, gold hoops gleaming in the moonlight.

she settles beside you, bumping her shoulder into yours.

“what an insane year, huh?” she says, sipping from her glass.

you chuckle, curling deeper into your blanket. the silence between you is gentle, earned.

“i was mad at you,” sofia admits, voice quieter now. “for a long time. not just because you had rafe, but because i felt it. the moment i saw you two look at each other the night you met. something in me just… knew.”

your heart pulls, tender and aching.

“i hated myself for it. for being part of what hurt you. it all happened so fast.”

“you didn’t choose it.” her voice wavers, but holds. “and the truth is… if it had been me, i would’ve done the same to keep him, too.”

you both sit there for a while, letting the quiet hold the weight of what was and what still is.

then she says, almost shyly, “you know who surprised me?”

“who?”

“topper.”

“topper thornton?” your jaw drops.

“don’t act like it’s that shocking,” she says, laughing. “he’s everywhere rafe is. told me one day that the string felt tighter when i smiled at him.”

“that’s the cutest thing i’ve ever heard.”

“i know,” she grins. “i wanted to throw up.”

as if summoned, the screen door creaks open and topper steps out carrying a plate of cookies. rafe follows with a fresh bottle of wine and two more glasses, his eyes catching yours like they always do: steady, warm, home.

topper hands sofia a cookie.

“this one’s shaped like a heart. accidentally. but… y’know. fate,” he says with a cheesy grin.

“cornball,” she mutters, but her smile is unmistakable.

rafe settles beside you, hand slipping into yours like it belongs there. “you two behaving?”

“barely,” you say, leaning into him. “but it’s working out.”

the four of you sit there beneath the stars, soft laughter threading through the night. somewhere between bites of sugar cookies and clinking glasses, it occurs to you:

no matter how strange or cruel or unexpected it all was… you were always meant to land here. with them. with him.

tethered.

___

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: after great thought and consideration, i’ve decided i will no longer be writing for rafe cameron. unfortunately, some of the attention and controversy that this tag draws is just not something i feel comfortable being associated with. i don’t aim to offend anyone by making this decision. i’ve spoken to many wonderful writers and readers through this fandom, but again, for my own comfortability, it’s best that i separate. i appreciate all the love i’ve received for the rafe stories i wrote 🫶🏾

꩜ taglist: @chromeheartsbaby, @qveendiorsworld , @mygologyv , @purewhines , @rafeysvenicebitch

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐜𝐞𝐭 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 1950s!elvis/austin!elvis x black!singer!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: tooth-rotting fluff, sexual content - p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), loss of virginity (m & f) - mdni, emotional vulnerability, & mentions of the colonel (pls lmk if i missed any!)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 635

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

it’s late.

the motel’s quiet, save for the soft chirp of crickets from outside. you’re in elvis’s room, curled up on the edge of his bed in one of his old t-shirts, legs bare, heart loud in your chest.

he’s sitting beside you, thigh pressed to yours, fiddling with his rings like he’s nervous.

you are too.

“you don’t have to go,” he murmurs, not looking at you. it’s your last night on the road. you’re playing the final set in memphis tomorrow, and then the colonel’s shipping you out to california for a six-week studio contract. elvis will be headed to new york, taping something for tv. “we could—i don’t know—run off. get a place in nashville and sing in dive bars till they forget both our names.”

you smile, soft. “we both know you’re gonna be a star.”

he shrugs.

“don’t care much about that if it means losin’ you.”

you touch his cheek, and he leans into it like he’s starving. your fingers trace his jaw, the curve of his mouth, and before you can think twice, you’re kissing him, slow and sure, like the world’s not about to pull you in opposite directions come morning.

it deepens gradually. hands in hair, mouths warm and open, breaths going short. he touches you like you’re made of something sacred, like you might disappear if he goes too fast.

and you?

you’ve never felt this safe.

“elvis,” you whisper, against his lips. “have you ever…?”

he flushes. “no. you?”

you shake your head.

“we don’t have to,” he says, his expression nervous, but not scared.

“i want to,” you reply, gently. “i wouldn’t want to go through this with anyone else.”

he kisses you again. and again. and again.

you don’t rush. elvis undresses you like a secret, whispering praises into your skin—how pretty you are, how soft, how good.

you do the same, palms shaky but sure as you unbutton his shirt and skim trembling fingers across his chest.

he’s warm and strong and trembling too.

the room smells like dust with an undertone of laundry soap, the sheets squeak, and you can hear someone laugh through the wall, but in this little cocoon, it’s just you and him.

he keeps his forehead pressed to yours the whole time. as his hands roam your body, he asks you if you’re okay, and tells you how beautiful you are, how he’s never felt anything like this.

when he’s finally inside you, you both go still, not from pain or fear, but because it means something. more than either of you know how to say.

“you feel like home,” he whispers, voice cracking.

you cup his cheek, wrapping a leg around his waist to let him know you’re comfortable, ready.

“so do you.”

it’s not perfect.

his thrusts are clumsy, kisses messy, and if it were anyone else, seeing those salty tears trickle down his cheeks would’ve made things awkward.

but it’s elvis. your elvis. the boy who’s been by your side for months, keeping you sane and laughing while you both worked tirelessly for the colonel.

you keep your eyes on his, finding solace in them. as the pleasure intensifies, you’re almost not sure you could ever let this, let him go.

elvis seems to be thinking the same, his watery eyes fluttering shut as he kisses you deeply.

when you both come undone, whimpers falling past his lips, sighs from yours, you’re more afraid than ever to part.

it’s over all too soon, the warmth of his body leaving yours for just a second as he readjusts himself before he’s cuddling into your side and holding you close.

you fall asleep tangled up in him, your leg over his hip, his nose in your hair.

the world can come knocking in the morning.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics, @elvisslut, @presleyhearted, @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⌝

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thanos x black!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: squid game, ooc!thanos, angst, enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, implied substance use, implied unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), mature language, mentions of pregnancy, violence, & death

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

the walls of the dormitory are dizzying as you sit down on one of the beds, trying to catch your breath. your heart is pounding in your ears, body already overworked from the first and probably easiest game: red light green light. gi-hun stands beside you, his brave guidance during the game being one of the main reasons you survived.

he catches your tired glance and inches even closer, gently nudging your head to rest on his side.

you close your eyes, sweat dripping from your brow as you finally draw a full breath. the guards enter shortly after, initiating a round of voting. even after your turn is over, tunnel vision pins your eyes to the screen above.

when the last vote is done and it’s determined that the games will continue, your shoulders deflate. gi-hun pats you softly, reassuring you that he’ll put an end to this.

you nod, fighting tears as you sit back down on one of the beds, awaiting dinner.

you feel someone’s gaze on you.

it pokes into your back like a pin pressed to bare skin, just shy of pain. you don’t turn right away, you’ve learned not to, in a place like this.

every move matters.

the weight of their gaze—heavy, scalding, unnerving—pulls your spine taut. when you finally pivot, slow, careful, neck as stiff as rusted hinges, it’s like he’s looking through you.

thanos stands apart from the others, leaning against a steel bed frame with an expression like the atmosphere offends him. his posture is careless but his eyes are anything but.

they rake down the length of you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

they stall on your stomach, his jaw twitching just barely.

your green tracksuit clings to the small curve of your bump, stretched just enough to be unmistakable. it’s not just visible, it’s obvious.

the softness of it contradicts everything else in this brutal room: the sterile steel, the bodies reeking of hunger and fear, the dizzying scent of sweat and blood.

but you—your skin glows warm in this ghastly light, and you don’t shrink. you’ve made a home in your own body, and for the first time, he is the one who looks unsteady.

you don’t blink. he does.

you can see it happening, recognition calcifying across his face like frostbite. the math is too easy: you + him + one drunken night + an empty hotel bed in the morning = this. you, standing in a death match with his child blooming quietly beneath your ribs.

he takes a step toward you and that’s when you speak.

“don’t.”

your voice slices through the air like wire.

he freezes.

there’s a tremble in his fingers, so slight it could be imagined, but you know him too well. or maybe just enough.

“i don’t want to hear whatever apology you spent the last four months rehearsing in your head,” you continue, your tone cold enough to match the room. “i didn’t ask for you to find me. and i don’t need anything from you now.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again.

you’ve seen him sneer at people for less. watched him carve opponents apart with nothing but boredom and precision. but here, with you, he’s—quiet. like he’s trying to pick the right words out of a landmine field.

“you’re…” he starts, then shifts his weight. his voice is gravel, worn and disbelieving. “you’re pregnant.”

you arch a brow. “very good. gold star.”

his eyes flick down again. not with lust, though you remember how they once did, but with something stranger.

something like awe. or guilt.

“why are you here?” he asks, and the question sounds like it hurts him to say.

you stare at him for a long moment.

“same reason as you,” you murmur. “money. desperation. and the mistake of trusting the wrong people.”

your gaze sharpens.

“present company included.”

he flinches, just slightly, but you don’t let him look away.

*

the next day, they assign teams for the next game. of course, you’re stuck with thanos and his minions.

fate loves a sick joke.

when the doors lock behind you, the silence inside the playroom feels unnatural, like the world’s holding its breath.

you don’t face him. not yet.

“don’t get any ideas,” you say coolly. “if it comes down to it, i’ll kill you myself.”

“i know,” he says, and there’s something almost fond in it.

you finally turn to look at him, and his face is unreadable again.

“you threw me away,” you say.

“i didn’t mean to.”

“but you did.”

he closes his eyes.

“i woke up and you were gone,” you continue, your voice low and blistering. “no note. no call. not even a fucking ghost emoji. i get it, we weren’t friends to begin with but after how close we were that night, you could’ve at least said goodbye. and now you’re standing here like you’re owed a second chance.”

he says nothing, fidgeting with the cross draped around his neck.

“you’re not,” you add, venom soft as silk. “you’re not owed anything. your little fans may suck up to you but i never will.”

your hands grip into tight fists, your nails digging into your skin like teeth.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

you laugh, humorlessly.

“please. as if you would’ve wanted to know.”

a guard comes over to your group, binding your ankles together.

there’s no resets. no retries. if one of you falls behind—you all do.

“you’re slow,” thanos mutters without looking at you, jaw clenched.

“i’m pregnant,” you shoot back. “what’s your excuse?”

he meets your eyes then. for once, he doesn’t try to win the stare.

“just keep a steady pace. i’ll guide us through.”

“don’t pretend to care.”

“i don’t,” he lies, too fast. “i just don’t want you dying on my leg.”

you’re ushered to the start line. the smell of rust and sweat reminds you this is anything but innocent.

a buzzer blares. the games begin.

you run in sync, somehow. former enemies bound together by panic, timing, and something unspoken.

his hand clutches your wrist harder than it needs to, but you don’t shake him off.

luckily, your teammates aren’t incompetent, breezing through the first two obstacles easily. you all walk in sync, breathing deeply as you try to focus on not tripping. still, you stumble slightly, thanos’s grip is impeccably tighter.

“careful,” he mutters, and you hate that his voice sounds almost tender.

the third obstacle is gonggi, it’s your time to shine.

thanos kneels beside you, watching you intently as you cradle the pebbles in one palm. you catch them as they arc through the air with perfect rhythm, no drops. your hands move like clockwork.

“look at me,” he murmurs, just before the last toss. he notices the tremble in your hands and the hesitance to continue.

you do.

his eyes are steady, sharp. and terrified. not for himself. for you.

“we do this together,” he says. “you fall, i fall. we’re a team whether we like it or not.”

you nod once.

the pebbles land in your hand.

by the end, you’re panting, clutching your belly.

thanos turns to you quickly, pushing your hair back with unsteady fingers.

“you okay?”

you nod, breathless.

you think you mean to keep walking. instead, you look at him. and for a moment, there’s nothing else.

not the stench of blood.

not the cheering from the other players.

not the weight of everything he’s done wrong.

the moment shatters at the sound of the clock running out. you flinch at the sound of gunshots, letting him pull you just slightly closer.

something changes after that.

he walks beside you more often. not close, but not far. always half a step behind. like a shadow. like protection disguised as indifference.

you sleep on opposite sides of the dorms, but when you wake up crying from the cramps or nightmares, he’s always awake.

he doesn’t speak. just watches.

it should unsettle you, but it doesn’t.

*

you sit alone one night, legs drawn up to your chest, arms looped around your bump. the others talk (or argue, you’re not sure) quietly nearby, loud enough to hear, yet soft enough to ignore.

thanos clears his throat beside you, startling you out of your daze.

when he sits beside you, you don’t move.

he says nothing for a long time.

then, so low it might not be real—

“i think about that night all the time.”

you keep your eyes forward.

“do you think that makes it better?”

“no.”

“good.”

he exhales. it sounds like he’s been holding it in since the games began.

“you hated me,” he says.

“i still do.”

“then why did you let me touch you?”

you turn to him, slowly.

“i could ask you the same.”

he looks at you pointedly, awaiting a truthful answer. you sigh.

“because you looked at me like you were starving. and i was stupid enough to want to be devoured.”

silence.

your eyes meet, searching each other’s.

and for one terrible, aching moment, you remember the way he kissed you—like his mouth was the only place you’d ever be safe.

*

the next day arrives quicker than you would’ve liked it to.

as you enter the arena, your eyes wander across a large carousel and dozens of small rooms.

“the game you will be playing is mingle.” the robotic voice you’ve grown accustomed to begins its introduction.

thanos turns around, a playful smile on his face.

“hey, we’ll be mingling together. doesn’t that sound like so much fun?”

nam-gyu, whose influence on thanos you hated even before the games, laughs maniacally.

“when the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number,” the voice continues, mechanical and smooth. “you must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within thirty seconds.”

you can’t help but feel queasy. you don’t like the name. you don’t like the rules either.

you glance at thanos.

his jaw is now set like stone.

once everyone has found their footing on the carousel, the game begins.

all too soon, there’s a stampede of bodies, limbs tangled and slick with panic. you’re jostled immediately, shoulder slammed into a wall, hands reaching past your belly, never touching it but close enough to make your skin crawl.

you try to move fast, but your center of gravity has shifted. you’re not quick—not like the rest of them. not anymore.

by the third round, you’re falling behind.

you hear the countdown echoing through the room.

seven. six. five…

you’re pushed from behind, hitting the floor hard, palms scraped, knees burning. tears sting your eyes.

and that’s when you see him. thanos.

he barrels over like a wrecking ball, shoving the man who knocked you over.

“watch where the fuck you’re going,” he snaps.

he grabs your arm, not rough, but urgent, and pulls you upright, his body shielding yours as the timer ticks.

three. two—

he shoves you both through the door.

just in time.

just barely in time.

your breath comes in ragged gasps, your aching hands running protectively over your stomach.

thanos stares at you like you’ve been pulled from wreckage.

“you okay?” he asks.

you nod, dizzy.

“say it,” he breathes.

you blink. “what?”

“say you’re okay. i need to hear it.”

your throat aches.

“i’m okay.”

his shoulders sag, just slightly. like you’ve loosened something inside him he didn’t know was knotted.

he doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the game. in the final round, he waits, just long enough to make sure you’re safe behind a door before he finds his own.

*

that night, you’re horrified to learn about a special game called lights out.

they don’t warn you. the overhead bulbs flicker, dim, then die, plunging the barracks into a suffocating dark.

it starts slow: whispers. footsteps. the sharp breath of someone striking first.

then screaming.

screaming and metal and blood.

you curl into yourself on your bed, hand protectively over your stomach.

thanos’s hand finds yours.

“don’t open your eyes,” he whispers.

he’s close. closer than he’s ever dared to be since that night at the hotel. his breath brushes the shell of your ear.

“just keep still,” he says. “i’ll handle it.”

you tremble.

“i promise,” he murmurs, softer now, “i’ll keep you safe. both of you.”

something breaks in your chest. not all the way, but enough to let a little warmth in.

*

morning comes with stale light and silence. there’s more bodies covered with sheets than you can count.

you sit in a corner, hunched over breakfast with hyun-ju, geum-ja, jun-hee, and a few of the others. they talk in hushed voices, the way people do after funerals.

jun-hee, glowing in that weary, third-trimester way, leans over her tray and smiles kindly at you.

“it was kind of romantic,” she says lightly. “him protecting you like that.”

you snort, but there’s a flicker in your chest. a softness you don’t want to name.

you glance across the room.

thanos is sitting by himself, sleeves rolled to the elbows, bruised knuckles gripping chopsticks. he chews slowly, blank expression, but you know better.

he’s watching everything.

you don’t mean to look for too long.

but he notices.

he rises, making your heart skip.

and then he’s beside you, cool as ever, setting down some of the contents of his tray into yours without asking.

“eat,” he says. “you’re carrying our child.”

the way he says our—you feel it. it doesn’t sound like a confession. it sounds like a vow.

your breath catches.

“you didn’t finish your eggs,” you murmur, unable to help it.

“didn’t want them,” he says. “i wanted to bring them to you.”

around you, the others catch the moment and politely, awkwardly, start to drift away.

jun-hee gives you a wink before she goes.

you swallow hard. your heart is thudding so loud it drowns out the buzz of fluorescent lights.

he gives you a short nod and makes a move to walk away, but you catch his wrist in your hand.

“stay,” you whisper.

his eyes flick over yours. they’re softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“yeah?” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

he sits beside you again, but this time, he’s not made of stone. he’s warm. steady. unsure, but present.

you’re holding your breath as he tentatively reaches a hand towards you, hesitating just before it comes into contact with your stomach. your eyes hold his gaze.

you hope he understands what you’re trying to tell him.

when it’s still stuck in midair, you grab his wrist once again, directing his palm to rest on your bump.

his eyes widen slightly at the warmth.

suddenly, it’s just the three of you in the room, no curious or judgmental eyes.

you’re not sure what’s become of you, this magnetic pull draws you into him. he seems to feel the same because slowly, like a man asking for permission to breathe, he kisses you.

his lips brush yours, featherlight, and when you don’t pull away, he leans in a little more.

you don’t know if you’ll survive this place.

you don’t know what comes next in your relationship with thanos.

but with his hand resting against your belly and the taste of his lips lingering on yours, you can’t help but revel in the fact that the ache in your chest is quieter now.

and for a moment, the suffering doesn’t feel so lonely.

maybe that’s the art of it.

___

꩜ taglist:

[isthlsfate]

i'm evil | dom austin!elvis x sub!reader

this is part four of the "my bestest girl" series. i highly recommend that you read part one , two and three before reading this one.

summary: elvis is shocked and humiliated after the steve allen show. it's becoming clear that the colonel plans on censuring the talent, pushing him to be somebody that he isn't. a decision is made that will shape the rest of his musical career, and there are consequences for his action. you're overcome with pride at your fiancé's bravery, but terrified of what the future may bring.

pairings: austin!elvis x reader

word count: 17,380 (yep. . . you read that correctly.)

warnings/notes: SMUT! elvis is a dom with a huge breeding kink, implied daddy kink (oop- he just wants to take care of you), unprotected sex, creampie, elvis is a simp but what's new in this series, lots of large plot points.

masterlist | requests are currently closed !

“Well, I don’t think it’s anythin’ to laugh about, Susan. It’s not funny.” You could hear Gladys’s voice all the way from the kitchen. You were still staring at the television in shock, eyes wide and mouth parted as you tried to fully grasp what the hell just happened. The volume had been turned down all the way, but another program had come on after Elvis’ special. The black and white screen flashed, announcing the kids variety show, “Howdy Doody”.You were wondering why Elvis had sounded so aggravated when he spoke to you from his hotel room last night, but you had brushed it off as simple exhaustion. Your fiance had been up for over twenty four hours by the time that he had performed, and all of the excitement must have done a number on his mood as well. The man was one hell of an insomniac, and after the plane ride to New York he was sure to be exhausted. 

“He didn’t tell me that he would be singin’ with a damn dog. I don’t even think he knew about it. Ya know. . . I’m gonna have to go. Yeah, yeah. I was eatin’ with my daughter in-law when you called.” You flinched as she slammed the phone back down on the receiver, walking back into the room before throwing her hands up. People from the south loved to talk. Church goers and nosy neighbors alike, they all loved calling Gladys the second anything new popped up about her son Elvis. Gossiping was just as much a part of church as the praising was, and good god almighty, those old betties could yap your head off. They feigned good natured worry, all while fishing for new tidbits of information. No one took kindly to the poor family up and moving, now living in the lap of luxury. Jealous is a hideous thing, after all. The Presley’s old neighbors and co-workers were ringing the phone off of the hook ever since Elvis got on stage. Almost as though they had been waiting by the phone, looking for something to poke fun about. 

“You didn’t know ‘bout this either, did you?” You were quick to shake your head, standing up and off of the couch. “He would have told me. . . at least I hope he would have. I-I mean. . . He sounded so upset on the phone last night. I wanted to believe that he was tired, is all. Now that I'm thinkin’ about it, he must have been upset about the performance.” Gladys ran her fingers through her short hair, groaning. “I was thinkin’ the same thing. We only spoke for a second last night, but somethin’ wasn’t right about his tone,” She stared pointedly down at her shoes for a few seconds before tapping her foot on the red carpeted floor. “We’re going to be the laughing stock of Memphis before the Colonel is through with my boy! Not to mention he had him all dressed up in a tailcoat!” 

You chewed on your bottom lip, pacing back and forth worriedly.  “That’s not Elvis. He never would have agreed to this if he had known. He was excited ‘bout the opportunity. I-I mean. . .who doesn’t know about The Steve Allen Show? Everybody and their mama has probably already seen it by now.” You heatedly agreed with her, watching as she nodded her head as you spoke. Elvis had stood there rimrod straight for just about the entire special. He looked completely blindsided, and it made you want to rip your hair out and scream. You could tell that he was embarrassed, even through the television screen. “If I had just been there, maybe I could have-” Gladys shook her head, quickly making her way into the living room before pulling you into a tight hug. “Don’t think like that, darlin’. You being there wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. If anythin’, he probably would have felt even more embarrassed. You’re the one person whose opinion matters most to him.” 

You had always had your suspicions about The Colonel. Something didn’t feel right about him, even from the beginning. You remembered the first time the two of you had ever met, and even back then you had a bad feeling. Something felt fake about his kindness. His words were honeyed, but they had a bitter center to them. Something about Tom Parker was off. Sure, Elvis had become an overnight sensation with his help, but he was trying to turn the poor man into someone that he wasn’t. Singing on national television in a tuxedo and forced to stand next to a dog? A dog wearing a hat, no less? Elvis never would have agreed, and if he had. . . well, he would have gone out of his way to make it funny. He had a boyish sense of humor, and made you laugh harder than most comedians. 

 Elvis couldn’t sing if he couldn’t move. His performance didn’t shine the way that it normally did because of that. You slowly untangled yourself from Gladys’s arms, moving over towards the living room window so that you could brush the curtains to the side. The usually packed street had been completely empty since lunch time, everyone at their houses to watch the special. Fans were already beginning to line up in front of the gates now, obviously upset by the declaration that there was going to be a “family friendly Elvis”. He didn’t need to be reinvented. Not when he was already perfect the way that he was. Gladys moved to sit down on the couch, right next to the cushion that you were currently leaning on to get a good look at the front of Graceland. “They’re already gatherin’, aren’t they?” You hummed your answer, ignoring the dramatic way she put her head in her hands. “Don’t worry, Gladys. We’ll talk to our boy once he gets home. Let him explain things, and then we can let sleepin’ dogs lie. . .” You shot her a quick wink at your play on words, and she cracked a small smile. “God, you’re just like him. You two have spent too much time together as youngins,” She shook her head in mock annoyance before straightening out her shoulders. “No, you’re right. We shouldn’t overreact when he gets here.” 

He should be coming up the drive any minute, having only gone to New York for the appearance. He had an upcoming show that the Colonel was all in a tizzy about, and you were sure that it was over his “new and improved personality”. Who had Tom Parker been meeting with in secret over this? There’s no way that he came up with this entire scheme on his own. Elvis Presley didn’t need any fixing. He was perfect just the way that he was. Love Me Tender and Jailhouse Rock had both been absolute hits, and it was because people loved Elvis the way that he was! Could the Colonel not see that? Screw the prissy folks from New York who didn’t think that the way he acted or the music he played was appropriate. They just didn’t understand him. “It’s that damn Tom Parker, Y/n,” That got your attention. You removed your hand from the curtain, letting it flutter back into place. “He’s trying to change our boy, and I’m not having it. I’ll talk to him myself if I have to. Vernon’s eatin’ out of his damn hand like a dog.” It wasn’t your place to agree, but you saw it too. You saw the way that Vernon did every little damn thing that the Colonel said. The only people that seemed to be in Elvis’s corner anymore were both you and his mother. “. . . So it’s not just me?” You asked, leaning in close to her so that you could keep your voice to a low whisper. A few of his cousins were running around the house somewhere, and you didn’t need anyone being nosy. Gladys was quick to shake her head, her blue eyes narrowing. “I’ve got the heebee jeebeez. Somethin’ just ain’t right about that man. I’ve felt that way since the beginning.” You would be lying if you said the Colonel hadn’t made Elvis’s career. He would still be singing at local fairs and begging to make local radio show appearances if it wasn’t for him. He had practically become an overnight sensation, and it was all thanks to the older man’s guidance and talent for show business. Something still seemed off. Not to mention that he seemed to be going out of his way to make sure that you didn’t tag along to Elvis’s more important appearances. That was new. 

Elvis had begged for you to be able to come to New York with him, but the Colonel downright refused, saying he would only be gone for one night and two days, and there was no use in buying an extra plane ticket. Now you are beginning to realize why. Everybody who knew you understood that you had a fiery personality. You wouldn’t take that kind of treatment lying down, and if Elvis hadn’t torn up his dressing room over an embarrassing stunt like that, then you would have done it for him. Just as you were about to open your mouth to add something else, the front door flew open, Elvis storming through. He tossed his overnight bag down onto the living room floor, Vernon following in close behind. “-wasn’t that bad, Elvis.” Vernon was already trying to reason with him. The dark haired boy was wearing a pair of black slacks, only a soft pink lace shirt tucked in- no blazer. The boy was a fan of layers, so you guessed that he had taken off his blazer up at some point during the drive from the airport. “That was the most humiliatin’ thing I’ve done in all my life.” He stalked his way over to the piano, pulling out the bench before sitting down. He was trying to calm himself down, you could tell. 

Elvis had a habit of playing the piano at all hours of the day, and even into the night. In the short amount of time that you had been living at Graceland, you couldn’t count on both hands how many times he had woken you up slipping out of bed, only to go downstairs to play the piano. His fingers gently tapped on the keys as he stared blankly down at his beloved white piano. He was trying to reason with himself as to why this was for the greater good. “Well you know that those television shows pay good money. If you’re banned from New York then you’ll probably be banned everywhere else too.” Vernon called out to him from the entryway. The simple song that Elvis had been playing was rudely interrupted by the loud cacophony that filled the room as Elvis slumped, putting his elbows down against the keys. The sudden sound was loud, causing you to jump a bit. “No, no. . . you’re totally right, daddy.” He spoke into his hands, his voice coming out muffled. “I just wish I would have known before goin’ out there. I looked like a fool.” Gladys started to open her mouth, but you were quick to reach over, giving her thigh a soft slap. She closed her mouth right away, shooting you a look. 

“Well you sounded good, baby.” You stood up and off of the couch, making your way over to him. He sat up as he saw you approaching, reaching his arms out so that he could hug you around your middle. “Do you really mean it?” He mumbled against your dress. You smiled softly, smoothing back his dark hair with your fingers. “I really do. You just looked surprised, is all. Your voice was as beautiful as ever.” He placed a gentle kiss against your ribs before letting go. “I’ve already gotten three calls about it.” Gladys finally spoke up, turning to look heatedly at Vernon before turning her gaze back on her son. “People already turn their noses up at us because of where we are from,” Elvis let out a deep sigh, already knowing where his mother was about to go with this. “We look like a bunch of rednecks, singin’ to dogs! I-I mean. . . what was that man thinkin’?” God, she had promised not to say anything like this. You should have known she would eventually open up her mouth and say something overly harsh, especially if you weren’t there to hold her hand and reign her in. You knew that his mother was doing it out of love, but god damn it- now wasn’t the time. Elvis slid down onto the piano bench, letting his arm hang off limply from the side. 

“Mama, how do you think that I can afford this great big house, hmm? I have to do those television appearances. The Colonel said that the folks from New York are already gunnin’ for me. They wanna ban me from all of television, and parents are quick to crucify me too. There’s been a whole mess of negative press the last few weeks. The Colonel was only doin’ what he felt was right ” You knew that parents were growing concerned about his jerky movements, but to ban him from television? You didn’t see the use in any of it. Was anything that he was saying or doing really that bad? You had read the newspaper articles; saying crazy things about Elvis smoking dope, or even worse- you’d read one just the other day that Elvis had shot his own mother. Those idiots were making up blatant lies about Elvis in the hopes of defaming him. Was it so shocking to everyone that Elvis had been raised in a good southern household? His mother used to spank him with a wooden spoon if he forgot to refer to his elders as “ma’am” or “sir”. He had strong values. Strong beliefs. 

“I’m just not happy about the way that these big wigs are tryin’ to paint you outta-” “You’re never happy!” Your jaw dropped as you heard Elvis raise his voice like that to his mother. He lifted a hand up to his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose before sitting up, gesturing around wildly. The gold watch on his wrist jingled loudly at the movement. “I bought you a house and more kitchen appliances than you could ever use. I buy you clothes and jewelry. A car that you don’t even have a license to drive!” Gladys squared off her shoulders as he moved to stand up, his black trousers riding up a little to reveal his bubblegum pink socks. “I try my damndest to make you happy, mama. I really do, but I’m startin’ to think that nothin’ is ever gonna be good enough for you.” You weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t even sure if you should say anything. Even though you agreed with where Gladys was coming from, she hadn’t gone about it the right way at all. Elvis felt cornered and attacked, and the last thing you wanted to do was add fuel to the fire. You didn’t want your fiance to feel like you were against him too, because you sure as hell weren’t. You also loved Gladys just as much as you loved your own mother, and you could see the way that his words had affected her. “W-Why don’t we all just calm down for a minute, yeah? Elvis just got home.” You tried to reason with the both of them, standing up from the couch so that you could mediate. Elvis stalked across the living room, breezing past his mother so that he could roughly unzip his bag. He practically ripped his blazer out, shrugging it on and popping up the collar in a swift motion. “Are you goin’ somewhere, Elvis?” Gladys’s voice shook as she stood up from the couch, making her way through the entryway. “Come on baby, let’s get out of here.” Elvis spoke lowly, shoving one hand into his pocket, using the other to wave you over to him. His blue eyes pinned you down, but you could tell that he was pleading with you. He wasn’t about to leave without you, and he needed to escape for a little bit. 

You shot Gladys an apologetic look before taking his outstretched hand. Without saying a word he tore the door open, but stumbled back when two of his cousins burst through, their shoes dirt and grass stained. The boys cheered loudly at one another, moving in the direction of the jungle room downstairs. “Don’t tread mud in the house, Billy!” Elvis screamed after them, letting go of your hand so that he could grab the boys by the back of their shirts, shoving them both roughly out the door. “Get out! Get out of my goddamn house.” They turned to look at him from the porch, furrowing their brows and whispering to one another, probably marveling at his sour mood, before shrugging it off. They were quick to join up with the other cousins, waving them down on the golf carts so that they could hop in. “Trackin’ mud in my house and doin’ my goddamn head in. . .” He began pacing, rubbing at his face as he tried to find the right words to say in his anger. The blue eyed boy had one hell of a temper, but you’d never seen him turn against his mother before. Not in all of the years that you’d known him. “Mama, you’d ain’t never happy,” He motioned towards her, watching pointedly as she raised a glass to her lips. “No matter what I do, no matter how much I give ya- it’s never enough.” 

His grandma Minnie, who you both lovingly called Dodger, was sitting at the head of the long dinner table, her eyes softening as she watched the scene unfold before her. Though she’d never say it outloud in fear of provoking Gladys’s wrath, she was on Elvis’s side on this one. His mother had crossed a line when the boy was already upset enough over the entire situation. “And I wish you wouldn’t drink so goddamn much. It’s not good for you!” Gladys called out for the both of you, but it was too late. Elvis took your arm in his yet again, pulling you out the front door, and even though you thought that he was being a little too careless with your much smaller frame, you put up no resistance.  The door rattled as he slammed it behind him. You stumbled a bit as you tried to find your footing on the porch, and the second that the man saw how he had manhandled you, his eyes softened. 

“I’m sorry, darlin’. I-I didn’t mean it.” He was quick to say, holding his hands up in surrender. You stared at the sprawling drive in front of you for a few seconds, taking a deep breath in through your nose to calm your nerves. They had been shot ever since he left. You and his mother had been worried sick about his appearance on national television, and to see how visibly shaken up he was over the “surprise” that the Colonel had arranged for him? You had practically been inconsolable since noon. Gladys had done her best to talk to the family members and acquaintances that called. The phone had been ringing off the hook since the second he had stepped on stage. You had done your best to prepare yourself for his sour mood, knowing that your main purpose for the rest of the night was to brighten his spirits. Even so, you weren’t about to let him haul you all over god’s green earth as though you were nothing more than his ragdoll. You were a person, not his little plaything. 

In the distance you could see his cousins horsing around on the golf carts, tearing up the grass that had just been mowed the previous day. You squint your eyes as you follow their retreating forms, ignoring Elvis as he reached out for your hand. “Baby. . . I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength when I’m around you. I didn’t mean to shove ya. Honest.” You could tell that he felt bad, so you decided to let it go. There was no use in yelling at him for something that was an accident. “Where are we goin’, Elvis?” You sighed out, motioning back towards the house. “Honestly. . . I know that your mama can be a bit overboard sometimes, but aren’t you goin’ to regret talkin’ to her like that?” He sucked at his teeth, deciding not to answer your question. The dark haired man reached out to help you down the stairs, shoving his other hand into his pocket to fish around for the keys of his new Cadillac. He had recently purchased the vehicle after what the two of you referred to as the “Arkansas debacle”. He had sworn up and down for days that he would never buy another Cadillac as long as he lived. That they had to be the most unsafe cars on the market. All it took was for the local Memphis dealership to reach out to him personally on the phone, offering to give him a car that was so new that no one else in the states owned one yet. His one request? “Can ya make it purple?” So purple it was. 

You climbed into the passenger seat, buckling yourself in tightly before turning to look at him. He seemed even more flustered than he was letting on in the house. Elvis was the type of person to put others' needs before his own, so it wasn’t shocking that his main priority had been to calm you and Gladys down. Just because he said that he had played along with the little skit to ensure future gigs, didn’t mean that he really meant it. Sure, it had been embarrassing for Gladys to talk to every nosy neighbor and old colleague on the phone today, but how did Elvis feel? Judging by the way his fingers shook as he reached out to turn the dial on the radio, you reckoned he wasn’t doing very well. His eyes flickered up to the road in front of him as he continued to rush towards the gate, in a hurry to put some distance between himself and the judgment his mother had tossed his way the second he had stepped foot into the house. “Elvis Presley has declared that he will be taking a more family friendly direct-” “And that was Hound Dog, sung by the newest sensation, Elvis P-” “Fans across the South, men and women alike, are already showing their alarm about the supposed ‘new Elvis’-” You watched as your boyfriend grit his teeth, his blue eyes narrowing as he tried to find at least one local radio station that wasn’t talking about him. Finally he found a Blues station, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of “Lonely Avenue”. You sucked in a breath as you neared the gates, watching as they slowly opened, screaming fans parting like the red sea in order to let the car through. 

You couldn’t help but bite on the tender skin of the inside of your cheek as you noticed the signs that some of the teens and young adults were waving around. It seems that his loved ones weren’t alone in their hesitance for forced change. The fans also seemed largely against censuring him. Because while his mother might have managed to say all of the wrong things during their “talk” earlier, she did have a point: how was anything that Elvis did wrong? His looks, his voice, and his bold personality were all god given talents. His quivering knees and undulating hips might be provocative, but he did what the music told him to do. He couldn’t move? Well then, he couldn’t sing either. He flashed the fans shaky smiles, trying hard to look each and every person in the eye as he slowly accelerated forward, making sure not to mow anybody down in his haste to be free of the Graceland estate. It wasn’t until he started heading down the road, right in the direction of Beale Street, that you finally understood just where you were going. The wind whipped back your hair as the two of you drove, but you paid no mind to it. Rather you licked your lips, looking worriedly at your reflection in the rearview mirror. You hadn’t applied any lipstick before leaving, and your nose was a bit shiny since you hadn’t applied any powder. Elvis noticed your fiddling and was quick to shoot you a look, his eyebrows furrowed. “What are you fussin’ over, darlin’?” He asked, gripping the wheel in one hand while his other moved up to thread his fingers through your hair. He scrubbed his nails against your scalp soothingly as he drove, using the palm of his hand to steer. Slowly you looked over at him, noticing the way he leaned back in his seat, his long legs spread wide as he used his right foot to operate the vehicle. His pinky ring glimmered in the dim afternoon light, and his blue eyes caught the fiery horizon just right. His slightly sunkissed skin looked gorgeous all lit up like that. All orange, gold, and red- he was either heaven or hell sent- you couldn’t be certain. You couldn’t care, either. 

Over the year that he spent working with Crown Electric, Elvis claims that he had driven just about every inch of Memphis. He knew every road like the back of his hand. He had made constant deliveries, going from one site to the other, even stopping in residential neighborhoods where the electricians were busy at work. He had driven a work truck for hours on end to help make ends meet, but you couldn’t help but find it undeniably attractive, what with the carelessly professional way he operated a vehicle. He was effortlessly good at it, like most other things. He seemed to notice the flush on your cheeks, because his lips were quick to quirk up into a little smile. He knew all the tell tale signs of your interest. He knew the difference between you looking at him because you loved him, and then when you looked at him because you wanted him. You were giving him one of those looks. He licked his lips, giving your hair a soft tug. It made you choke on a gasp. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that, darlin’?” Your eyelashes fluttered as you stared over at him. He found it impossible to deny you of anything when you looked at him like that. Your eyes felt heavy on him, your thick lashes brushing against your brow bone as you stared up at him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hesitantly letting go. “You’re makin’ me want to turn back around.” He mumbled under his breath, flashing you a nervous smile. No matter how famous, how rich, or how well loved your fiance was- only you could make him nervous like this. He had assured your parents that he only had eyes for you, and again and again he had proved that to be true. 

The two of you continued the rest of the drive to famous Beale Street in tense silence. Every once and a while you would look over at him, only to catch him staring at you out of his peripheral vision. His smile would widen, his blue eyes would sparkle with that oh so familiar sense of mischief, and he’d be quick to glue his eyes back on the road in front of him. It was rude to brag to others about your sex life, but it was wonderful enough to want to talk about it. The fact that you had gone a few days without giving into your more hedonistic needs made it hard for you to keep away from him. He was in the exact same boat, and though he’d like nothing more than to turn right back around so that he could shack up in bed with you, he was aggravated and had a lot on his mind. He wanted to be able to give you his full attention. 

The second that he had parked his car, a crowd had steadily gathered around the two of you, fans of his music quickly reaching out, trying to get an autograph or handshake. Unlike earlier at the gate, Elvis took his time signing as many pieces of paper as he could, going as far as to converse with a few people as the two of you walked. Being on Beale Street was second nature to you, as was hanging out around Club Handy. The two of you, back when you were nothing more than mischievous high school kids, used to dream of the day you’d turn twenty one so that you could frequent the club. The both of you had stars in your eyes when you thought of the wildly talented B.B King. You both would excitedly describe your weekend, bragging to your classmates about running into the musician, only to be met with judgment. Elvis, unlike other white artists, didn’t pretend to be blind of what was going on in the world around him. He didn’t pretend to like or even support the bigotted and unjust segregation laws. He had pushed the Colonel to allow him to play more shows at venues that people of color could attend without backlash, but the older man was strict on the fact that “Elvis wasn’t a politician. He was an entertainer.” You, however, felt like those two professions were one in the same. Elvis had a voice, and that voice meant something. People listened when Elvis spoke. 

 “E.P! Congratulations.” You blinked as you heard the voice by your ear, turning your gaze up towards the Balcony. The man leaned over the railing, lifting up his hand so that he could wiggle his ring finger. You and Elvis both beamed up at the man, your fiance taking your hand in his so that he could lift your arm up, flashing the ring. You and B.B laughed at Elvis’s overexcited response. You were quick to try and make your way towards the club entrance, gently pushing your way through the crowd that only continued to get larger and larger. The older man disappeared from his perch above you for a second, only to reappear as he popped his head out of the main entrance. 

You and your soon-to-be husband had been famous amongst the business owners when you were younger. You both marched to the beat of your own drums, and people learned to love and even appreciate you even back when you were kids. B.B had seen you two around from time to time, but it wasn’t until Elvis’ single “That’s All Right” made it big that he really took notice. He was a good friend to have in Elvis’ corner. He was quick to help you two through the door, pressing it closed and locking it behind himself. The last thing he needed was for his club to be flooded with underage teens, wanting to get a glimpse of the handsome young man. “I heard that you two got engaged.” He continued his earlier statement, motioning with his hand so that he could get a better look of the ring. You were quick to hold your hand out to him, allowing him to raise your dainty fingers up to his eye level. “That’s one hell of a rock, kid.” He shot Elvis a sly smile, who merely rubbed at the back of his neck timidly. “Well I felt like she deserved it for putting up with me for all of these years.” He teased softly, winking at you when your eyes briefly met. “So. . . what has you poppin’ by? I thought you would have still been up in New York.” You hadn’t turned to face Elvis in time to see his reaction to B.B King’s words, but it must have not been anything good. “You can talk to me, E.P. What’s got you lookin’ like this, kid?” He was quick to reach out for your fiance, wrapping his arm tightly around his shoulders before giving him a squeeze. 

The dark haired brunette tapped his knuckles against the wall of the entryway, sighing softly before finally letting loose his worries. “My mama won’t stop goin’ on about the hound dog, and the Colonel’s got me wearin’ tails. Everybody wants somethin’ different-” B.B lifted his chocolate brown gaze up at you, looking at you for confirmation. You pursed your lips, nodding quickly before turning your worried gaze on your love. “Listen- if you’re sad and you wanna be sad? You’re at the right place. If you’re happy and you wanna be happy. . . guess what? You’re at the right place.” Your friend was quick to offer support. Worrying over all of that nonsense wasn’t going to do him a lick of good. If he needed someone to talk to, the both of you were there for him. The tension in his shoulders visibly loosened. “So just do me a favor: let it all hang out,” Elvis’ sharp jaw worked as he chewed on his gum, his lips widening into a closed mouth smile. “Let it all hang out, E.P.” He gave your boyfriend’s chest a small pat before he opened up the doors, shooting you a smile of his own before stepping aside. 

The bar was bustling that night, per usual. You loved Club Handy not just for its cheap liquors, which had been a treasure for you and Elvis back in the days when the two of you were living paycheck to paycheck, but for the music. Your own hips began to sway as you watched the man on stage, singing his heart out into that mic. If people thought Elvis’ dance moves were outrageous, you wondered what they would say about the young man who was currently undressing up on the stage. The ebony haired man seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he was quick to crack a joke about it. After you and Elvis both had a glass of whiskey in your hands, B.B ushered you into a small booth in the corner. The two discussed things amongst themselves, but your focus was solely on the man dancing around the stage. He was climbing up on table tops, tossing his blazer into the small crowd of women that had gathered- he sure knew how to flaunt his talents. “I’m gonna join the crowd, baby.” You were quick to declare, not giving the two men a chance to reply before you were running up to the group of girls, linking arms with them so that you could sway your hips along to the beat. They giggled along with you, welcoming you into their circle as though you had always been there in the first place. “Who is he?” You whispered in one of the woman’s ears, catching a whiff of her gardenia scented perfume. “Little Richard,” She leaned in as she spoke to you, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. “He’s amazing, isn’t he?” You were quick to nod, your smile widening. “He sure knows how to work a crowd! Look at him!” He moved back onto the stage, using one hand to unbutton his shirt, climbing up onto the piano. The man on the keys paid him no mind, laughing jovially at the display. You, along with the other girls, screamed as he finished the song, quick to drop your intertwined hands so that you could clap for him. 

The room was silent for a few moments, save for the conversations going on. You could hear your man’s deep voice, and you slowly looked over your shoulder at him. He must have felt your gaze on him, because he turned to face you, flashing you one of those sweet smiles of his that he reserved only for you. “That’s your man, right?” The woman nodded in his direction. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as realization finally struck her. “T-That’s Elvis Presley. . .” She blinked a few times, her lips parting as she looked between the two of you. “Oh my god. You’re Y/n, right? I recognize you from the papers.” You shyly shrugged, looking down at your heels nervously. You weren’t nearly as bold as your fiance was, and you always got a little shaky when you were recognized out in public like this. “It must be impossible to go anywhere with him. I mean. . . everybody loves him.” You couldn’t help but smile widely, turning your head so that you could watch him. He was excitedly talking to B.B, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. He always got passionate like this while speaking to someone about music- especially another musician. He looked up to B.B King more than he would ever willingly admit. The man was one of his heroes. “Elvis deserves all of this. He’s the best person I know.” And he was. The man shined so bright that he often left you blind. It was impossible to fall more in love with him than you already were, that you were certain of. 

After a few more glasses of whiskey, you and Elvis found yourselves sitting on a tabletop in the nearly empty bar, listening to Sister Rosetta Tharpe. B.B strummed on his guitar, and everyone else just stood and stared on, chiming in with quick calls of affirmation. Her voice was otherworldly. It was the kind of voice that you never forgot- that you only really got to experience once in a lifetime. Elvis seemed to think the same way, his grin ear splitting as he watched her, joining in to sing every once and a while, both of their angelic voices harmonizing beautifully. After a few hours of careless bliss, the boisterous owner of the club helped the two of you out onto the balcony. Elvis was quick to comment on how good it must feel for the owner to be able to do whatever he wanted. B.B was quick to turn the thoughtless comment into a good segway into the important conversation. “You should start your own label like me. If you don’t do the business, the business will do you.” Elvis leaned his elbows against the iron railing, popping a peanut or two into his mouth. His jaw flexed as he chewed, looking out at the now desolate streets. “I leave all that to the Colonel.” He said simply. You didn’t like his answer any more than B.B seemed to. The man sat down on the windowsill, looking down at his shoes for a moment before continuing. “So it’s. . . um. . . it’s his idea? The new Elvis.” Elvis simply nodded, a few strands of his dark hair falling into his face. You stayed silent, watching the two closely. 

“Listen, I don’t get it man. Cats buy your records because they like what you do. Not because you’re dressed up like some,” He shrugged, tossing the man an apologetic look before finishing. “Some butler.” You could see the realization in Elvis’s eyes. He had come to a crossroads in his career, and whatever path he chose would determine his destiny. Either he could follow his heart, or allow the change to happen so that he could monetize off of it. He could listen to the Colonel and continue singing to cats and dogs on family-friendly television shows, or he could stay true to himself. The choice was his to make, and despite how the heavy situation seemed to weigh him down like a ton of bricks, there really was no hesitation. He knew what he would choose all along. 

Himself. His family. And you. 

And in order to stay true to all of those things that made him Elvis Aaron Presley, he’d have to follow his heart and not his wallet. He was born in a tiny house, no bigger than a shoebox. He had moved from Tupelo, straight into budget friendly housing on the “not so good” side of town. He was used to people turning their noses up at him, so it wasn’t the fact that some people disliked him that had him all shook up- it was the fact that people wanted him to change. 

Unbeknownst to him or you, in a car just below the rickety balcony, two men were sticking their camera right where it doesn’t belong. The Colonel and the folks up in New York would soon find out about that night's rendezvous- and they wouldn’t be too pleased about it. 

Elvis had his eyes locked on the road, his hands fidgeting nervously as he played with your fingers. It was a nervous tick of his. He rubbed his thumb against your engagement ring, rolling the pads of your fingers in between his. He enjoyed marveling at the size difference between the two of you. Ever since the two of you had made things official, he went out of his way to touch you. Whether it was just a soft brush of his hand or lips, he liked to be near you at all times. The years that he couldn’t touch you intimately but wanted to were long. Loving you never lost its novelty. If anything, he had learned that your touch calmed him. He needed that right now more than ever. You stared up at him anxiously, watching his pulse pound away in his throat. His blue eyes looked glassy, his skin looked too pale to be healthy, and his tie looked like he had fastened it blindfolded. He was panicking, and it was clear to see. Vernon continued to drive in the direction of the venue without a care, Gladys talking to him loudly about everything and nothing, all at the same time. She was famous for doing that. The woman could talk the pants off of just about anybody. Elvis kept his voice low, finally turning to face you. His eyes searched yours wildly, his pupils dilating as he took you in. They always did that. 

“I don’t think you should leave the car.” He spoke in a rush. You didn’t say anything for a few moments, trying to process exactly what he had just told you. There hadn’t been a single time that you had missed one of his shows. 

Not. A. Single. One.

“What are you tryin’ to say to me?” You asked him, leaning in closer to him as he gripped at your hands. “The Colonel spoke to me a few hours ago. Let me know that people had taken pictures of us at Club Handy last night. If I don’t do as he says. . . this is gonna get real bad. They want to take me to jail.” Your jaw dropped. Jail?! For what? Singing? Hanging out with friends? Your heart began to pound loudly in your ears, and you were quick to pull your hands out of his, instead reaching out to grab at his shoulders. You didn’t want to alert his parents to your panic, but you felt like your lungs were about to collapse. You couldn’t be without him. Not to mention that it would probably ruin his career if they locked him up. Parents already felt iffy about letting their child idolize him because of his jerky movements and long hair. If he was carted off to jail, you weren’t sure who would still listen to his music. He wasn’t a criminal, and you refused to let anyone treat him like one. You weren’t going to allow him to do this alone. You had been there through thick and thin with his musical career so far. Even when you two were strictly platonic friends, you made sure never to miss a single performance. You remembered your high school graduation like it was yesterday. Elvis had played the guitar as one of the talents, and once he was finished you had screamed so loudly that you had startled some of the families who had attended the celebration. He never felt alone. Not with you around. No matter how nervous he was, his eyes would find yours in the crowd. He called you his good luck charm. 

Hell, they could drag your ass to jail too, because one thing was certain- “I’m not letting you do this alone.” You watched as his jaw ticked, his blue eyes searching your face wildly as he tried to come up with some excuse. You knew that he was just trying to keep you safe, and he couldn’t do that while performing. Leading up to today, you two had long since decided that this was going to be the most important performance of his career so far. Today was going to be the day that he made a lasting decision. This would shape both his musical and personal image for as long as he lived. This moment was everything he had worked so hard towards. The choice that he was making wasn’t the popular one though. Both Vernon and the Colonel had been assured that he wouldn’t be doing anything that he shouldn’t be doing, which had been an obvious fib on Elvis’s part. He was willing to say anything to keep the both of them off of his back though. 

If staying true to himself was so wrong, then Elvis didn’t want to be right. He wasn’t about to let a bunch of city folks dictate what he could and couldn’t do, or how he could dress, walk, and talk. The men who were trying to boss him around were the same sort of people that had looked down at him for all of his life. His parents were dirt poor, he wore hand-me-down clothes, and his thick southern accent made him sound “uncivilized”, apparently. The anger was building up inside of him, and he was planning to let it all out on that stage. He was going to use it as fuel in order to make this the best performance of his life. “Where you go, I follow. Okay? A couple of police officers aren’t going to make me change my mind. We’re gonna do this just like we always do things; together.” He seemed to calm down as he listened to your words, giving your hand a small squeeze. “Things might get out of hand. If it does, I want you to grab mama and take her to the car, okay?” You could definitely do that. You gave his lips a quick peck, and as you were about to pull away he wrapped his arms around your shoulders tightly, bringing you into his chest. He placed kiss after kiss onto the apples of your cheeks, causing you to let out a loud giggle. “You two aren’t foolin’ around back there, are ya?” Vernon grumbled, though you could tell he was simply teasing. Gladys was quick to give his arm a slap. “Let them be happy, would ya? My babies have been stressed out like crazy over the last few days.” 

The rest of the car ride felt better after that talk, the two of you were resigned to the fact that everything you two did, you would do it together. Elvis looked like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Perhaps he had thought that you might be mad at him for being willing to risk jail for all of this, but he should have known you better than that. If the white folks were mad at the two of you for hanging out with your good friends down on Beale Street solely because of the color of their skin, then you wanted him to sing louder than ever before. You wanted him to get on that stage and scream as loud as his lungs would allow him. Elvis helped you out of the car a few blocks away from the playing field, intertwining your fingers as he walked up to the waiting cop car. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you noticed the way that the officer was glaring at your fiance. The tall blue eyed boy at your side glared right back, looking more ferocious than you’d ever seen him before. He was big on respect. It was how he was raised. When people disrespected him, he didn’t stand for it. “She’s not riding with your parents, my boy?” You both turned towards the Colonel’s voice, your blood running cold as you noticed him hobbling towards the passenger side seat of the cop car. You were positive that he would have been taking his own vehicle into the venue. “We’re a package deal. You know that.” Elvis hugged you tighter into his side, and you allowed him to squeeze you a little harder than what was comfortable. “Right. . . of course. Well it’s time to show off the new and improved Elvis. You wouldn’t believe the amount of amazing feedback that you’ve already been getting.” You slid into the backseat, relaxing the best you could against the leather. Had the Colonel not been paying attention to the people that were currently protesting outside of the gates of Graceland? You’d caught wind of the fact that fans had sent hundreds of letters to RCA records, begging them to do something about his new image. 

The cop slammed the driver side door before starting up the vehicle, moving back onto the road so that he could begin to drive through the opening in the fence. The amount of fans that were piled outside of the arena was startling to say the least. Hundreds upon hundreds of screaming boys and girls, and the second that they saw the cop car, rather than making room for the vehicle to drive past, they all began to swarm it. People began pressing their faces against the glass to get a good look at him, pounding their hands against the glass in order to get his attention. Elvis’ lips twitched up into a halfhearted smile as he lifted his hand, giving a quick wave with his index, ring finger, and thumb. He was already in his own head, you could tell. He was worrying about the aftermath of his decision, not the decision itself. The further into the venue the car drove, the more of the field the both of you could see. It wasn’t just cops that he had to worry about, but the navy as well. They stood with their backs to the stage, their arms clasped at their hips as they all stood side by side, creating a defensive wall. Elvis was positive of what he was going to do. He had been sure of the direction he was going to take the second that B.B had put it into layman's terms for him.  “Listen boy,” The cop turned around to face the two of you, his eyes raking over your form for a split second before he turned his small, beady eyes on Elvis. “If you so much as wiggle your pinky, I’ve been instructed to take your ass straight to jail. Do you hear me?” The man at your side bristled at the clear challenge, and started to open his mouth to say something back- something snarky, no doubt. The Colonel spoke up in his stead, laughing jovially. “Of course! Of course our boy won’t be doing any of that wiggling. Rest assured, Elvis is well aware of the risks.” And he was. He just didn’t care. 

If you actually liked The Colonel, you might have felt bad for him. He had no idea what was about to happen. Granted, nobody could have anticipated how wild things were going to become. Never in their wildest dreams could anybody come up with the pure hellscape of the night.

The cop impatiently laid his hand on the horn, a few of the fans slowly removing themselves from the hood of the car so that he could ease his way through the crowd. You stared with wide eyes out the window as females continued to press their faces against the glass, staring at you both as though they were wild animals. You couldn’t blame them for loving him. You would never blame them for feeling so strongly about him. “That poor girl is about to have a heart attack. Wave at her, baby.” You nodded your head to the back window of the car, a girl that was no older than sixteen pressing her hands against the glass, her screams muffled by the loud sound of the car's motor. Elvis turned his head to face her, shooting her a small smile and a wave. She immediately burst into tears. “This is it. No turnin’ back.” Elvis whispered to you, leaning in to press a kiss against your cheek. “Don’t take your eyes off me, okay? Not even for a second.” He ordered you, his eyes dancing over your features. He had told you at least twenty times how good you looked tonight. You were as beautiful as a little china doll- those were his words, not yours. Soft, delicate and oh-so beautiful. “I wouldn’t dream of it. My eyes will be stuck to ya like glue.” He flashed you a smile, opening the car door so that he could quickly slip out and jog towards the stage. Scotty and Bill were already grabbing their instruments out of their own car, gearing up for the concert. They wrapped their arms around Elvis, excitedly giving his back a few pats as he began to help them. From where you sat, you could tell that they were whispering to one another, no doubt talking about what the plan for tonight was. Elvis had already called Scotty up last night before bed, letting them know that things were going to get rowdy, and it was up to them if they still wanted to play with him under those circumstances. The boys had been largely against the so-called “new elvis” anyway. They were just as hyped up as he was to excite the crowd, as well as anger those that were against them and the way that they chose to play their own music. 

The Colonel opened up his door to get out, but turned to face you before he did. You hated being alone with the man. It wasn’t like you were afraid that he was going to do anything inappropriate, but there was something severely off about him. You didn’t trust him as far as you could throw him, and given his weight and size. . . you wouldn’t even be able to pick the man up an inch off of the ground. “Everything is going to plan, right? My boy isn’t up to something, is he?” Your smile widened, sugar sweet and oh-so fake. “Everythin’ will go exactly to plan. My boy isn’t up to anythin’ at all.” And without saying another word you climbed out of the door that Elvis had left open for you, making your way over towards his parents. 

After talking with Gladys for a couple of minutes, you saw a few police officers open up the gates, fans pouring in to secure their spots in front of the stage. You were quick to excuse yourself from her side in order to find your own spot, right smack dab in the middle- right where Elvis would be. Girls started to push their way next to you, boxing you in on either side. You were used to the constant questioning. Girls had always been nosy about your relationship with the handsome singer, even before he had reached stardom. You had learned how to handle them years ago, calmly shaking people’s clammy hands and making nice. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, so him being so popular was quite the shock. He deserves it all though.” The original question hadn’t been very kind, but you knew that the girl didn’t mean anything by it. “You’re the luckiest girl in the world to have Elvis’ attention.” People could talk all they wanted- and they would. There was nothing you could do or say that would keep people from gossiping. The thing that you hated the most was when people tried to make it seem like you were one of those gold diggers. You wanted it to be clear that you had loved Elvis far before he had made a name for himself. Another girl reached her hand out for you to shake, and you had to stand up on your tiptoes to reach her. She turned your hand over in her grasp, your engagement ring shining in the light. A few girls, even in rows behind you, gasped loudly. “Y-You’re married?” You could feel people starting to get antsy, a few fans pressing into your back to get a better look. The Colonel had been against the two of you going public about your relationship, and it was because he wanted girls to think that they stood a chance with him. Elvis refused to keep you hidden, and thankfully it hadn’t dampered his popularity any. Your eyes widened a bit in panic as you realized that you probably shouldn’t have worn the ring tonight. Elvis hadn’t spoken to any newspapers or radio station about the engagement yet. Only close friends and family had been told. Sure, there had been rumors that the two of you were either already married or engaged to be, but up until two months ago, that was all they were: rumors. 

He had planned to go public about it during his next press conference, and had already planned out exactly what he would to properly express his excitement. You had made a big mistake. No one could blame you for forgetting to take off the ring. You wore it everywhere, even to bed and in the shower. You hadn’t taken it off of your finger, not even once since he had proposed. The two of you hadn’t been to an event this big in a while though, and you were used to sitting on the sidelines where people could barely see you. “It’s just a promise ring.” You excused, snatching your hand back so that you could tuck it up against your chest. “Well that’s quite the promise ring.” One girl rudely snorted behind you, a few other girls chiming in. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, your lips twitching up into a smile. “Elvis doesn’t do anything halfway.” You said simply, turning your eyes back onto the stage as the announcer walked up to the mic. Girls were quick to drop the subject, overcome with excitement as they waited for your beloved to walk up on stage. The crowd erupted in screams as he began to thank Elvis and the boys for their presence, drowning out the announcer's voice. 

Women pushed at your back, their hands reaching up and over your head as your familiar man walked up to the microphone, his guitar at his side. You couldn’t help but think he looked like a gladiator, set up to fight for the Roman’s pleasure. The guitar at his side might as well have been a sword, and his powerful voice his shield. You let your eyes flicker to the side of the stage, a few cops watching him intently with their arms crossed. The Colonel was trying his best to make small talk with them, kissing ass- which was what he was best at. Your nose wrinkled in disgust before you finally looked back up at your fiance. He was staring down at you, his lips already turned up into a smile. He gave you a small nod, which was his way of wordlessly saying ‘I’m okay. I’ve got this. Let me lead you, and I won’t let you down.’ You believed in him. His family believed in him. And his fans believed in him. It was almost like all the air had been sucked out of that confined space. Everybody held their breath as they waited for him to speak. “There’s been a lotta talk ‘bout the new Elvis,” The crowd was all quick to boo, screaming their frustrations. You took the time to turn your head, looking at everyone’s worried expressions. They didn’t want him to change. They wanted him to be himself. That was who they all loved, afterall. He grabbed the mic with both hands, his eyes sweeping along the crowd. “And of course that other guy. . . “ He muttered, and slowly he raised his hand. Your heart leaped up into your throat, and you couldn’t help but scream right along with the other girls as he began to tease the cops and the Colonel, singing “Hound Dog” into the mic that he had pressed against his plush lips. 

You watched on with wide eyes as he wiggled his pinky finger, his ring glittering in the harsh stage lights. “If you so much as wiggle your pinky finger-” No one else knew the context, but they could feel it. They could feel the rebellion. They could feel the bravery. They could feel Elvis’ heart. It was overwhelming. So much so that you found it nearly impossible to take in a breath. When he was up on the stage it didn’t feel like you were just looking at a man; you were looking at a God. No matter how many times you had heard him sing, most of the time it was just for you in the privacy of your home, it still swayed you. His voice moved you. Seeing him like this reminded you as to why you adored him so much. Everything about Elvis was otherworldly, he just didn’t realize it. He liked to ask the question “why” a lot. Why him? Why did God choose him to lead an entire generation? Why did folks like him so much? You knew the answer. It was because Elvis wasn’t just good, but great. He had a beautiful heart, a powerful soul, and a voice that made even the singing seraphs envious. The responsibility was all a heavy burden to bear, but God had blessed him with broad shoulders as well. Elvis could carry the weight. 

He felt the same way about you. He watched the way your eyes brimmed with tears of pride, your small hands clasped tightly against your chest. His engagement ring was on clear display, letting everyone know just who you belonged to. Seeing the adoration in your eyes every time he performed reminded Elvis that you were made just for him, and he for you. He laughed into the microphone before gripping it tightly in his hand, his smile faltering. “There’s a lotta people sayin’ a lotta things. Course you gotta listen to the people that you love,” He motioned towards you before turning his head, his eyes searching for his parents. Then he quickly looked over his shoulder at the Colonel, giving him a curt nod. “But in the end you gotta listen to yourself.” The crowd erupted once again, realizing exactly where he was going with his speech. They wouldn’t have to mourn the loss of the Elvis that they knew and loved, because he wouldn’t be going anywhere in the first place. “So I want you to know that those New York people ain’t gonna change me none!” You screamed right along with the crowd, the pride that bubbled up in your chest was so heavy that you felt like it might just crush you. He removed the guitar with one hand, placing it up on the piano. “I’m gonna show you what the real Elvis is like tonight!” 

In the blink of an eye he was in position, the boys playing the beginning notes of his song “Trouble”. A laugh of disbelief bubbled past your lips, and you were quick to press your chest up against the stage, ignoring the cops that tried to push you back. Elvis motioned them away from you with a flick of his wrist as he sang, and so they stepped back begrudgingly. Girls slipped right past the police and military officers right along with you, one girl even going as far as to lift her torso up on stage, trying desperately to grasp onto his legs, his foot- anything she could touch. His bright blue eyes swept along the crowd, searching for the disapproving faces of anyone in power as he sang the words of the song. “I don’t take no orders from no kinda man.” You laughed again, raising your hand up to your mouth so that you could call out to him. “Tell em’, baby!” And then it happened. It was as though some unseen force had cut him loose. His knees started moving, and his hips swayed right along with them. Girls and guys began hollering as loud as they could, and it nearly drowned out his voice over the big speakers. He rolled up onto the tips of his shoes, his back arching, the mic pressed up against his lips. It was electric. Everything about this moment was energetically charged. You could feel it rolling off of him in waves. He got down on his knees in front of you, leaning back, moving his hips towards you. Girls reached out, touching his knees and thighs. You didn’t bat their hands off like most women would have, rather you reached your own hand out, taking his tie in your hand and giving it a quick tug. He smiled against the mic, leaning in as he grabbed your cheeks in his hand. You were used to his eyes finding you in a busy crowd, or even him getting low onto the stage so that he could dance just for you. There were no boundaries between you here though, and he took full advantage of that. Your lips parted as you stared up at him, and you watched his jaw clench as he tried to digest the look in your eyes. 

Sex. You were giving him those bedroom eyes that he loved so much. Your eyes got all glassy, your thick lashes hanging low. You could have fucked him right there on that stage. You were past the point of caring who watched. His fingers brushed against your lips, pressing into the skin as he watched your expression with a heated one of his own. His thumb dipped past your lips, brushing against the tip of your tongue. The energy that he was getting from the crowd was firing him up. It made him push the boundaries. He was quick to press a kiss against your lips before releasing his grip on you. He stood up, making his way back to the center of the stage. The mic stand dragging behind him as he moved. “Well I’m evil-” He dropped the mic from one hand, catching it in the other. He bent down as he sang, hunching his lanky form. “So don’t you mess around with me.” All hell broke loose then. Teens continued to push their way to the front of the stage. Now that the cops and officers had moved their attention to trying to reign in the rowdy white kids, there was no one there to keep the concert segregated. And as they should, everyone began to dance with one another, cheering Elvis on. A beautiful girl danced her way up close to you, and you recognized her from Club Handy- Dahlia was her name. The both of you reached out for one another, your lips upturned into smiles. “Y/N!” She called your name out, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she slid in next to you. And just as the two of you had done a few nights back, you danced like no one was watching. You allowed yourselves to be moved by the music. By Elvis’s music. 

Behind you police officers began pushing, shoving, and even beating the teenagers that acted too out of line. You hugged Dahlia closer to your side, pushing her in front of you in order to shield her with your own body. Elvis was moved by the music, putting his all into performing, but you could tell that he was keeping a close eye on you, ready to pounce the second anyone touched you or your friend. He got down on his knees once again, straddling the microphone stand as he screamed out the lyrics of the song. His eyes were wide and wild, his face dripping with sweat. “I’m evil!” Kids pushed, screamed, and shoved their way towards the front. You could hear screams further behind you, the sound of something hard connecting with tender skin. You flinched, but couldn’t pull your eyes off of Elvis. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried. “I’m evil!” His body shook as he sang as loudly as he could, pressing his elbows against the stage as he gripped the mic so hard, his knuckles were beginning to turn white. You watched with lust blown eyes as your fiance rolled onto his back, writhing on the ground like a madman. “I’m evil- I’m evil.” He army crawled his way to the side of the stage, throwing his legs over the side. He walked out into the crowd. 

Hands pushed, pulled, and grabbed at him. He just opened his arms out wide allowing them to take what they wanted from him. “Those cats are gonna kill em’!” Dahlia screamed, pulling worriedly at your shoulders. You merely shook your head. “They won’t! I promise!” She laughed in disbelief at your nonchalance, shaking her head. You were used to behavior like this, just not to this magnitude. “The cops are getting closer to us. I-I gotta go. My parents are waitin’ up for me.” You turned your head to look at her, your eyes softening. “They can kiss my ass! L-Let me walk you outta here. I need to find his parents.” And so she snatched your hand up in hers, pulling you through the crowd. The two of you screamed as you watched a cop tackle a boy to the ground, skidding to a stop to watch with wide eyes. You both were quick to turn around and run in the opposite direction. “Call me when you get home!” You told her, letting her go so that she could run towards the side gate. Once you were sure that she was safe you let your eyes scan the crowd. The Colonel was already hobbling towards you, his eyes wide with fear, shock and anger. “Our friends at RCA are not going to like this.” He told you, gripping you by the arm so that he could pull you off in the direction where Elvis’s parents stood. You allowed him, your limbs feeling like jell-o after the stress and excitement of the night. 

You looked over your shoulder, back at the stage, watching him continue to scream into the mic. Now that he knew that you weren’t in the line of fire, he was able to fully give in to the performance. Cops were already making their way onto the stage, ready to drag him off. “W-Wait!” He shook the old man’s hand off of you, your jaw dropping in horror as you watched a cop yank Elvis up and off of the ground. “They’re gonna beat him!” You screamed. You could hear Gladys calling after you, but she stopped trying to get your attention when she noticed what was going on. You ran like your life depended on it, your heels sinking into the grass. You weren’t sure how you didn’t stumble- possibly the adrenaline- but you jumped up on the stage, not caring about wearing a dress. You could flash your underwear for the world to see- you didn’t care, so long as Elvis was okay. “Hey!” You screamed, quickly putting yourself between him and the cops. “Don’t you dare hurt him!” You spat out, pointing your finger at them.

The ebony haired boy wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side, his eyes narrowed into slits.” Go to my mama. Now, baby. Go!” The cops weren’t afraid of beating you too if they had to. “I’ll be fine. The Colonel is gonna follow me, alright? I’ll see you back at Graceland.” Your lips parted in disbelief as you tossed a look over your shoulder at the cops. They were waiting to see if you were going to act up. One of them even had a baton in their hands, ready to jump into action if they needed to. “B-But Elvis-” He shook his head, gripping your arms harder. “Hey! “But” nothin’. If they touch you, I’m gonna go to jail for murder, ya hear? Go. To. My. Mama.” He pushed you gently off in the opposite direction, and as you turned around to face him one last time, you realized that he was right. About the fact that they would have jumped at the chance to hurt either one of you, but also the fact that he was ready to jump into action. The second that he saw you jump up onto that stage, he had readied himself. You hadn’t noticed until the very last second, but he was gripping a shard of glass from one of the broken lightbulbs from the stage. He had scrambled to pick up the sharpest thing he could find at a moment's notice. If somebody started to beat you, he was more than happy to slice their heads off. He loosened his hold on the sharp piece of glass the second you began to walk off, letting it clatter to the wooden flooring. 

Before you could overthink your decision to leave him alone, you began climbing down the side of the stage, walking off in the direction of Gladys, who was watching you with teary eyes and open arms. 

“The army?” Your voice cracked as you watched Elvis close the bedroom door behind himself, leaning his back against it so that he could aggravatedly begin rubbing at his face. You hadn’t said much of anything downstairs while the Colonel spoke. His mother was upset, and you had taken the time to try and comfort her. You had the ability to process things a lot better than Gladys could, so you allowed Elvis to comfort her rather than you- but that didn’t mean that you weren’t afraid. That you weren’t hurting. “I don’t wanna leave home either. Trust me. . . this is all ‘bout to make me sick.” He didn’t seem to like the idea any more than you did. Because while he was possibly sacrificing his career by taking such a long break, you were also going to have to say goodbye to your parents. He had already told the Colonel that he refused to record any songs while he was active duty. That was the last thing that he told his manager before the man could waddle his way out of the mansion. You were surprised that Gladys hadn’t chewed his head off. She probably would have if Vernon wasn’t there to stop her and keep her in line.

You began pacing the large room, running your fingers through your hair as you tried to wrap your brain around it all. From what you could tell, Elvis’s sketchy manager had everything all figured out. He would go down to the Reception Office in Arkansas after enlisting, and then from there the family would ship off to Texas. You could always stay back in Memphis and move in with your parents for the time being, but you knew that you’d just be miserable without him. It wasn’t that you couldn’t live without Elvis, just that you didn’t want to. The longest the two of you had been separated for since high school was two weeks, let alone years. You were an adult now, meaning that you were going to make your own decisions without your parent’s approval. Now that you and Elvis were engaged, they had allowed you to move to Graceland in order to be with him. You were sure that you would get an earful after they found out about you suddenly up and leaving your entire life behind to be with him, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. “I’ll go with you.” The decision wasn’t really a hard one to make, but it was a tough pill to swallow. He blinked a few times, turning to face you with wide eyes. “D-Do you mean it? Baby, you know I wouldn’t ask you to leave everythin’ behind. My feelin’s won’t be upset if you don’t want to come to Texas with me. I’ll buy you plane tickets every week for you to come down and see me-” He was talking a mile a minute, obviously more panicked than you had initially thought. You were quick to cut him off, placing a kiss on his lips. His words became muffled before he stopped talking completely so that he could properly kiss you. He cupped your cheeks in his hands, pressing his forehead against yours as he pulled away. 

“We’re engaged now, so my parents really can’t be upset about me wantin’ to be with you.” He seemed to melt into you, nodding his head slowly. “I don’t think they’ll like me too much after this.” He tried to make a joke out of it, but his smile faltered in a way that made you realize that he was genuinely shaken up over the situation. Elvis’ main priority, his entire life, had always been his family. If your mother and father ended up disliking him? He’d want to die. Even when you two were just friends, he made sure to always be respectful and build a good rapport with them. Sure, it was partially because he was waiting for the day that you would finally get the hint and give him a chance, but it was also majorly because Elvis was a very good natured person.

 The first thing he had done when he got home tonight was take a long shower. He came out of his bedroom in a fresh outfit, his eyes harder than they had been when he first walked through the front doors. He hadn’t stopped to talk to you or his parents, rather he charged straight up the stairs wordlessly. Once Elvis had taken a seat next to you on the couch, the Colonel finally began speaking. Your fiance’s sour mood made a whole lot more sense once the large man started talking about his “options”, which only consisted of time spent in jail or the military. He must have mentioned it to Elvis while you and his parents were waiting up home for the both of them. He tried to argue that it would be good for his image, but you and his mother weren’t too convinced. He could be a “sweet American boy” without serving time in the army, but it was obvious that the local law enforcement weren’t happy about tonight's display. 

“I saw those girls talkin’ to you before the show. You alright?” He asked, tugging you over towards the bed. He sat down on the edge, and you were quick to move so that you were standing in between his legs. He kept his hands on your hips as you furrowed your brows to try and remember just what had been discussed prior to the show. You had tunnel vision- it was hard to remember anything before he had walked out onto that stage. Most of the night was a complete blur to you. “Uh. . .” You licked your lips, turning your gaze up to the ceiling. “She was asking me questions about us. Our relationship.” Elvis tilted his head in confusion, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “What do you mean? Was she askin’ intrusive questions or. . . ?” You shook your head. “No, nothin’ weird. Just wanted to know what it was like, I guess. I told her that we’ve known each other since high school, so I’m not used to all the attention.” He nodded his head slowly, moving his hands down from your hips to your thighs, giving the tender skin there a small squeeze. “Then they noticed the engagement ring and started to go all crazy on me.” He froze, quickly looking up at you. “Did they hurt ya? Threaten ya? Baby. . . I should have known. Are you okay?” He started his intense line of questioning, and you were quick to brush it off with a small chuckle. “I told them it was just a promise ring. I’m sure you’ll eventually let it slip and they’ll know the truth, but the girls already seemed a bit rabid. The last thing I wanted to do was get mauled to death.” He let out a quick laugh, looking down at your ring. “Well that’s quite the promise ring.” He teased, his blue eyes tenderly exploring your face. Your lips turned up into a wide smile. “Well wouldn’t ya know. . . that’s exactly what one of those girls said.” He leaned forward as he laughed, burying his face into your stomach. You loved that sound. His laughter was always contagious. 

With his dark hair freshly washed and free of pomade, you were able to run your fingers through his locks. He hummed in content at the feeling, nuzzling his face even further into your stomach. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like that before,” You spoke in a hushed voice, gently pulling his head back so that he would look at you. “I mean. . . You made history, baby. I don’t know why, but I just have this feeling that what you did tonight is goin’ to change a lotta people’s lives.” Because if you were a musician yourself, you would have felt empowered after that amazing display. Boys and girls were going to see the photos and live video footage and feel moved by what he had done. You weren’t sure who it affected, or what they were going to do with the fire that Elvis had lit, but you knew that he had made a difference tonight. The consequences of his actions weighed heavily on him though, and you could tell by the solemn look in his eyes that he was thinking things over. “Do you regret it?” You spoke softly to him, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he stared up at you from his spot on the bed. “No,” He sounded sure of himself, and you relaxed. “No, I don’t regret it one bit. I just know that I’m dragging you into all of this mess, along with my parents. I don’t want you to get sick of me.” Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to understand what he meant by that. You? Get sick of him? Never. “How could I ever get sick of you, Elvis? You know how much I love you.” He shook his head, giving the back of your thighs another squeeze. “I know that you love me, but you didn’t exactly know what you’d be signing up for. Five years down the line, when we’re married. . . what if you snap out of it? What if you realize you made a mistake with me, and this wasn’t the life that you wanted for yourself? I-I mean. . . you wanted to go to college, Y/n. You can’t do that if you’re constantly flyin’ place to place in order to be with me.” 

You had wanted to get an education, but it was so that you could properly provide for your family. You were tired of your parents working their fingers to the bone in order to put food on the table. “I wanted to go to school so that I could find a higher payin’ job. You’re doin’ more for my parents than I ever would have been able to. Baby. . . All I’ve ever wanted to do when I got older was to marry you. To be your wife. No matter how hectic things get, just know that I won’t regret a single second of it. Don’t think like that.” Elvis sucked in a small breath before nodding his head. “You’re mine now. No going back.” You smiled, giving his dark locks a soft tug. “No going back.” You moved so that you were sitting in his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. You brought him incredibly close to you, chest to chest. The ebony haired man loved the sweet sense of innocence about you. No matter how wrong it was, Elvis found it wildly attractive that he had been the first and only man to ever touch you. He thought about it each and every time he was inside of you- claiming you over and over again. 

How he had gone from following after you like a lost puppy to fucking you ever night, he had no clue. It was a mystery to him. He had himself convinced that all the two of you would ever be to one another was just friends. But then you kissed him that first night, silencing his overactive mind. You had given yourself to him without even a shred of doubt. You were his. “Why were you lookin’ at me like that? Earlier I mean. . . at the show.” His voice was thick, his eyes half lidded as his hands moved up from your waist, playing with the buttons on the front of your dress. You knew that he wanted to hear you say it. Your face felt hot as you licked your lips, your heart hammering against your chest as you noticed he was watching your mouth intently. “Because I thought you looked attractive tonight.” He shook his head, giving your breast a harsh flick. You let out a surprised yelp, jumping up in sudden surprise. “It wasn’t that, lil’ girl. Tell the truth.” You weren’t sure why, but your body began to grow flushed at his bossy tone. “Because I was thinking about how badly I wanted to fuck you.” He loved it when your innocent mouth spewed such lewd things. He loved it when you cursed- dirty just for him. Only for him, always. “You fuck me? Since when, baby? The last time I checked, I was the only one doin’ the fuckin’.” You licked your lips again, and he was quick to dip his head forward, swiping his own tongue along yours. You jerked forward yet again in surprise, the movement against his lap earning you a small groan. He was hard already. Just hearing you say that was enough to drive him up a wall. 

“When you look at me like that. . . I want to be so mean to you. It’s hard to think about anythin’ else, really.” His hands moved away from the buttons, his fingers brushing over your breasts instead. The leftover adrenaline from the show was returning in full force, causing his hands to shake and his heart to pound. He felt like he might die if he wasn’t inside of you soon. He remembered how you looked earlier that night, your face standing out amongst the crowd. He found you the second that he had walked out, finding it nearly painful to look anywhere else but your face. “What do you mean by that?” His fingers moved to the zipper on the back of your dress, taking it in between his fingers so that he could start to pull it down. “It’s hard for me to put it into words. . . but I want to make you feel so good that it hurts.” There had been times in the past where he had fucked you so hard that you had cried- a writhing, sniffling little thing underneath him. You’d grip onto him for dear life, nails biting into his skin. He could tell that you had half the mind to tell him to stop, and yet you never did. No, no- you took whatever he gave you willingly. So small and eager to please. He was right there with you, going out of his way to try and push you over the edge. He loved watching you fall apart beneath him. Lips parted and gasping for air, your cheeks flushed and pupils blown out wide. 

He pressed his lips against your chin, moving his way down your throat and to your neck. You could feel the cool air hitting your back as he finally unzipped your dress all the way. Your nipples hardened at his attention, his hands gripping your breasts- squeezing them. “I want to have you in any way that I can. It drives me crazy- really, it does. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help but to feel like I want to own you,” His hands moved up to your shoulders, slipping the dress off of your chest. It pooled at your waist, covering both of your laps. Elvis didn’t usually speak to you like this. The two of you weren’t as shy as you were before about sex. There was a point in time where it felt taboo, what with it being so fresh and new for the both of you. He had never been so honest about his feelings before this though. You weren’t sure why, but hearing him talk to you in such a way was turning you on to the point where it was hard to process a full thought. Suddenly nothing mattered except fucking him. Everything else just fell away.Your hands shook as you gripped onto his shoulders, moving your hips against his slowly. 

He could have died right there. You wanted to be claimed just as much as he wanted to be the one to claim you. He smiled softly, his hand moving to the base of your neck so that he could move your head so that your forehead was pressed against his. His eyes moved down to both of your waists, watching you grind against him through the tulle of your skirt. “You like that, don’t you?” All you could do was nod. You couldn’t find your voice- couldn’t remember how to speak. The friction against your core felt good, but it left you needy. You could feel him through his pants, and it was a constant reminder of how close you were to having him inside of you. You didn’t feel the need for any foreplay. No- the entire night had been more than enough foreplay for you. The second that the man had gripped your face, his eyes boring into yours as though he wanted to devour you when he was up on that stage, you were a goner. Your hands moved to his plain white shirt, tugging at it with needy hands. “Use your big girl words.” He mumbled through his smile. Now that he had discovered how much of an effect his words had on you, he couldn’t stop talking. Speaking like this to you only turned him on more too. It was a double edged sword. He didn’t seem to be in as much of a hurry as you were. He was painfully erect, and yet he just kept staring at you, his lips slightly parted, blue eyes dripping with lust. He enjoyed watching you struggle. 

“Please,” You breathed out, giving his shirt another tug. He lifted his arms up, helping you remove his shirt. You dropped it to the ground, quickly moving your hands up his bare chest. Seeing the girls fawn all over him earlier made you want to touch him that much more. You wanted him to prove that he was all yours, just as much as he wanted to claim you. You needed him to remind you just who you belonged to. “‘Please’ what, sugar. Beg me for it.” Did he want to kill you? You let out a small squeak as he moved his hands down, gripping your hips painfully hard so that he could drag your core right along the length of him. Letting you feel every inch. “Please fuck me.” You liked being a brat and putting up a fight, but you couldn’t do that right now. Not tonight. He reveled in your obedience, his eyes flashing as he gripped your rear end in his hand with one arm, holding you against him as he stood up and off of the edge of the bed, moving onto his knees so that he could crawl further up. Once your head was against the pillows, he removed the rest of your dress from your waist, tossing it off of the bed. 

His weight feels good against you, so when he lifts back up onto his knees so that he can undo his pants, you can’t help but whine, your hips moving up on their own. You weren’t sure how to explain the need that was currently clawing at you. It was driving you crazy. Seeing him tonight- seeing him like that. . . it was almost as though something inside of you had snapped. The shy, meek part of you had died off completely. “Do you not want me to take my pants off?” He raised an eyebrow at you, letting out a soft laugh as you nodded your head quickly, watching with wide eyes as his fingers unfastened the button on his trousers. He slid the waistband down slowly off of his legs, biting his lip as he watched you. Your eyes were locked on his waist, waiting impatiently for him to free himself. The second that his member sprung free from his pants you were a panting mess, fingers gripping at the sheets beneath you. 

Judging by how hard he was, his tip an angry pink, precum dripping down his shaft and the fingers that gripped himself, you were sure that he was torturing himself by teasing you for so long. If you could remember how to speak, you were sure that you would praise him for the level of self restraint he was showing. His eagerness was not lost on you though. You could see the way his body was practically vibrating with pent up sexual aggression. His chest was heaving as he watched you with hungry eyes, giving you a second to drink him in. You parted your legs, lifting yourself up so that you could slip your panties off of your waist. You didn’t feel like waiting for him to do it. Now it was his turn to stare at you. You arched your back, slipping your hand down your body all the way to your core, using your fingers to part your folds for him- letting him get a good look. He was scrambling to get on top of you, grabbing your wrists in his so that he could put them above your head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was speaking so fast that it was hard to even tell what he was saying. The words melded into each other, sounding more like a chant than anything. 

He gripped himself with one hand, his tip sliding against your pussy as he tried to find your tight entrance. He usually gave you time to adjust to his length, but he didn’t tonight. He wanted you to feel all of it. A part of him wanted it to hurt. He couldn’t explain why it turned him on when you let out small yelps, your hips moving away from his when he slammed a little too hard and quickly into you- but lord have mercy, it did. Your little cunt got overstimulated so easily. He adored pushing you to the point of tears. He was planning on doing that tonight. His grip tightened on your wrists as you jerked against his hold, letting out a loud gasp as he set a dangerous pace. Your warmth swallowed him up completely, hugging him all the way up to the hilt. Your hips moved against his though, your legs wrapping around his waist tightly for leverage as he continued to piston into you. The motion drove him even deeper into you, earning yourself a loud moan from him. You knew that his parents were downstairs in the huge mansion, and the possibility that they could hear you was slim to none, but you still bit your lip in the hopes to keep yourself as silent as possible. Elvis didn’t like that one bit. He let go of your wrists so that he could roughly grab your cheeks in one hand, your lips slightly puckering as you stared up at him with glassy eyes. “Let me hear it.” 

For good measure the man used his other hand to grab your waist, positioning you in a way that had him pressing against your cervix with every thrust. You moaned loudly, squeezing your eyes shut at the sensation. He’s everywhere. You could feel his hand dancing on every inch of your skin, owning you. The scent of his cologne is in your nose, his lips against your throat and lips- even his tongue is pressing into your mouth, dancing with your own. It’s hard to breathe, but oxygen doesn’t even feel as necessary as the man above you. He could steal all of the breath from your lungs, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Elvis was a vocal lover, unafraid to moan and make noises of pleasure of his own. When he isn’t pressing heated kisses against your mouth, his lips are brushing against your ear, praising you. “Fuck, you’re doin’ so good for me.” And you are. You’re taking it like a champ, gripping onto him the same way that he is gripping onto you. It’s almost as though you think that the other might disappear. He’s not just making love to you tonight- it’s a reminder. He’s yours, just as much as you’re his. His rough thrusts ground you, wordlessly telling you that you belong to him. All the while, his lips tenderly press against your own, letting you know that this is only for you. 

Your legs are beginning to shake, and all you can do is wrap them around his waist even tighter. “I can feel your thighs quivering.” He breathes against your mouth. He loves that he has this kind of effect on you. Your nails dig even deeper into his back, causing him to groan out, eyes rolling back for a split second. He has to reign himself in. He doesn’t want to cum too quickly. He slowly loosens his hold on you, not wanting to let you go for even a second. Your chest cheeks so warm and soft against his own, your hard nipples pressing against his skin- heavenly. He wants you to come undone though- wants to watch your expression as you cum with him still deep inside of you. His fingers move down to your clit, gathering up your slick so that he could begin to rub you. His palm is against your abdomen, and he can feel himself moving inside of you. He lets out another deep groan, his eyes pinning you down, narrowing as he watches you. He can tell that you’re close. He’d long since memorized all the little signs. Your walls were fluttering around him, your moans growing higher in pitch. You looked desperate- felt desperate as you clung to him. 

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” You shook your head, tearing up because it just felt too good. It was too much. It was overwhelming. He was everywhere and everything. “Yes, yes. You’re doin’ so good for me. Such a pretty baby.” He pressed a kiss against your parted lips, watching as you sucked in deep breaths. A certain need ripped through him, shocking him to the point that he lost his rhythm. You noticed him slow down a bit, opening your eyes to watch him curiously. You were wanting to see if he was close- but all you could see were his blown out eyes and kiss swollen lips. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was deciding whether or not he should. He kept one hand on your clit, massaging you into a damn near frenzy, the other one moving up to grip at your hair. He gave it a small tug, letting out an animalistic moan as your walls reflexively tightened around him at the sudden jolt of pain. “Let me put a baby in you. Please-” It was his turn to beg. He couldn’t silence his overactive brain. Couldn’t keep his mouth closed. He had always wanted children, but the idea of trying for one made him nearly burst at the seams. He had cum inside of you a handful of times, but you had always taken a morning after pill. He needed it- he needed to fuck a baby into you. 

He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t find the image of you swollen with his child insanely attractive. You were too far gone to really understand what he was asking you, and perhaps he was as well. He wouldn’t regret it later though. Love drunk words speak sober thoughts, after all. It was his begging that sent you over the edge, that and the desperate way he rubbed at your clit, his thrusts still pressing against that special spot inside of you that he knew you loved so much. You weren’t sure why, but as you gripped onto him, you begged for him right back. Because you wanted it. You wanted for him to fill you up. You wanted everything that he had. Everything that he was. That was the confirmation that he needed. Elvis’s heart pounds loudly in his ears as he gives a few final thrusts, fucking you through your own orgasms. Your clamped around him so tightly, milking him through his own. He falls forward, pressing his hips into yours so that he can muffle his moans against your skin. His arms wrap tightly around you, and you can feel him twitch inside of you as he cums. Your head is swimming as you gulp in deep breath after deep breath, listening to his groaning, his fingers digging into your delicate skin. He stays inside of you for a minute or two, even after he’s finished. Every few seconds he’d lazily thrust forward, pushing his cum as deeply into you as he can manage. He presses warm kisses against your sweaty neck, nuzzling against your skin. He loves the way you smell- warm and sweet. It calms his pounding heart.

“I love you.” He mumbles, finally pulling out of you after what feels like hours. You feel light headed as you stare up at him, squinting against the harsh light from the bedside lamp. He leans over, clicking it off for the both of you before falling back against the mattress. 

He’s the first to mention what was said just a few minutes ago, turning to face you. You can barely make out his features in the darkness, but you can still tell how worried he is. Elvis had always mentioned children in passing to you, even when the two of you were friends. He’d see a little boy walking with his parents and his eyes would light up. He’d see a pair of baby shoes in the store and pick them up just to stare at them for a few seconds. You had known, even in the beginning, that he wanted a family of his own.“If you don’t want to, I completely understand. I know we haven’t exactly fully planned the weddin’ out yet, and if children aren’t on the table for you-” “I want a baby.” You spoke quickly, cutting him off. “Yeah?” His lips twitch up into a smile, his arms wrapping around your waist so that he can bring you closer to himself. “Yeah.”

@knoxvillesshoes @cosmorant @ol1viam @simply-sams-things @haim80s @gabbcabb @8hgel @slutt4him @busy-bee-angel-misska @kaitaesupremacy @dazedshoon @4rt3m1ss @cryingabtab @kittenlittle24 @austinsrealgf @austinbutlersgirlfriend @clearbolts @dark-as-love @anni-secret-account-75 @ab4eva @starcatchxr @julietamidala @obbsessivereader @gwuide @blurredcolour @the-little-red-haired-girl @meladollsims @poppet05 @shrekstheloml @randomwriter888 @idc123sworld @vane28282 @mirandastuckinthe80s @girlblogger2002 @rockerchick05 @screechingstrawberrysong @simpforevery1 @girlabirla @dre6ming @obetrolncocktails @fairyjanes @jensenswinchester @lo-bells @in-my-body-bag @fxntxsix @petrparkrslut @eliseinmemphis @lelifesaver @screaching-cookie @fantuhsise @areuirish @bcofl0ve @mslizziesblog @shynovelist @ssstrangersblog @harrysthecraic @hangmanswhore @jyvnho @mymamalife @melodydior

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, hurt to comfort, pt. 2 to “the other woman” but can be read as a standalone, inaccurate timeline, mentions of cheating, minimal language

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

the letters pile up in the top drawer of his nightstand, tucked away like love notes from a life he’s scared he’s already lost.

elvis writes them at night, when the world goes quiet and the ache in his chest is too loud to ignore. sometimes he starts them with your name, just your name, like a prayer. other times he doesn’t write your name at all, just “you” over and over again, until his handwriting runs thin and jagged.

you should’ve answered me by now. and so on, and so on.

he sends them anyway.

he sends them to your old address, to your mother’s new job, and even to that bookstore you always used to slip away to when things got too loud around graceland.

each one comes back with a bright red stamp across the envelope: return to sender.

gladys tells him that you’re okay and that you’re working, but she won’t tell him where. everytime he presses her for more, she just reminds that you’re not asking after him.

she says it kindly, but it still stings.

vernon won’t say a word, and your mama? she gives him a look like she’s thinking of setting fire to his cadillac, and honestly, he wouldn’t blame her.

he keeps thinking of that night: the way your voice cracked, the way you screamed, “i was yours first!” and how everything in him crumbled like a house without a frame.

he hadn’t even fought for you. not really.

he just stood there like a damn fool and let you walk away with everything he ever wanted tucked inside your chest.

one day, he hears about you from a neighbor who says they saw you walking into humes with a tote bag full of books and that bright yellow dress you used to wear in the spring.

apparently, you’re a teacher now.

it was something you always talked about doing, and something he talked you out of. told you it was too risky, that the world wasn’t ready, that he wasn’t ready. and that, more than anything, haunts him.

so he does what he knows, what he’s good at. he writes you a song. it’s corny, he knows it, but it’s got heart. a little bounce in the beat, something you might tap your foot to, if you weren’t so mad at him.

he calls it “return to sender.”

when he records it, he thinks of your eyes, and how you’d roll them when he said something stupid but still couldn’t quite hide the smile.

*

it’s warm out today, the sun shining over the overton park shell in ribbons of gold. you’ve staked out a spot under the shade of an old elm tree, your tote bag spilling open with graded math assignments and a worn paperback that smells like your childhood bedroom.

your little radio hums beside you, the dial slightly crackly but tuned just well enough to keep you company.

the laughter of children floats in the background, tangled with the breeze and the rustling of paper. you try to focus on the long division and multiplication tables, but your mind drifts.

that’s when it happens; you hear it. his voice.

“return to sender… address unknown…”

your heart stutters and you freeze in place. the pencil slips from your fingers, rolling across the page like it’s trying to run from the memories.

you know that voice too well.

you slap the radio off. the silence is immediate and violent, but the damage is done. it’s not just a song, it’s a letter, a message wrapped in rhythm and rhyme. it’s him reaching across the static and the space and the year that’s passed like it was nothing.

like he can just sing his way back into your life.

you pack up your things with shaking hands, your breath hitching, the corners of your vision stinging.

the audacity.

that man really had the gall to make a song about you, about the letters you wouldn’t answer, after everything he did?

you’re halfway to the car before you can talk yourself down. and then you’re behind the wheel, the road a blur beneath your tires, your heart a ticking bomb inside your chest.

you get to graceland in record time, unclicking your seatbelt and letting the door shut with a slam.

you stomp up the steps like you own the place, rage pouring off you in hot, uneven waves.

you don’t even have to knock—gladys opens the door with that familiar warmth in her eyes, though her expression shifts when she sees the firestorm written all over your face.

“well, hey there, baby girl—oh, lord, you look like you got a bone to pick!”

“i do,” you say, breathless. “where is he?”

her eyes widen. “he’s upstairs—”

that’s all you need. you march right past her.

you’re storming up the steps, every thud of your feet echoing through the house like thunder.

his door is half-open. that’s his first mistake.

you push it the rest of the way, and there he is, sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, guitar in hand like he was waiting for a reason to sing again.

he looks up and his face drains of color.

“you’ve got some goddamn nerve,” you hiss, the words spilling out like lava. “writing a song about me? after you lied? cheated? after you let me walk away like i was nothing?”

he sets the guitar down slowly. like he’s afraid it might shatter.

“i didn’t know what else to do,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“oh, i don’t know,” you shoot back. “how about tell the truth? how about fight for me, elvis?”

he stands and runs a hand through his hair like that’ll tame the guilt clawing at his throat.

“i tried. i’ve been trying. letters, phone calls. your mama threatened to throw a hot comb at me last week.”

you don’t laugh. you don’t even blink.

“i don’t care. you don’t get to write a love song and think that makes it right. you left me behind like i was nothing but a secret. and now you want to sing me back?”

he steps closer, but you step back.

“i was scared,” he says softly. “of what people would say. of losin’ everything.”

“you did lose everything.” you laugh, bitter and sharp.

he flinches.

“i never stopped loving you,” he whispers. “not for one second.”

your jaw tightens. “then why’d you let me go?”

“i was stupid.” his voice cracks. “i let the colonel, the fans, the damn world tell me what i could and couldn’t have. but i’m done. i’m done lettin’ them pull me in every direction but the one that leads to you.”

he steps forward again, slow this time, like you’re a deer and he’s scared you’ll bolt.

“i’m tired, satnin,” he says. “i’m tired of singin’ songs i don’t mean, tired of smilin’ when all i wanna do is cry. i need you. not for the fame. not for the headlines. for me. for the part of me that only breathes when you’re around.”

you stare at him, trembling.

the silence between you stretches long and aching. you want to scream. you want to run.

you want to fall into him and disappear.

instead, you whisper, “it’s not that easy.”

“i know.” he nods.

“i’m still angry.”

“you should be.”

“i don’t know if i can trust you.”

“i’ll earn it,” he says, voice raw. “every day. however long it takes.”

you look at him.

beneath the tired eyes and trembling hands is the boy who used to sneak into your room and whisper secrets to the moon. the one who kissed you like you were holy. the one who broke your heart without even meaning to.

and maybe, just maybe, the one who can piece it back together.

you take a shaky breath.

“you don’t get to write any more songs about me unless i say so.”

a small smile tugs at his lips.

“deal.”

“and i swear, if you ever, ever, call another woman beside me or your mama ‘satnin’—”

“never again. cross my heart.” he lifts his hands in surrender, chuckling through a tear.

you don’t smile, not yet, but you step forward.

and this time, when he reaches for you, you don’t step back.

*

graceland softens in the evening light, gentle golden rays melting over the windows like honey.

everything is quieter now, the storm between you and elvis having passed, and the house seems to breathe again.

you sit in the kitchen, legs curled beneath you on one of the stools, watching elvis as he moves around like it’s second nature. he’s making coffee—real coffee, not that instant kind you always teased him about—and humming some old gospel tune under his breath. every so often, he glances over like he’s checking to make sure you’re still real, still here.

the silence between you is gentle now, earned, like a quilt worn soft at the edges.

he pours a cup and sets it in front of you, your favorite mug: the chipped one with the faded cardinal on it. he remembered.

“still two sugars?” he asks, quietly.

you nod.

he sits across from you, hands wrapped around his own mug, fingers tapping the ceramic like a nervous habit. his foot nudges yours under the table. not demanding. just there.

“i don’t wanna scare you off,” he says softly. “but bein’ here with you like this… it feels like the world’s finally holdin’ still.”

you sip your coffee.

“don’t get all poetic on me now.”

he grins. “can’t help it. you make me wanna write sonnets.”

you roll your eyes, but the warmth behind them betrays you. he sees it, and it makes his breath catch.

after coffee, you help him tidy up the living room. not because it needs it, but because it’s something to do with your hands. you fold blankets, fluff pillows, and rearrange the record stack so it’s alphabetized (because it always drove you nuts that he didn’t).

he watches you from the armchair like he’s memorizing it all.

from the kitchen, his mother looks on with a knowing smile, settled comfortably in her favorite chair by the window.

“y’know,” elvis says, “i used to dream about this.”

“about alphabetized records?”

he laughs.

“nah. about you. here. not as some secret… not as the maid's daughter… not as someone i had to send songs to just to feel close to. but like this. just… bein’. cookin’ and talkin’ and livin’ in the quiet.”

you glance at him over your shoulder. “that dream still on the table?”

he sits forward, elbows on his knees, eyes soft.

“only if you still want it too.”

you don’t answer with words. instead, you walk over, slip into his lap, and rest your head on his shoulder. his arms come around you instinctively, and there’s that feeling again.

safety.

you hadn’t felt it in so long.

“you scared me,” you whisper. “when you let me go.”

“i scared myself.” he presses his lips to your temple.

you sit like that for a long while, just breathing each other in, the weight of the year between you finally dissolving.

later, you fall asleep tangled together on the couch, his heartbeat thudding steady beneath your cheek. the tv hums softly in the background—some old western neither of you were really watching. his fingers trace lazy circles against your arm, and you drift, safe in the knowledge that this time, he’s not going anywhere.

when you wake up, the first thing you hear is him murmuring a melody. not for the stage or for the charts. just for you.

“are you lonesome tonight, do you miss me tonight,” he sings softly, voice thick with something unspoken.

his eyes meet yours, searching tenderly, like he’s trying to hold every word between you.

you don’t say anything. you just tighten your arms around him and meet his gaze, the silence full of questions and answers that don’t need saying.

because maybe the world isn’t fair. maybe love hurts like hell.

but tonight, you’re here. you’re his and he’s yours.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @presleyhearted @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 ⌝

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: rafe cameron x black!kook!reader, girl dad!rafe, angst, slow burn, mild language, mentions of alcohol consumption, implication of unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), & pregnancy

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.9k

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

november mornings in poguelandia are crisp. clean, like the salt in the air is trying to scrub you of everything you’ve ever been.

you’re restocking the minnow lures when sarah walks in with your daughter on her hip, both faces pink from the cool air.

“you’re late,” you tease without looking up. your daughter squeals at the sound of your voice, arms outstretched as she reaches for you.

“only five minutes!” sarah laughs, passing the toddler over. “i had to stop for breakfast. she saw a chicken biscuit and almost dove out of the car.”

your daughter wiggles against your chest, tiny hands patting your cheeks as you tickle her sides.

“my baby’s got taste.”

sarah chuckles, moving behind the counter.

the shop is slow this time of year, only the occasional fisherman passing through, but you don’t mind, and neither do the pogues.

it’s peaceful.

after everything you all lost and found again on that godforsaken island, peace is sacred.

even still, there’s the low hum of life in poguelandia. the faint clang of pope fixing the solar panels, jj hollering about a busted cooler, kie dragging a chalkboard out to scribble the day’s specials. it’s home. makeshift, salty, stubborn—but it’s home.

you hold your daughter close, pressing a kiss to her curly crown.

“gonna be a long day, huh, baby?”

“fishy, mama!” she giggles, showing all her teeth.

“yes, fishy.” you set her down gently, and she toddles over to sarah, who immediately scoops her back up onto her hip like she’s part of her own.

the bell above the door jingles. you don’t look right away, thinking it’s just a customer.

then you hear the voice.

“uh…hey.”

your spine stiffens. you turn, slowly.

rafe cameron stands in the doorway, his hair buzzed low, jaw sharper, like time had something to prove against him.

he looks older, but still like himself. still blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, and carrying that same cocky tension in his stance like he never quite learned how to relax.

he sees your daughter in sarah’s arms and falters.

“didn’t know you two were working here.”

“didn’t know you were still breathing,” sarah mutters behind you.

you ignore her, focusing on how rafe’s eyes can’t seem to leave your daughter. the slow shift in his expression, from awkwardness to something unreadable. his mouth opens, like he’s going to say something, but then the toddler lets out a little hiccup-laugh and the spell breaks.

“i was just—i heard about this place,” rafe says quickly. “wanted to check it out.”

you nod once. curt. you move past him to grab your daughter from sarah, setting her down with her toys. her tiny curls bounce as she bounces around, and you feel rafe’s eyes following her the whole way.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

one look at him, and every memory you buried claws its way back to the surface.

you’re drunk. dangerously so. so is he.

you’d been friends your whole lives, running barefoot through figure eight and spending summers drenched in saltwater and secrets. you’d known the bad parts of him, but were fortunate enough to see the good parts too—the parts his father tried to beat out.

the real rafe.

and tonight, the drinks had turned to laughter, and the laughter soon turned to silence; thick, heavy, laced with everything unsaid.

“don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, but he doesn’t stop.

you shove him playfully. he grabs your wrist.

“i mean it, rafe.”

his hand trembles against your skin.

“i haven’t stopped.”

“what?”

“looking at you,” he breathes, voice rough. “wanting you.”

your body is inches from his, his lips already too close. your heart pounds.

you’re not supposed to do this. it’ll ruin everything. it’ll break the last thing in your life that makes sense.

but when he kisses you, you let him.

and when he begins to unzip your dress with shaking fingers, you let him.

somehow you ended up in the backseat of his car—limbs tangled, mouths greedy, drunken giggles replaced by moans. it was messy and clumsy and desperate.

and when you wake up in his bed the next morning in silence, his back to you, unsure how you got there, you gather your things and leave.

you didn’t plan to sleep with your best friend. you didn’t mean for your goodbye to feel like that.

but you knew it was the end.

you ghosted him the next day. changed your number. didn’t look back.

and six weeks later, the positive pregnancy test made you sick to your stomach.

rafe starts showing up more.

he doesn’t say much. sometimes he buys bait he doesn’t use. sometimes he pretends to talk to pope about fishing gear. other times he stands around and asks kie questions he clearly doesn’t care about.

mostly, he just watches you.

you avoid him, try to ignore it, but you feel the pressure building like a wave pulling back before the crash.

your daughter warms up to him quickly.

she waves, offers him cheerios, even tries to give him her pink stuffed dolphin. rafe doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love. it stuns him every time.

“he’s got balls,” sarah says one day, watching him through the window. “showing up here like nothing happened.”

“he doesn’t know the half of it,” you whisper.

“but he’ll find out. and when he does…”

you nod, knowing all too well.

jj notices your discomfort.

“yo, what’s he doing here again?”

“don’t know. don’t care.” you shrug.

but you do, and jj can tell.

“just say the word,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles.

“not yet.”

*

you were five months pregnant when sarah found out.

you cried for hours. she didn’t ask questions, just held you.

“you gonna tell him?”

you shook your head, numb.

“he doesn’t deserve this. not when he couldn’t even care enough to look for me.”

sarah didn’t argue. she just stayed.

you had some weak moments, ones where you thought you’d come clean. every time you saw his name in your contacts, your thumb hovered and quickly chickened out. you’d start to type, then delete.

the words didn’t come easy: she looks like you. she has your eyes. she laughs like you used to, before everything went wrong.

how do you tell someone they’re a father when they haven’t even figured out how to be a man?

*

he catches you on a quiet afternoon.

your daughter is napping in the back, and sarah’s gone for a supply run.

you’re shelving tackle boxes when he corners you in the back aisle.

you spin around, nearly colliding with his chest.

“jesus, rafe—”

“is she mine?” his voice is low. deadly quiet.

your heart slams. you stare at him.

“w-what?”

“ramona.” he says her name like it’s sacred. like it hurts. “is she mine?”

“rafe—“

“don’t lie to me, please.”

his eyes are burning. his jaw’s tight. you’ve never seen him like this.

“you don’t get to ask me that,” you whisper. “not now.”

“then when?” his voice breaks. “you were my best friend. you disappear, and now—now there’s a kid, and she looks like me, and she smiles like me and—fuck, you think i didn’t know something was off?”

you clench your fists.

“i was alone, rafe. you don’t know what that was like.”

“you didn’t even give me a chance.”

“because you didn’t care!” you shout, and it echoes off the wooden walls. “you didn’t look for me. you didn’t call. you went back to your life like i didn’t matter.”

he flinches.

“i was messed up.”

“i was pregnant,” you scoff. that shuts him up.

you wipe your face roughly, angry that you’re crying.

“she’s yours,” you finally muster.

he sways like you punched him, sitting down hard on the bait freezer.

“how old is she?”

“two.”

“and you didn’t think i deserved to know?”

“i didn’t think you could handle it,” you snap. “you were spiraling, rafe. drugs. fights. your dad was dead and you were trying to self-destruct. i had to protect her.”

“you had to protect yourself.”

“maybe.”

the silence is brutal.

“i wanna see her.” he stands, slowly. “please.”

you hesitate, searching his eyes for something insincere. when you don’t find it, you sigh, leading him further into the back where she’s resting.

ramona wakes up groggy. she sees him and clutches your leg.

rafe crouches to her level, careful not to get too close.

“hey,” he says softly. “i’m rafe.”

your daughter blinks at him. he picks up one of her fallen crayons and hands it to her.

she takes it, then offers him another.

you watch them color on the floor of the bait shop. his big hands awkward around the tiny crayon, her giggles bubbling with each misshapen heart he draws.

he glances at you, eyes soft and scared. you’re sure your own expression is just the same.

for the following week, he shows up with all types of gifts for ramona: snacks, crayons, a stuffed bear.

you try to stay annoyed.

but when he’s holding her—her head tucked under his chin, his arms sure and gentle—you feel something crack.

and when he whispers to her, thinking you can’t hear:

“i’m gonna be better. for you. for her.”

you run off to cry in the stockroom.

*

months have passed, and although your personal relationship with rafe is still rocky, he and ramona have become two peas in a pod. he’s gone so far as to start picking her up and taking her home with him to give you some much needed time to yourself.

you’re locking up when you see them outside on the dock.

she’s holding his hand, pointing at fish in the water.

he’s kneeling beside her, nodding seriously like every word she says is gospel.

you step out, arms folded.

“shop’s closed.”

“just visiting.” he smiles.

you sit beside them, something you’ve refrained from doing, afraid you’ll fall all over again from seeing him step up as a father.

ramona climbs into his lap, yawning.

“you good?” you ask.

“better than i’ve ever been,” he says.

he reaches for your hand. to your surprise, you let him take it.

his thumb brushes your knuckles. a silent apology. a quiet promise. and for the first time in a long, long time, it feels like home.

you don’t notice john b and the others until he whistles from the porch of the bunkhouse.

“damn,” he calls. “should we start setting a place for rafe at dinner now or wait till he moves in?”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

“shut up, john b,” you and sarah both groan in unison.

ramona perks up.

“john b-b-b-b,” she giggles, repeating it like a song.

“that’s uncle john b to you,” he teases, walking over and ruffling her curls.

she leans into his touch, then turns to rafe and pats his cheeks gently, just like she does to you when she wants your attention.

“dada,” she mumbles absentmindedly, pointing at the sky. you freeze, heart in your throat.

rafe doesn’t say anything at first. he just smiles and kisses her temple.

“yeah, baby,” he murmurs. “i see it too.”

you glance at him—really look—and for the first time, the ache in your chest feels a little less sharp. a little less lonely.

from the porch, kie watches the three of you and smirks.

“god, we’re so back.” she mutters under her breath.

___

꩜ taglist: @chromeheartsbaby , @qveendiorsworld , @mygologyv, @purewhines

starting a rafe taglist, pls lmk if you’d like to be removed ❤️

[isthlsfate]

just to be clear, a BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN runs this blog.

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, fluff, reader straight up gushing over elvis (real), & minimal language

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 678

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

you’ve never seen him like this.

not under this kind of light—soft, heaven-bound. the big red ELVIS sign glares behind him like some kind of prophecy, humming hot in the quiet atmosphere.

it doesn’t flash. it glows, and so does he.

he’s a storm in stillness.

the heat of the lights clings to his skin, catches the edge of his cheekbone, the slow rise of his throat. his mouth brushes the mic like a promise, voice rising from somewhere deeper than his chest—somewhere ancient and aching.

“there must be lights burning brighter somewhere…”

and he means it. every word. every note.

you’ve heard this song a hundred times; played it in the car, hummed it in the kitchen while washing dishes. but it’s different now. it’s different here.

there’s no huge crowd. no cheers.

just silence. the kind of silence that listens.

the kind that lets something big happen.

he closes his eyes and grips the mic like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth. and you feel it, deep in your gut; that thing he does, how he makes the whole world pause.

you want to cry, you want to scream, you want to run up there and shake him and kiss him and say do you know what you’re doing? do you know what you’re giving them? giving me?

your throat tightens. eyes burn. there’s no stopping it now.

you begin to cry.

it’s not loud, nor messy, but instead quiet, steady tears that slip down your cheeks like something breaking open. your heart feels as if it’s finally exhaling.

he’s standing up there turning pain into light, and you’re falling apart in the wings.

you want to tell him thank you.

you want to kneel right here and let it all come undone.

but instead, you stand rooted to your spot, hand over your heart like it might fall out of your chest.

nobody sees you. you’re not the star. you don’t need to be. you just need this—him, up there, burning, believing.

you think about every night he came home raw-throated and bone-tired. about the time he cried on your shoulder after memphis burned and whispered, i gotta do somethin’, baby. i gotta say somethin’.

and now he is.

he’s saying it loud and clear, in that voice that shakes the damn air, makes your ribs hum, and makes grown men cry.

“as long as a man has the strength to dream…”

you sob once, softly, and cover your mouth.

you’ve never felt more proud. not just because he’s yours, but because he gets it. because he feels it too—the ache, the fire, and the impossible hope.

someone shifts beside you yet you barely notice.

all you can think is god, i love you. i love you, i love you, i love you.

and it’s not the kind of love they write songs about. it’s not clean. it’s not easy. but right now, watching him carry that song like a prayer, is everything.

you think, maybe this is what safety feels like. not the absence of fear, but the presence of something louder.

you think, he’s still dreaming. and so will i.

he holds the final note longer than he ever has. his eyes are open now, fixed somewhere far away.

the silence swells again. no applause. just stillness.

a kind of reverence.

and when the last note dies, he just breathes.

you catch him backstage, trembling a little from the weight of the performance. his hands shake as he steps down, like he’s still buzzing from the sound of it all, and when his eyes meet yours, he just walks straight into you.

you bury your face in his neck, wrapping your arms tight around his waist.

“you were brilliant, baby,” you whisper, voice cracking. “you shook the whole earth.”

his breath stutters.

“you made me believe again.” you say quietly.

he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. and there it is—raw and full and quiet.

“i sang it for you,” he says.

you nod.

you know.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff @presleyhearted

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞: the edge of reality

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, some fluff, implication of elvis’s death, kinda sad, VERY light horror elements, & open ending (sorry not sorry :p)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

the morning is golden.

sunlight slips through the room curtains and lands across the foot of the bed, warming your ankles, your wrist, and the tips of your fingers where they’re tangled with elvis’s.

he’s still asleep beside you—bare chest rising and falling beneath the sheets, his mouth slightly open, hair a dark halo on the pillow. there’s a faint scratch of stubble on his jaw and a crease between his brows like he’s already halfway into dreaming.

you’ve been watching him for an hour.

you can’t stop.

you’re memorizing him, the room, the small decorative changes he’s made for you, piece by piece, because you have less than twelve hours left.

you finally move when you feel him stir.

he blinks awake slowly, lashes fluttering before his blue eyes find yours. he smiles, sleepy and crooked.

“mornin’, time traveler.”

you let out a quiet laugh, throat tight.

“morning, legend.”

he stretches, long arms reaching out like he could lasso the sky, then pulls you back against him, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“we got a whole day,” he murmurs. “let’s make it count.”

you decide to spend your last day within the comforting walls of graceland, cut off from the rest of the world.

the whole house hums around you like it’s alive.

first, elvis lets you pick the record, even though he pretends to grumble when you reach for sam cooke. you dance barefoot in the den, swaying slowly in his arms while he hums along behind your ear.

he smells like sandalwood and fresh linen.

you tell him he smells like home.

after a while of dancing, you sit on the kitchen counter in his t-shirt, legs swinging while he makes pancakes in the shape of hearts, dogs, and one that’s supposed to be a guitar but ends up looking like a kidney.

you still kiss his cheek and call him a genius.

once your brunch has settled, you lie on the floor of the living room, fingers laced together, watching the ceiling fan spin and talking about everything and nothing.

he tells you the names he’s always liked for kids, to which you embarrassingly tell him the names you gave your dolls growing up.

elvis takes your hand and kisses your ring finger like a promise. your heart and stomach flutter.

when the room falls into a comfortable silence and the sun begins to set, he leads you out to the garden. you water the flowers together, elvis telling you which ones he planted with his mama as you pass them.

you listen, really listen, and he looks at you like he’s never been heard before.

the evening settles and the two of you sit in the grass, your body resting comfortably between his legs, elvis’s guitar on your lap, his warmth engulfing you.

he plays you a song on his guitar—a sweet, simple tune he says he wrote when he was seventeen.

you close your eyes and let it soak in.

as the stars become more prominent in the night sky, the weight starts to settle.

every smile becomes tinged with sadness and every laugh feels like it might be the last.

“i’m not ready for this part,” you say softly, turning to face him.

“i ain’t either, darlin’.”

you reach into your back pocket and pull out a photo you hadn’t known you’d brought from the future—a tiny, grainy image of the 1973 aloha concert, elvis in that famous white jumpsuit, arms raised to a crowd of thousands.

he takes it gently.

“goddamn,” he murmurs. “i really wore that?”

“like a king.” you tease, hinting at his words from the day you first met.

he studies it in silence.

“you said i pass at forty-two.” he finally speaks, voice low.

you nod, eyes brimming with tears.

“don’t be sad,” he says.

“you didn’t get to grow old.”

he looks at you, a ferocity in his eyes that makes your heart all but stop.

“no, but i got to love you. even if it was just for a blink.”

you choke on a laugh-sob and cover your mouth.

“you’re not making this easier.”

he pulls you close, his hand in your hair, his heart pounding against your cheek.

“i ain’t meant to,” he murmurs. “i want you to miss me somethin’ awful.”

you inhale a shuddering breath, trying to keep the tears from falling, but to no avail.

elvis’s own eyes sparkle with unshed tears, lips molding into yours when you grab his face and kiss him.

*

11 o’clock hits sooner than either of you want, and the true countdown begins.

your grandmother waits with her journal in hand, standing beside the old mirror in the attic of her own mother’s house. the glass is glowing faintly now. the air around it has changed.

“this is it,” she says. “you have to go through at midnight. not a minute before, not a minute after.”

you nod.

elvis stands behind you, silent, his head hung low.

“you okay?” you ask him gently.

“m’not,” he says. “don’t know if i ever will be.”

you reach for his hand.

“i’m scared.”

“don’t be. you were brave enough to fall in love with me when you already knew how it ended. that’s somethin’.” he pauses, searching your eyes like he’s trying to find a different way out of this, one where you can stay, be his wife, have his kids, and grow old with him. he sighs, “kiss me one more time.”

you do.

it’s deep, slow, and trembling. you kiss him like you’re breathing for the last time. his fingers press into your back like he could hold you here. like he could rewrite time by sheer will.

“i love you,” you whisper against his lips.

“i love you more,” he murmurs.

11:58.

it’s time.

the mirror is humming now. a wind picks up from nowhere, rustling the paper in your grandmother’s journal. the surface of the glass has gone milky, like there’s fog behind it.

you give your grandmother a grateful hug, knowing she’ll be there when you make it back to your own time.

“i’ll give you two this moment,” she says, stepping out.

you and elvis face each other once again.

“come with me,” you whisper, an empty shot.

he smiles, sad and sure.

“even if i could… this is my story. yours is still bein’ written.”

you’re crying, salty tears cascading down your cheeks. you don’t wipe them.

elvis leans in, your foreheads touching.

“tell the world i wasn’t just glitter and noise,” he says. “tell ’em i loved deep.”

“i will.”

“don’t forget me, darlin’. i surely won’t forget you. i don’ regret it for a second.”

you close your eyes and take one step back.

then another.

you turn to face the mirror.

the light is blinding now. your hair whips around your face. your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack open.

11:59.

“go,” he shouts over the rising wind.

you look back to see him standing there shining like every song he ever sang.

are you really going to let this—let him go?

“run!”

you sprint, your shoes slapping hard against the wooden floorboards. the mirror glows white-hot.

you close your eyes, and leap.

___

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: first long(ish) series! i hope you all enjoyed, i really appreciate you taking the time to read. the boyf wanted me to make sure i made it known that he helped with this one, so this is me doing that😭 y’all can thank him for the open ending because i’m too soft and was trying so hard to think of a way to give them a happy ending :’)

�� taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫: the borderline of doom i’m facing

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, implication of elvis’s death, VERY light horror elements, & sexual content - p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral (m! receiving) - mdni

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.75k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

at first, the red on your hand doesn’t register.

you wake to dizziness, to the shrill wail of tinnitus in one ear and the pounding of your heartbeat like someone is knocking from the inside. everything spins. your head aches so badly it feels like the floor is rising to meet it, but you manage to make it off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom with a heaviness in your limbs that shouldn’t exist.

you just need to make it to the sink.

the light burns your eyes.

when you finally reach the vanity, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—and that’s when you see it. blood.

a slow, steady trickle from your nostril, painting your upper lip.

you swipe at it and stare at your hand, dazed. the room tilts. a low moan escapes your throat as your legs give out, and you slump against the cool tile of the bathtub, vision narrowing to a pinprick of light.

“elvis,” you whisper, or try to, before the world goes black.

you come to with someone shaking you gently. the floor beneath you is hard, cold. your cheek is wet.

“(y/n). sweetheart. baby, hey. stay with me.”

elvis.

your eyes flutter open to see him crouched beside you, shirt wrinkled, eyes frantic, cupping your face with shaking hands. his hair’s a mess, sleep still clinging to the edges of him.

“oh god,” he breathes. “you’re bleedin’. i—i gotta get you to a hospital.”

“no.” you try to sit up. pain shoots through your skull. “no hospital. call… call my grandmother.”

“what? no, baby, you need a doctor.”

you grab his wrist, weakly.

“please. just trust me. call her.”

he stares at you, chest heaving, then finally nods.

you wake up again on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a damp cloth pressed to your head.

“elvis?” you croak.

“i’m right here.” his voice is hoarse, tender. “your grandma’s on her way. i gave her the address. she sounded…young.”

you nod faintly, then rest your head against the pillow. you can feel the end of all this coming like a dam about to break.

he’s going to know everything.

“i’m sorry.” you say quietly. elvis shakes his head, grabbing your hand.

“no, m’sorry, darlin’. i shouldn’t’ve said what i said. when i saw you on the floor like that… all i could think was, god, what if the last thing you heard from me was me doubting you?”

you can’t find it in you to answer, so you just squeeze his hand.

twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings.

elvis answers it.

you hear her before you see her.

“oh, sweet girl,” she breathes, then pushes past him and rushes to your side.

elvis just stands there, staring.

“she’s your grandmother?” he says slowly. “she don’t look a day over twenty.”

“twenty-nine, actually,” she chirps with a wink.

“i… i’m sorry, ma’am, but what the everloving hell is goin’ on?”

you sit up.

it’s time.

“sit.” you pat the cushion beside you.

he does—on the edge, like the truth might be sharp enough to cut him.

you take a breath. your grandmother reassuringly squeezes your hand.

then you speak.

“i’m not from here. not from 1960.” your eyes meet his, searching for an inkling of understanding. he just stares back. “i’m from 1996.”

still nothing. you push forward, quietly.

“i found a mirror in my grandmother’s attic. a family heirloom. it… brought me here. by accident.”

his eyes move between you and her, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

she clears her throat, smoothing her curls.

“it’s true. the mirror’s been in our family for generations. i never really knew what it was. but when she showed up… i remembered the stories.”

“you’re tellin’ me,” he finally speaks up, voice cracking, “that you came here. through time. and she’s…” he gestures at your grandmother. “she really don’t look a day older than us.”

“because she isn’t,” you say softly. “not yet.”

something shifts in his eyes. a quiet dread. he stands up, running a hand through his neat hair.

“how far into the future did you say?”

“…1996.”

his lips part and he takes a step back.

“i… i don’t make it to that, do i?”

“elvis—”

“don’t lie to me,” he says sternly. “do i make it?”

your eyes well up as you take in a shuddering breath.

“you pass in 1977 at forty-two.”

his breath hitches. his whole body slumps.

“forty-two,” he whispers. “that’s only seventeen years from now.”

“i’m sorry.” you say, tears slipping free.

he turns away, gripping the edge of the couch like it might anchor him.

“i knew i wasn’t gonna last forever,” he mutters. “but damn. i thought maybe i had more time to… to figure things out. to be someone.”

you cross to him slowly and gently lay a hand on his cheek.

“you are someone. you changed the world, elvis. you’re still changing it. even in 1996, people love you. kids know your name. your music still plays. you didn’t disappear.”

he leans forward, scrubbing his face with both hands. you back away begrudgingly, giving him some space.

“this—this is insane,” he says. “you expect me to believe that you just… popped in from the future?”

“you already knew something was off,” you remind him gently. “you felt it. you said i talked like i’d already mourned you. and i have. you were on my grandma’s kitchen radio, in old movies, and history books. i knew of you before i ever touched you.”

your grandmother steps in, her voice kind.

“elvis presley, you are a legend in our time.”

he stares, and stares.

“you were a stone-cold fox in your prime, by the way. lord have mercy.” she chuckles, trying to lighten up the moment.

he makes a strangled sound between a cough and a laugh.

“not the time, grandma,” you cringe, but your lips twitch despite yourself.

elvis collapses into the armchair across from you.

“i don’t know what to think,” he says. “i don’t even believe in astrology.”

“you don’t have to understand it,” you say. “just trust that i didn’t mean for this to happen. and that it’s real.”

he looks at you for a long time.

“you said i’m a legend.”

you nod.

“then why does it feel like i ain’t worth a damn thing right now?”

“because people didn’t always see you clearly. but that doesn’t mean you’re not worth everything.”

after a moment, he stands.

“i—i need some air,” he says. “i just need to think.”

and then he’s gone.

*

you stay at the motel with your grandmother that night. it smells like mildew and cigarette ash, but you don’t care.

elvis deserves his space, no matter how badly you miss him.

your grandmother stays up with you, talking in a low voice about everything—what she found in the mirror’s frame, the cycle, the backstory.

“there’s a date,” she says. “a return window. it closes in less than a week. i’m still figuring out how many days exactly.”

you stare at the ceiling, your mind elsewhere. you don’t care what happens to you anymore.

you just care that elvis forgives you.

“do you think he’ll come back?” you ask softly.

“he loves you, hon. even if it scares him.”

you fall asleep with her humming beside you, drifting through the dark.

the next morning, there’s a knock on the door.

you open it, squinting at the sunlight that peers in.

it’s elvis. his eyes are tired, but clear.

“hey.”

“hey.”

he rubs the back of his neck.

“can i come in?”

you nod a little too eagerly, stepping aside.

your grandmother notices elvis’s presence and grabs her purse.

“i’ll give y’all some time. just don’t get too frisky. time travel babies might break the space-time continuum.”

“grandma,” you groan.

she winks and slips out.

now it’s just you, him, and the hush between.

“i’ve been thinkin’,” he says. “’bout everything you said. everything i felt.”

you wait despite how badly you want to plead for his forgiveness.

“it don’t make sense. none of it. and it scares the hell outta me.”

“me too.” you nod.

“but it also feels like… fate. like maybe i was meant to know you. even if it’s just for a little while.”

your throat tightens. elvis steps closer.

“you look at me like i’m whole,” he says. “like i’m not a paycheck or a punchline.”

you reach up and brush your fingers along his jaw.

“you are whole,” you whisper. “you always were.”

he leans in, lips meeting yours, and kisses you like you’re the only real thing left in the world.

you let him guide you toward the bed, but stop him just as he’s about to lie you down, switching places and sinking to your knees instead.

he bites his lip at the realization, hands reaching out to cradle your face.

you undo his jeans, tugging them down along with his underwear until they pool at his ankles.

“i love you, elvis presley,” you whisper, hand wrapped around him as you press a kiss to the tip.

he groans, head lulling to the side as your lips slowly wrap around him.

“i love you more, my golden girl.”

you take your time, affording him the luxury he’s given you so many times. you keep up your pace even as your jaw starts to ache.

elvis mutters obscenities now and then, his grip on your face never wavering.

as his hips start to stutter and he thrusts into your mouth, you feel your own wetness pooling beneath you.

he catches sight of the way you’re fidgeting, fighting your own release just from pleasing him, and that’s all it takes to send him over the edge.

you swallow, barely having time to register before he’s pulling you up, lifting your nightgown to your hips, and dragging your panties to the side.

he sits down on the edge of the bed, positioning you on top of him like it’s second nature.

you don’t waste any time sinking down onto him, lips pressed to his neck, sucking softly to keep quiet.

and for a little while, time doesn’t matter.

later, your grandmother returns, a folder in her hands. her eyes glint knowingly at the sight of you two curled up in bed, fully clothed but flushed.

she says nothing, choosing mercy over teasing.

“i figured it out,” she says. “the return cycle ends in three days. you need to be near the mirror by midnight on the third night. otherwise…”

“otherwise what?” elvis asks.

“it won’t open again until 2032.”

silence.

three days.

you reach for his hand, gripping it tightly.

the countdown has begun.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: here’s where life’s dreams lies disillusioned

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, the colonel, mild language, time travel, filler chapter, angst, implication of elvis’s death, & VERY light horror elements

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 930

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

you’re sitting on the front steps when you hear the crunch of gravel.

a car pulls up the driveway—long, black and heavy-looking, like a really fancy hearse. the late sun gleams off the hood. you squint, shielding your eyes.

the car door opens, and out steps a man who looks like he belongs in a smoke-filled poker room, not the calming green sprawl of graceland.

he’s tall, round in the middle, with a face like an old leather suitcase. his coat is too stiff for the southern heat, and his eyes scan the estate like he owns the damn place.

colonel tom parker.

you’ve seen the documentaries and heard the stories.

now he’s walking toward you like a storm in a suit.

“you must be the girl,” he says without offering a hand. his voice is thick, cloying, like syrup gone bad.

you rise, awkwardly.

“hi, i’m—”

“i know who you are,” he cuts in. “or rather, i know who you aren’t. you just showed up, didn’t you? out of thin air. like a magician’s trick.”

you freeze. his eyes narrow.

“people don’t just fall into elvis presley’s life without me hearing about it first. and yet, here you are. living in his house. wearing his shirts. playing girlfriend.”

“i’m not playing anything.”

“no?” he tilts his head, mocking. “where are your people? family? past? what’s your story, sweetheart?”

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“exactly,” he says, stepping closer. “whatever act you’re running, end it. now. before it ruins everything.”

you glare.

“elvis is a grown man. he can decide who he wants in his life.”

“he’s vulnerable,” parker snaps. “he’s tired, distracted, and losing ground with every movie flop and gossip rag. he doesn’t need another leech clinging to him while he slips.”

your breath stings in your chest.

“i see the way he looks at you,” he says lowly. “and it irks me. because when elvis falls, he falls hard. and it never ends well.”

he tips his hat like a threat.

“pack your bags, little girl. before you break something you can’t fix.”

*

that night, the house is quiet. too quiet.

elvis isn’t singing and the halls feel emptier than usual. even the chandeliers seem dimmer.

you find him in the music room, sitting at the piano, plunking out chords that don’t go anywhere.

“hey,” you say softly, easing in.

he doesn’t look up.

“colonel was here.”

“i know.” you nod, heart sinking.

“he told me you’re no good for me.”

you don’t answer.

“i’ve been thinkin’,” he says, voice hoarse. “maybe he’s right.”

“elvis…”

“i don’t know where you came from,” he says quietly. “one day i’m gettin’ through the usual crap, and the next day, there you are. in my life. in my bed.”

you cross the room and kneel beside the bench.

he finally looks at you—and god, he looks tired. the light in his eyes is dimmed by something heavier than fame.

“i’ve been losing pieces of myself for years,” he whispers. “they all take something. the fans. the colonel. the movies. and now…”

you reach for his hand, shaking your head harshly.

“i’m not here to take anything.”

he doesn’t pull away.

“i wish i could explain,” you murmur. “i wish i could tell you everything. but even if i could… i think you’d still doubt yourself. not me.”

he blinks.

“you are so loved, elvis,” you say. “even when the world makes you feel like a commodity. a joke. you’re not. you’re somebody’s whole world.”

his throat works around a soundless breath.

“i know you don’t always feel it,” you continue. “but you are more than the headlines. you are music. you’re the kind of soul that doesn’t come around more than once in a generation.”

“why do you talk like you’ve already mourned me?”

you freeze. he pulls his hand back, studying you.

“you say things like you’ve seen it all,” he mutters. “like you know what’s comin’.”

“elvis—”

“where did you come from, really?”

the question hangs there, dense with suspicion. before you can answer, the phone rings.

he stands, slowly.

“i’ll get it,” you stop him, voice shaking.

you pick up the receiver in the hallway.

“hello?”

“baby girl?” your grandmother’s voice says, breathless. “i think i found something. a letter. hidden in the mirror’s frame.”

you press the receiver tighter to your ear.

“what does it say?”

“it talks about the mirror being a passage, but not a stable one. there’s a cycle—once opened, it closes again. for decades.”

“decades?” your blood runs cold.

“there’s more,” she whispers. “it says the traveler must be near the mirror when the cycle resets. or they’re trapped.”

“when?”

“i’m still working that out, but we don’t have long.”

a pause.

“are you okay?” she asks softly.

you glance over your shoulder. elvis is standing in the hallway, half in the shadow, watching you with stormy eyes.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

*

that night, you lie beside elvis in silence. he’s distant. his body is warm, but his mind is far away.

you trace slow circles on his chest.

“elvis?”

“hmm?”

“promise me something.”

“what’s that?”

“promise you’ll never forget how much you matter.”

“to who?” he chuckles, bitterly.

“to me.”

a long pause fills the room. finally, he turns to you.

“i want to believe you,” he says. “but i feel like i’m reachin’ for someone i can’t fully see.”

you press your forehead to his.

“then hold on tighter.”

he kisses you once, soft and sad, and pulls you close.

you stare into the dark, knowing deep down you both feel it.

the shift. the slip. the unraveling thread.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨: dark shadows follow me

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, some fluff, & VERY light horror elements

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

the blood dries on your lip like a warning.

you scrub it off in a daze, your heart thudding loudly in your ears. the mirror is back to normal—just glass and your reflection staring back, confused and afraid.

you tiptoe back into the bedroom, wincing when elvis stirs in the sheets, his bare chest rising and falling beneath the tangle of covers.

even half-asleep, he looks like something painted in warm oil and gold.

you climb into bed and curl beside him, letting his body heat calm your panic. his arm drapes over you instinctively.

you bury your face into his shoulder, press a small kiss there, and will yourself to just take things one day at a time.

you wake up a couple of hours later to the smell of bacon.

sunlight spills through the curtains, soft and golden.

somewhere downstairs, there’s a clatter—metal against metal, the shuffle of feet.

you sit up slowly and stretch, your limbs sore in the best way. then, you pad barefoot toward the kitchen, each step a little steadier.

as you get closer, you hear him.

his voice is low, a little hoarse, humming “blue moon”.

he’s in a white t-shirt and pajama pants, spatula in hand, flipping eggs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“mornin’, honey,” he drawls, glancing over his shoulder. “you sleep like a lil’ angel.”

you smile, heart skipping.

“you cook?”

“can’t always be makin’ music. gotta feed the body sometimes, too.” he shrugs.

you perch on a stool, watching him move. he sets a plate in front of you shortly after.

you take a bite, eyes widening immediately.

“this is amazing, e.”

“i am a man of many talents,” he says, biting into toast with a grin. “you stick with me and you’ll be livin’ like a queen.”

you swallow thickly, your heart falling at the words.

if only.

*

by noon, elvis is out for a studio session. you’re left alone in graceland, pacing restlessly through its seemingly endless halls.

you need answers.

you find a phone book in elvis’s office and start flipping through it like a madwoman.

after some time, you find her: marian (l/n).

your grandmother. or… the woman who would become your grandmother.

you dial the number before you can overthink it.

a young voice answers after the third ring.

“hello?”

“hi… is this marian?”

there’s a pause.

“who’s asking?”

“it’s—uh—it’s complicated. i’m kind of… i think i’m your granddaughter,” you stutter, chewing your nails at the lack of her response. “okay, i know that sounds insane. but please, don’t hang up.”

“…where are you?”

“memphis.”

another beat of silence.

“i’ll come,” she finally says. “i’ll be there in an hour.”

you wait at a small coffee shop off union avenue, picking at a slice of lemon pie.

you’re half sure she won’t come, but then the door swings open and there she is.

young, beautiful, and around your age, maybe a few years older. she has the same eyes. same sharp chin.

she freezes when she sees you.

“oh my god,” she whispers. “you look like your mother.”

you smile, teary eyed.

“hi, grandma.”

“okay. tell me everything.”

so you do.

you talk for two hours straight.

you tell her about the mirror, the attic, the flash. the blood. the way the reflection wasn’t quite yours.

you tell her you woke up in 1960 and ran into elvis presley—the real elvis presley.

she listens without interrupting.

when you finish, she nods slowly, like she is trying very hard to process everything.

“i believe you.”

“wait. what?”

she leans in, beckoning you closer.

“that mirror? it’s been in our family for generations. it always gave me the creeps. felt like it was… watching.”

you stare, your heart pounding.

“there’s a tale,” she says. “my mama once told me it belonged to a woman who disappeared. said she stepped through it and never came back. i always thought she said that so i wouldn’t go near it and break it.”

“why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“who would believe it?” she says, sipping her coffee. “and now here you are. my granddaughter. lord.”

“you’re so young.” you can't help but say.

she smiles sadly.

“and you’re from the future. guess we’re both outta place.”

you laugh, and it feels like home.

“i don’t know how to get back,” you admit after the air falls silent again.

“we’ll figure it out,” she says firmly. “but you can’t stay here too long, i know that much. time… it’s delicate. being in the wrong era too long can do things to you. change you. hurt you.”

you nod slowly. she then grins, changing the subject.

“so, you’re sleepin’ with elvis presley?”

you choke on your coffee, sputtering into a napkin.

“i—i mean—we just—”

“sugar, if i looked like you and met him, i’d do the same damn thing.”

“you kind of do look like me,” you tease.

you both dissolve into laughter, heads pressed together over the table, the jukebox humming behind you.

when you get back to graceland, you find elvis on the back porch, wrapped in one of his more casual jackets.

“thought you ran off on me,” he murmurs, as you slide beside him on the steps.

you smile, leaning into him.

“had to meet someone.”

“oh yeah?” he teases. “you two-timin’ me already?”

“just a friend,” you lie, gently.

“good, ‘cause i’d hate to get jealous so soon.” he wraps an arm around you and tugs you closer.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“nah,” he says, brushing hair from your face. “i’m serious ‘bout you.”

your breath catches in your throat, eyes searching his for the truth.

“i don’t know what it is, darlin’. you show up like a dream and i just… i can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. you got me all turned ‘round.”

your chest tightens.

“me too.”

elvis leans in and kisses you, sweet and slow.

the real world and its troubles feel and far away.

*

you spend the next week tangled up in him.

over the span of 5 days, he takes you to the studio and lets you sit cross-legged in the booth while he sings, writes your name on napkins and draws little hearts beside it, brings you flowers, makes you grilled cheese at 2 a.m., and teaches you how to jitterbug in the living room.

“you’re a natural,” he says, holding your waist.

“you’re a good teacher,” you say, cheeks warm.

one night, he picks up his guitar and hums something new.

“wrote this thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

he plays the first verse—soft, unpolished. a love song without a name. every note burns under your skin.

you crawl into his lap and cup his face.

“it’s not everyday a girl gets to say elvis wrote a song for her. it’s enough to have me falling for you.”

“good,” he says, beaming. “’cause i’m already gone for you.”

but every night, the mirror haunts you.

the blood. the crackle. the distorted version of you staring back.

and every morning, you check.

on your eighth night at graceland, you lie in bed, elvis’s head on your stomach, his fingers strumming lazy chords on his guitar.

“i was thinkin’,” he says, “we should go to the fair. tomorrow. i could win you a teddy bear, get you some cotton candy. the whole thing.”

you lift your head. was that allowed? could it cause problems? not just with his career, but with the future.

“in public?”

“no, in private—yes, in public.” sarcasm drips from his tone as he grins.

“you really know how to romance a girl.”

“you like that sorta thing?”

“i like you.”

he sets the guitar aside and climbs up your body, eyes locked on yours.

“then you got nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

you kiss him like he’s your lifeline.

later, after he’s asleep, you tiptoe to the bathroom.

just to check.

you lean into the mirror, eyeing your reflection. still nothing.

you exhale, relief flooding your senses.

you blink, about to walk away when you see it.

a trickle from your nose.

to your horror, there’s more blood.

___

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ⌝

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞: i walk a thin line, darling

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, mentions of blood, mild language, time travel, VERY light horror elements, & sexual content - p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral (fem! receiving) - mdni

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.69k

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 𖥔 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

‧₊˚ ❀ ༉‧

you don’t know what happens first—the flash, the sound, or the sudden yank behind your navel like a hook dragging you out of your own body.

one minute you’re standing in your grandmother’s attic, brushing dust off a cracked mirror framed in gold filigree, and the next, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

the world spins, warps, and folds in on itself.

then—light.

blinding, searing light, followed by the neon buzz of signs flickering to life. heat radiates off the pavement as you hit the ground hard, knees scraping against sun-warmed concrete.

for a moment, there’s only static.

your breath. your heartbeat.

then music.

a familiar tune, faint but clear, drifting from the open doors of a nearby diner. “stuck on you,” by elvis presley.

your pulse kicks up, heart slamming against your ribs.

because when you lift your head, the world you once knew is gone.

gone are the suvs and the starbucks cups. gone is the 90s rap from someone’s boombox. in its place: a cadillac cruising past, women in shift dresses laughing, a gas station sign advertising 24 cents a gallon.

this isn’t 1996 anymore.

you scramble to your feet, your legs shaky, blood already drying on your shins. your eyes scan the street, suddenly hyper aware of the stares from passing strangers.

some of them are whispering, taking in your outfit: a crop top, platform sandals, and a mini backpack. like you were dropped straight out of a magazine no one’s printed yet.

you take off running, ducking into the first alley you can find.

panic tightens your throat.

you press your back against the wall, your hands shaking as you yank your walkman from your bag. you flip it open only to find it fried.

the cassette’s melted, warped beyond recognition.

you fumble for your id, your pager, your lip gloss, anything you can get your hands on, but they’re useless here.

you’re still trying to steady yourself when a voice cuts through the noise—low, rich, and unmistakable.

“you alright, darlin’?”

your head snaps up.

and there he is.

elvis presley, real and breathing.

he’s taller than you imagined, hair slicked just so, pitch black, and curled perfectly above his stormy eyes. he wears a black shirt that’s open at the chest, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. his hips are cocked in a lazy lean.

his eyes, dark and curious, soften with concern as they land on you.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, stepping closer.

you choke on your breath, nodding too quickly.

“i—uh—yeah. yes, i’m fine.”

his brow lifts, amused.

“you sure? it ain’t every day a girl like you stumbles outta thin air.” he smiles.

you blink. did he see it?

elvis just chuckles and pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket, offering it to you like a gentleman.

“you’re bleedin’, honey. knees got roughed up, huh?”

you glance down, barely registering the sting until now.

“th-thank you,” you stammer, taking the cloth with trembling fingers.

“where you from?” he asks, folding his arms. “not ‘round here, are ya?”

you panic.

“uh… california.”

“figure. you got that golden girl glow.” he grins, sticking out his hand. “name’s elvs.”

“i know.” you try to play cool. he lifts a brow, amused. his smile spreads, full of teeth and charm and something you can already feel pulling at your ribs.

“do ya now?”

you nod, trying not to collapse inward. you clutch the handkerchief like a lifeline.

“who doesn’t?”

he laughs, deep and warm.

“well, ain’t you somethin’. how ‘bout a soda, golden girl? you look like you seen a ghost.”

you hesitate, a broken laugh falling past your lips. he notices, but doesn’t press.

“i ain’t gonna bite,” he adds gently. “promise.”

you swallow, then nod.

*

the diner is a time capsule.

vinyl booths, checkered floors, and a jukebox crooning some lovesick melody. everyone greets elvis like royalty. he nods, waves, smiles back—but his eyes don’t leave you.

you sit across from him, fingers curling around a cold glass bottle of coca-cola.

“can’t say i’ve ever seen a girl dressed like you,” he muses, gaze flicking over your outfit. “it’s somethin’ else. pretty wild.”

“guess i like to stand out.” you laugh nervously.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.” he winks. “i stand out plenty myself.”

you sip your drink to hide your smile.

“so,” he says after a beat. “what brings you to memphis?”

you pause.

“honestly? i don’t know.” your voice dips. “just got turned around, i guess.”

he tilts his head, watching you like he’s trying to read a secret you don’t know how to tell.

“well, you’re in luck. you just so happened to run into the king.” he raises his bottle. “best tour guide there is.”

you laugh—really laugh, this time.

“is that what you call yourself? the king?”

“not me. the fans.” the singer says coyly, shrugging, “but i ain’t complainin’.”

you finish up at the diner shortly after.

elvis shows you around the city like it’s something sacred. you see the river, the neon lights, and beale street humming with blues. all sights you’d only ever seen in old pictures.

you fall into step beside him like you’ve always belonged there, his laughter warming the summer night. his hand brushes yours once, then twice. the second time, he doesn’t pull away.

and when he stops beside his car, a dreamy pink cadillac that sparkles under streetlights, he looks at you like he’s trying to be careful.

“you got a place to stay, darlin’?”

you falter.

he raises a hand quickly, noticing the discomfort on your face.

“it ain’t like that. i swear. just don’t sit right with me lettin’ a lady wander round memphis all alone.”

you bite your lip.

“look,” he says, softer, “i got a guest room at my place. graceland. it’s safe. big enough for ten of you.”

“elvis—” your heart stutters.

“call me crazy, honey, but i feel like we were meant to meet.”

that makes your breath catch.

before you can stop yourself, you nod.

*

graceland glows like something out of a movie. it’s even more breathtaking when you step inside, with its marble floors and velvet drapes.

elvis walks you through each of the rooms.

you barely hear his words—something about the chandelier, the piano, the jungle room—because your eyes keep drifting to him. the way his collar loosens. the rasp in his voice when he says your name. the way he looks at you like you’re already a song he’s trying to memorize.

you linger in the doorway to the guest room.

so does he.

“i had a good night,” he says, voice low, thumb brushing your wrist.

“me too.”

he doesn’t lean in.

so you do.

the kiss is soft at first. hesitant. his hands find your waist, and yours slide into his hair, body melting against his like wax under heat. he kisses you like he means it—slow, deep, unhurried.

like he’s got all the time in the world.

when it breaks, you’re breathless.

“you sure ‘bout this?” he whispers.

“yes,” you breathe.

elvis doesn’t waste a second, pulling you up the stairs to his room, laying you gently on the large bed.

his lips ghost over your face as he hovers above you, lustful eyes locking with yours.

for a second, it’s too real.

this—you—are probably just another one of his many girls.

you hate how easily it comes to him, how practiced it feels.

your brows furrow, a sudden, unjustified pool of jealousy twisting in your stomach.

that quickly fades when he begins to slip your jeans down your legs, his lips following suit.

you gasp when he presses a chaste kiss over the thin fabric between you, then slides your panties down and leaves you bare.

you clamp your eyes shut, a soft moan escaping when his mouth finally meets where you need him most.

you can’t believe this is real life.

elvis takes his time with you, has his way with you, his heavy sighs and tender praises being spoken into the crook of your neck.

your heart feels like it might leap out of your chest at how intense it all is—how selfless he’s being, how he makes sure you feel just as good as he does.

he turns you onto your stomach, an arm sliding beneath you to lift you just enough.

he pushes into you with an agonizingly slow rhythm, hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

your climax hits you hard, stars blinding your vision, fingers twisting in the sheets as a cry slips from your lips.

“atta girl.” he teases, a pleased chuckle rumbling in his chest.

elvis follows soon after, pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder as he pulls out.

you wake in his bed hours later, tangled in warm sheets and a satisfied tingle you can still feel echoing through your bones. elvis sleeps beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his breathing slow and even.

for a moment, you just lie there. memorizing the weight of him beside you. the way the moonlight hits the curve of his jaw. the stillness.

then—

something shifts.

a whisper under your skin. a pressure in your skull.

you slip from the bed quietly, the way you’ve done a dozen times in dreams. you pad barefoot to the bathroom, shivering a little in his shirt.

the bathroom is dim, moonlight silvering the tile.

you glance at yourself in the mirror, and that’s when you see it.

the blood.

a trail, dark and sticky, running from your nostril down to your lip.

your hand flies to your face. it’s not like normal blood, no. it’s darker. viscous. wrong.

a buzzing starts in your ears. the edges of your vision waver.

you grip the sink, the porcelain cold under your palms.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you peek around the corner—elvis is still asleep. peaceful. unaware.

you turn back to your reflection and the mirror flickers.

for just a split second, you see yourself not here. see the attic. the cracked gold filigree.

and behind you—something shifting.

something watching.

the mirror suddenly clears.

___

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫: long story short, this series was supposed to be uploaded in october as a halloween treat. finally got to finishing it, pls don’t let it flop :’)

꩜ taglist: @literally-just-elvis-fics @elvisslut @elvis-presleys-stuff