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crash-and-cure · 2 years ago

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Devil In Your Eyes (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: It’s a party and you’re invited to the mysterious and eclectic Mr. Preley’s estate, to properly meet your father’s employer.

A/N: This is based on this request here made by @itlover8000. And I know I promised to have the next part of If I Were You up, but I'll post later as to why it may take a little longer than originally planned. This one was a lot of fun to write, and I hope to god that I did the mafia aspect justice, while still keeping reader relatively in the dark. Let’s hope we don’t have a repeat of last time and it gets in the tags the first time. Also just to give a timeline as to the fic, in this story Elvis was pretty much drafted right before he met the colonel which halted his entire music career and he started his criminal one right after returning stateside. If you would like to be added to my taglist let me know!

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis but also introducing... Mafia Boss!Elvis, though he’s not called that in the story. There are themes of delusional, manipulative, and gaslighting behvaior depicted. Smut, including oral (f. recieving) and first time are depicted. Sexual tension galore. Implied violence toward reader’s father. Gratuitous but non-sexual use of the word Daddy, but more in the general southern sense of affectionately referring to one’s father. Reader is young but over 18 when she meets Elvis for the first time. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Word Count: 13.9k

My Masterlist

When you were young you asked your daddy what he did.

"I’m an accountant, little bug" he said with a kiss on your forehead.

When you were a little older, you asked him what does an accountant do?

"I handle money for other people Sweetheart,'" he would say as he looked at rows and rows of numbers that may as well have been hieroglyphics to you.

The boldest question you ever asked him was how much he made as an accountant. You asked because another girl had invited you over to her house and yours was nicer by far, which was weird because she had told you that her dad was an accountant as well.

He stiffened at that question, and it almost looked as though he were trembling. He took a swig of his drink and he would tell you "don't worry about where the money comes from Gem. Worry about where it's goin'."

Before you could argue further he reminded you of that upcoming school dance and how you deserve a real nice dress to go. That's how he would handle any follow up questions afterward.

You're daddy was an accountant, but you didn't live like an accountant's daughter. Your mama passed when you were real little and ever since then your daddy did his best to spoil you with the nicest jewelry, the finest clothes, and the fanciest schools in all of Memphis.You hardly even remember your mama, but that’s not something you say out loud anymore because of how sad he would get at that thought.

You’re given everything you could want, but these days it feels as though you’re rarely ever given what you actually want.

Gem he called you as a pet name, because even with all the money and wealth he had gotten over the years, he wanted you to know that you were his most precious. He had worked hard to raise you without a mama, and as an accountant he did his best to earn a living for you to thrive.

But not a lot of things about his job made sense. He never went to an office, some men would bring boxes and boxes of papers to your house, and would take others away. He rarely ever let you have friends over because he worried about them looking into said boxes. But the oddest thing about his job would be how the whole world seemed to stop the moment the phone rang.

The phone calls weren't that frequent all things considered, but he would drop any and everything to answer it. That was one of the few rules your house had, to always pick up the phone and to always hand it over if a Mr. Presley called. You’ve answered the phone a few times and heard from the mysterious Mr. Presley, but it was never more than a few words asking for daddy, who was always quick to drop whatever he was doing to answer the call. The conversation between the two of them would always be over before you even left the kitchen, and within minutes daddy would be out the door and be gone for a few hours.

When you were little you had a slight resentment toward Mr. Presley for how busy he kept your daddy, even going so far as to slip him a letter in one of those boxes when you were 8 or so, asking him to give your daddy less work so he can play with you more. That was one of the only times that your daddy had ever yelled at you, and it was apparently your polite tone and Mr. Presley’s good sense of humor that prevented your daddy from losing his job. Now his eccentric ways of doing business are the only thing keeping you from going stir-crazy and giving you some much needed breathing room from your daddy.

You were going to graduate this weekend, but you could hardly say you were looking forward to not being able to go to school anymore. Daddy seems to hover around you more and more these days, you guess, because he’s trying to keep you in the nest as long as possible at this point. These days it’s rare for you to even leave the house period, and forget about leaving the house without him.

Of course you tried to make the best of it, afterall you had spent years wishing he would be more present in your life, and not just in your house. But it’s hard not to feel embarrassed when your daddy is a constant looming presence at every dance and social event your senior year. He doesn’t even trust you anymore to be alone with your girlfriends, so forget about being with a boy.

It felt like you were hardly out of his sight anymore, and you were suffocating. Ironically enough the most freedom you had anymore was in school, where you didn’t have to worry about him listening in on your girl talk or chasing away every boy that even glanced your way. You had tried talking to him about it only to be met with some half-hearted apologies and promises to let up once you were out of high school. Though with how from how much he’s dissuaded you from making any plans over the summer due to a mysterious trip to he’s planning, you aren’t holding your breath.

Even the night before your graduation, you could hardly expect much. While your friends were out and about on the town, you were relegated to packing for said trip. The flight was on Sunday, and you were hoping to use your daddy’s promise of letting up to go properly celebrate with them after the ceremony.

You truly believed it was going to be a night like any other, until you hear a knock at the door only to find a decently sized gift box, with a large bow on top sitting at your front door. To Y/N written on the tag in beautiful calligraphy. With graduation being tomorrow it's not too surprising to receive a gift, but when you open it up you find a pair of masks (one a simple black domino mask, the other a beautifully embellished, soft blue venetian mask) and you’re confused by the gift until you find a thick piece of cardstock at the bottom of the box.

Huh, so Mr, Presley’s throwing a party, you think idly as you look at the invitation for you and your daddy. It’s odd and a bit rude that you received an invite the day of the party, but that doesn’t seem very out of character, when you consider the bizarre ways he does business. You know what Masquerade Balls were, you were gunning for it to be the theme when you were on the Prom committee, but ended up losing to Tina Fike’s Midnight in Paris theme.

Picking up the blue mask you can’t help but think as to how perfectly it matches your prom dress in color. You hadn’t been able to wear it due to the shop messing up the dates and not having it finished in time, so your only option was to wear one of their loaner dresses that didn’t quite fit right. They ended up finishing the dress by the next Saturday, and it’s sat in your closet, unworn, taunting you ever since.

It seems like the stars have finally aligned, and considering that this is from Mr. Presley, there is absolutely no way your daddy would refuse an invitation from him. He’s been called in for business in the middle of the night, you doubt this will even register as being unusual to him.

“Daddy! Daddy, look what just came!” you exclaim, bursting into his office. You don’t even question why the invitation was addressed specifically to you, and not him. Nor why you see the blood drain from his face as he reads the letter. You’re busy picturing what will undoubtedly be the ball of your dreams.

“Gem, uhhh….” he swallows hard at this one. “Your graduation tomor-”

“Oh I know,” you cut him off. “But since it’s at noon, I figure it won’t be too bad if we stay up a little later.” You say as you turn around to start rifling through his suits, to find something appropriately black tie for him to wear.

“Baby, I…” he swallows hard. “I got the dates wrong for the tickets. Our flights leave at 6 tomorrow morning,” he said with a sad pitying look on his face.

“...but my graduation is at noon tomorrow.”

“I know,” he says solemnly.

“...”

“Oh.”

“Sweetheart, I know you’re upset,” he says, reaching for you, but you jerk yourself away.

“I’m not,” you reply, your voice cracking as you try to hold back your tears as best as you can.

“I know, Baby girl,” he said, bringing you closer to his shoulder. “But you gotta trust me when I say that this is for the best. I’ll explain everything when we get there, but for now,” he says, giving you a sad kiss to your forehead, “Just go finish packing.”

“...ok daddy.”

You had been packed and ready for weeks by this point, so as you lay in bed, you try to justify it in your head, try to imagine where this mysterious place he was taking you could be that would warrant skipping your graduation ceremony and missing what could be the last time you would see many of your friends. But short of the moon, you can’t. Anywhere in the world you could be, but the one place you want to be tomorrow is with all of them.

So a grand party, your graduation, and possibly the last time you would be seeing many of your friends are all the things you wanted but would miss, in favor of something you didn’t even want in the first place.

You hold up the blue mask in front of your face and you imagine the kind of party it would be. Your mind conjures up the most lavish of gowns and the best music. The riveting conversations to be had and the interesting people to meet. The more you thought about it the more tantalizing it became. But you quickly scrub those useless ideas in your head.

It’s a party for daddy’s boss, you think to yourself. What could be more boring than that?

Not to mention, even if you did go, you recall how boring of a time you had at your prom as you could practically feel your daddy breathing down your neck the whole time.

But daddy was still here, you didn’t hear any of the usual sounds for when he was about to leave and you would be forced to stay with Old Mrs. Sack next door. So he’s staying home, is what you think. This would mark the first time you’ve ever seen your daddy reject an invitation from Mr. Presley.

Well he wasn’t technically invited, you were… your eyes snapped open at that thought. So really it would be on the invited person as to whether or not you would go, so technically you could go on your own. You aren’t his plus one, he’s yours.

It’s a party for his boss, you argue with yourself, so it’s not as though you would be able to go without him. At that moment, do you realize that it'll be the first time in almost a year since you’ve done anything without him practically trying to hold your hand. You think you know why your freedom has been severely stifled as of late and it all stems from a single act of rebellion almost a year ago to the day.

You remember last summer when your daddy had pulled you out of school early claiming it was going to be an early summer vacation. But what proceeded was perhaps the worst week of your life. During the days when he wasn’t driving for hours on end, he was glancing over his shoulder wherever you were stopped at. And those nights he would hardly sleep a wink in the rundown motels you would be stopped at, and you could hardly blame him because you were very much in the same boat. Worst of all was how little you knew about the whole situation, and you hated how even within the confined space of the car he was somehow still able to dodge the questions you had.

Where are we going?

Why now?

When will we be going home?

By the end of the week you were at the end of your rope and wanted to go home, you missed your bed, you missed your friends, and you were bored out of your mind within the motel. There was only so much TV you could handle before your brain would start dripping out of your ears, and you had already read the few books you had managed to grab before daddy forced you out of the house, a couple times each at this point.

Your daddy was never one to deny you anything you asked for, and so knowing the power of your requests, you never tried to push it. Even when he showered you with gifts, you were careful to accept it but not ask for much else. So it was jarring that of the few requests you have made on this trip, all of them were rejected, in spite of the fact that they were all relatively simple. A request to stop at some corny roadside attraction. No, it’s a waste of time. A new book from that store across from the service station. No, we’re trying to save money. A quick dip into the motel pool. No, you’ll get pink eye.

This one was especially infuriating due to the disgustingly hot summer night you found yourself in, one that makes your sweat sticky and your clothes cling to your body. To add further insult to injury the room your daddy rented was seemingly the only room without a working AC. He was somehow able to fall asleep with the TV still on and you took the opportunity to stare longingly at the pool of the El Rey motel in the middle of who knows Texas, doing your best to ignore the uncomfortable tacky feeling of your shirt.

You hadn’t been allowed to do anything this whole trip, and you’re sick of it. His latest excuse being your breaking point, treating you like some little kid that didn’t know any better. You had just turned eighteen and yet he still insists on treating you like a little girl. This is your last summer before your senior year of high school, and you’re spending it without your friends far from home.

But… did you really need his permission?

Fine, you thought as you gazed at the temptingly blue pool right outside your window. If he ain’t gonna listen to me, then I don’t gotta listen to him. People can call you spoiled all they want, but you thought you were at the very least entitled to water in the desert.

You grabbed a hold of one of the towels in the bathroom and tip-toed past your daddy’s bed as he sleeps like a corpse, and closed the door to your room as you left as quietly as you could. There weren’t that many cars in sight and not a soul to be seen, and with it being well past midnight you figured the coast was clear for your little act of rebellion as you padded your way barefoot across the parking lot pavement.

You didn’t pack a swimsuit with you, didn’t have the time to, but you figure your regular underwear covers about as much as it would. You still double and triple check that you’re alone and no lights are on and no windows are open in the surrounding rooms. The humid night air makes the pool all the more inviting and you quickly shimmy out of your skirt and peel your blouse off your body and before you can lose your nerve you jump into the pool.

It’s a nice shock to your system with the water being cool but not frigid, and as you opened your eyes beneath the water you felt like you were transported to a different world entirely. The light coming from the pool didn’t help clear your blurry vision, but as you look up and see the night sky meet the surface of the water, it looks as though there is no distance separating the two. As though your hand could break the top of the water and you would suddenly find yourself out amongst the stars.

It should be terrifying, but it’s not. In fact it's exhilarating. There’s no one here but you and the unjudging night. You feel like you’re the only person alive and as you breach the surface of the water to take a deep satisfying breath you feel reborn. You feel freer than you ever have been, you're not the perfect unquestioning daughter any longer, you’re a woman who can demand answers and leave if she so chooses.

You were always a good girl, and always listened to your daddy, because you wanted to feel like you deserved what he gave you. But all that pales in comparison to the intoxicating feeling this act of rebellion fills you with, and wanting to make this feeling last, you forgo your original plan of a quick dip and choose to make the most of your time there. You do your best to try to swim like a mermaid. You swim to the bottom to get a feel of the pool tiles that make up the palm tree design. You repeatedly try to break your own record for holding your breath, and you let yourself float to the surface and enjoy the view of the night sky above and the liberating feeling of being weightless.

But it’s the slight burning aroma in the air that drags you back down to Earth. It smells like tobacco and leather and various other spices you can’t quite place. You raise your head out of the water and look around to find the source of the fragrance. The chlorine has made your vision a bit hazy, but you can see clearly enough to see the handsome man dressed all in black, save for a blood red tie, sitting near the pool and chewing on a cigar.

Your first instinct, stupidly enough, is to duck back into the pool and hope he goes away, but that hope dies as quickly as you begin to feel the burning in your lungs for oxygen. You tentatively surface figuring you’ve been caught already, no use in denying it.

“I didn’t realize there were pool hours,” you say through your teeth.

The handsome stranger gives an amused huff at that. “Now that’s a lie if I ever heard one,” he states, a small smirk creeping up on his face. “Don’t worry Darlin’. I won’t tell if you don’t.” he says, using his cigar to point behind you where you find a no smoking sign. You let out a small giggle, some of the tension sapping out of you as at this little conspiracy you hold with this stranger.

“Sorry, I ain’t used to doin’ that,” you say, casting your eyes downward where you finally realize how your cotton bra became slightly see-through, and you pray that he’s too far away to notice. He raises an eyebrow at your answer.

“That I believe,” he chuckles. “So you’re a good girl afterall,” he remarks, and something lights up within you as he says that. The closest you’ve ever felt to this was when you had been kissing Mickey, your next door neighbor, at your friend Jasmine’s birthday party. It had been a simple game of spin the bottle and the kiss had started innocently enough in that hallway closet, as you were too shy to do so in front of everyone. Though it quickly turned into something more when he had put his hand on your lower back to bring you closer to him and something akin to lightning crackled underneath his touch and up your spine. The feeling had been so intense that you audibly gasped and pulled away from him, and now that same sensation runs through your body again.

What was scariest most of all was that this man was able to cause this with his voice alone, a good five feet away from you.

“Not always,” you answer, your voice only slightly cracking in nervousness. You swim closer to where he’s sitting, in part to hide yourself from his view, though mostly to hear him better, as you’re inexplicably drawn to him.

He chuckles at your answer, “Now that’s the biggest lie I ever heard,” he tells you, sure in his assessment of you despite the fact he hasn’t even known you for more than a minute. You're caught between being flustered and offended, at how accurate it is.

“What gave me away?” You ask not to be snippy, but genuinely curious, how he was able to have you pegged so quickly.

“Between your big ole’ doe eyes and your school girl get-up right here,” he said gesturing to the clothes you had haphazardly left on the deck chair. “Figured you’re too honest for your own good.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

He looks a bit taken aback by your response, before he gives an amused sigh, “No. Fact it’s a little refreshin’ to know people like you still exist. I’m Elvis by the way.”

“Well Elvis, you still haven’t answered my question.”

His lips curl up, amused at your boldness. “It can be, if you meet the wrong sorts.”

“And are you the wrong sorts?”

“Y’know you ask a lotta questions for someone whose name I don’t even know,” he remarks, though his smile keeps the tone light. “But to answer your question, it depends on who ya’ ask.”

“Well, I’m Y/N and if you ask me you look like a decent man.”

“And who taught ya’ what decent men look like?” he says as he leans closer to you, resting his elbows on his knees,

“My daddy, “ you say earnestly. “He’s a good, honest man, so I know what to look out for.”

He narrows his eyes at that as he takes a puff of his cigar. You’ve never been a good liar, never quite figuring out what your apparently obvious tell was, but everyone you've ever met is apparently able to. But whatever it is he was looking for he apparently found, as he proceeds to ask, “So what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ all the way down in bumfuck Texas?”

“Oh umm…” you say, momentarily shocked by his free use of such language. “I’m with my daddy on vacation.”

“No kiddin’, where y’all headed to?”

“I honestly don’t know,” you sigh, putting your head down on your arms resting on the pool's edge. “He says he wants to keep it a surprise.”

“You havin’ any fun?”

“...yes?”

“Now that’s three times you tried lyin’ to me sweetheart,” he chuckles. “One more time, and I may not be so kind.” You don’t really understand why that made your breath quicken.

“You don’t even know my name,” you argue, sinking slightly so that he wouldn’t so easily see his effect on you. “How do you figure you know me so well?”

“I work just about everywhere, and part of my job is knowin’ a good liar from a bad one,” he explains. “And you sweetheart are one a the worst I ever seen.”

“What do you even know about lying?” you ask, a bit defensive of the truth.

“I know how to do it right,” he states genially, before raising an eyebrow to blow some smoke out of his nose. “I can teach you if you want?” You’re at a bit of a loss, though you quickly shake your head yes as you figure what’s the harm in hearing him speak.

Now that you’re getting a better look and the chlorine is seeping out of your eyes, you can truly see how attractive he is. He’s the scary type of good-looking, the type that makes it hard to look at him for too long, lest all your breath be taken from your chest. You have to consciously rip your eyes away from his face several times so that you don’t get too caught up in it. Truly he’s not like any man you’ve ever met before, but that’s not saying much considering how little you ever really interact with men. Sure there are boys your own age, and a few teachers here and there but, none of them talk with you so candidly, ironically enough given that this is a conversation about lies.

“Now the key to lyin’ is to always sprinkle it in with the truth,” he would say. You liked the way he spoke to you, not just because of how he sounds, but because of the way he treated you as you spoke. When he spoke to you, he made it feel as though he were passing on the secrets of the universe to you, and you just about hung onto every single word he uttered. You even bring most of your body out of the water simply to hear him better.

“Why don’t we play a game now lil’ one?” you face heating up slightly with that nickname he gave you. “Two lies and a truth.”

“Isn’t it two truths and a lie?”

“Usually, but you need to get better at the lyin’ bit, so we’re gon’ do it the other way.” he says with a small chuckle.

“Ok,” you say as you exit the pool. “But you go first, and show me how it’s done.”

His lip curls up into a full blown smile, but it quickly drops and he fixes his gaze on the sky. You’re confused at his reaction until you glance down and remember you’re not wearing a proper swimsuit. You scramble forward and do your best to quickly dry off and put your clothes back on all the while as Elvis keeps his eyes closed like a gentleman.

“Thank you,” you said quickly as you sat down and draped the soaked towel over your shoulders to hide the way your shirt clings to your wet brassiere. “Why do I even need to learn how to lie?”

“Sweetheart, take it from someone who knows what the world’s like,” he says. “Being good and honest won’t get you shit in life, especially not what you want.”

“Well…” you swallow unsure of your next words. “Now I think that’s a lie,” you say boldly.

He quirks a brow at this, and a bit of satisfied smile can also be just barely perceived as he is evidently impressed with your ability to stand up to him. “Y’know people are gonna be stirrin’ real soon, why don’t we head up to my room and finish up this game properly,” he offers casually, as though he was offering you a stick of gum.

You’re absolutely struck dumb by that question. Of course you’re not so naive as to what’s on his mind, you got the same wait till marriage speech every other girl in Sunday school got. And as adamant as you were that you would, it’s a very different situation to face now that the hypothetical has become a reality.

To say the least, that man had ignited something within you that you’re not sure how to say no to.

Scratch that.

You’re not sure you want to say no to.

“Y/N?”

You whip around so fast when you hear that familiar voice behind you. Your daddy is standing at the doorway, eyes darting between you and Elvis and he looks like he’s close to passing out. “Hi, Daddy, I-I uh…” your mind blanking, everything Elvis had just taught you about how to lie. “This-this isn’t what it l-looks like?” you say, but your tone makes it sound more like a question. A quick glance at Elvis sees him pursing his lips in a futile attempt to hide his smile, at your miserable excuse for a lie.

You look back at your daddy to find that his stare is focused solely on Elvis, who as of right now has perhaps the most easy-going expression in the world.

“Get inside and dry yourself off, gem. I don’t want you gettin’ sick.” he would tell you forlornly.

“Yes, daddy,” you answer obediently. Though it was as you were about to enter the room did you look back to Elvis still having not moved from his seat, whose focus is still solely on you, not even acknowledging your daddy. You want to say goodbye to him, but you're stopped by a familiar hand on your shoulder.

“Head inside, Y/N,” he says, his voice detached and his eyes distant. “I’m gonna have a few words with that man.”

You expected him to be angry at you, and if you’re being honest, a part of you you wanted him to be. And it was for a selfish reason of just wanting something to justify you breaking the rules in some way. But this is worse, he’s not mad, he’s not even disappointed. He looks heartbroken, seeing you with Elvis out there, knowing you didn’t listen to him.

You’re under the cool spray of the showerhead for a good half hour trying your best to scrub the chlorine smell off of your skin and waiting for that heat in your belly that Elvis caused to die down. You find your daddy sitting facing the window, and you can just barely make out his reflection in the window. There is a solemn expression on his face as he fixes his gaze out toward the pool area.

“Gem, I-I know you ain’t been havin’ any fun on this here trip,” he would say, not turning around to face you. “Believe me when I say we were going for a good reason,” you try not to perk up at his use of past tense, but you can’t help it. “Bu-but things changed sweetheart, and it’s up to you.”

“Up to me to what?” you ask.

There is a bit of a pause at that, and if it weren’t for that look of pain that you see in his reflection as you said that, you may have even thought he hadn’t heard you. “...To choose if we go home or not.”

“Oh…” you say, unsure of this offer. Choice is not exactly something you’re used to with daddy, aside from the occasional “pick your favorite color.” So you’re shocked at the question to say the least having fully expected to simply suffer through the rest of this trip and hope the destination was worth it. But you’ve never been a good liar in your life. “Yes, I do daddy.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep long breath before you see him nod his head, still not turning around to face you. “Well… that’s that then…” he says, as though he’s resolved himself to something, though you don’t know what. “I-I’m gonna go… settle up with the office right now. You get some rest cuz we’ll be heading home come mornin’.” Not wanting to jinx it, you follow his orders and lay down back on the scratchy sheets.

The guilt still eats at you, and as he opens the door, you quickly apologize to him for your disobedience, but his nod of acknowledgement does little to ease that uneasy feeling in your belly.

The trip back was in some ways better this time around, but you could hardly say that it was any more bearable. Daddy warnings came true and you woke up with a pretty bad bout of pink eye, but he wasn’t so stingy about either his time or money so stops were frequent. You were well beyond the age that you should enjoy the cheesy tourist traps, but they are welcome reliefs to the hours long car rides wrought with silence that would follow you and daddy from state to state. Not to mention you’re actually aware of your intended destination this time around, but you do your best to stamp down the burning questions within as to why such a heel turn, especially since the change in plans came immediately after your little stunt.

If he was mad at you, you wish he would just say so, but you can’t even sum it up to that anymore considering the way he looks at you sometimes. There was always a bit of a quiet sadness in his eyes when he looked at you that never quite left even once you got home. He got better and better at hiding it after you brought it up to him but you would still on occasion find that expression on his face from time to time when he thought you weren’t looking. Your best guess is that you’re starting to look more like your mama.

There were some nights where you would wonder if any of this new treatment from your daddy would have happened had you simply not gone into that pool, or even simply gotten out when you had promised yourself you would. You’d like to believe if you had known that that dive would have been your last taste of freedom, you would have done a better job at savoring it. That being said, when you caught a pair of icy blue eyes watching you and your daddy leave the El Rey motel, you couldn’t find it in yourself to regret anything about that night.

Daddy was being even more tight-lipped as to what this trip is about this time around. What’s worse, is that he’s not describing the trip as fun or even necessarily relaxing, just “necessary.” with no further explanation.

Elvis’ words about what happens to good and honest people ring in your mind. And as you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, you ponder whether or not there was any truth to that statement.

You want to go to this party, if for the simple reason that you would like to dress up and have some fun. You want to go to your graduation ceremony, because you worked hard to finish school, and want to see the fruits of your labor. You want to celebrate with your friends for what may very well be the last time, because… because… well because you want to and it doesn’t seem like too much to ask for.

In another life they all aligned perfectly so that you would be able to do all three of these things, but you live in this life and a stupid flight for a trip you didn’t even want in the first place took priority over all of it.

Of course… that is if you get on that flight.

No that’s crazy, you think to yourself. You have to be on that flight tomorrow morning, which is why you need to be ready to leave and so you have to go to bed early. It would be a real shame if you were out so long and slept through the flight.

Maybe… maybe if I did stay out long enough and we miss the flight… There wouldn’t be any reason why I couldn’t go to the Graduation ceremony. You feel awful for these thoughts, and you recognize how sneaky and manipulative the plan forming in your head is. You do your best to ignore them by trying to remember how much your daddy wanted to go. But you want to be with your friends tomorrow, you want to graduate, and see them off properly, because your daddy hasn’t given you a clue as to when you would be coming back.

People have always remarked how lucky you were of all the things you have in your life, but you’ve always known that there was a difference between taking what you’re given and getting what you want. Every fancy or expensive thing you own comes with a story. They’re really all the same, daddy missed a school thing, a recital, a birthday, etc., because of work and in return he would give you something expensive in lieu of his absence.

You were of course grateful for these things but all you ever really wanted was your daddy there. So you always tried to strive towards earning your keep with good grades, good attitude, good social standing, truly all the markings of a perfect daughter. All of this done in an effort to earn his presence.

And what has the perfect daughter earned? You think bitterly to yourself as you pack your outfit into a garment bag. You quickly fix your hair up all fancy like and fix your makeup, all the while planning your escape route.

It’s truly a miracle that you were able to make your way out of your bedroom window without a scratch, but you’re not about to count your blessings yet, as your plan hinges on being able to get there, and you have no idea how to drive. But you know someone who does, which is how you find yourself pounding on Mickey’s front door.

He was the typical boy next door type who was your first kiss as well as the kid who put bugs in your hair when you were little. He was home from college for the summer with his shiny Lincoln Continental, his daddy gave you and according to his little sister, very sweet on you. He was therefore the best/only candidate as your date to this thing. You were lucky enough that he almost immediately agreed, and bolted upstairs to grab a suit to wear. You’re on a bit of a time crunch, so you quickly change in his little sister's room, and before you know it the both of you are on the road.

“S-so Y/N, who-whose party is this anyway?” he stutters out once, while stiffly but trying to appear casually resting his arm behind your seat.

“Oh my daddy’s boss,” you say casually. “I don’t know his full name, I just know him as Mr. Presley.”

He goes a bit, bug-eyed at your statement. “Re-really?”

You confirm, a bit confused at his reaction. “Do you know him?”

He restlessly taps at the steering wheel, before swallowing and saying that he knows of him. “Di-did he invite you personally?”

“Yeah,” you say, and you show him the invitation that was addressed to you personally. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” he responds, the worry still evident in his voice. “Does your dad know you’re goin’ there.”

You swallow, nervous at this new line of questioning. “...yes,” you answer looking out the window to avoid being seen by him.

“Does he know I’m with you right now?”

Your tongue is weighed down by the lies, and you’re unable to speak, so you merely hum in the affirmative.

“Hmm…” is all he responds, and the conversation peters out after that, with the only sounds to be heard being the hum of the engine and his anxious rapping of his fingers, as the two of you make your way to the big white house in Whitehaven.

Finally you come upon the bronze gates of the eye-catching estate. You show the Valet your invitation and they let you through easily, and you’re too busy marveling at the grand residence before you, that you failed to notice the way Mickey seemed to be sweating through his suit right next to you. No, you're occupied by trying to get the mask to sit just right to notice, and when you hand over the domino mask, he declines stating he’ll put it on after he parks the car. He tells you to go on ahead without him, and so lost to your excitement, you do just that, trusting that you would meet up with him soon.

As you made your way to the back of the house, your mind was already conjuring up this ideal image of your grand entrance to the party, where everyone would stop what they were doing to marvel at your beauty. Where you would be the mysterious unknown woman who had just arrived and took everyone’s breath away.

You realize your folly when you actually do come into view of the gathering at large and many people do notice your arrival. It’s not as flattering as you would have thought, and regret starts to seep into your belly.

The men wore pretty standard tuxedos, while the women were all wearing bold reds, striking golds, or even sophisticated black dresses, making you and your soft blue and white prom dress stick out like a sore thumb. It was almost like you had “outsider” written on your forehead. The men don’t really see you or actively look away from you and the many women look like they want to rip your hair out or pinch your cheeks. Despite how perfectly the dress fits you feel like that little girl who tried walking around the house in her sick mama's shoes, trying desperately to get her to smile, only to end up twisting her ankle, and making mama worry more.

You overhear some people say how celebrities like BB King, Johnny Cash, and even Frank Sinatra were present, and this just further tightens the knot in your stomach, and you wonder what you are even doing here.

Not even a full half hour and you’re ready to leave, as you’ve never been put into a situation where you don’t know a single person and you’re far from comfortable simply inserting yourself into conversations. You search to find Mickey, but in spite of the fact that he had worn a pretty distinct suit, you can find neither hide nor hair of him.

This was all too much to handle on your own and you’re silently cursing your earlier, bolder self. The entire floor seems to fall silent for a moment and everyone else’s attention is drawn to one direction for a moment. All except for you, as you take this opportunity to make your way outside of the party to gather yourself. Why did you think this would be a good idea? To go to a party where the few you could only vaguely recognize some, and know not even a single name? You remove your mask, ashamed you ever thought you would be able to pass yourself off as a woman and not the child you were.

All of these doubts are only further compounded as you feel a tap on your bare shoulder. “Pretty sure the point of these things is to wear a mask,” a voice like honey whispers near your ear. You’re so scared that you’ve unknowingly broken a cardinal rule and that you were about to be kicked out, though this eases somewhat as you see a light quirk on this stranger's lips.

Unlike the other men you’d seen at the party, he didn’t wear a simple black mask, no his was far more ornate, and with the burnt burgundy color to match his tie, in stark contrast to his all black suit, overall giving him a very devilish look. Whether it’s the perfectly coiffed hair or the plush lips, something about him feels deeply familiar.

You’re not able to pinpoint what exactly until you're finally caught by his icy blue gaze that was almost entirely muted by the red of his mask. “Elvis?” And when he gives you that devastating grin of his you launch yourself into him to wrap him in a hug. “What are you doing here?” you question, though you’re glad nonetheless to find at least one somewhat familiar face in a sea of masks.

“Like I said I do business everywhere, ‘specially in Memphis,” he said, pulling away to answer you yet his hands remain on your hips.

“Oh so you know Mr. Presley?”

He looks taken aback at your question for the briefest of seconds, before a soft smirk crosses his face. “You can say somethin’ like that,” thoroughly charmed by you. “So whatcha you doin’ in a place like this all by your lonesome?”

You let out a tired sigh before giving a sad smile and saying, “I don’t even know, anymore.”

You feel him put a finger under your chin, and you're brought to look him in the face. He looked genuinely concerned for you as he asked you “hey, now what’s wrong lil’ one?”

“Nothing,” you say, trying to dismiss his concerns.

He gives an amused chuckle, and he sounds mighty satisfied with himself as he says, “Still ain’t gotten any better at lyin’, huh Y/N?”

That does get a laugh out of you, albeit a sorry imitation of one. “Can’t believe that’s what you remember about me,” you say.

“I remember alotta things darlin’” he says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Despite the fact that you’ve only met him twice in total, you know that there is no use in lying to him. So that’s how you find yourself regaling this man with your teenage woes as well as your devious plan to circumvent your fathers wishes. Elvis luckily enough is sympathetic to your plight, and seems thoroughly unimpressed with your fathers reasoning as to why you’re going to miss a major milestone in your life. “This was a bad idea.”

“Nah, it wasn’t a bad idea,” he reassures. “So-so execution, but not a bad plan.”

“I really should just go home,” you say, shaking your head. You try to turn away from him, only to be lead by the waist back to the party.

“Tell you what, Satnin,” he says. “I’ll take ya’ home by the end of the night. But first you gotta do somethin’ for me.” A devilish smirk crosses his face when he sees your breath quicken. “I want you to be my date.”

“What?”

“Well the flaw in your plan was, you don’t know anybody else,” he says. “But you know me, and I can make the proper introductions to everyone back there and you don’t gotta be Johnny’s daughter, you can be my new girl.”

He reaches to take the mask in your hand and steps behind you to put it in place. The more you think about his offer the more it makes sense. You’re alone here, and you could use a friend right about now, and it makes sense for said friend to be someone who is intimately familiar with this sort of lifestyle.

“What'dya say, darlin’,” he says as he quickly fastens the ribbon of your mask in place. “When you wear this mask here you can pretend to be anyone you want to be. So why not pretend to be my date?” He offers his hand to you and you hardly even hesitate a moment to take his hand.

Elvis is able to talk you through how to walk, talk, and overall, how to act like you belong here in the slightest. He doesn’t mind you practically clinging to his arm for most of the night, and he is able to make introductions to almost everybody attending. Elvis even introduces you to the mysterious Mr. Presley, a soft-spoken salt and pepper haired gentleman, who insists on being called Vernon. You hope your face doesn’t show it, but this is far from the man you always imagined in your head, the man whose name alone could make your daddy quake in his boots.

Though whatever thoughts you have about your host is quickly wiped away as Elvis quickly moves you to the next, more interesting guest. People have a tendency to gravitate towards Elvis, offering their congratulations to him, and remarks on how you’re one lucky lady. You bask in this, as for what for the first time in your life, people look at you and don’t see a child they see a woman.

It is around midnight when your good mood comes to a screeching halt, as you hear a loud commotion coming from the front of the party. “Y/N!? Y/N!? Where are you!” you hear your daddy yell amongst the crowd, accosting several women with even a passing resemblance to you. You quickly try to shield your face with your hand for all the good it would do, your face burning in humiliation.

Elvis seeing your distress quickly takes you by the elbow and leads you out of the bright lights of the dance floor, and into the shadows of the outside, and before you know it he’s leading you through the backdoors of the grand house.

“I don’t think we’re allowed in here.” you whisper to him as you still continue to follow his lead.

“Trust me, baby,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders, where you notice an open bottle of champagne. “Boss man won’t mind too much.”

“What’s this party for anyway?” you ask as you relieve yourself of the shoes you had been wearing, and take a seat next to him on the ground beside the couch.

“Mr. Presley’s gettin’ hitched tomorrow.” he says flippantly, all the while removing his mask.

“Oh…” you say, glancing down at your blue and white dress. “Oh dear lord, and I showed up in white,” you say, burying your face in your hands, embarrassed beyond belief at your faux pas.

“Don’t think nothin’ of it baby,” he says, taking your chin in his hand, to bring you to look at him. “Most a the folks out there don’t even know. ‘Sides you dressed all in blue brings back some nice memories a Texas.”

“I wasn’t exactly wearing blue, back then.”

“You weren’t exactly wearin’ much a anythin’,” he says with a coy grin, and you swat at his shoulder in retaliation. “Y’know, I been thinkin’ a lot ‘boutchu this past year and what you said ‘bout bein’ honest.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, bringing your hand up to his lips. “I realized I needed more honest people in my life.”

“Oh,” you answer simply, unsure as to how to really respond to that. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“But enough ‘bout that. You remember that game we tried playin’ back in Texas?”

“The lying one?”

“That’s the one. Let’s play that again, ‘cept this time we’ll make it a little more interesting.” With a soft smile he holds up the half-filled bottle of champagne, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he says, “you guess wrong or the other person gets it right, you gotta take a hit of this.” You think only for a moment, before ultimately agreeing, not wanting the night to end just yet.

You didn’t expect to win, but you didn’t expect to lose so miserably. He’s able to suss out any and all lies you state. He even changes the game midway to have it be two truths and a lie, hoping you’ll fare better with only needing to tell one lie rather than two. The few swigs he takes are from when you take your chances and randomly guess as to the true or false statement he’s making. And even then you get the impression it’s more to humor you.

Though as the bottle dwindles, you find yourself becoming bolder with both your lies and your truths, but it was all in an effort to keep up with how fantastical his statements were getting, not just the lies, but the truths as well. It really puts into perspective the kind of life he’s lived compared to you where any of the stories he tells you would be the craziest thing to have happened to anyone, yet they all somehow happened to him.

“I got played on the radio. I’m the most feared man here. I dodged the draft.” He said in one round, nothing about his body language giving him away, but with the amount of champagne you had you doubt you’d have picked up on them anyway. You also can’t quite remember at this point if it was two truths and a lie or two lies and a truth. With his fiendish attitude and rebellious nature you figure it was the last one and you tell him as much.

“Nah, darlin’, I did my due diligence for the country. Wish I didn’t sometimes, but that’s a whole other story.”

“Wait… you got played on the radio?” The idea of which was mind-blowing to you, but what was more shocking was his sudden shy demeanor.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, fiddling with one of his rings. “It was a small thing, song didn’t even make it outta the south.”

“Could you play something for me,” you ask, doing your best impression of a doe. You already like the way he speaks, so you can only imagine how it would sound for him to sing.

His eyes grow soft, at your request, and you're reminded of the pool at the El Rey Motel. How inviting those waters were, and how it felt almost like a cool balm on your restless soul.

“Maybe next time sweetheart,” he says. “‘Sides it’s your turn, and you ain’t even taken your shot yet,” handing the bottle, where you realize, there is perhaps only a mouthful or two left of the bubbly concoction, and it’s your turn.

“Ok, hmm…” you muse, after you had taken your drink, swirling the remnants in the bottle. Point wise, you have already most definitely lost the game, but that doesn’t mean you’re about to call it.

What was it he said about what makes a good lie? You internally ask yourself, trying to remember that little tidbit he gave you almost a year ago. That there’s always a bit of truth sprinkled within. And it’s as you remember this, that an idea suddenly strikes you.

“2 truths and a lie,” you announce to him. “I can’t ride a bike. My favorite candy is Lemonheads. And…” you hesitate, but power through before you lose your nerve completely. “And… I want to kiss you right now,” you’re finally able to stutter out

His eyes widen a little at your audacity, but he’s quick to collect himself, clearing his throat slightly and giving you a rakish smile as he answers. “That second one’s too specific to be fake.” he says, bringing his hands to cup your chin. “And ain’t no way that last ones a lie.” all the while coming closer to you. “So Imma go with the first one bein’ a lie.”

When his lips are maybe an inch away from yours do you put the bottle between the two of you.

“Drink,” you command, backing away from the bottle slightly. “I cannot ride a bike to save my life, it was the last one that was a lie,” you state, willing your voice not to waiver. “I don’t want to kiss you.” To really drive it home how good you’ve gotten at this lying business.

“O-oh,” he says, looking down ashamed.

“The truth is… I really, really want to kiss you,” you say, giggling ecstatically that he fell for your little ploy.

You get the pleasure of seeing a look of shock and confusion pass through his face, before it’s quickly replaced with a look of pride directed solely towards you. You worry slightly until you feel an arm slip around your waist and you're brought closer to him. So close that you find yourself straddling him. You’re not sure if the burning in your face is from embarrassment… or… something else entirely.

“That’s a dirty little trick there darlin’,” he says, his hands firmly on your hips keeping you in place, as though you would even want to leave at this point. “Who taught ya’ to lie like that, huh?”

“You did,” you declare, moving closer to him so that you’re practically nose to nose with him. For as bold as you’re being right now you wait for him to close the distance between the two of you. And luckily for you, you don’t have to wait long.

Of the few kisses you’ve had, none have ever been even remotely close to this. This isn’t the demure cheek kisses on your porch that just barely grazed the corner of your mouth, nor was it the shy pawings in a hallway closet after a game of spin the bottle. Those were experiences with boys, while Elvis… Elvis is a man.

It started out similar enough with a soft brushing of your lips with his as he slowly but surely the two of you became bolder and bolder. His lips capture yours to nibble lightly on your bottom lip, which you meet by throwing your arms around his neck. He throws you a bit off balance by planting his hands underneath your thighs, so you steady yourself by planting a hand on his slightly exposed chest.

It isn’t until you felt his tongue lightly brush against yours, did you pull back gasping for air. You can only imagine the kind of image you made right now with your chest heaving and your no doubt blown out eyes, but from the fiery look in his eyes he seems to enjoy it very much.

He leans forward into you as he starts to leave open mouthed kisses along your neck, which does nothing to help even out your breathing. Especially not when you can feel one of his hands begin to undo the pearl buttons along your back, while the other slowly inched its way under your dress.

“Follow me upstairs baby,” he whispers in your ear. “And I can teach ya’ so much more.”

Thoughts like the fact that this house doesn’t belong to either of you or that your daddy is out there looking for you are far from your mind as you breathlessly say yes to him. As you move to stand up, he stops you, “Take off the dress sweetheart,” he orders softly, his gaze searing into you, while he loosens his tie. “I wanna see all of you.”

You shakily move to stand and you undo the final few buttons on your lower back all the while hyper aware of his stare. You’re still untrained in the arts of seduction so rather than draw it out, you simply let the material drop down and pool at your feet and onto his lap. A part of you feels embarrassed at your undoubtedly boring white cotton bra and panty set you were wearing, and you silently look up and away from him to await his approval.

“That’s my girl,” he hums in approval, and you’re able to release that shuddering breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Though you quickly draw air back in when you feel him place his hands on your hips and give a quick kiss to your cotton covered kitty.

Your heart is fluttering in your chest like a hummingbird as he leads you by the hand up the stairs and the warmth in your belly and the fuzziness in your head makes all of it feel like a dream. Not helped by the intensity of his oasis blue eyes, and you’re once again bathed in that same feeling when you were in that motel pool: that of being the only person alive.

You often thought about that night at the motel, and wondered what would have happened if you were a little quicker on the draw to his invitation back to his room. Through Mrs. Sacks talks and your friends' whisperings you understood the basic mechanics of it, and that if the man was good, it was supposed to be very pleasurable, but not much else. Elvis in many ways was a safe choice to fantasize about, as you never would have guessed you would see him again.

But as he lays you down in the largest bed you’ve ever seen in your life, do you really begin to question how well your fantasies have prepared you. He removes his shirt with practiced efficiency, all the while keeping his eyes squarely on you, the dim lighting doing little to shield you from his piercing stare. You’re left to pathetically writhe on the bed as he stands back up to unbutton his shirt, not being helped one bit by his bitten off smirk at your state.

You’re practically heaving as he crawls over you, and he captures your lips once more. In the privacy of this bedroom, the kisses turn from tender to filthy. His tongue probing your mouth with wild abandon as one hand deftly unhooks your bra. It is as you’re about to

“Lord, I’ve dreamed about these,” he says as he drags the soft cotton material off of your chest. You fight the urge to cover yourself, still wanting to obey his earlier command to see all of you. He leaves a trail of open mouth kisses down the slope of your breast until he finally meets a budding peak and takes it into his mouth. The act catches you so off guard that you can’t stop your lewd reaction to it.

“Ain’t a single day passes that I don’t think about you in that pool baby,” he whispers into your skin. The soft mewls from the warmth of his tongue as he laves at your nipples, are swiftly replaced with sharp yelps when you feel his cool breath blow lightly on the moistened area. Part of you doubts you’re even going to survive this night, given the difference in experience between the two of you. “Seein’ your sweet tits just beggin’ to be touched.” and he emphasizes his point with a slight scrape of his teeth on your nipple.

You’re hoping to make up for your lack of experience by sheer enthusiasm, so when you find him making his way off the bed, his eyes fixated on that final piece of clothing that hides your woman hood from his view, you spread your legs, eager to show him how much you wanted him. But when you’re rewarded for your eagerness with a kiss to your inner thigh, that immediately wants you to close them once more, but his strong hands make that impossible.

“Though I think these are just as wet as they were back then,” he purrs before licking a stipe up the seam of your kitty. You’re lost to the sensation of it, wanting to recoil but simultaneously embrace what he’s stirring up inside of you, much like back then.

You hear a ripping sound coming from him and you suddenly feel the cool night air fully hitting your burning core and you shiver at the delicious sensation of it. Even those few times you were brave enough to do anything remotely close to this it was always over the fabric and now you were left completely defenseless to this man's eyes. And if that’s not enough vulnerability for him, he proceeds to ask how you touch yourself.

You’re at a loss for words at his invasive question, but not so offended that you don’t answer him. And you shamefully tell him how you’ve only ever occasionally rubbed yourself against your pillows to chase that euphoric feeling.

“I’d like to see that sometime, doll,” he purrs, making you shiver. “But for right now we gotta getcha good and ready for me.”

Before you can question what he means about that, you feel something probe at your entrance, and you feel his fingers soft circle that secret little button you’ve always been too afraid to mess with. You’re a panting mess and you’re giving into whatever feels good at the moment, and you can’t help the way your hips move in tandem with his fingers, as it was simultaneously too much yet not enough. Though you quickly learn what is too much when you feel not one but two of his fingers within you and start going at a steady rhythm, all the while the palm of his hand continually rubs at that button.

You’ve long since given into the depravity of this act, but you’re still grateful that Elvis has the judgment to try to muffle your wanton shrieks with his sweet kisses. So sweet that it stands in sharp contrast to the lewd things his hands are doing between your thighs. All too soon, just as you’re getting used to that stretched feeling does he pull his hands free and you let out a needy sob as you’re left feeling achingly empty.

He chuckles at your neediness, as he brings his hand up and you see for the first time the evidence of the long-dormant immodest side of yourself glistening on his fingers. Before you can even begin to feel the burn of shame, he sticks those fingers into his mouth and lets out a long-satisfied hum, and you find yourself burning in a different way.

“You’re so sweet darlin’,” he whispers against your lips and you’re helpless to do nothing but open your mouth to have a taste.

You think you know what to expect next, until he makes a show moving down your body until he’s crouched down between your legs and gathers all the excess wetness between your thighs with his tongue. Your confusion is apparently evident as he takes a moment to pause and look you in the eye as with that trademark devilish smirk on his lips as he dives straight to the source of your heat.

None of your friends had ever described anything close to this, or if they did they failed to mention how wonderful it would feel. Your back arches almost entirely off the bed, as your thighs reflexively box in his head, and you’re moaning freely at the sensation of it. His tongue quickly replaces his thumb at the sensitive bundle of nerves, and with the fingers that were already going at a steady rhythm inside of you, you’re a goner.

After you come down from that euphoric peak, you’ll apologize to him for all the embarrassing noises you made. He’ll quiet you with a kiss, and you shudder at the more potent taste of yourself. “Y/N, you’re one a the few people in those whole fucked up world who can’t hide how they feel. It’s why you’re gon’ be mine,” his dark rasp only adds to the bliss you’re feeling, as he gives you a soft kiss.

He pulls away from you once your breath has steadied somewhat. In spite of how tired you were, you still wanted to know more, now that you’ve come this far.

You go a bit wide-eyed when you see him unbuckle his pants and you see in person for the first time what makes girls and boys so different. You have done a bit of exploring on your own, and you understood from what Old Mrs’ Sack’s birds and the bees talk, that boys have something like that, but you didn’t ever realize that it could be so big. Your mouth is dry as you speak, “How… how is that going to fit?”

Even in the low lighting of the bedroom, you can still make out his dazzling smile before he gives you a soft kiss to your nose. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that sweetheart,” he says as he cups your chin. “This is the most natural thing in the world. You were made to take me like this darlin’.” You don’t fully understand why that gets a particularly wanton moan out of you, but you don’t fight it. “Just lay back and relax baby girl, and I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, taking a nibble of your earlobe.

You follow his orders and lay amongst the pillows as his strong hands align your hips with his. There is a burning sensation below as you feel the head, and he gives you a moment to adjust, and you bite harder into your lip, until he takes his thumb and gently removes it from between your teeth to give you a sweet kiss.

“I wanna hear ya’ baby,” he says, his lips brushing against yours, as he starts to slowly push forward.

And forward.

Until you finally feel all of him, long and oddly heavy, fully sheathed within you. You fight back your tears, but his gentle kisses along your face and praises in your ear as to how good you’re being all make the experience far more bearable. He shifts ever so slightly within you, causing a particularly filthy moan from you.

Elvis takes this as his signal to almost entirely remove himself, and your tiny whimpers are only quieted as he slams himself back into place. The suddenness of the act robbing you of a voice, and it would have scared you to death, were it not for his whispers asking if you trust him on this.

“I do,” is all you’re able to manage, and that seems to set him off like a switch. The hunger for you is apparent in his eyes and as he picks up the pace and you’re freely keening and whining, he plants his mouth on yours as though he wants to consume you entirely.

How can he move his hips like this, is perhaps your last coherent thought of the night as he continually rocks back into you. You, in vain, try to keep up with his thrusts, but your amateurish movements are quickly outmatched with his as he moves his hands on to your waist to move you in tandem with his and you love every single second of it, especially when he’s able to hit a particular spot within you that you never knew existed. That coil in your belly straining further and further, until it finally snaps and you let out an unrestrained cry to the heavens themselves.

He’s not too far behind you as his thrusts begin to sputter, until he finally stills and you wrap your legs around his hips, enjoying the pleasantly warm feeling of his seed within you.

You’re nothing more than a boneless heap after all was said and done, barely having enough strength to open your eyes. Elvis is able to maneuver you under the silky sheets with him and the wonderfully cool fabric is able to dissipate the last remnants of burning heat within you, allowing you to settle in his arms. You shiver as you feel yourself leaking on to a complete stranger's sheets, but you’re so tired right now you figure that that can be a problem for tomorrow.

You’re brought back to the land of the living when you feel the warm rays of the sun on your back, your eyes aching and your nether regions pleasantly sore. You don’t immediately do anything about your current state, wanting to bask in this feeling for a little while, though eventually the soft ticking sound of the clock radio reminds you of why you embarked on this adventure in the first place.

You shoot out of bed to see that you have most definitely missed your graduation ceremony by this point. You hang your head, and will yourself not to cry at the almost karmic punishment, you’ve been dealt. But you can hardly call it one because this is a direct result of your own actions.

And it is as you’re internally berating yourself for your willfulness, do you realize that Elvis is nowhere to be found. And that is truly the cherry on top to this awful sundae, knowing you spent a night with a charlatan in favor of getting what you want.

You feel used and humiliated, and it is as if you're trying to prevent the tears from flowing, do you see the attached bathroom, and realize that you’re in the master bedroom.

Oh dear lord, this is Mr. Presley’s room, you think while burying your face in your hands. You’re absolutely humiliated that you put yourself in this position and you worry as to how you’re going to get home. The solution before you is simple but it is far from an easy choice. It’s hardly a choice at all, considering that the alternative is sneaking off of the property and taking your chances walking home alone in nothing but a white silk robe you found.

And that’s how you find yourself aimlessly walking around a strangers home, and silently praying that they are charitable enough to take you home. Good humor or no, you doubt there is a world where Mr. Presley doesn’t look at daddy differently after this.

Once you’re downstairs do you finally come across a closed door with some sign of life behind it. You’re so desperate you don’t even hesitate in opening it only to be met with at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, all of which were surrounding your missing lover, sitting with his feet propped up on a desk. “Ahh Y/N yer here just in time, why dontcha come on in?” he half sings to you, patting his lap. You’re beyond confused by this point that you don’t even think twice about doing so, instead focusing on making sure that your robe stays closed. “Sonny, go get ‘em.” you hear from him, as he puts his feet down on to the floor and brings his hands outward to you, and with all of the eyes on you, you comply.

He sits you on his lap, and you can hardly begin to comprehend what’s happening, before you hear a big commotion somewhere in the house, that only seems to be getting closer. You see the men begin to set down a tarp on the floor and you see a row of weapons all sitting casually before you on the desk before you. Panic begins to set in as you see Elvis for the first time in the light of day, and his deranged focus is solely on you.

“Elvis what is going on here?” you question, tears in your eyes, his firm grip making escape impossible.

“I’m gettin’ what I’m owed sweetheart,” he whispers, as the door bursts open and you see two men throw a third to the tarped floor face first. You almost don’t recognize him at first, as you can’t comprehend why he would be here, but eventually there is no denying it.

“Daddy?” you say forcibly pulling yourself off of him to try to get to him. Some of the men hold you back as you see Elvis saunter his way over to him before you can.

Elvis says as he crouches down to where your daddy was forced to his knees, and forcefully pulls your daddy’s head back by his hair to face you directly. “You wanna tell her Johnny boy, or should I?”

Your daddy sputters, eyes darting between you and ELvis once again, before he looks down and tries to say. “Gem, I-I… I don’t kno-”

“You lyin’ sack a shit!” Elvis explosively cuts him off producing a gun from his waist. “Tell the fuckin’ truth to your daughter,” he says pressing a gun to your daddy’s temple. Your daddy looks devastated at his words, his mouth opening and closing, apparently choking on his own words as he looks between you and Elvis.

You’re frozen in place at that moment, too scared of the man you thought you knew, and too scared for the man you thought you knew.

“Y/N, I-I…” he looks close to tears, something you’ve never seen on his face before. “I-I been workin’ for Elvis-”

An ominous click, cuts him off, and the man in question sneers “try again.”

Your daddy audibly gulped at this point. “I’ve been handlin’ the money for Mr. Presley here for almost ten years,” he says in a low whisper.

That sort of answers some questions, but you can hardly figure out what this has to do with you. But hearing who exactly Mr. Presley, is and that you spent the night with him is incomprehensible.

“After,” he pauses to take a steadying breath. “After your Mama passed, I-I needed all the help I could get, and… and… I took more than my fair cut.” he says his eyes closed, avoiding looking at your face, as he takes a steadying breath. “Last year, when he found out what I was doin’, I tried ru-running with you.”

“A liar, a thief, and a fuckin’ coward, is what you got for a daddy Y/N,” Elvis japes. “It’s a literal fuckin’ miracle you came out so perfect doll,” he says as he gently brushes your cheek with his knuckles. You would have recoiled, had it not been for the very present fear you had for this man and the gun still pointed at your daddy’s head.

“Whe-when found us he gave me one last chance to settle. He made me a deal there, that he would forgive me if I… if I…Promised him…” his lip is trembling by this point and he can’t even look at you.

“Daddy… What did you promise him?” You say in a small voice, having a sneaking suspicion and praying to god that you’re not proven right.

“Baby, I-I’ve done some bad things in my life, but I did it all for you,” he says looking down, the tears streaking down his face. “I-I promised him… you.”

You step as far away back as the desk allows you to, and your knees almost give in beneath you at what you just heard. Because there is absolutely no way that he had just said what he did. You can’t believe it, but the more you think about it the more things begin to make sense. WHy your freedom has been limited in the past year. Why your daddy made you focus especially on learning Spanish this past year. WHy you weren’t allowed with any boys.

“One year, Johnny,” Elvis says, interrupting your spiral. He is holding up a single finger in front of your daddy’s face as he continues, “That’s how long I gave you to get her used to the idea. And you fucked it up, for not just yourself but for her. And I gotta find out last minute, that you been wasting it planning another fucking trip?”

“I couldn’t go through with it,” daddy pleads. “Please I-I’ll get the money, I’ll do whatever I gotta, just please let her go!”

“Now how the hell am I supposed to trust that? You already backed out of a deal once, how the hell am I supposed to trust this one?” Elvis asks him as he walks away from him and towards you, while daddy has the decency to look ashamed. “Now lucky for you, your daughter ain’t nothin’ like you, Johnny,” his tone is almost reverent as he speaks of you. “And I don’t believe she’s in the business of makin’ promises she won’t keep, right sweetheart?”

“Elvis… I don’t understand,” you say with tears in your eyes.

“It’s real simple baby,” Elvis says. “I’m given’ you a choice. Walk away and your daddy pays back what he stole the hard way. Or,” he says cupping your cheek far too tenderly for what he’s about to offer. “Be my wife and your daddy can go free.”

It’s hardly a decision for you at that point. Because for as mad as you are at him, that’s your daddy and you could never wish him harm. But there is a burning question, in the back of your mind, and you know whatever the answer is, it’s going to hurt. And yet the newly discovered masochist within you demands an answer.

“How much?”

“What?”

“I need a number,” you declare, “How much was my life worth daddy?”

He looks heartbroken as to how you view the situation, but really how else can you look at it? Your daddy took money from a dangerous man, and now, said man is looking for what he paid for. Nevertheless he lowers his head and he mumbles out a number.

The number he gives is large, but it’s still not nearly enough for what you thought your life was worth in your mind. Your father hangs his head in shame, evidently knowing you well enough to know how much he’s hurt you.

You can hardly call what you had a proper wedding, Elvis is cruel enough to make you go through the motions of it in the still somewhat setup backyard. You’re put into a beautiful white dress that fits like a glove, and handed a gorgeous bouquet, and you’re only a little disturbed by the fact that the dress is perfectly tailored or that these are your favorite flowers. Though these quickly leave your mind as you see your father at the bottom of the steps.

A part of you wanted to refuse your father and walk yourself down the aisle. That petty part, wanting to further twist the knife of his future exile by denying him this near sacred final right of a father to be able to do so. But the better part of you prevails as for as much as you want to be seen as a fully grown woman, you still very much feel like a little girl who needs to hold her daddy’s hand in a scary situation. And this is undoubtedly the scariest thing you’ve ever done.

Which only further burns as you’re reminded that you’re in this situation because of him.

Your father walks you down the makeshift aisle of the backyard with a busted lip and a vacant look in his eyes to match your own. For as mad as you are at him, you don’t want him to be hurt or worse for what he did. That doesn’t mean you want to have to look at him anymore.

Your daddy was an accountant, but as you signed your name on that marriage license, you realize you aren’t an accountant's daughter any more. And just like that you’re a proper married woman.

After the ceremony, there is only a small reception to follow, with those closest to your new husband having been invited. Evidently your father didn’t make the cut, which may be for the best as you doubt you will even be able to look at him right now as Elvis sits you on his lap while all of his men dole out congratulations to the two of you.

Later on when you’re alone with him you will beg Elvis for a reason that isn’t just some power trip over your father or that he truly believes that you were something worth the amount that your father took from him. You’re willing to believe anything at this point.

“Oh baby, you don’t gotta worry one bit,” he reassures you while kissing away your tears. “If this was about money, I woulda taken what he offered way back when. But no I’ve loved ya’ since Texas.”

“But why?” you cry.

“Because of that satnin,” he says. “You’re a rare breed these days: honest. I knew it since the moment I saw ya’ that you were what I needed in my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you can’t lie for shit. Especially not to me.” he says, planting kisses along your newly exposed skin. “I know I chose the perfect wife for me.”

Would you have chosen him if given the choice? You don’t know. You may never know, but if growing up a not-accountant’s daughter has taught you anything is how to take what you’re given and be grateful for it.

Ending note: I was 9k in when I realized I pulled a “I sold you to one direction,” Welp that’s the way it goes sometimes.

Taglist

@venus-haze @djsjs13949 @ilovehobi101 @butlerslut @richardslady121 @giabelia @sydneyyyya @meetme0614 @tacozebra051 @myradiaz @thelifes-world @maythesunshineagain @rakitirakiti @lostteenagetale @j-v-9-2 @eliseinmemphis @dkayfixates @immi547 @thatbanditqueen @marriedtoeddie @cuteejeno @itlover8000 @isthlsfate @mgparker @thatbanditqueen

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asshlyyyy · 2 years ago

Text

Red String

Before I see the comments, there will be no part two. I need to crank out these fics if I want to finish my ongoing stories. This idea came to me when I learned about the red string legend. I tweaked it ever so slightly, but the main concept still stands. This one is a weird one, and I hope you enjoy it!

Masterlist

Pairing: Elvis (Or Austin!Elvis) x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Teasing, Some Angst, Spelling and Grammatical Errors. Some information regarding the legend may be false. Let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 2.1k

You looked down at your ankle and let out a sigh. No matter how hard you worked to try and shorten the distance, it never seemed to lead you to anything… or anyone. You were getting on in years and quite frankly, you were about to give up and cut your string. Which honestly, you weren’t sure if you could even do that.

The story of the red string was one that everyone grew up with. It was a way to explain why they had a red string attached to their ankle. One end was attached to yours, and the other end was attached to your soulmate’s ankle. Once your soulmate was found, the string would turn to gold and would turn into an anklet. It was to indicate you had found your soulmate.

Most people found their soulmate early on. Middle school early on, hell some even met them while they were still babies! Yet, here you were in your thirties, and still… no golden anklet. You’ve been asked so many times why you wouldn’t follow it to the other end. The answer was simple, by the time you reached your soulmate the string would rip. Greed is what breaks the soulmate bond.

You were supposed to find your soulmate off of some fate. You would bump into each other and you would mold. You watched your friends and family mold with their soulmates and you were tired. While no one has ever dared to cut their string. It is said that if you cut your string you give up all hope and chance. When you cut your string you give up the chance of ever having a soulmate.

It wasn’t like you wanted to give up. Heck no! You wanted to get married and have kids. You couldn’t do that without finding your soulmate. It was very rare that you saw two people together with red strings still. They were the rule breakers. The ones who didn’t care much for finding their soulmate. You wish you could have been like that.

“I need two cheeseburgers and fries for table five!” You told the cook and placed the menus in their dedicated spot.

“Coming up!” The cook responded and got to work. You leaned down over the counter and placed your chin in the palm of your hand. You looked around at the couples in the diner. Each and every one of them had their gold anklets. It wasn’t fair. How come they found their soulmate and you were still standing around like a lost puppy.

“How’s the soulmate hunting coming?” Sherrie asked as she came riding on by. You turned your head over to her.

“Well, I’m still tripping over my own red death so I would say… shitty.” You responded as you watched her skate around. She frowned and made her way over to you.

“Hey, one day he’ll show up and… it will be so magical… so romantic… And hopefully not embarrassing like mine was when I met Chris.” She let out a pout. You remembered the day. It was like any other day in the diner. Well, besides the fact she bumped into someone. Everyone here was practically skilled at skating so bumping into someone was weird.

“But isn’t meeting them supposed to be out of the blue? That’s why you can’t just follow your string.” You explained to her. In every single story you’ve heard or read about, soulmates found each other out of the blue. It was when they least expected it.

“Do you want to meet your soulmate while covered in burning hot coffee?” She raised her eyebrow at you. A soft laugh left your mouth and you shook your head. She had you there.

“Table five, order up!” The ding broke you out of your conversation. You skated over to pick up the order and brought it over to the couple. You asked if there was anything else you could bring them. When you heard that no response, you made your way back over to Sherrie.

“He helped you clean up though, and apologized a bunch. Your eyes met and…” you smiled softly, “and it was like you two knew. That was your magical moment.”

“Yeah… I guess you’re right.” She smiled as she remembered that meeting. You rolled your eyes playfully at her. After you two started to do some other tasks you heard a bunch of high-pitched screams. You turned your head towards the sound and found a multitude of girls crowded outside.

“What’s up with that?” You asked Sherrie. She raised her eyebrow in confusion as she looked outside.

“I have no idea,” she shrugged. You two decided to ignore the screams and got back to work. You cleaned up some of the tables and helped the customers. Pretty much what you did every day.

You looked over at the clock and did a mental celebration. It was your break, or at least it was about to be. Not only did you finally get to eat, but you only had half a day left. You announced to the other girls that you were going on your break and grabbed your lunch bag and headed out behind the building.

It was very rare that you ate food from the diner. The food there is amazing, but you just liked being able to make your own food. The cooks already had to make so much food, they shouldn’t have to cook for you too.

As you walked outside you shielded your eyes from the blasting sun. When your eyes adjusted to the new light you noticed a tall man standing over you. You let out a scream but it was soon concealed by his mouth.

“Please don’ yell,” The guy said. Okay, who the hell did this person think they were? Not only to be standing out behind your business of work but for putting his hands on you. You took the opportunity while he was distracted and bit down on his hand. He yelped in pain and pulled his hand away. “The hell was that for?!”

“You put your hands on me!” You looked up at the guy. “I should be the one saying that.” You huffed and walked away from the creepy man.

“That still don’ give ya the right to bite me.” He followed after you. You stopped in your step and turned to face him.

“Do you want me to call the cops on you?” You said it in more of a statement rather than a question. When you first stepped out you didn’t get a good look at him. But now looking at him, you saw who he was and you froze. Your mouth gaped open and you heard him laugh at your reaction.

You quickly closed up your mouth and marched away. That self-entitled prick! Does he really think that he deserves everything and an apology just because he’s Elvis!? Hell no he doesn’t. You just wanted to enjoy your lunch in peace, and yet you had to deal with this famous rockstar, who was too busy in his actor era.

Don’t get everything twisted up. You loved Elvis Presley, you thought he was a great singer and some of his movies were great. However, you were on your break. It was your personal time, and you didn’t want to have to interact with anyone or anything.

“Hang on now,” his southern accent wisped its way through your ears. You couldn’t help but feel your knees almost tremble. Those southern accents always got to you.

“What could the king possibly want with a little low-life servant like myself.” You looked at him annoyed. Any other time, you would be crying at seeing his beauty. Right now though, he was taking out the minutes of your half-hour break. Quite frankly, you didn’t appreciate one bit of it.

“‘M sure you’ve seen those girls out front, I-I just wanted someplace to eat… Figured I would try the back door.” He tried to explain himself. Whoever goes and tries the back door first off? Especially when there are big letters on the door that say Keep out.

“You know that’s for employees only right?” You pointed out to him. You didn’t know if he was missing his glasses or just blind. The back door held big letters on it saying employees only, keep out, amongst other sayings.

“Yes, I can read. But I fi-”

“You figured just because I’m Elvis Presley I can get what I want.” You mocked him. He looked at you annoyed. Out of all the workers he could have possibly bumped into, he got you. The girl who possibly wouldn’t care if he was some high-top celebrity or even the president.

“Are you-”

“No, I am not, because you are wasting my lunch.” You peered down at your watch, “You already waste ten minutes of my thirty. So, I am going to walk away before you take away the other twenty.” You turned and walked over to the picnic table. You sat down and opened your lunch box and started to eat.

There was this small outdoor eating area that the surrounding businesses use. It was a small beautiful area. Around summertime and the weekends, you guys would get around and have a cookout. The community was great, and to sit outside and eat while enjoying the fresh air… It really helped you calm down.

“So-” you let out a loud groan and looked down over Elvis. Why was he following you? Why did he feel the need to talk to you while you were on your break? You didn’t want to converse while on your break. You wanted to sit, eat your food, and calculate when you had to get back to work.

“What do you want?” You asked him as you munched down on your sandwich.

“You treat me differently.” He stated the obvious. You looked at him with the Are you kidding me look. “I… look, ‘m used to people always screamin’ and runnin’ towards me. You… you yell at me. You don’ praise me.”

“Oh yeah, no problem. I would do that to anyone who bothers me on break so… You’re nothing special.” You explained with a shrug of your shoulders. It was true, you were gently a nice person. When it came to your personal time though… that’s when you started to get grouchy.

“Well, your string would say otherwise.” You looked at him confused before you looked down at your ankle. The once red string was no longer there. When you left for break it was there and no- that only had to mean one thing.

“You got to be kidding me.” You spoke under your breath. You slowly turned your head to look at Elvis who had… a pleased look on his face. It was like that… you teased me and now I’m getting my revenge.

“Oh come on, I can’ be that bad.” He chuckled lightly.

“You have taken away so much of my break time… I disagree.” You said in response.

“Well, now ya don’ got to work anymore. I can provide.” Because that is something every girl wants to hear. Quit your job, stay home, cook and clean… look after the kids.

“Who says I even want to be with you.” You tilted your head to the side lightly.

“Are you one to go against your soulmate's choosing?” Elvis questioned. He had you there. You weren’t one to go against the person who marked you and Elvis as soulmates. There had to be a reason for it, and you just couldn’t see that right now.

“Absolutely. Because all I want right now is to eat my goddamn sandwich-”

“Y/n! Your break’s over!” The cook called out to you. You closed your eyes and breathed in a long thick breath. You got three bites out of your sandwich. Three goddamn bites! You dropped your sandwich down onto its wrap and rubbed your eyes.

“I have to get back to work.” You said softly and gathered your things before getting up. Looks like another day where you’ll starve a work. The rest of your shift should be very exciting.

“Before ya go, could I get ya number?” He questioned as he turned to face you. As you looked at him you let out a sigh. He was your soulmate and you had to accept that. Maybe he couldn’t be so bad. Plus… you would be able to travel the world.

“Visit me at closing and I’ll consider.” You told him and walked off. Unbeknownst to you, Elvis wore a smile on his face. This was certainly not how he planned his day, but he was glad he met his soulmate. He was glad, he met you.

Mutual Taglist: @darlinboypresley @emmymaehereeeeee @venus-haze @austinstyles

#asshlyyyy writes #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis fic #austin elvis x you #austin elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis x reader #elvis presley fanfiction #austin!elvis #austin!elvis fic #austin!elvis imagine #austin!elvis angst #austin!elvis x reader #elvis fluff

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headfullofpresley · 2 years ago

Text

𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

Pairing: Elvis Presley x reader

Word count: 4K

Summary: After doing Vogue's “Life in Looks” and reminiscing on your life with Elvis and Caroline, your late husband makes sure you and your daughter know he's still around.

Warning(s): life after losing a spouse, lil bit angsty, inaccurate timelines etc, doesn't follow timelines of other fics including Caroline, set in the late 90s bc i felt like it (just pretend life in looks is on tv or smth lol), reminiscing about a deceased spouse, flashback, bit of spiritual stuff (i still wanted him to be in this lol ☻), Elvis' death is not described here or whatsoever.

A/N: so, i usually never write about elvis not being among us anymore but ofc... i got carried away. the ending is kinda silly, but i thought it was cute. this was requested by my dear @rosepresley and even though it turned out a little different, i hope you'll still enjoy it, love! <3

masterlist

While your husband was known to the world as The King and many other titles, to you he was just Elvis.

Even though the anniversary of his death ticked on twenty years now and you had given the loss a place, there wasn’t a day that you didn’t think about him or didn’t miss him.

Caroline was only nine when her father passed and even though nobody would ever forget him, you and your now twenty nine year old daughter worked hard to keep his legacy alive.

While still living at Graceland, which felt a lot emptier without your husband there, you’d make sure events would be held on the property which fans could be a part of – the Christmas lights ceremony during the holidays, sometimes even small concerts held for charities right in your front yard. At times, fans would still linger outside the gates–mostly on the day he had passed or during his birthday week–and you could spend hours out there talking to them.

While you weren’t always happy with the lack of privacy when being out with Elvis or having fans outside your house in the dead of the night, you felt like you owed the attention to them now. You were aware that you didn’t, but these were the people that loved when you talked about the man they looked up to – probably more than anyone.

Aside from that, you were still being asked for interviews and press as well. You loved talking about Elvis and your life with him, but you were still careful as to who exactly you told those stories to – you had declined enough interviews and TV specials in the past, as did Caroline, because you were both aware how the media could twist your words and make up their own story which they knew would sell better.

When Vogue asked you for their ‘Life in Looks’ series, you were doubtful at first. This meant you’d have to talk more so about yourself rather than Elvis, but Caroline reminded you how much you loved fashion and Vogue in particular. You had a trusty subscription of the magazine, getting most of your inspiration from it when it came to your sense of style. Your daughter always assured you that it would be okay for you to talk about yourself rather than about Daddy only and you knew she was right.

Despite your entire life having revolved, and still revolving, around Elvis, you were still your own person.

He would want you to do this, especially since he made big fashion statements himself back in the day and he loved dressing you up and picking out your outfits for you.

“Just pretend we’re not here, mrs. Presley. Take all the time you need,” one of the editors smiled at you as she stood besides the camera, another girl with a Vogue lanyard around her neck placing a big white photobook in front of you. “We’ve included fifteen looks for the day but we have more pictures at hand, so if you don’t feel comfortable telling about some, we can change them up a little,”

You smiled brightly, nodding your head as you let one of the stylists fix a lock of your hair, making sure it laid perfectly over your shoulder. You knew what to do because you weren’t foreign to the concept and had seen other people doing it, but you couldn’t help but be a little nervous.

Caroline stood on the side, putting her thumbs up as she smiled brightly – ever the supportive daughter.

You chuckled softly and shot her a wink, crossing your legs under the table you were sat at as you looked at the camera. As you got the cue they were rolling, you planted a bright smile on your face, manicured nails tracing the corners of the book in front of you.

“Hi Vogue, I’m Y/N Presley and this is my Life in Looks,” you told the camera happily, although making sure not to overdo your enthusiasm.

You continued on as you were told to do, knowing that they could cut and edit the taping it was meant to be shown to the public.

You opened the book, your smile growing a little as the first picture was of you being taken out on your first date with Elvis – he wasn’t shown in the picture, because this was mostly about you and the outfit you were wearing in the picture.

“The hair,” you pointed out, laughing softly as you tapped your nail against your very extravagant hairdo. It was all high and teased, and very out there. “This was in 1960, during our first date at the fair. He rented out the place like he usually did and I remember the air being so humid, even at night, I was not having a good time with this much hair,” you chuckled, remembering how you’d complain to Elvis how you wished you would’ve kept your hair down.

He assured you you looked gorgeous, even with the sheen of sweat on your forehead. You had known Elvis since before he served in the army, so you weren’t ashamed when he pointed it out. Before he became the love of your life, he was your best friend first.

“This little dress came out of my very own closet. I don’t even think it was a brand, but I was obsessed,” you giggled, looking at the camera. Sneakily catching Caroline’s eye, a smirk tugged at your lips. “She doesn’t like me saying this, but Caroline wore this dress on the first date she went on,” you whispered and your daughter gasped soundlessly, muffling a chuckle in the palm of her hand.

You smiled happily as you turned the page, talking the viewers through a few more pictures that were taken of you at the airport and so on, reminiscing happily about the day it was taken and about what you were wearing. Even though this interview was specifically cathered to you, you still talked about Elvis during pretty much every picture but you didn’t care – and neither did the crew.

This man had been your entire life. The only man you had ever been with. How could you not talk about him?

Your heart skipped a beat as you turned the page and looked right at a wedding picture of you and Elvis.

“Oh, this was such a big day for us. Our wedding day,” you smiled lovingly at the camera before looking back down, your finger tracing Elvis’ face in the picture. The camera above your head made sure to catch it. “Charlie Hodge, who as you all might know worked for Elvis, went with me to go dress shopping because people would recognize me going into stores and then they’d find out there would be a wedding,” you laughed softly, looking at the camera as you placed your hands neatly on the table underneath the book. “I put on a little disguise and me and Charlie pretended to be the ones getting married – nobody recognized us,”

Caroline’s cheeks were aching with how big she was smiling, her hands clutched firmly against her chest. She always loved hearing you talk about your life with her father before the time she was born and she could see how much you were enjoying it.

“I picked this dress because it was very lightweight and feminine, and it matched perfectly with Elvis’ suit,” you looked at the picture again, smiling fondly at the smiling face of your husband in the picture before turning the page once more.

After talking about your honeymoon for a little bit, Caroline knew what was coming and she giggled softly as she watched you pout at the camera, tapping the picture of you and Elvis while holding little baby Caroline in your arms. It was taken only a few hours after you had given birth, but dressed in a pink dress and your hair teased to perfection, it looked far from a woman who had nearly broke her husband’s hand hours before.

“Look at that face, that’s a happy dad,” you grinned as you pointed out Elvis’ face, who was smiling cutely as he looked at Caroline in your arms while you sat on the bed. “He couldn’t believe he had a child and you can clearly see that on his face. I think a lot of men are like this, but he was afraid to hold her – terrified. I was never allowed to leave his side when she’d be in his arms because he was so scared that he’d drop her,” you laughed, the memories flashing before your eyes.

“El, you won’t hurt her, I promise you,” you laughed as you sat on your knees on the bed, baby Caroline sleeping safe and sound in your arms, Elvis propped up against the headboard of the bed.

He was in his underwear, wanting to try the method of holding his baby girl against his bare chest because he read in one of your parenting books that it’d help to steady the bond between child and father.

You had forgotten about the books long ago, because as soon as you held Caroline in your arms for the first time, motherhood came natural to you. Elvis would read them every night in bed, because he wanted to make sure to become the picture perfect father.

You didn’t give him time to back out of it, moving closer to him on your knees in a slow pace as you handed Caroline to him, making sure to put her in a supported position. He placed a gentle hand under her head, his other on her tiny back as she laid comfortably in his arms, pressed against his chest.

The room was just the right temperature but you could see that the baby who was only wearing a diaper immediately enjoyed the warmth radiating off Elvis’ chest when their skins touched. She bawled her tiny hands into fists before sprawling her little fingers, her eyes slowly fluttering open.

“Stay with me, honey,” he told you with a soft hint of panic on his tongue, making sure you wouldn’t leave his side as he held Caroline.

You laughed softly and nodded, sinking further in the mattress as you mimicked his position and sat next to him. You smiled down at your daughter as her eyes found Elvis’, a goofy smile spreading across her face.

“She likes this,” you told him, gently leaning your head against his upper arm, your fingertips ghosting over Caroline’s forehead. “I think the rhythm of your heart calms her down,” you pointed out in a whisper, you and Elvis watching as the little girl in his arms stared up at her father, her tiny chest heaving up and down slowly.

“She’s so pretty,” he whispered lowly, afraid the vibrations of his voice if he spoke any louder would scare his daughter. Moving his arm a little lower so she rested on just one arm, he brought his other hand to her face, feather light fingertip trailing down her nose. “Your nose,”

You chuckled softly at the way Caroline’s smile widened because of his touches, her toothless gums on full display. Elvis laughed softly, turning to press a kiss on the top of your head.

“Can you believe we made… this?”

“Hmmhmm. Because she has your mouth,” you laughed softly, kissing his shoulder. “I bet she’ll be just as stubborn as you,”

He feigned a gasp, shoulders shaking a little as he laughed – he was about to comment that she’d definitely get the stubborness from you, but as Caroline giggled right along with the two of you, all he could do was stare at her with fond eyes.

Slowly but surely, Elvis allowed you to do your own thing whenever he’d hold her. His favorite spot was always in the bed, because that way he was absolutely sure nothing could happen to her.

Nothing ever did happen to her whenever he was holding her though, whenever in or out the bed, and to you he was a damn good father.

A natural, like you – but he never believed those words no matter how many times you’d tell him.

Caroline watched you proudly the entire time, talking about your life with her and her father, and how your own sense of style had changed throughout the years. Although Elvis loved picking out things for you to wear, you developed a big interest in fashion and design as you got older and he loved whenever you’d wear something that you designed yourself.

Your style was similar to his – the two of you always matched perfectly, looking sophisticated but still out there, turning heads. The two of you were always comfortable around each other, but not so comfortable it would turn sloppy.

There were never days where you would be lounging around the house in pajamas for an entire day. Elvis loved to dress up on any occasion, even when not leaving the house, and so did you.

On Christmas and New Year’s Eve, you’d both go all out, putting on your best fits because that’s when you felt most confident. And to the both of you, that was one of the best feelings in the world.

There weren’t much pictures of you and Elvis with Caroline when she was young because that’s something both you and your husband wanted to keep private. You did allow the crew to put a picture of Caroline’s 6th birthday in the book in front of you, because it was one of your favorites – you actually had it framed on your bedside table.

“See, this is Care’s 6th birthday and even though it was only a child’s birthday party, we were dressed like we were going to the fanciest place in town,” you told the camera, laughing softly. Elvis was in all black except for the white collar that was popped up, velvet trench coat adorning his frame. You and Caroline wore matching dresses – white ruffled poet shirts underneath a hand beaded mid length shift dress, the pattern on it throwing you right back into the 70s because of the small flowers on it. “But that was just.. our style. And Elvis loved dressing up Caroline – he loved it when she matched with us, no matter what the occasion was,”

You shot a sneaky wink Caroline’s way, who was soundlessly gasping for a breath of air as she felt a lump forming in her throat. She loved talking about Elvis as much as you did and she was able to without breaking down because it had been so many years, but the love she felt for her father was unexplainable.

Untouchable.

Their bond had always been extremely strong and even after his passing, that never faded. If anything, it only heightened. As she grew older, she was able to understand him better and see him through different eyes and while Caroline realised her father wasn’t perfect, the amount of love she carried toward him would always be there and it would always be hers.

She smiled at you, blowing you a kiss which made your smile widen – you continued on like nothing happened as you spoke to the camera, hoping your voice wasn’t giving away the thickness you felt forming in your throat.

While you could honestly speak about your husband for hours, the interview had to come to an end and you were kind of glad it did. All you wanted to do now was fly back to Memphis and spend time in the home that belonged to you and your husband. You were still professional though, talking a little with the crew and thanking everyone before you left the building.

The flight from New York to Memphis was five hours, but on the private plane time flew by fast, which you were thankful for. Despite Caroline not living at Graceland anymore, she decided to stay the night because she could see how emotional today had made you.

“Do you regret doing the interview? Was it too much?” Caroline asked softly as she laid in your bed, looking at you with a soft smile when you slipped under the covers in Elvis’ spot. You hadn’t slept on your own side since the day he passed.

“No, not at all. I love Vogue and I feel honored they asked me,” you smiled as you sat against the headboard, Caroline turning on her side to plant her head in the palm of her hand. “Seeing all the pictures just brought back a lot of memories, more than I thought they would,”

Your daughter smiled, reaching out her hand to you. You slipped your hand in hers, sighing deeply.

“Good ones I hope?”

“Ofcourse. Always good ones,” you told her with a nod of your head, kissing the back of her hand before squeezing it. “Your father and I had our lows as well, but even those memories are dear to me. He really was one of a kind, Care,”

The blonde next to you crawled closer to you, sitting up against the bed as well as she released your hand and linked her arm through yours instead, putting her head on your shoulder.

“He really was,” she whispered, looking at the wedding ring that still sat prettily on your hand. “Do you think he’s watching us?”

“Knowing your father, he’s probably right here with us right now,” you laughed softly, looking at Caroline as she raised her head to look at you with wide eyes.

“What? What do you mean right now?”

The slight panic in her eyes made you laugh harder, shrugging your shoulders as you looked around the room.

“I feel him around me all the time. I’ve gotten used to the feeling of… being watched,” you grinned playfully at her and she whined at the spine-chilling tone in your voice which you used on purpose.

It was true, though. You felt his presence all the time and you had gotten used to it – even though he couldn’t answer you or talk back, you spoke to him all the time when you’d be alone in the house. Before he passed, he promised he’d always be around and you believed him.

“Nooo, you’re joking,” Caroline laughed as she threw a pillow your way, which made you giggle as you caught it and threw it back at her. “I mean I’ve dreamt about him before, but you’re totally fucking with me right now. Dad’s probably too busy stealing the show up there,” your daughter joked as she put the pillow back in place, the light on the bedside table flickering right that second.

She widened her eyes as she immediately crawled over to you, almost planting herself on your lap, which made you only laugh harder.

You were about to tell her to calm down and that she shouldn’t be scared, but a loud bang that rumbled from downstairs actually got Caroline jumping in your lap this time, her arms firmly wrapped around your neck. Now that was something you never heard before and even though you were surprised, you couldn’t stop laughing at your daughter’s actions.

“Let’s go downstairs,” you told her with a giggle as you pushed her off, getting up from the bed. Picking up your robe, you put it on as Caroline shook her head. She wanted to decline and stay in bed, but she also didn’t want to be left alone right now so as you left the room, she quickly run after you.

“Mom, what if it’s actually someone in the house? I’m not dressed to fight!” she whispered harshly as she looked at the dress shirt she stole out of Elvis’ side of your wardrobe, her hands planted firmly on your shoulders while the both of you tiptoed down the stairs.

You laughed softly, easily finding your way through the house in the dark. “No one is here, Care,” you chuckled as you flicked on some lights in the dining room, knowing that Graceland’s security system was tight and nobody was able to come in unless you allowed them to.

The both of you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at first, until Caroline pointed out the slightly ajar door of one of the cabinets that stood against the wall. You recognized the photobook that laid on the floor, obviously having fallen out of the cabinet.

Or more so, as if someone deliberately put it there.

You walked over to it, picking it up and opening it on the first page which immediately brought a smile to your face. “This was taken on Christmas Eve, you were just one year old,” you told Caroline as you put the book on the table, sitting down. Caroline had seen it already, she had seen all family photo’s, but she loved looking at them.

Her fear faded as she sat down next to you, smiling as the two of you happily turned pages to look at the pictures of all the Christmasses spend together. It was like a warm blanket was wrapped around you and you knew Caroline felt the same, because she had completely forgotten about the light that flickered or the worries of someone breaking into the house.

You wrapped your arm around her shoulder, kissing her temple as she smiled at the picture of her and her father in the snow, along with the snowman they build together. Bright smiles and flushed cheeks – the sight of it warmed your heart.

“Your father will always be here,” you whispered to her as you softly leaned your head against hers, rubbing her arm. “He’s gonna be there with you every step along the way, no matter what you do or where you go. Don’t you ever forget it,”

She sniffed softly, nodding her head as she turned to you to hug you tightly, your hand drawing soothing circles on her back. “I know,” she sighed, laughing softly through her tears. “As long as he doesn’t make the light flicker again, I’m okay with it,”

You laughed as you pulled back a little to look at her, cupping her face to wipe her tears away with your thumbs. “He knows you’ll probably flee your house in the middle of the night so I’m sure he won’t,”

She chuckled as she nodded, rushing a hand through her hair as you let her go.

“And he’s right. If that would’ve happened to me if I was at my place, I’d probably run onto the streets screaming,”

You bet she wouldn’t, but you still laughed at her words. You were sure Elvis would let her know he was with her in other ways, but you wouldn’t mind at all if he made the lights in your room flicker or whatsoever.

It gave you comfort knowing he was still there, popping in whenever he pleased.

After drinking some tea and looking at some more pictures, you and Caroline decided to go back upstairs and sleep away the rush of emotions the both of you went through today.

You fluffed your pillow a little, laying down after you turned the light on your side off. Caroline sighed happily, reaching for the light on her side – once again, it flickered before she had the chance to turn it off.

“Seriously, Dad?” she deadpanned, moving closer to you again instead of turning the light off like she planned to.

You laughed, shaking your head in amusement as you reached over to the lamp, switching it off.

“Give the girl a break, El,” you chuckled, laying back down. Caroline was immediately pressed against your side, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

Just like when she was a little girl, you played with her hair to make her drift off into a slumber. While she could be a tough one with a big mouth, you didn’t care that she still liked to be babied a little at twenty nine years old.

She would always be your and Elvis’ little girl and that was your most beautiful achievement.

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ranaissingle · 2 years ago

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Well how about an AustinElvis Prompt?

Reader decides to surprise Elvis for his birthday by bringer herself and the children to visit him, though it doesn’t go to plan. Reader and the children walk into the suite to see Elvis in the company of several ladies.

Sex, Drugs, etc

Masterlist

Fandom: Austin!Elvis and Elvis Rating: M (mentions of drug and alcohol abuse) Pairings: Austin!Elvis x Reader or Elvis x Reader Word Count: 1055

Warnings: Cheating, adultery, cursing, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse (Let me know if I missed any) Authors Note: Thank you for the request! I did write this as a late 60's early 70s Elvis so he will be at the international hotel. I hope you enjoy it!

✧─── ･｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧✧─── ･｡ﾟ★: *

Elvis had been away from home for his last two birthdays and Y/N would be damned if she allowed him to spend his next one away from his family. So despite the tight-lipped warnings from the colonel and Jerry Springer, Y/N had packed up herself and the kids to go visit Elvis while he was in Vegas. The children missed their father and Y/N missed her husband.

She rounded up the children into the private jet sent to pick them up and sat down to finish wrapping the last of his birthday presents before eventually reclining her seat to take a nap.

When she awoke Jerry was shaking her shoulder.

"Are you sure about this? It's not too late to turn around?" His brows furrowed as he looked at her practically begging her to do so. Jerry knew what Elvis would be doing right around this time, and he would be anything but alone.

"Of course, I want to do this Jerry. Jesse and Caroline have been dying to see their father and I miss my husband. Why would I ever want to chicken out now." The frown on her face deepened.

"Besides how better to spend a Birthday than with your family?" a smile stretched across her face as Y/N began thinking of Elvis's possible reactions. Putting an end to the conversation, she got up and woke the kids to get them loaded into the car and begin their journey to the International Hotel. Elvis was going to love this.

═════ ∘◦❀◦∘ ═══════ ∘◦❀◦∘ ═══

When they arrived at the international hotel, Y/N filed the children out of the car and made her way to the lobby to check into Elvis's suit.

"Hello Miss. how can I help you today!" The hostess smiled brightly as she called over a boy to take care of the baggage.

"Hello! I would just like to check into a room my Husband is already here. His name is Elvis Presly and my name is Y/N Presly.

"Oh of course Miss, if I could just see your ID I can give you the key right away."

After giving her ID and receiving the key Y/N took the kids to the elevator and went up the floors all the way to the presidential suite where Elvis was staying.

"Okay kids, wait outside for just a second while I make sure that Daddy is inside, alright?"

"Okay, Mamma!" Jesse's response came accompanied by a thumbs up and a smile so bright it almost hurt Y/N's heart.

She opened the door softly and closed it behind her. She heard voices coming from the sofa area. She heard female voices? That couldn't be right. Why would Elvis have girls in his room?

Sometimes people make foolish mistakes. Like putting sugar on steak instead of salt or turning off the light when you meant to turn on the fan. But most people never have to wonder if their husbands are cheating on them. Y/N never thought that an innocent little surprise could turn into the single worst day of her life.

Elvis was sitting on the couch with three different girls positioned all around him. One on the floor with her head in his lap, another with her head in his neck, and the last was giving him open-mouthed kisses while she raked her fingers through his hair.

"Elv- Elvis what are you doing?" Y/Ns voice cracked as she felt her throat close and the tears threaten to spill from her eyes. Elvis pushed the girls off of him before whirling around to see his wife standing in the doorway with a hand on her heart and eyes glistening with unshed tears.

He stumbled off the sofa and up the step, " Y/N baby wh- what are ya doin' here honey?" There was no talking his way out of this one. Elvis had dug himself into a hole with nothing but a shovel made of his own idiocy.

"Don't 'baby' me Elvis Presly I have eyes! How could you do this to me? You ruined our family over what? A quick fuck? I- is that all children and I are worth to you? " Y/N could barely get the sentence out as she saw the girls on the sofa scramble to put on their clothes. That just added insult to injury. He had been with not one, not two, but three girls.

"Y/N darlin' you know it ain't like that. I get lonely on the road, and I was missin' ya-" The sharp tone of Y/N's voice cut him off.

"If you are missing me then come back and visit. You keep yourself cooped up in this room with people you don't know and doing drugs that you don't even know the name of. I gave you everything I had Elvis. Everything I could possibly give to you I did, so don't you sit there and try to make this about me not being around when you have a goddamn private jet to take you anywhere where you damn well please!"

Elvis was shocked. She had never once cursed or raised her voice, be it at him or the kids.

"Look I-I'm sorry mamma we can work through this can't we? Ya aren't gonna leave me over somethin' as silly as this are ya?" He chuckled lightly as if the entire situation was a massive joke that only he was in on.

"Your kids are young Elvis and you are never around to parent them so no, I will not be divorcing you right this second. But trust that as soon as they are in college or moved out of the house, I will be gone. Feel free to sleep with whoever you would like because you have singlehandedly managed to lose the only person who truly cared about your well-being and safety." Y/N voice grew sterner as she spoke, almost as if she were scolding a child. Her eyes were cold and distant and nothing like those of his loving wife.

"Make sure to call those girls back in, you wouldn't want to be lonely on your birthday." She turned on her feet and walked briskly to the large oak doors of the suite.

"Baby, wait for a mi-". The slam of the doors punctuated his sentence.

✧─── ･｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧✧─── ･｡ﾟ★: *

Done! Let me know if you like it!! Don't forget to like and follow until next time girlies!

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idkwhatimdoingherehonestlyy · 2 years ago

Note

Girl… you say you uncomfortable writing smut but repost stuff involving smut and follow smut writers…..

Like girl your hypocritical

And the fact that your too scared to write smut like your dumb af. If you wanna make it in the fanfic writer world you need smut or you’ll get no hype on your boring ass stories LMFAOOO💀

At the end of the day writing these non smut stories isn’t gonna get you anywhere hun <3 😭 much love ig🫣

oh.. look im sorry i dont mean to come off hypocritical at all…. that wasn’t my intention. i don’t write smut because it makes me “uncomfortable” and when i say that it just makes me feel weird because it’s hard for me to write! i mean im not good at all. aand im sorry my stories are boring. i tryyy really hard on my stories. i prefer reading other smut because it’s well written and i love supporting other writers…❤️. writing fanfics are fun for me and kind of a coping mechanism and im not worried about being suuuuper hyped as a fanfic writer i just want people to enjoy my stories as much as i enjoy theirs! im really sorry for being a hypocrite i didn’t know that was how i was coming off trust me! also with the smut thing im sorry i know it must be weird and ill try to fix my writing abilities but im just not good at writing smut. I feel bad i didn’t meet your needs or pleases as a writer and ill try to do better you can count on me for that!

#austin butler elvis #elvis #elvis 2022 #austin butler #austin!elvis #austin!elvis angst #austin!elvis fic #austin!elvis x fem!reader #austin!elvis x black!reader #austin!elvis fanfiction #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n

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pxgeturner · 2 years ago

Text

blue christmas — austin!elvis x fem!reader

you attend a christmas party w your best friend. you encounter your ex, and hear his new song. you two talk about the shitty way things ended.

an. hey y’all. i’m in the thick of exams but i’ve had this finished for a while n didn’t know if i should post it. but yk i like it so this is ur update. i’ll have another thingy coming up soon too.

warnings. this is an angst piece. now it’s not sobbing at three am type beat but this did make me feel actual pain in my heart and in my palms while i was writing this. but then again i was kinda super in my feelings. that being said this has a happy ending. but this isn’t really a romance piece.

wc. 1039

you adjust your santa hat, and smooth your velvet skirt as the elevator ascends. when the elevator arrives at your floor, you throw your matching sack over your shoulder.

the door opens, “ho, ho, hi everyone!” people cheer at your arrival

your best friend pulls you aside, “hello, ms. sexy santa!”

you wiggle your shoulders at the complement and give bea a cheeky smile, “thanks,”

“i can’t believe you though, we agreed not to do the costumes!”

you shake your head and wag your finger at her, “nuh-uh, you just decided not to be my little helper. i never said anything like that.” you tell her you’re going to go make rounds. but she grabs your arm.

“wait! have you heard it?”

“heard what?”

“elvis released a new song.”

oh.

“ok,”

“it’s gonna suck when you hear it,”

“i’ll survive.” it’s highly unlikely rock ‘n’ roll is going to play at a christmas party. you figure you have at least a day or two if you hole yourself in your apartment.

she links arms with you, and you two go find some people you know. you let yourself drown in the music, in the glamor of it all. you’re out on the dance floor, bobbing happily to eartha kitt, when part of you decides that you should spin, so you do. you spin and spin and spin. and it supplies you enough serotonin to last you for a few days. you wipe out, landing in a pile of “presents”. you see a red and white mass that your tipsy mind faintly recognizes as:

“santa!” you ungracefully put yourself (mostly) upright, and are about to march over to the mythical philanthropist, but you realize that is not, indeed, actually santa claus.

it’s elvis aaron presley.

you can’t let him see you. so, naturally, you run away from santa.

bea finds you in a bathroom, on the floor. “you saw him,”

“how could i not,” you sniffed, “he’s a giant and we’re wearing matching outfits.”

she nodded in sympathy, “you are,”

you sigh.

“maybe this is like, fate or something,”

“fate for what?”

“for you two to be together again. you two are perfect for each other.” bea takes a spot next to you and rubs your back.

you rest your head on her shoulder, “maybe on paper, in practice, things didn’t go so well.”

she wrapped her arms around you, rubbing your shoulder. “maybe things changed on his end.”

you start getting up, and shake your head. “he’s even bigger now.” your hand reaches for the doorknob, “c’mon we can’t hide in here forever.”

bea and you go back to rockin’ ’round the christmas tree. narrowly, you manage to avoid santa from noticing you. as it starts to get late and the energy starts to wind down, santa joins the band on the makeshift stage.

“hello, everybody.” he takes a spot on the stool in front of the mic. “i’d like to take this moment to play you a little something i wrote, called blue christmas.”

he starts, his voice melting your heart like butter on toast. as much as you wish you weren’t captivated by him, you were. him being up there with his pretty face, only feet away, makes that deep-set pain he’s left in your heart ache a little more.

“and when those blue snowflakes start falling

that's when those blue memories start calling

you'll be doing all right

with your christmas of white

but i'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue christmas”

that little fantasy you built in your head cracked. he thinks you left just because you wanted to. he is the one that feels abandoned, not you. he rewrote the story to the entire world without knowing. you escape out onto the terrance. feeling the sting of the cold winter air on your cheeks, you laugh a short, bitter laugh into the wind. you sip on your rosé a bit more, hearing heavy footsteps behind you.

“i thought i saw you mrs. claus.”

“that’s lady santa to you.” he laughs.

“my apologies, ma’am.”

“it’s alright, ‘i’m doing alright’, naturally.” elvis was quiet.

“you’re blue though,”

“you left,”

“you were always gone.”

“i was working. work is important.”

“work is important. that’s true, i’m not important.”

“i-i never said that, mama.” he uses his old nickname for you. you miss being his ‘little mama’.

“you didn’t have to, work must've been way more important than me if i felt lucky to see you one night a week.”

“is that why you left?”

your brow scrunched up and you turned to him, “you couldn’t, in your wildest imagination guess why i left. you actually thought i just impulsively left one night.” he rubs the back of your neck and you shoot the last of your wine. “when did you notice i was gone?”

“aug-august 16”

“i left on the last day of july, el.” he runs a hand through his hair, turning around a few times.

“gosh, mama, i– can’t say anything. i should have been a better man to ya.”

“i know you wanted to be, but you couldn’t.”

“yes, yes i could. i could've cancelled some shows, or at least actually come home instead of sleeping at the studio or going out with the guys.”

“okay,”

he freezes, and stares at you, “how was how i treated you okay?”

“what’s done is done, there is nothing either of us can do to undo anything. there’s nothing i can say.”

“let me make it right, mama.” he steps closer, curling a strand of your hair on his finger,

“elvis when I say ‘what's done is done’, that includes us.” you gently separate his hand from your hair and he blinks at you with his puppy dog eyes. part of you doesn’t want to say goodbye. but instead you put a palm to his chest, bridging the gap between you two and kiss his cheek. “i’ll always love you, my rockstar.”

you tuck a rogue strand behind his ear, taking your glass and your leave. you go and find bea, and link arms.

“you talked to him?” you nod and hum, “how’d it go?”

“he’ll be onto bigger and better things, and hopefully, so will i.”

#blue christmas #austin butler elvis #austin!elvis #austin!elvis x reader #elvis x reader #austin!elvis angst #austin!elvis x you #elvis x you #elvis 2022 #my writing

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beeandheroddobsessions · 2 years ago

Text

Everybody Plays The Fool

Part 2: Just Like A King, I've Lost Everything

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Gn! Reader

Summary: In the middle of an afterparty, Y/N stares at the truth, and the truth stares right back.

Warnings: ANGST Hunney, feelings of inadeqacy, drinking, infidelity, no happy ending, reader spirals. (i think that’s all, let me know if I missed any)

I was A/N: This was a blurb that I started last month. For some reason, I just let it sit. Initially, this was a bar scene, but I took it in a different direction after listening to this song: Anywho, enough of my rambling. I hope you enjoy this short tidbit. I recomend listening to the song for the full effect but you don’t have to!

Okay, so your heart is broken, you're sittin' around mopin', mopin', cryin', cryin'...

Tonight was supposed to be beautiful, fun, happy even. I don’t know how I ended up here, though. Drink in my hand, frozen in time. I’ve been sitting like a lonesome fool for the better half of the hour, yet he hasn’t even noticed me. The outfit that adorned my body left me feeling ugly and cheap. The way his arm wrapped around her so naturally left a bitter taste In my mouth.

Said you’re even thinking about dyin’…

The room was spinning. I needed to get out. a familiar sting began to hit my eyes. The exit was so close, yet so far, I couldn’t tear my eyes away as I watched him flash the same smile I had become so familiar with at another beauty. Her locks framed her face perfectly, her dress hugged her form in a way that made me envious, and the shoes that adorned her feet cost more than everything I had on.

Well, before you do anything rash baby, listen to this…

My stomach tied into a million knots at once; there was a pain in my chest that I couldn’t explain as I watched him whisper something sultry, I’m sure, into her ear while his hand rested upon her knee. Then, as if god himself wanted to spite me, Elvis leaned in and placed his lips over hers. Those lips that brought comfort in the night, that whispered sweet nothings, those same lips that uttered three sacred words to me.

Everybody plays the fool, sometimes…

Quickly it became clear to me these past four months meant nothing. This was all too familiar; I was in her spot, not even twenty-four hours ago. We were the picture-perfect couple, you know ‘Heartthrob, Elvis Presley, and his Blushing Beauty, y/n l/n’ not even a few hours ago I was on cloud nine, and now I’m plummeting back to earth. The soft music playing in the background began to fade out as I watched. My feet seemed to have had a mind of their own and moved for me.

There’s no exception to the rule…

Once I made it out into the night, the crisp air kissed my skin, and the damn broke. My heart didn’t crack, split, or shatter. No, this was too slow, too painful. My heart crumbled like a stale cookie. The pain in my knees went unnoticed. I hadn’t even realized I was on all fours, howling like a wounded dog. This was my fall from grace. I struggled to breathe as the truth began to sink in.

It may be factual; it may be cruel…

Reality had stripped away my rose-colored glasses. This wasn’t the first time. Whether it be a girl in a store or the ones that lingered backstage, I can’t even imagine who filled my shoes when I was back at Graceland. I don’t know if heartbreak is supposed to hurt this badly. Hiccups replace my ability to breathe as I sit back in awe at my naivety.

I ain’t lyin’…

Dear god, what is wrong with me? Pathetic; he’s just a man, right? Just a man who gave you the world and snatched it right back. I can’t help the giggles that rumble in my chest. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have been so blind? As I pull myself from my sorrows, the giggles turn to laughs. It is comical because,

Everybody plays the fool.

Taglist: @tacozebra051 @mizzydr @myradiaz @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @imaginationlast

#elvis fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x black reader #elvis x reader #elvis imagine #elvisaaronpresley #70s elvis x reader #austin!elvis x reader #elvis angst #austin!elvis angst #elvis x y/n #elvis 2022 #beeandheroddobsessions #black writers #black reader #Spotify

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wertman25 · 2 years ago

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“Well, ain’t you a cute little thing,” Elvis chuckled lightly, seeming to say the compliment more to himself than to you, or to anyone else in the room for that matter, his eyes roaming from your head to your toe and back again before settling on your face.

His shimmering blue eyes met yours for a long moment, literally devouring you, before something changed within them and he quickly looked to the ground. He made some sort of small coughing noise in the back of his throat, almost like clearing it, but without the real need before he took a small step back to give you some space.

“I–I–I’m s–s–sorry. Where are m–my manners?” he continued with a small stutter, almost embarrassed, before his eyes met yours again, holding your gaze captive with that alluring, almost sheepish half-grin and reaching out his hand. “I’m Elvis. Elvis Presley.”

Your heart stopped as he spoke to you, his words hardly registering within your endorphin-filled mind as you could do nothing else but stare blankly at him. Nothing in your life could have ever prepared you for this moment– could have prepared you for him. Those glittering blue eyes staring down at you, that perfect, charming smile on his face with his hand stretched out towards yours. His introduction was so sweet and innocent, boyish even, as if you wouldn’t know who he was.

Elvis stood there for a moment with his hand outstretched, waiting on you to make the next move before a small chuckle escaped his lips, breaking whatever spell he had casted on you.

“It’s just a hand, honey. You shake it,” he said, even going as far as mimicking the gesture.

You blushed immediately, feeling the sudden warmness spread throughout your cheeks and undoubtedly turning your whole face a bright shade of red. You instantly dropped your gaze away from those crystal blue eyes, hoping a moment away from their enticement would give you a sense of clarity.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” you managed to squeak out, barely above a whisper, speaking more to the ground than to him as your whole world continued to spin.

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ooihcnoiwlerh · 1 year ago

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Chapters: 13/? Fandom: Elvis (Movie 2022) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elvis Presley/You Characters: Elvis Presley, Jerry Schilling, Priscilla Presley Additional Tags: Not RPF, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Co-Workers to Friends to Lovers, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, workplace sexism, Workplace Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Single Parents, Widowed Reader, single parent reader, workaholic single parent meets same, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Mentions of Drunk Driving, none of this is based in reality, dates and timelines have been altered, Austin!Elvis, movie!Elvis, the long slow climb to redemption, Parental Guilt, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, for now anyway, Denial of Feelings, Self-Denial, slightly codependent relationships, repressed Mommy issues, Wet Dream, Masturbation, Resolved Sexual Tension, Office Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, 70s typical attitudes, Barebacking, Love Confessions, Spanking, humiliation but not the sexual kind, Slut Shaming, Extortion, Misogyny, Body Worship, the horrors of being a public figure Series: Part 1 of Austin!Elvis and Manager!Reader Summary:

Elvis Presley just won an exhausting legal battle against Tom Parker and needs a new manager. That's where you come in.

I’m back! Just a warning, this is an utter bear of a chapter and an incredibly draining few days for the Reader character. That said, the smut has returned.

#elvis 2022 #austin!elvis angst #austin!elvis smut #austin!elvis reader #austin!elvis x y/n #elvis smut #austin butler

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pxnsneverland · 9 days ago

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Heartbreak Hotel | austin!elvis x oc (part 3)

(gif source: austinbutlermischief)

plot summary: Angel Casteel is a small town girl who lucked into working as a costume designer at a film studio. Unfortunately, her confidence in herself wavers as she is assigned to work with Elvis on his latest motion picture. Overcome by his star power at first, she slowly starts to realize there is a man behind the fame, a man she understands. But as they grow closer, the world grows more turbulent, especially Elvis's world. Will this Angel be able to save Elvis from himself and the people around him? Or will getting mixed up in his word prove to be her downfall as well?

Part 1 | Part 2

pairings: austin!elvis x oc

word count: 2501

warnings/notes: N/A

Chapter 3: A Christmas Showdown

Even after a few days, Martin Luther King's death weighed heavily on Elvis' mind. Angel could see him straining to keep his cool. Even completing the film seemed less important to him. Angel did her best to console him and distract him from his inner turmoil, but it didn't seem like enough. The Colonel also attempted to deflect Elvis' attention, despite the fact that his plan contained a whole new musical extravaganza for Elvis. Christmas Elvis.

“Jingles, Jingles,” Colonel Parker sang, “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane,” as he steered a reindeer-drawn sleigh engraved into a 3D copy of the stage Elvis was to play on.

Angel and Elvis sat outside around Elvis' trailer, trying to stay cool in the scorching heat of Los Angeles. Elvis shifted his gaze between the Colonel and the diorama. There was a quiver in his eye as he tried to conceal his disgust at the prospect of a Christmas special.

“Elvis Presley’s Wonderful World of Christmas,” Colonel said, straightening up, “Brought to you by the Singer Sewing Machine Company, to every television set in America.”

“Elvis and Christmas?” Angel questioned.

“Why not? My boy is a good Christian son of God. The fans will love it. It only takes three days to tape and there’s no audience.”

“I’m not questioning that Elvis is a Christian. I’m sure his mama taught him well. But Elvis singin’ in front of a bunch of fake Christmas sets?”

Colonel Parker glared at Angel. “With all due respect, Ms. Casteel, I don’t know why you’re questioning anything. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Elvis said, folding his arms. Elvis's voice was firm, his stance protective. The Colonel’s eyes flickered with surprise, perhaps unaccustomed to Elvis asserting himself in matters outside his usual domain.

“Colonel, she’s right,” Elvis continued, his voice softer now but no less determined. “This Christmas special— it's not me. It doesn’t feel right, not now.” He glanced at Angel, seeking her support. Angel nodded, squeezing his hand. She could see the conflict written all over his face—the desire to please his fans and follow the Colonel’s guidance versus his own artistic integrity and current emotional state.

Colonel Parker adjusted his glasses, seemingly calculating his next words carefully. “Elvis, son, I know it’s been a tough time for you. But this could be a good distraction. Plus, it's good publicity.”

“I appreciate that, Colonel,” Elvis replied slowly. “But maybe this ain’t the time for distractions. Maybe it’s time I faced things head on.” His gaze hardened slightly as he looked back at the Colonel. “This special... it ain’t going to help me do that. Plus I ain’t sang and performed live in years. I don’t know if a Christmas special is the best way to start that up again.”

Colonel Parker wrinkled his brow. He gave Angel a disgusted glance before returning his gaze to Elvis. Angel could care less. She didn't appreciate how he handled Elvis or how he purposefully sheltered him from anybody else's perspective that contradicted what he wanted Elvis to accomplish. He was attempting to transform Elvis into a puppet, removing the rebel everyone had grown to love.

“Why not?” Colonel asked Elvis. “A Christmas sweater. Made on the new Singer home knitting apparatus.”

Elvis shook his head, a mix of frustration and resolve flickering across his features. "Colonel, it’s not about the sweater or the stage or any prop you can throw in there. It's about what feels genuine to me," he said, his voice steady and firm. "I can’t sing about joy and peace when my heart is heavy. It wouldn’t be honest. It wouldn’t be right."

Colonel Parker’s face hardened, the lines deepening around his mouth. "Elvis, think about your career, son. This is an opportunity. A big one." His tone was persuasive but tinged with a hint of desperation.

But Elvis was no longer paying attention. On the little TV his cousin Jerry had dragged out, he was watching Robert F. Kennedy. He was delivering a speech in protest of Dr. King's assassination. Angel rose up and approached Elvis, laying a hand on his back. He naturally placed his arm over her shoulders. For days, the TV had been tuned into the riots and carnage in Elvis' birthplace of Memphis. That, more than anything else, had broken him.

“Memphis is burning,” Angel said quietly, my gaze fixed on the screen.

“You’re right, darlin’. And a damn Christmas special ain’t gonna help.” Elvis looked at the Colonel over his shoulder.

Colonel Parker sighed heavily leaning on his cane. He ran a hand over his face. “We took the Hollywood phonies for every nickel they had and, after filming ends next week, it is time for us to pack up our tents and move onto greener pastures.” He drew in closer. “We’ve seen Elvis the Rebel. We’ve seen Elvis the Movie Star. Now, we will see Elvis the Family Entertainer. The people need to believe in hope, happiness, the spirit of Christmas!”

“You turnin’ into an appliance salesman?” came Jerry’s voice.

Elvis tensed. “What did you say?”

Angel attempted to retain hold of him. “Elvis, don’t…” Her grip wasn't strong enough, and he slid out easily, slowly heading towards Jerry. “Jerry was just jokin’.”

“I don’t give a damn if he was jokin’ or not.” Elvis jabbed a finger at Jerry's face. The dark-haired vocalist was shaking. “Listen, Jerry, I don’t need you to question me about how I support my family and every goddamn person here! You understand me?! If you don’t like it, you can pack your shit and go back to Memphis.”

Jerry's face paled, his eyes wide as the last vestiges of humor vanished. The tension in the air was thick, everyone around could feel the raw nerve that had been touched. Elvis' hand was still trembling when he finally lowered it. Angel was worried Elvis’s next move would be a punch to Jerry’s face. Instead, Elvis stormed off into the trailer slamming the door shut behind him.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Jerry.” Angel’s gaze was fixed on the door through which Elvis had vanished.

Jerry's shoulders slumped, his face reflecting a mix of regret and fear. "I didn't mean no harm by it," he murmured, more to himself than to Angel. His gaze shifted uncomfortably from the door to the ground.

Angel sighed heavily, rubbing her temples as she tried to ease the tension headache that had begun to form. She turned to Jerry, her voice soft yet firm. "Elvis is under a lot of pressure, you know that.”

The air around them felt heavy, charged with an uncomfortable silence following the outburst. The Colonel, still leaning on his cane, finally spoke up, attempting to regain some control over the situation. "Let's all take a breather," he suggested gruffly. "Give Elvis some space to cool down." He shuffled away, leaving Angel and Jerry alone in the dusty parking lot filled with trailers and equipment.

"Go talk to him," Jerry urged after a moment, nodding toward Elvis' trailer. "He'll listen to you, Angel."

Hesitating only briefly, Angel nodded in agreement and headed towards the trailer. She stepped inside locking the door behind her. Elvis sat on the couch, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand, lingering. His eyes were distant, a storm of emotions swirling within them as he stared into the amber liquid. The trailer was quiet, the only sound being the faint hum of the air conditioner mixed with Elvis's shallow breaths.

After a long moment, Elvis sighed heavily and turned to look at her. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said softly.

Angel took a seat on the sofa next to him. He took her hand and brought it to his lips to kiss her fingers. "It’s just all piling up, you know? The news from home, the pressure from the Colonel, trying to be what everyone expects me to be." He paused, his voice cracking slightly. "Sometimes, I feel like I’m losing myself in it all."

Angel squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I know, Elvis. I know it's tough. But you're handling it as best you can." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "Maybe this is a sign, huh? Maybe it's time to start doing things your way, to make music that speaks from your heart."

Elvis looked up, his eyes meeting hers, a flicker of hope amidst the weariness. "You really think so?" he asked, his voice a mix of vulnerability and aspiration.

"I do," Angel replied firmly. "People fell in love with Elvis Presley not just because of your voice or your moves, but because you're real. You bring something no one else can."

Elvis considered her words, letting them sink in. He set the glass down on the coffee table with a soft clink and leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe it's time to shake things up again. Like the old days. Ah, but the Colonel’s got his sights set on this Christmas special. And there’s a lot hanging on it. Contracts, commitments." His voice tapered off as the weight of the situation settled over him.

Angel reached out, her hand gently brushing his cheek. “But you've never been one to shy away from a challenge, have you?" Her words were soft but carried an undeniable truth that seemed to resonate within him.

Elvis nodded slowly, a resolve building in his eyes. "No, I haven’t," he admitted, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "And maybe that’s exactly what I need to remember." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his gaze still locked with hers.

The air in the trailer shifted subtly as if acknowledging his decision. Angel gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "And I’ll be with you every step of the way," she promised.

Elvis leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a moment as he absorbed her support and affection. Then he pulled back slightly, a new lightness in his demeanor. "Alright then.”

*********

The last day of shooting was here and gone. Angel had packed her sketchbooks and spare fabrics. She was ready to go home and get some sleep for the night when she saw the light from Elvis's trailer flickering. She assumed he'd be sleeping. He had looked so worn out. She put her arms about herself to keep herself warm as she headed to the trailer. She carefully opened the door and let herself in. Except for the little TV, everything was pitch black. Elvis was stretched down on the sofa, still clothed in the outfit he had been wearing when he walked off the set. A tape recorder stood next to him, playing his rendition of "Here Comes Santa Claus” that the Colonel had forced him to record. The tune had been released to the public the day prior and was already generating a lot of attention. It didn't matter, however. Elvis despised it, despised having to even do it in the first place.

She approached him gently. It took him a while to realize he wasn't alone. He looked at her, his steely gaze softening and becoming kind and welcoming. Angel put her back against the wall. “Satnin…” He had informed her early on that only his mother had called him that, but she had adopted the moniker since hearing it made him happy. “Are you alright?”

“Hi, darlin’.” He glanced down, as if he was trying to think of anything to say but couldn't. He seemed deflated, fatigued by more than just filming. He reached behind him to switch off the recording, clearly sick of hearing himself sing.

“What’s goin’ on, Elvis?” Angel asked gently, sliding down next to him on the sofa. Her presence seemed to comfort him as he let out a long sigh and leaned back against the cushions.

“I don’t know, Angel. I just… I feel like I’m selling pieces of myself every time we record one of those songs, you know?” His voice was low, filled with a tired resignation that made her heart ache for him.

Angel laid her hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know it’s hard. But remember what we talked about? Doing things your way…” She trailed off, hoping he would catch onto the encouragement she was trying to offer.

Elvis turned to look at her, his eyes showing a glimmer of the fire she knew so well. “Yeah, I remember,” he murmured. “It’s just tough, Angel. The contracts, the expectations—they don’t just disappear.”

Angel laid down and curled into Elvis’s side. He placed an arm around her waist drawing her in closer and kissing her brow. His gaze shifted to the televison as he let his lips linger in her hair. On the screen, they were in the middle of broadcasting Dr. Martin Luther King's Memorial. Mahalia Jackson was singing in a manner that made the whole globe want to stop and listen.

There was silence for a bit until Elvis let out a long sigh. “I’m so tired of playin’ Elvis Presley. Sometimes I wonder if I even know who that is anymore.”

“You’ll find him again,” Angel assured him firmly, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. And you don’t have to play with me. Here, you’re just Elvis. The man, not the legend. I don’t care about the money or the fame or anythin’ else. I just want you to be happy. And I’d do anything to see that smile on your face again.”

He looked down at her, appreciation flickering in his eyes. "You always know what to say, don’t you?" He smiled wistfully and turned his attention back to the television. The solemn notes of the memorial service seemed to echo his own internal struggles. Elvis shut his eyes. He put his hand in Angel’s hair and started rubbing her head. “Just stay with me, darlin’, and I’ll smile all you want.”

“I’m right here.” She raised her head just enough to kiss him. “But Elvis…you’re only truly happy when you sing the music you love. I saw it even before I knew you.”

He didn't say anything, but his grasp on her tightened. He cracked open his eyes and returned his gaze to the television. Angel leaned against him once again. Mahalia Jackson was still singing, her voice carrying everyone's agony and sadness.

“Mahalia Jackson,” Elvis said quietly, “I used to hear her sing at East Street Church.” He pointed at the television. “That’s the music that makes me happy. Music that comes from nowhere else but the soul.” He turned up the volume on the TV so that the woman's voice filled the whole trailer.

“Then sing that music, baby. And don’t let anybody tell you you can’t.”

Elvis fixed his gaze on the screen. His free hand reached out and interlaced their fingers. “I think it’s time to make some changes.”

Stay tuned for part 4!! Click HERE to view!

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stephstars08 · 11 months ago

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Austin Butler

One Shots

Falling Apart - Austin!Elvis x Reader

Jealous - Austin Butler x Reader

(I DO NOT DO TAG LISTS!!!)

***PLEASE DO NOT POST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM WITHOUT CREDIT!!!!***

#austin!elvis x reader #austin butler #Austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #Austin butler one shot #austin butler x fem!reader #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #Elvis 2022 #elvis movie #austin!elvis fanfiction #austin!elvis fic #austin!elvis x fem!reader #Austin!elvis x you #Austin!elvis x y/n #Austin!elvis angst #Austin!elvis fluff #Austin butler angst #Austin butler fluff

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crash-and-cure · 2 years ago

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Wait for Me (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Tupelo’s favorite son is on his way home to all the expected pomp and circumstance befitting a returning King.

A/N: This is very much inspired by Hadestown and I may or may not blend all the character together so that both Elvis and reader have aspects from all of them. Technically I’m cheating I will admit by combining these two (-, -) requests into one story but I thought it would work well. Not me trying to Posit how WW2 affected the floriculture industry all for a fanfic. But this is apparently how I marry my two hyperfixations of 2022: Hadestown and Elvis. A+ to anyone that can find all the references to both Hadestown and the greek mythos in the story.

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, and delusional behavior. Kidnapping. Kinda of a stochholme syndrome going on through the later half. Blood and a bit of child abuse depicted (arguably this child deserved it). Emotional Manipulation throughout. Isolation. Touch-starved reader. Innocent reader. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), oral sex (f. and m. recieving), vaginal fingering and handjobs. Outsider POV for the first bit. Probably more that I am blanking on. Excessive use of “Honeybee” and “Rosebud” as a nickname for the reader. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Word Count: 21k (seriously somebody stop me)

My Masterlist

Dreams are sweet, Until they’re not

Men are kind, Until they aren’t

Flowers bloom, Until they rot, And fall apart

Flowers, Hadestown

Demi has never feared a single man in her life.

Men have done her wrong. Men have humiliated her. Men have even hurt her. But she does not fear them.

That’s how she lived for years, drifting from place to place, belonging to no one as no one belonged to her, unattached and untethered as the wind. Working odd jobs to get by until the next town, but there was a perpetual emptiness in this existence of hers that left her feeling hollow.

And then her sweet little daughter was born and she found something that bound her to this world fully. She knew who the father was, but none of that mattered to her, because her daughter was no man’s, she was hers. He wasn’t good for much, but getting roughly ten acres of land in exchange for never having to deal with either him or his wife again was one of the sweetest deals she had ever heard.

Living on a farm was never where she pictured herself ending up, let alone working and later inheriting a farm that only grew flowers, but Gail, the old caretaker of the land, was a literal godsend in those early days. Gail had that same look in her eyes as someone else who had been wronged by a man, and this kindred spirit would end up more or less adopting Demi as her own.

Her daughter is by far the most beautiful thing to have ever existed, born the first day of spring all balled up fists and shrill cries complete with a scrunched up face.

She was perfect.

Demi made a promise to that tiny creature that night, to never know hunger, to be surrounded by only the most beautiful things the world has to offer, to never be unloved for as long as she should live, and most importantly to never let the world hurt her the same way she was hurt. All of these rather lofty promises to make, but she was determined to keep them.

Those early days were painfully idyllic, caring for flowers, selling the cuttings, all the while her daughter was strapped to her chest. It admittedly did a number on her back, but it was all worth it to remind her what she works for. She doesn’t think there will ever be a day in which she forgets the first time her daughter's tiny hands reached out for a white rose, and just the utter serenity that overcame her in that moment. There is no doubt in her mind that this is where the both of them were meant to be.

As the years passed their little family grew as Demi collected other wayward women, some came and went, others stuck around so long her daughter started calling them her Aunties. Even a war happened a world away, and the farm had to shift focus to making food rather than beauty, but now three years later everything is close to being just as perfect as it was before.

But if there is one saying she wholeheartedly believes, it is that woman plans and man laughs.

Her daughter had been so upset that day and had ended up exhausting herself in Demi’s bed and she thanked whatever force up above for that when she woke in the middle of the night to the sound of rustling in her daughters room. Making sure that her daughter was still asleep she crept silently down the hall, baseball bat in hand, prepared to defend her family from whoever the hell was in her home.

Evidently nothing could have prepared her for what she would find in there, as she walked into her daughter's room and was met with the cornflower blue gaze of a familiar waifish thirteen year old boy.

When he had first started coming around, he was more like a stray cat whom her daughter fed once; annoyingly underfoot but manageable enough with a hose. But the more time he spent the more worried she became.

All of which the day before when she had idly asked her daughter what she did with the boy that day only for her sweet little daughter to innocently respond, “he told me not to tell you.”

Her friends tried to tell her it was puppy love and that it would eventually pass, and just to give it some time to fade. How intervening may just make it worse. But something in her gut told her that there was something about the way he looked at her daughter, the way he spoke to and about her, the way he acted, and that something was that it was all very wrong. If she had to liken it to anything, she imagines that this is the same way a hunter looks upon his mark.

It was beyond anything she’s ever seen in a grown man's eyes, so she never thought she could see something like that in a child's eyes.

Her daughter remained innocent to it, and slowly but surely Demi was trying to edge that boy out of their lives. Sent him home earlier and earlier, kept her from the shop and in the fields, even began to go out of her way to pick up her daughter rather than chance it with walking home by herself.

But now looking at the boy as he eagerly ransacked her daughter's dresser, did she realize she should have better listened to her instinct.

‘Oh hi Miss Demi,” he would say, as though he just wasn’t caught rifling through her daughters drawers. He was clutching tightly to a truly pathetic and haphazardly put together bouquet of flowers, that seemed to be dripping something from the stems. “Do you know where Y/N is? I just wanted to give these to her.”

It was only as she turned on the lights did she see the true horror to be had. Candy apple red, as though it could ever be that innocent, blood was dripping between his fingers and onto the wooden floors below, his face giving no indication that he even noticed, his eyes continually darting behind her as though waiting for someone from behind. The flowers in the chaotic bouquet tell a story of all kinds of love, but the one errant, still-thorned rose tells the story not of love, but of something else… something dark and unspeakable.

Demi acts immediately, grabbing him by the wrist and by the ear and getting him the hell out of her house. For all his protests and attempts to escape her grip, he was no match for the fury of a mother, and with the ruckus the boy is stirring up she silently thanks god that her daughter is such a deep sleeper.

It hurts her having to leave her daughter home alone, but she knows that her daughter's biggest threat is in her grasp.

She’s had to drop the boy off enough times to remember where he lived and she knows his mother well enough to instinctively know she is no doubt up worrying over him. She was proven right seeing the light bleeding through the front windows of the small home.

He is out of the truck before Demi can even fully park it, and he bolts to the door, probably hoping that she will then be forced to leave without talking to his mother about this whole thing. But he is stopped as said woman flies out of the house and catches him in a massive bear hug on the small porch.

He has parents who care for him so much, yet he still acts like this? She wonders to herself. She sees the woman giving her son once over before coming across his wounded hand that had by now begun to congeal and stop bleeding.

“If you know what’s good for him, you’ll make sure he stays the hell away from my property and I best never see you sniffin’ around my child again, boy,” Demi would say, voice ice cold interrupting this warm reunion, pointing a single finger in this boy's face.

“Demi, what’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” his mother would ask, already putting him behind her back, willing to defend him with her life apparently.

Wouldn’t you do the same, a small part of her says.

“Y’know I expected more from you,” Demi said to her fellow mother. “I never would’ve expected you to be the type to raise a boy that would break into a little girls room and go through her drawers. The hell were you even tryin’ to find in there?”

He wouldn’t answer her, but he would look her dead in the eye, with a look that told her he was unrepentant about his actions. Though that mask would crack the slightest bit as his mother took his face in her hands.

“Bewbie… is this true?” the woman would ask her son slowly, unwilling to believe. But his downturned eyes do all the necessary talking.

“Mama she’s crazy,” that little shit would say, trying to deflect, and cowering behind his mothers skirts. “We can’t leave Honeybee with her.”

“I oughta knock all your fuckin’ teeth out for whatchu did. See how good a singer you are then,” she threatens, though that hardly helps her case. But she was willing to do a lot worse if it meant keeping her daughter safe.

“Don’tcha see Mama?” he says, gesturing a hand her way. “She ain’t safe with Miss Demi, and we gotta take her with us.” It’s not so much his words that are disturbing, but the complete and utter conviction that he speaks nothing but the truth that has the hair on the back of Demi’s neck stand up.

That boy’s lucky that his father decided to make his way out there and prevent Demi from making good on her threat.

“Buntyn, go inside,” she would firmly say to her son. He looks as though he were about to protest, until she shoots a look and he backs down, and walks back into his home. His mother takes a moment to process her words, though nothing she says has a chance in hell of quelling the fury in Demi’s heart. “I-I think he’s just actin’ out because we’re gonna to be movin’ soon,” she tries to weakly justify.

“I don’t fuckin’ care what his excuses are, Gladys. Keep a leash on that boy o’ yours if you gotta,” Demi seethes, catching said boy looking out at them from the window. She makes eye contact with him, fully knowing he would hear this next part, “Because I ain’t goin’ to be so nice next time.”

Demi turned around with that threat still hanging in the air and hoped to never see any of them again. It’s a long quiet drive from there, and her fury reaches a near boiling point finding that damned bouquet on the floor, forgotten in all the ruckus, to which she quickly chucks them into the furnace. It feels wrong to burn her own livelihood, but these flowers were now in her eyes tainted and unfit to ever be seen again.

The fury doesn’t fully melt away until she sees the love of her life sitting up from her bed.

“Mama where’d ya go?” you would ask, your tiny fists rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you let out an almost angelic yawn. You are and always will be her baby, and nothing will ever take you away from her.

“Just a stray dog sniffin’ round the house, Rosebud,” Demi would say, lightly scratching her nails down your back, the same way she’s done since you were a newborn. “But don’tchu worry baby, your mama scared it off. Go back to sleep.”

Demi sleeps well that night if only due to the fact that she was able to convince herself (albeit temporarily) that that had all been a bad dream. But once she saw the trail of crimson starting from your bedroom window, there is no denying what had happened the night before. She didn’t get this far by trusting other people's words, so for the next few days the two of you slept in a different room each night. Demi calls it camping and you, her sweet little girl, are all too willing to believe her. She sleeps with one eye open those nights, all too afraid that even dropping her watch for half a second will lead to disaster.

She would find no peace until she heard around town that they had moved somewhere up north. To where? She didn't care so long as he was as far away from her precious Rosebud as could be. Still she is always worried as to the day he may come back, so she can only pray that he’s moved on to another poor girl and leaves you the hell alone.

Part of her wonders if she should warn you in case he ever returns, but this question answers itself when you come home from school wanting to show her how many ladybugs you caught in the schoolyard today. She didn’t want to burden you with this awful knowledge, wanting to keep you innocent from your mothers woes.

Demi wanted to shield you from the world, and hoped that one day, you would also get to live without fearing men. It would take her nine years to realize, by then far too late, that you only lacked fear because you didn’t know what men were capable of.

Demi fears no man.

But she does fear Elvis Presley.

—------------------------------------

Flowers have always been the family business. Fields upon fields of every color in the rainbow going on for acres. Truly even having lived here for years and knowing little to nothing else but this, it still never fails to take your breath away.

To say your family knows flowers, is an understatement. You had spent your days running around the property asking your aunties about the flowers they tended to, and what each of them meant.

You learned from an early age that flowers were always meant to invoke good feelings in people, and it makes you proud that you’re a part of it. So you’re excited to say the least when your Mama surprises you with your very own gardening kit for Christmas.

It’s a rite of passage for those in your family to successfully grow and maintain their own plot of flowers for the first time. You had been given the choice of any flower you wanted to take on, most of them pointing to some of these easiest ones for your first time, the ones that you need only plant and water regularly to eventually bloom. You on the other hand wanted to do something harder. So you chose roses due to both the challenge it takes into growing and maintaining them but also the fact that your farm had them in abundance, so it wouldn’t hit the business too hard if you failed.

But moreover, Mama had always called you her little Rosebud, so it only felt fitting to have these be the first flowers you grow all on your own. These blooms were rather picky about conditions, but you had been watching the women in your family grow them since before you could walk, and so you felt you were up to the task. You were only nine but you wanted to show the rest of them how good you could do on your own.

So you watched the seeds germinate, watched them grow into tiny sprouts in their small pots, planted them neatly apart, gave them plenty of sun, and never forgot to water them. Mama even caught you once or twice hovering over those little pots not wanting to miss a single moment of their growth.

She warned you to temper your expectations, how sometimes you can do everything right, and they still may not grow. But you were full of hope and wanted this more than you have ever wanted anything in your few years of life.

You had taken this seriously, hanging on to every tip you got from your Aunties, being sure to tend to them at the correct times, giving the correct amount of water and watching like a hawk for any unwanted pests. Each day you got the pleasure of watching them grow into buds and you figured they were close to blooming any day.

And that’s why you took great offense when you found a gangly tow-headed boy picking at the red roses you had worked so hard to grow.

He looked to be older than you by a few years, stood a foot taller than you, but you knew boys like him, the type that would stomp out dandelions to make you cry and you weren’t about to let him ruin your hard work with your first batch of rose bushes. You may be 9 but you’re scrappy as all get out, which you prove when you drop your basket of fresh cuttings of the day and all but tackle the larger boy into the dirt.

He gives an undignified shriek as he hits the ground, having been caught off guard, but he does attempt to shove you off until he goes a bit limp upon getting a good look at you. The brief scuffle ends with you straddling him and your little palms pinning his arms down as best as you could as owlish, cornflower blue eyes stared up at you in equal amounts of awe and fear.

“What’re you doin’ here?” you say your little voice indignant at what you thought were his attempts to sabotage your efforts. “Why were tryin’ to kill those roses?”

“I-I-I wa-wasn’t,” he insists, his cheeks burning from the shame of being caught doing whatever he was doing and his hands shaking something fierce as he limply tries to hide his face from you as you clench a tiny fist above you. You see that the briars got him good and little droplets of blood were beading up on some fine scratches on his hands.

If he was trying to wreck the bushes you doubt he would try to do so in such a stupid way, but that didn’t mean you trusted him quite yet. However you weren’t about to let him continue being hurt in your presence, so you stood up and grabbed the band-aids that were in your little kit, and helped clean him up.

“I-It-ts m-my mama’s birthday to-tomorrow, an-and I wanted to get her so-somethin’ nice this year,” he said after a while, solemnly looking at his bandaged hand.

You softened at his words, not having expected his answer, but you can hardly fault him for his reasoning. Afterall you don’t know where you or your mama would be if there weren’t thoughtful people that gave flowers to those they loved.

But you do know how much work it takes to grow them, and maintaining your irritation at his mucking about, you indignantly say “You coulda went to our shop and bought them.”

He goes an even deeper shade of red with your statement, “I-I know it’s wrong to steal, an-and I never woulda done this i-if I had the money to buy ‘em.”

It feels like all of the animosity you have towards him leaves your body at that moment. You and Mama have had your hard times before, and you are very much aware that each flower in your family’s field is worth something. It’s what keeps everyone fed, what keeps the lights on, and puts the clothes on your backs, but even knowing that you have one simple belief; everyone deserves nice flowers.

“Well,” you say to him as you stand up. “You picked the wrong color. You ain’t supposed to give red roses to your mama.”

“Really?”

“If you know anything about the language of flowers, you’d know that you’re only supposed to give ‘em to your wife or girlfriend.”

“...Flowers talk to each other?”

“No, they…” you pause trying to figure out a way to best explain yourself. “Their colors and the types are supposed to tell people how you feel about ‘em.” He draws his brows together, thoroughly confused as to what you’re saying, though that ain’t surprising. Mama often complained that when Men buy flowers, they never think too much beyond price, and boys rarely if ever appreciate them.

You decide that it may do him better, to see it rather than trying to explain it fully. So you take his bandaged hand and you walk him through some of the crops. From the outside, the fields look to be a chaotic mess of colors, when in reality there is a lot more thought put into it as your mother organizes by type rather than color. You are able to give him a run down as to rose color meanings, until you finally arrive at your intended destination.

He goes a little wide-eyed once you take out your gardening shears, but quickly relaxes once you go behind him to the bushel of pink roses. You’ve been cutting and dethorning roses for about a year or two now, so it takes not even a minute to find one in good condition, grab it, cut it, proceed to have it stripped of all its thorns, and casually present it to the blonde boy before you.

You thought he was red before, but as you presented him that rose, he turned redder than the rose he had attempted to pluck. His bandaged hand shakily takes the flower out of your hand, and with a reverence you’ve never seen from a boy when it comes to flowers, he holds it gently with both.

“Pink means gratitude and admiration.”

“What?” his lip still quivering slightly and eyes glassy.

“When you give someone a pink rose,” you explain to him, with a smile. “You’re letting them know that you’re grateful for all they’ve done for you and that you admire them very much for it. It’s the perfect flower to give to your Mama,” you say, giving him a small smile, the look he’s giving you making you feel warm inside.

“Rosebud?” you hear from behind you, and all the warm feelings seem to die in that instant.

“H-hi mama,” you say nervously, whipping around, standing on your toes, as though you’ll somehow be able to hide this trespasser's taller frame behind you. Though you realize how stupid that idea is and quickly take her hand, “Mama come look at my roses, I think they’re gonna bloom today,” you say, trying desperately to turn her around as though she’ll forget she ever saw that boy.

“In a minute Rosebud,” she said, her voice saccharine sweet, that you know by now means she’s mad. “But first, why don’tcha introduce me to your little friend here.”

“...yes Mama, this is… my friend…,” you go wide-eyed realizing you don’t even know this boy's name.

Luckily he picks up on your pause, “Hello, ma-ma’am, my name is uuhh… Elvis… Presley.”

Your mama slowly leans forward until she’s eye level with him, “Well, Elvis Presley,” she drawls slowly, her words friendly, yet the way they’re delivered tells you her feelings for this boy are anything but. “You mind tellin’ me why the hell you’re on my property, botherin’ my daughter, and plucking out my livelihood?”

Elvis looks down realizing that he was still holding the pink rose for all to see, and makes a futile attempt to hide it, only for his skinny wrist to be caught in your mothers iron like grip.

Mama had that way about her, her smile could be warm but her words icy. You’ve seen her like this with the few men that had come through here. Some trying to buy the land, some trying to find one of your Aunties, all of them leaving empty-handed because of her.

But you don’t believe that the boy before you, the one that wanted to get his mama something nice for her birthday, could ever be like those bad men. So you decided to do what needs to be done, “I invited him over Mama,” you say looking down at your muddy boots.

“Rosebud you ain’t gotta lie for him,” she admonishes, though she does seem to loosen her grip on him.

“Bu-but it’s the truth Mama. He’s been sayin’ how he needs a gift for his mama’s birthday, so I said he could come over here to get her a flower,” you mumble, knowing that this is something she always told you never to do.

She takes a long hard sigh before she fully releases Elvis, “You best get yourself home before it gets dark.” she says, her warning punctuated with a very cold breeze, despite it being well into April. He swallows nervously as he makes his way to the road, giving one last sorrowful glance your way before leaving.

“Rosebud,” your mama sighs, giving you a kiss on the forehead. “Sometimes you’re too sweet for your own good, and I don’t ever want to see someone take advantage of that.”

“Ok Mama.”

When he left that day you fully expected to never see him again, until he showed up the very next day wanting to show you his guitar.

After that, Elvis becomes a near constant presence at your farm. Your aunties thought he was nice enough, pinching his cheeks and plying him with snacks in exchange for having him sing for them. You don’t mind too much, as you don’t really have too many friends, and next to none that want to spend their evenings on your farm. You kind of enjoyed having him around, he would sometimes bring a guitar and sing to you, or read his comics to you. Other times he would follow you around as you did your chores and ask about the flowers.

You got used to him being around and even grew to enjoy it. One special day you even decided to share your most valued treasure with him: your favorite fruit in the whole world. One so good yet so expensive and rare in these parts that it’s limited to a once a year treat for you.

“An onion?” he asks skeptically.

“No,” you insist, slightly huffy that he’s not appreciating your most prized possession. “It’s called a Pomegranate,” you tell him, taking it out of his hands so that you could cut into it the way your Mama showed you. “I know when you first look at it, it doesn't look like much,” you say, as you cut at the crown. “But when you really look at it, you’ll find something truly amazing,” you conclude, and with a twist of your wrist you take the top off to reveal an abundance of the small jewel looking seeds, where you see him looking at it in nothing less than utter amazement.

That look in his eyes only grows when he actually tastes the little kernels for the first time, and he ravenously devours his half of the fruit, some of the juices overflowing out the corners of his mouth, and down his face.

You on the other hand savor each and every bite of it. You truly believe if perfection can be found, it would be in that late summer afternoon. The soft sunbeams creeping through from the shade and the perfume of the freshly cut flowers in your basket. The soft breeze that runs through your hair and causes the flowers in the fields to sway slightly as though they were dancing to the music flowing from your friends' beaten up guitar.

“What’d ya’ dream about doin’?” he would ask as he gazed up at the clouds overhead, idly strumming his guitar, his lips and fingertips stained red.

“What do you mean Elvis?” You would ask as you pick at the very last seeds on your rind.

“I-I mean wh-what’d ya wanna do when you grow up, Honeybee?,” he asks nervously, eyes firmly on the fields as though he were afraid of your answer. You roll your eyes slightly at his nickname for you, stemming from the time a bee landed on your hand and rather than swatting it away, you gently blew on it to get it to fly away. But you do decide to humor him anyway.

“Oh…This.”

“Really?” he asks, truly baffled at your answer. “You really don’t wanna go nowhere or-or do somethin’ else?”

“Why would I wanna do anything else?,” you ask in turn, confused at his confusion. “It’s like magic when really think ‘bout it,” you insist, showing him the last few kernels of the pomegranate you have in your hand. “Something so small can turn into something so beautiful.”

“You could plant ‘em anywhere, couldn’t you?” he insists.

You shrug your shoulders at that. “I guess.”

“But what if you couldn’t stay here,” he asks, his tone mournful, but you didn’t pick up on it at the time. “Wha-what if you had to go far away and y-you couldn’t come back?”

“Then I would make a new home,” you dismiss, offering him the last six seeds of your Pomegranate. He looks so surprised by the offer, his eyes a bit glassy before he furiously rubs them with the back of his hand and accepts your offer.

“Honeybee… co-could you meet me b-by your roses tomorrow,” he stutters. “I-i got something’ important to give ya’.”

“Ok.”

“Bu-but don’t tell your mama,” he says to you.

That may be a tall order, you thought at the time. Your mama on the other hand remains coolly indifferent to him, but you always got the sense that she didn’t like him for whatever reason. Nonetheless a promise is a promise.

Mama was probably at her happiest when he stopped coming around. When you learned he moved away, you were sad that your friend would leave without saying a proper goodbye, and you believed you would never see that dreamer boy again.

So imagine your surprise when a few years later an electric, new singer starts making waves across the south. He tried to steal flowers from your farm and now he steals hearts across the country.

Just about every girl in town, if given the chance, will brag how they had known him way back when, some of the more daring ones even claiming to have been his first kiss. As far as what you have heard Elvis may be the only man alive to have had 25 first kisses. The boys were no better, all claiming to have been his closest buddy growing up, and promising any girl that they could definitely meet back up with him if they chose.

Everyone is in an absolute tizzy for his return to Tupelo, you are simply trying to help your family through the rush of orders that has come in with the upcoming fair. Mostly it had been a headache because the new Miss Tupelo had demanded that her float be decorated with only white roses, as she didn’t think the standard red was flattering for her.

Which is fine until your shop is presented with a very special order from the mayor himself for an order of three dozen of your finest roses to be given to Tupelo’s favorite returning son for his homecoming concert.

Mama had initially treated it like any other order, until she saw who it was from.

“Absolutely not,” she said in her sternest voice, you hear from around the corner.

“Demi,” your Auntie Kate would admonish her. “Don’t be stupid ‘bout this. It’s been years and he was just a dumb kid back then.”

You don’t know what the mayor did to your Mama, but it had to have been bad, if he got her this worked up. Of course you’re not about to ask, as they had both pointedly left the room to discuss the matter while you were supposed to be minding the store. Instead you were very intently listening in to whether or not your mother was about to refuse an order for seemingly the first time in years.

“Kate, I ain’t takin’ any chances with this,” Mama declares. “You weren’t there, but if you’re ever gonna trust me on anything, let it be this.”

“Look Demi,” Kate sighs. “He’s willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money for them, and we need to offload some of the roses and it ain’t like he’s gonna-”

She’s interrupted by the bell signaling a customer having entered the shop. By the time you finish with him though, Mama has agreed, albeit reluctantly, to accept the order, under the condition the Kate be responsible for it in its totality

You don’t know what Kate had said to her but you’re glad nonetheless as she would claim once your mama was out of earshot that she was too busy to do this order so she asked if you would please be so kind as to take care of it for her.

Those weeks leading up to the fair, someone had asked Elvis if he was looking forward to reconnecting with anyone special back in Tupelo. As the reporter described it, the young star would look down bashfully at his feet, one side of his mouth curving upwards with only the slightest hint of red on his ears as he proclaimed yes to this humble reporter. “My sweetheart from way back in the day. I lost touch with her when I moved up to Memphis and I am praying every night that I find her this time around.”

If him simply coming back for a day to perform sent girls into a frenzy, the prospect of him coming back to find his supposed childhood love, just about turned everybody hysterical. Reporters from all over had flooded the town and had been skulking around trying to find this mysterious girl that had a hold on one of the biggest rising stars. Even once or twice coming into the shop and asking if you’ve received any calls from Memphis asking to send flowers to a specific girl in town.

Many girls were claiming to be the one Elvis is in fact looking for, recounting their memories of a sweet boy who only had eyes for them. They all followed the same general beats of being in the same class, he was embarrassingly smitten with them, and they rejected him. You had been in different grades and didn’t really know him outside of when he would visit your farm seemingly everyday, so you could hardly attest as to whether or not any of this was true. You do however remember him cryptically referring to one specific girl that had his heart, though in not so many words.

In the days leading up to the last time you would see him, he became very interested in the flowers for romance. He didn’t say that he was planning to do so, but you could tell he was gearing up to declare his love for that girl he never named. Your first suggestion is, of course, whatever her favorite flower is.

He would blanche a bit at that, “She-she loves em all,” he would mumble looking away bashfully and facing the vibrantly colored fields. According to your mama this is man's speak for “I don’t know.” With few exceptions, nobody is without a favorite, and you sigh slightly disappointed in him that he’s apparently ready to declare undying affection for a girl and he didn’t even know that basic but important information about the girl. But you did promise him your help so you gave him some suggestions: Lilacs for new love, Gardenias for secret love, Carnations for deep love, Tulips for perfect love, Forget-Me-Nots for true love, and of course Red Roses for passionate love.

On that day you would find him nervously pacing in front of your first batch of roses. They were now in full bloom and you sadly recognized that you’re going to have to cut them soon. You know that’s the beast of this business, that in order to bring new life in, the old must make way, but it’s only a cold comfort and you hope that whoever they end up with will appreciate their beauty.

He practically stared you down as you walked down the row between rose bushes, but he seems to be shaking as though his knees were liable to give out at any moment, and the closer you got to him, you saw that his chest was practically heaving. You can see as he holds something behind his back and you blatantly try to look to see what it is, only to be stopped as he places one hand on your shoulder.

“What’d you wanna talk about Elvis?” you ask him, slightly worried he may be having a heat stroke.

He swallows thickly before he finally answers you, “M-my folks and I are gonna be goin’ up North,” his eyes downcast as though he were ashamed to admit this, one hand still hidden behind his back.

“Oh, when are you coming back?” you say oblivious to his grief.

He’s taken by surprise at your question, but he does answer with a simple “I don’t know.” But with that he squares his shoulders and through trembling lips he stutters, “Honeybee… I-I-I want ya’ to c-come wi-with us.”

“Ok.” you say, completely ignorant as to the true meaning of his words.

“Really?” his face breaking into the biggest smile you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Yeah,” you say simply. You remember vividly that you were going to say something to the effect of needing to be back home before dinner because Auntie Erin was gonna be making her famous Golden Apple Pie, when you all of a sudden felt your lips being occupied.

You laugh at your reaction to a simple kiss on the lips now, but at the time, it had felt like the end of the world to you. After all, you were so sure that this was how babies were made.

When you had asked where babies came from, Mama nervously answered you with this story: Your Daddy kissed your mama out in front of the red roses, and their love would cause a new bud to bloom where they would find you sleeping in a rosebud.

Back then you didn’t know any better, all you did know was that you didn’t want to take care of a baby right now. You wanted to grow Azaleas next, and Mama warned you that that would be a big commitment to make. And Elvis was going to be moving away, so who was going to take care of the baby?

You were confused and frustrated beyond anything you’ve experienced up to that point, and you did what any overwhelmed 9 year old would do.

You started bawling your eyes out, pushed him down, and ran back home.

Mama would later comfort you and reassure you no baby was on it’s way. She corrected her story and told you that in fact, the couple must be married in order for a baby to be made. (She never did go into further detail as to the process, so you assumed that was the only necessary detail)

The next day, you had felt bad and wanted to apologize to Elvis for the confusion and for pushing him down yet again. You even had a sprig of Lily of the Valley ready as a peace offering and everything, but you wouldn’t see him the next day. Nor the day after that.

You wouldn’t hear about him until about a couple months back when you had been dethorning the roses while listening to the radio. You vividly remember the surprise that came over you the moment the DJ announced the artist behind the song. How could you not? Afterall it marks the first time in years that a rose had been able to draw blood from you, because in your surprise, hearing the name of a ghost from your past, your ungloved fingers met with a thorn perfectly.

There was no doubt in your mind that it was him not just for the very distinct name, but for that song specifically. You remember him singing it while you were in the fields, saying he had heard it from Big Boy Crudup himself.

For maybe half a second you entertain the thought that you may be the mystery sweetheart of his, but just as quickly you dismiss it as the way he describes it as being a long lost love tragically torn apart by fate. You on the other hand pushed him down and cried your eyes out when he kissed you once before never seeing him again, hardly the type of romance worth reading about.

And like a blink of an eye the fair day arrived.

You had been expressly forbidden from going to the fair, your mother giving no real reason beyond “because I said so.” This in turn makes you feel less guilty about your little scheme, as she did not forbid you from choosing that day to be the day you work in the shop.

Men are funny creatures, you realize as you work on the order the morning of. Whoever put in the order made sure to specify that the roses must be fresh yet somehow neglected to mention the preferred color.

You opted for red ones in the end as you have those in abundance and you figure they probably wouldn’t look too closely into the meaning beyond it being the classic rose color. But you do slip in a pink rose in the mix, remembering the first flower you had ever given him.

It’s a big order to fill, which you only realize once you're carrying a comically large bouquet into the backstage area of the fairgrounds. It was a bit of a hassle making it there in the first place as evidently you’re not the first young woman insisting you’re allowed to be backstage. Though none of them had the mayor himself vouching for the order and letting you in.

He was already walking up on to the stage by the time you get there, and all you really see of him is the back of his head. Without knowing what you did, you would be hard-pressed to find any similarities between the man on stage and the boy who had to sing facing away from you lest he get too anxious.

But when he was presented with the key to the city, did you finally see hints of that boy from your memories. The way he kept shifting nervously from foot to foot, how he kept stuffing his hands in his pockets only to take them out, his eyes flickering back and forth between the crowd and the mayor. All of it reminding you of the endearing, stuttering boy who nervously asked you what each flower in your field meant.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone move like that before, so jerky and sudden, but also so very fluid when he wanted to be. Oddly enough you’re reminded of snake charming, with that vicarious thrill of watching something that looks so dangerous, but you also can’t look away from. But that begs the question: is he the snake or is he the charmer?

It’s hard to say, especially when he shifted gears to slower, less rowdy songs.

And then one day

I had my love as perfect as could be

She lived, she loved, she laughed, she cried

And it was all for me

There was a bit of a tremble in his voice as he crooned those words out to the crowd, as though he were close to tears himself. It’s here you think you truly find that boy that used to bug you when you were out in the fields.

It felt like all too soon the concert was over and he was stepping behind the stage. What feels like half a million eyes are focused on him as he steps off the stage to where he was met with just as many cameras and questions thrown his way. You almost feel bad for him, that he wasn’t even given a chance to breathe between one stage to another.

His eyes scanned the crowd that gathered around him, but eventually his eyes would settle on the ridiculously large bouquet right next to you. It’s hard to miss, you think, looking at it, but when you look back at him you find that his eyes are firmly set on you and you feel your heart skip a beat.

He’s probably trying to figure out where he knows you from, you figure. It’s been years, you yourself had long ago forgotten about him, but hearing his name on the radio for the first time dredged up all of those memories.

You can hardly blame him though the both of you have changed a lot in the almost ten years since you’d last seen each other and he doesn’t have the benefit of a famous name or your face on TV to jog his memory.

Even still some part of yourself wishes he does remember and you walk towards him with more a skip in your step than ever. But you find your path thwarted by an unwelcome familiar face.

Mindy, whom you’ve known since grade school, when her and her Mama lived on the farm with you until her mama married a new man. You used to be the best of friends but when she moved out she seemed to want to distance herself from you and did so by criticizing everything you did.

Most people would be hard-pressed to name anything she does like, but ask her about the things she hates and she can go on for hours. And of all the things she hates, you think you rank somewhere near the top, given how much she used to talk about you to anyone who would listen. Everything about you was apparently a personal offense to her, with her latest insult being that you apparently had a bunch of cats on your farm, hence your latest and most confusing nickname of “the Cathouse girl.” Though by far her most egregious thing she's ever said was that one day you were going to suffocate from your Mama’s apron strings, and it felt all the worse that you couldn’t even go to her about it lest you prove her point.

She now proudly wears her Miss Tupelo sash over seafoam green dress as she attempts to lift the bouquet out of your hands with a cloyingly sweet, “I’ll take that off your hands hon.”

You move to protest this, but apparently your day has just gone from bad to worse, as you feel a familiar iron-like grip on your arm. “Rosebud, it’s time for us to leave.” You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“But Mama-”

“Yeah Y/N, thought all you did was listen to your Mama,” Mindy interrupts you as she finally wrenches the bouquet out of your hands.

“It’s time to go home, Y/N,” your mother says severely, her grip on your elbow unyielding. Your cheeks burn with humiliation, having never felt so small under your mothers gaze, but you don’t argue with her and allow yourself to be pulled away, lest a bigger scene be caused.

Mindy, idly pops her spearmint gum with the most triumphant of smiles, sparing you a simple dismissive twiddle of her fingers before spinning around to present your hard work to your old friend. If there’s one thing you can be glad about in that moment, is that exactly zero other eyes were on you as you conceded to your mother like a scolded child and let her lead you out of the fairgrounds.

Little did you realize at the time, someone was watching.

You get into the truck and sit your fists clenching in anger on your knees, ashamed at what transpired just now.

“Rosebud…” she starts, and you petulantly turn your entire body to face the window with your back to her. “Honey I know you think I go overboard with these things, but you gotta trust your mama here when I say that it’s all for your own good.”

Your nails dig into the meat of your palms, so hard you worry it may draw blood, but a part of you welcomes that. Maybe then she will understand how upset you are with her. She still treats you like a child after all these years, protecting you from some nebulous threat that is both ever present yet somehow not important enough to give a name.

You feel suffocated, unable to defend yourself from insults that you aren’t allowed to fully understand.

These feelings would only double when you would see the next day's newspaper, where an enlarged picture of Elvis and Mindy on the ferris wheel would take up most of the front page. Well there’s your answer as to who this mystery girl is, you think bitterly.

Sweethearts reunited at last, the headline reads.

Though all your anger and fury would end up manifesting into nothing when the real world decided to remind you what was important in life. About a week after the fair, your home would receive a late night visit from the sheriff informing you of tragedy.

It didn’t feel real seeing what was once a colorful store teeming with life and love to now be reduced to a smoldering, skeletal pile of ash. You had been there not even a day ago and now it was gone. The police don’t suspect foul play but they weren’t ruling it out, and as you would learn, the little insurance mama did have on the shop didn’t cover fires unless it could be proven beyond a doubt that it was accidental. So suffice it to say, your family is on its own in terms of getting the store back up and running.

Typically late fall is for drying out maybe a quarter of the left over supply of flowers, storing the rest into the cold storage below the shop, winterizing the bushels for the next season, and shifting focus to seeding and growing the more popular flowers in the greenhouses, but the fire had thrown the ultimate wrench into the plans. A good chunk of the cut flowers had been kept on display at the front of the shop or beneath it in cold storage, and so with them went much of the value in the business.

Your mama is stressed beyond anything you’ve ever seen, but what makes it worse is that she refuses to burden you with the knowledge of your financial situation. Which in turn stresses you out even more about the financial situation she didn’t want you to know about.

About a month after the fire Mama had gone to the bank in an effort to get a business loan so that she could rent a new place, while the others were in town trying to strike up partnerships with other stores on the same street and convince them to buy and sell your flowers. It wasn’t the greatest of plans but it was the only one you were left with so that you may hobble through this year into the next.

They could sell the flowers off to shops in nearby towns, but even selling the rest of the supply wholesale will hardly breakeven for this year leaving you with nothing saved come next season. And even then that’s only if everybody refuses payment for the work they did, which they did offer, but your Mama was having none of it.

Even setting up a stand on your property and selling from there wasn’t an option, as you’re located way too far out from town too hope for those driving by to stop and buy flowers off of you.

You find yourself on one of the rare days in which you’re home alone, as you sit on the porch gazing out at the fields nearly devoid of all flora now. If your mother can’t convince the bank for a loan then all that your family has ever grown will rot, the land sold, and the strange tribe of women that had been collected under this roof would be left adrift. Beauty will give way over to necessity, as these bankers are under the false assumption that people don’t need flowers.

But how can you begrudge the necessity of food at a time like this when your kitchen is looking pathetically sparse these days. You wouldn’t mind too much if you didn’t know that it was a prelude to no food at all.

It didn’t feel right that this would be the end of the farm, your Nana Gail took the dusty lands her deadbeat of a husband left her with and turned it into something beautiful. She passed it on to your Mama, a relative stranger she took in the both of you when your daddy was sent away to die an ocean away.

The farm had survived two world wars and yet it would be a fire that would cause all that the women of your family had built to crumble.

You shake your head furiously at the thought. Don’t let these bad thoughts get to you, you think to yourself. You're truly afraid of where these thoughts may lead you if you let them fester so instead you decide that the kitchen would benefit from some cheery flowers to brighten up the place.

The house is in desperate need of that these days.

But as you were in the dirt to pick Daffodils, you realize you weren’t as alone as you thought, as in the distance you see some dust being kicked up. Your heart jumps for joy thinking that it was your mother, bearing good news, until you get to the dirt road and the unfamiliar black car drives past you.

Making your way home you can see a tall figure step out of the shiny car, dressed all in black. As they turn to look at the house, they strike an unsettlingly familiar silhouette but it still takes you a second to recognize him, even if it was not even a month ago when you saw him last.

Maybe it’s because, in your head, he’s still that gangly tow-headed boy, not this tall dark man in black that stands before you.

“Elvis?”

A devastating grin spreads across his face as he spreads his arms out in a clear invitation for a hug. “Been a long time, Honeybee.”

You don’t know the etiquette as to how to greet someone you haven’t talked to in years, but also whom you’ve seen in passing a few days ago. But you graciously accept the hug and kiss on the cheek he gives you, so you in turn invite him into your home, unsure what else to do in the face of his casual familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, grabbing a basket from the back seat. “But I brought you a lil’ gift.” Your eyes widen and your mouth instantly starts to water at the plentiful bounty within, as no less than a dozen Pomegranates filled that ornate basket. The fact that he brought such a thing, seemingly on a whim, spoke volumes as to how well the music business was treating him more than any sparkling jewel or shiny car could.

“Can I offer you some water or…” you trail off as you put the daffodils in a vase, hoping he accepts, and you won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of having so little to offer such a man.

“If you could be a doll actually,” he says, plucking one of the sweet fruits. “Why don’tcha pop one a these open for old times sake.” You’re silently grateful he asked as you doubt it would have been too long before your empty stomach was demanding for one. “I still remember when you gave me one for the first time.” he idly remarks as you start to cut into it.

You smile at that shared memory between the two of you, though a sorrowful ache settles in your stomach as those days seem so far away now. You gather a few errant seeds from the cutting board and you can’t help the small moan that comes from you, as you had resigned yourself to the fact that you wouldn’t be having any this year.

With the plate in hand you turn around to find your guest frozen in his sweet, before quickly gathering himself as you approach.

“So what brings you back to these ol’ parts,” you ask, placing the plate between you two.

He pops a few seeds off of the ridge, and into his mouth, “Well I came back here because a certain someone left my show before I could even say hello to her.”

You look down slightly embarrassed but a little ecstatic that he realized your absence, “Sorry ‘bout that, we get super busy around this time and couldn’t stick around too long.”

“I get it,” he answers amiably. “It looked like you and your mama had somewhere to be.”

You cringe and look down humiliated that, of all the things he could’ve seen that day, he saw perhaps the most embarrassing moment of your life. You look back and see an expression you can’t quite read on his face as you quickly recover and ask him how the star's life is treating him.

He regales you with all that he’s done the past few years since the music thing took off, and how he’s looking forward to the movies he’s gonna make. He even tells you how he’s just about to finish filming his first one pretty soon, and head back to Hollywood in a week.

The irony that you sit across from him, his dreams once so lofty and out of reach now coming true whereas your simple one seems to slip through your fingers is not lost on you. You have to actively force yourself to be happy for him at this moment, as he’s hardly to blame for your recent misfortunes.

“How are you and Mindy doing?” you ask, after a while.

“Who?”

That really shouldn’t make you as happy as it did.

“You know your old Sweetheart and all that,” you tease lightly.

“Oh… her…” he says, unable to hide the bit of a grimace on his face. “She was… nice?”

“You don’t gotta lie,” you say, laughing a bit at the thought

“She was nice to me,” he elaborates, shrugging his shoulders a bit, before giving a pointed look at you. “She had a lot to say ‘boutchu though.”

“I can imagine.” you say, plucking a few seeds. “Guess childhood sweethearts ain’t all they cracked up to be.”

“Wouldn’t know,” he says. “But enough a all that, how ‘boutchu, Honeybee? Whatcha been up to all these years?”

“Oh you know, ain’t nothin’ ever changes down in Tupelo,” you dismiss, hoping to dodge his question. “Still growing flowers, still selling them,” you say, willing your smile to be more cheerful than strictly necessary.

“Y’know,” he broaches lightly, his fingers awkwardly rapping against the grainy wood of the table. “I actually did stop by the shop before I got here…” he trails off, a solemn air falling over the both of you.

“Oh.”

“Listen, darlin’,” he says, taking his hand in yours. “If you need anythin’ tell me how I can help,” he pleads softly.

“Yo-you don’t gotta be worried ‘bout us, we-we’re gonna be fine,” you stutter, attempting to parrot your Mama’s own words back to him, hoping you’re at least somewhat convincing. He takes your hand in his and soothingly rubs his thumb along the back of your hand.

“Sweetheart if you folks need some money to tide y‘all over for a bit, I’d be happy t-”

“No,” you cut him off. “I can’t accept your money for nothing,” you declare.

“I understand Honeybee,” he says, looking out the window. “But I just moved to a new place up in Memphis. It’s nice but kinda… bare on the outside, and I’ve been in the market for someone to fix that.” he says his steely blue gaze fixed on you. “And then I thought who better than the girl who could grow anythin’?”

You’re genuinely flattered at the compliment, but you can’t help but feel this is simply more of his pity and you let him know as much.

“Sweetheart, I was gonna offer you the job even before I saw your shop,” he says genuinely. “It don’t gotta be forever, just work a couple months up in Graceland, makin’ sure everything set up come spring, then you’ll be home.”

“Graceland?”

“It’s what the old owners called it anyway,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s a house right now, but it ain’t no home.” he looks solemn in his words until his eyes trail to you and you can see in real time as his whole demeanor brightens. “I think you could help fix that darlin’,” he states, his smile making it hard to focus on much else.

There is a bit of a pause, and you stupidly realize he’s waiting for an answer from you. But from the almost imperceptible drop in his grin at your hesitation, you doubt it’s the one he’s looking for. “I-I’m flattered but… I-I can’t just leave right now.” you stutter, feeling guilty that he’s now upset with you, and you feel the need to further justify your stance. “My family needs me right now.”

“And this is how you can help ‘em right now,” he argues, reaching into his back pocket. “I can even pay ya’ half upfront now.”

“Elvis, I don’t think that’ll be eno–” you’re cut off by him suddenly slapping what looks to be six hundred dollars on the table before casually going back to picking off the ruby colored seeds. He smiles a bit at the gobsmacked expression on your face, but how could you not be?

Renting out a new space downtown for a few months wouldn’t even cost a quarter of this with the rest being able to go toward everything else. It’s almost funny that previously you never even thought about money, but now it feels like that’s all you think about these days.

“This-this is just for six months of work?”

“Three actually,” he corrects. “The rest you’ll get paid in the Spring.”

You feel your heart thunder within your chest with his words. This would be more than enough money to get your family through the year. But you don’t know if you could do it. Not the gardening part obviously more the being so far away from your family part.

“Can I have some time to think about it?” you question, hoping that maybe the rest will be able to better convince you to go for it or someone else could take the offer.

“Sweetheart I gotta get back to Memphis real soon,” he warns, a lot cooler than before. “So I’m gonna need an answer right now.” You swallow nervously at the intensity of his gaze on you, feeling an uncomfortable feeling settling in your belly, the prospect of leaving home, making you queasy.

“Elvis I-I-I don’t know,” you stutter, your palms clammy as you hold the hem of your skirt with shaky hands, feeling as though the world is somehow closing in on you.

“Well I guess that’s that then,” he says with an air of finality, that only further turns your stomach.

This man is offering a solution to all your current woes and yet you hesitate? You balk at the idea of a couple months of doing the same work you would’ve been doing here? And for what exactly?

You know you should discuss this with your Mama, but you already know what her answer is going to be. It’s the same one she has been giving these last few weeks when you had asked about getting a job to better support the house.

Your daddy never came back from the war so she promised to love you twice as fiercely, for the both of them. She had always done her best to feed you, clothe you, protect you. It’s no secret that everything this farm started from you when she had to support the both of you on her own. And you know for a fact if it was her being offered the job she wouldn’t have even blinked to take it. But you’re about to let that all slip through your fingers because you’re too much of a coward to do what needs to be done.

But even with all that in mind, it’s not your mind that ultimately makes the decision so much as your stomach, as it rumbles yet again as you look upon the basket he left behind overflowing with one of the most expensive fruits you know, a mere taste as to what he can so casually provide you.

You catch him just as he’s about to step out the door, but before you can officially say yes you have one question left for him. “Can you promise me I’ll be home come Spring?”

“Darlin’ I can promise you right now, come Spring we’ll both have exactly what we want.” which is a big promise for anyone to make, but you are looking at the boy who had gone from being only able to sing in front of a single person in an empty field to someone who is now selling out shows to hundreds. There is an odd sense that if anybody can manifest the near impossible it would be him.

It takes you only an hour to pack what you think you’ll need for these coming months, as well as write a barebones note explaining to your Mama that no you’re not being kidnapped and that you’ll be gone to raise money to save the farm. You don’t say where you’ll be but you do promise that you will write as often as you can and that you’ll be home come springtime. You quickly stuff the note and the money into the envelope, and leave it right on top of the basket.

But before you can make it out the front door, you're presented with a bright cheerful looking daffodil, plucked straight from the vase you had put it in. “For new beginnings,” he says with a soft smile.

“How’d you know that?” you asked surprised that he remembered after all this time, but taking a hold of it anyway.

“Hell, all the time I spent down here,” he said, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “Somethin’ was bound to stick.”

And just like that you’re off.

You refuse to look forlornly out at the fields you’re leaving behind, trying to remind yourself that it’s not as though you’ll be gone forever. You’ll be back before you know it, you think, trying to convince yourself, and it’s Elvis’ hand in yours that gives you some small comfort in this incredibly trying time, even as his eyes are firmly set forward.

Though it’s as you get to the state border do you realize that this will mark the first time you’ve been so far from home ever, and you let Elvis know as much.

“There’s gonna be a lotta firsts when you stick with me darlin’,” he says, giving a tender kiss to the back of your hand.

Graceland on the outside is beautiful but… sterile, if you had to take a guess. There were trees with leaves starting to brown for the autumn, the shrubbery was perfectly manicured, and the grass was well maintained but it was utterly devoid of color save for the cars in the driveway.

But then again this is what you’re here to rectify, so you try to be an optimist about it, and try to view it as a blank canvas so to speak. What the property lacked in the moment was warmth and you suppose now it’s your job to bring it.

That first month was all devoted to building the greenhouse necessary to start the entire process. You prefer to start with the seeds rather than skipping straight to the bulbs, so a place where you can better help them grow is ideal. Elvis is all too willing to indulge this and he puts in the order for one but all too soon he has to leave to go and finish his movie.

As much as you knew Elvis, it felt odd being in a house with the owner gone. And while Graceland was far from empty, there is still that unsettling sensation of being there that you can’t quite shake.

Of course not used to being so idle even during the winter, you start to take on other duties around the household. You quickly endear yourself to Miss Gladys with your willingness to take on the chores of the house and she goes out of her way to make you feel welcome.

You like her, she’s the only one who feels as uncomfortable at the opulence as you did. In a lot of ways she reminds you of your own mother with the way she frets over her absent son. This strikes a particularly guilty chord within you, because unlike your Mama, Gladys has the benefit of knowing where her child was at the moment.

“Where ya from sweetheart?” she asks you idly one day as you’re helping her make breakfast early one morning.

“Tupelo,” you say while you beat the eggs.

“Oh do I know your Mama?”

“Probably,” you answer. “She ran the flower shop back there.”

Gladys pauses at that. You can’t see her face but you do hear the hesitation in her voice as she whispers “... Demi?”

“Yeah that’s my mama… you know her?” you ask a little confused at this point, and you wonder if there is some history there.

There is an uncomfortably long pause before she says a simple, “Yeah I think I remember her…” The rest of the morning is filled with an awkward silence as you try to figure out what could have possibly happened there.

That night, before you enter the room to talk to Elvis over the phone, you overhear the tail end of the conversation between him and his Mama. You hear her whisper in a low tone, “I hope you know what you’re doin’ Bewbie.”

Whatever awkwardness that had arisen because of her question disappears soon after that. Gladys happily takes you under her wing once more, bringing you further into the fold of the Presleys and all the dynamics that come with it. She has even begun to refer to you as the daughter she never had which, while you understand is meant to make you feel welcome here, it in fact eats at you considering the state of the relationship between you and your real Mama.

It’s times like these that you truly hate that your family doesn’t have a telephone. You want more than anything to hear her voice, but you know yourself well enough to know that if you were to even visit now you wouldn’t want to ever leave again.

You write to her pretty much every day. Like clockwork for the first month you write to her telling her about your day the same way you usually would, asking her for advice on some flowers, anything really that comes to mind. You had a lot of time that first month while you were helping with planning and building the greenhouse, so everyday you would sift through the hoard of mail to find one bearing your home address.

But it never comes.

That doesn’t stop you from continuing to write to her everyday, handing off the letter to Jerry, and eagerly awaiting her reply.

Elvis is very understanding over the fact that it’s a marathon and not a sprint to make the garden he wanted and every time he’s back home he’s just as eager to see your progress with the seeds as you are to show him. Once you even tried to apologize to him feeling guilty that it’s taking so long to perfect that image of Graceland he had.

“Sweetheart you bein’ there, takin’ care a everythin’ makes it feel all the more like a proper home,” he insists over the phone. “And I can’t wait to get back and see it all.”

This guilt eases once the greenhouse is finished and you can finally get to work with the flowers you’ve planned. Elvis quote “trusted your vision” and wanted you to choose whatever you thought worked best, but he did specify which flowers he absolutely wanted on the property: Lilacs, Gardenias, Carnations, Tulips, Forget-Me-Nots, and Roses.

“I’m a bit of a romantic, I guess,” he said shyly rubbing the back of his neck. You don’t mind too much, as him knowing what he wants by far makes him the easiest man you’ve ever worked with.

Elvis had left you with the understanding that the boys he left behind would be at your beck and call and that should you need anything, not to be afraid to send them to get it. Pots and other such tools were easy enough to send for, but when it came down to other fine details such as soil and seeds, you trusted no one but yourself to find what you need, and so you instead ask if one of them could take you into town to find what you need.

“I cAN-” Jerry, one of the younger ones offered, blushing furiously at his overeagerness that caused his voice to crack slightly. “I mean I can take you,” he says, far more composed this time around. The other men protest, saying he’s too young and that he only just got his license, and ‘don’tchu want a real man drivin’ around sweetheart?’

It was those last comments that really solidified your decision to have it be him, as there was something about Jerry, (16, Lanky, and with a voice still cracking from puberty) that put your mind at ease over all these other grown men, in a way you can’t exactly place.

You stopped going to school when you were around 15 and outside of brief exchanges with the men that used to come into your shop, you haven’t really had much interaction with menfolk in the past 3 years. So that’s where you believe your unease stems from, having been surrounded by mostly women your entire life, being around so many men now is a bit of a shock to your system.

He leads you to his shiny new car, a gift from Elvis for some unspecified favor he did for him, and just like that you’re off. The drive into town is mostly quiet save for Jerry nervously pointing out to you his favorite places in Memphis. You're happy to get out of Graceland, even for a little bit, as you rarely if ever got to explore Tupelo, so being somewhere entirely new was exciting, but at the end of the day there is really only one place you wished to be, the local nursery.

You quickly locate the specific tools you’re going to need and find the best soil for the flowers, and you’re finally able to do what you most wanted. You’re almost like a kid in a candy store as you eagerly look through the varieties of seeds available within the store. As much as you want to take them all you have to be realistic as to not only what would look good, but as to what could be grown on the property to have it looking good year round.

“So err…uhhh… Wh-what’s your favorite flower?” he asks shyly, as you're perusing the various seed packets to be had.

“All of them,” you say without hesitation, not even looking up from the task.

“Really all of ‘em?”

“I’m serious, asking me what my favorite flower is, it’s like asking a mother who her favorite child is,” you say fondly, rubbing your thumb lightly on the little packets that will eventually become the flowers you so love.

He laughs at that, “Why do ya’ love ‘em so much?”

“Well when you grow up on a flower farm, you ain’t got much of a choice,” you quip.

“A flower farm?”

“Yeah,” you clarify. “My Mama and I grew and sold flowers in our shop back in Tupelo.”

“...Yo-you had a flower shop back in Tupelo?” he stutters.

“Yeah,” you say solemnly, this conversation dredging up some very bittersweet memories. “Why dontcha go ring up everything while I finish up over here,” you say.

It's October already, you think to yourself, they probably started cutting down the sunflowers by now. You know that you’re doing more for them here making money and sending it back to them than you would have being an extra set of idle hands back home, still that does little to quell that uneasy feeling being so far from home now.

You’d kept up the writing and have recently let her know how lonely you’ve been feeling here, part venting, part as a means of getting her to write to you back for the first time.

It didn’t work and that sours your mood for the rest of the outing.

The ride back to Graceland is far quieter this time around, and Henry seems to avoid you after that, but you hardly notice as now that you have everything you need, you can really focus all your energy in doing what you came here to do. This is what you’re undoubtedly good at and now that you’re back at it, you don’t want anything to distract you from doing your job and getting back home as soon as possible.

A few days later, as you were finishing up in the greenhouse you would find Jerry sitting next to someone, back ramrod straight as a familiar figure had an arm casually slung over his shoulder. Jerry leaves before you can figure out what that’s all about, so you instead greet the not-so-stranger before you.

“You’re early,” you casually remark to him.

“I missed ya’,” he drawls, a light smirk on his lips that causes a pleasant warmth to radiate from your chest. But his face takes on a more sobering look as he looks at you, purses his lips, and pats the no occupied seat, which you worriedly take. “Actually, I was just ‘bouta go lookin’ for ya’,” he says, before letting out a pensive sigh. “Jerry actually needs a place to stay for a week or two, and I invited him here.”

“Oh that’s nice of you,” you say.

A small bashful smile cracks his somber expression, before the intensity returns and he informs you that yours was the room he offered him.

“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” you insist, scared that you may be about to be sent home without the rest of the money to show for it.

“Don’tchu worry ‘bout that,” he said, chucking your chin up to look at him. “I just figured that my bed should be big ‘nough for the both of us.”

His words catch you off guard, and you feel your face burning unsure as to how to respond. He sees your hesitation and backs off slightly before continuing. “Course if you don’t feel too comfortable sharin’ with me I can always putcha up somewhere else,” he starts and you’re about to jump on that offer until he continues. “Though, we might need to take that outta your pay,” he says, and you shrink a bit at the reality of the situation. “Not to mention havin’ to getchu back and forth day in and out,” he continues, rambling on and on about the logistics of the prospect.

“No-no,” you cut in. “I-if you’re really okay with it… then I-I don’t mind.” you say slightly defeated though if he notices he doesn’t say anything about it.

A full grin cracks his face, “Perfect we’ll go move your things right now,” he says as he takes your hand in his leading you up to where your room was.

“...ok…” you said, accepting his offer in a small voice. Though it’s hardly an offer as that would imply you had a choice in the matter.

The next week you want to kick yourself over being so nervous over nothing, as he proves himself to be nothing less than a gentleman all things considered. Yes he does get a bit clingy when he’s asleep and he all but refuses to let you out of the bed when you wake up before him. But in all honesty you welcome it very much.

It helps ease that lonely feeling somewhat as being held by him takes away some of your worry about not belonging here. Everybody seems to give you a wide berth and it was a definite shock to your system considering where you come from, being essentially the baby on the farm you were freely plied with all forms of physical affection your whole life. But you do take comfort in him, even if it is only limited to the night time.

Though when that week is up you idly ask him when you can move your things back into your old room, to which he only responds by wrapping an arm over your shoulders and saying, “Now why would I want my Honeybee so far away from me.”

You’re too shocked at the statement to even think of countering him at the moment, but even when the statement does truly settle for you, you aren’t entirely opposed to it. As it makes you feel far more secure here knowing that he wants you here so much. It’s odd how final it feels in spite of how small the moment was. You’re not just Honeybee anymore, you're His Honeybee, and that’s that.

That’s one of the first things you learned living in Graceland, is that whatever Elvis says, goes. Everybody seems to bend over backwards to his wishes here, and at first it was a little funny if a little perturbing, as you justified to yourself that you were his friend and therefore he wouldn’t put any crazy demands on you even if he was technically your boss.

But it’s only in that moment that you truly realize that you were no exception to that rule. And why would you be? Considering he is the one that is the one supporting not only you but by extension your entire family back home, how can you do anything but agree to his demands?

But that may be being a bit too harsh, as being his girl is certainly not an unpleasant phenomena. He seemed to become bolder with your amiable acceptance to your new found title of becoming his. In short order all of the clothes you brought from home disappeared and were replaced with much finer ones, and he becomes the most frequent visitor in the greenhouse.

Whenever he is around is almost constantly touching you and bringing you close to him at any given moment. And these weren’t exactly touches you were familiar with; Brushing his fingers along your neck to fix your necklace, hand on your lower back to steer you a certain way, rubbing your knee beneath the table (sometimes above your clothes, sometimes not) etc. All new and exciting, in their own ways.

Everytime you see him it feels akin to something blooming within your chest. You think this is why there were so many flowers meant to express love, because that feeling he gives you is hard to put into words.

It was only inevitable that the kisses would come along eventually. First beginning as friendly ones on the cheek before bed, then graduating to something far more… carnal. Almost like he was trying to consume you, and these kisses always left you panting and in a state of shock from the ferocity he displayed only to end it with a very sweet kiss to your cheek and tucking the both of you into bed.

You’re not gonna lie and say you don’t enjoy the kissing but it does give you a good scare when he begins to touch you in other places that are not-so-innocent places as he kisses you: His hand on your bottom when wants to press your body closer to his, the continual rubbing between your inner thighs, his thumb circling the taut peak of your breast.

Though admittedly his new touches were a bit on the scarier side for you, you don’t fight it, and in fact get bolder yourself by taking a page out of his book and giving as good as you got. He seems to relish the reaction he can pull from you, which is intimidating as much as it is titillating.

But these feelings have also been manifesting in some strange ways physically, like you seem to breathe harder when he’s around, and seeing him bite his lip makes your mouth go dry. But this all pales in comparison to the sensation of him rubbing a hand on your inner thigh, and it feels like you go dry everywhere, save for one place. As exciting as it is, it’s confusing all the same, and you above all else wish you could confide in anyone with how you were feeling.

Typically you could freely talk about any lady troubles you may have with your Mama but her inability/unwillingness to talk to you now leaves you to navigate this maze alone. You consider asking Miss Gladys or even Dodger for their thoughts, but the fact that it’s Elvis that awakens these feelings within you, makes going to them seem inappropriate for some reason. But ultimately that only leaves you with one person to go to about your problem despite them also being the cause of it.

Which is how you find yourself sitting on your knees in his bed with a shaky breath telling him how his touches are stirring something in you that you don’t understand.

“Where?” he asks, seemingly innocent but the way he bites his cheek, tells you he’s trying to hold back a laugh at your discomfort. “Here” he says, placing a hand on your lower belly, and while it clenches from the sudden contact, you shake your head no.

“Here?” He asks with a small smile, cupping one of your breasts, and though your breath hitches in your throat and you feel one of the buds harden at his thumbs' attention, that’s not where the worst of the feelings is coming from.

“Elvis please,” you beg, squirming at his touch.

“Oh I think I know Honeybee,” he says one hand now slowly dragging the hem of your nightgown up well past your hips, before he rubs his fingers along the seam of your panties.

In spite of the strangled feeling in your throat, you manage to squeak out a simple “yes,” as tears begin to well up in your eyes.

“Don’tchu worry Baby. I know somethin’ that can help,” he says as he drags the delicate fabric of your white cotton panties down to your knees. On reflex your thighs clench shut immediately but, with a few languid kisses he’s able to distract you from your skittishness and you feel the first tentative brush of his fingers on that sensitive flesh.

As much as you love your home you’ll admit that there was rarely if ever a moment for yourself there anymore. So him now brazenly touching the seldom explored area was mind-boggling for you, moreso when he begins to prod deeper, dipping between your folds and even one finger delving further than any other.

That gets a surprised gasp out of you before you bite down on your lip hard, embarrassed that you're feeling like this while he’s trying to help you. But while you’re able to hold back your noises, you can do nothing to help the way you’re breathing-well more panting- now or the way you’re shivering. You’ve never felt anything close to this in your life, but even this pales in comparison to when he adds a second finger, and you feel like you're about to burst.

“Honeybee… what’d ya know ‘bout baby-makin’,” he asks, seemingly out of the blue.

Part of you wants to act coy and say something like “enough” to get him to continue, but it’s hard to concentrate on any of that as you feel his fingers deep within you. So instead you reply with, “that…that o-ooh-only a Husband and Wife can make oNE.” you yelp that last part as he curls his fingers ever so slightly.

“And that’s it?” he asks with a bit of a skeptical look on his face, and you bury your face in his neck, a bit ashamed that that is the truth of the matter. “Oh Honeybee, you don’t gotta be that way,” he says, giving you a sweet kiss to your nose as he’s still three knuckles deep up your canal. “That’s the right of it, but I don’t think yer Mama ever mentioned that there ain’t no harm in practicin’ before the Weddin’ like this.”

“O-oh,” you say, part as an answer, part an involuntary noise to the way his thumb starts to circle around that pearl between your folds.

“You like that baby girl?” he purrs to you. Your eyes are shut tight and you’re trying to move your hips in tandem with his motions.

“Y-yes,” you manage to whimper, so focused on chasing that feeling he’s causing that you don’t even notice when he drags the straps of your nightgown fully down your shoulders. And it’s as you suddenly feel him bite down hard on the soft skin of your breast do you finally peak with a harrowing sob.

You cling on to him for dear life as wave after wave of pleasure surges through you all at once and you feel as though you’re going to float away any moment. But holding on to him, kissing him, and feeling his skin against your tethers you here, reassuring you that this isn't a dream.

You feel his fingers leave you, and that paired with him pulling away from your lips causes a small whine to come from you. You’re quickly quieted from the shock of seeing him stick the same fingers in his mouth giving a contented groan, “Course my Honeybee’s got the sweetest nectar he whispers against your lips, before giving you a taste for yourself.

You feel boneless and weightless yet your eyes feel so heavy from all that you just experienced, but for as tired as you are at that moment, you’re not ready to go back to dreaming yet.

“Ca-can I try that on you?” you ask meekly still in a bit of a haze from that euphoric feeling.

A bite to his lip prevents it from being a full blown grin “You sure ‘bout that Baby? Mine’s a lil’ different… well not too lil’,” he says. Clearly amused by your request to make him feel just as good.

“I wanna help,” you insist. He chuckles at how eager you were before he guides your hand down to a prominent bulge in his briefs. You’re not too sure what exactly you’re feeling through the rough cotton, just that it is either intensely painful or pleasurable to Elvis given how his breath hitches and his eyes slam shut. You try to remove your hand but his vice-like grip on your wrist prevents that and you can only further palm him.

You apply a bit more pressure, you take the sigh of contentment as a good sign before you delve underneath the fabric of his shorts.

You watch, a bit fascinated as you work to get the rough fabric down, and suddenly you’re face to face with something you’ve never seen before. A long thick column of flesh stands before you, bobbing slightly as he takes deep breath after breath. The skin feels soft but unyielding beneath your touch and you patiently await his instructions, but that deep groan that comes from him as you apply a bit of pressure makes you feel all sorts of powerful over this beautiful man.

He has you gather the slick from between your legs and even spit in your own hand to make it easier for you to slide up and down the shaft. His eyes are screwed shut, his long lashes brushing his cheeks, and he’s mumbling his praises for you, which only further encourages you.

He’s unraveling before your eyes, and you take great delight in being a witness to it. You’ve seen him dance before so it shouldn’t be surprising how well he’s able to move his hips, but it does add an entirely new context to it and you hope the next time you see him on stage you’ll be able to not think of him like this.

An idea pops into your head, and you decide to jump on it before you lose your nerve, and you give a soft kiss to the very tip of him. He freezes in place, his eyes wide and shocked at your teasing, his chest rising and falling and you feel heat flood your entire being.

“I-I’m so-sorry,” you breath out, embarrassed that you may have unintentionally done something you weren’t supposed to do. “I just th-thought you mi-” you cut off as he chuckles at your obvious distress before giving you a sweet kiss.

“Just surprised me Honeybee, thas all,” he reassures you against your lips, before giving you a little nibble there. “Why don’tcha try that again?” he drawls, trying to not appear too eager, but it’s apparent even to you.

You get right back to it, and you give even softer kisses along the shaft, each one being punctuated by a low moan from him, until you finally get to the very top of him, and you run your tongue along the small slit to be found there.

His hips stutter at that and one second you’re wondering what’s happening to him, the next you’re a coughing mess as that salty stream hits the back of your throat. He’s now just as dazed as you feel his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back, as you settle, and he takes charge in getting you both ready for bed.

As you lay side by side, he has nothing but praise for you whispering how good and perfect you were between hungry kisses until you drift off to sleep.

The next day would mark the first time you didn’t write to your mother. Part because you have already accepted she wouldn’t reply, part wanting to also keep that as private as possible. It also marks the first time in your life you don’t share something that felt so important with her.

Your Mama never liked talking about your daddy beyond saying that they loved each other very much. She never went into detail beyond that believing you were too young to hear them, but she never gave you an idea when you would be grown enough to hear them. But now above all else you want to hear when she knew she was in love with him, because you think you’re falling in love with Elvis.

Scratch that.

You know you are but you would give anything right now to be able to talk to somebody about it. And it’s upsetting that the person you usually talk your worries through is also one of your biggest ones at the moment. But even then you would have been willing to discuss it with her, if only she was willing to do so back.

It seems the more upset you become with her, the more comforting Elvis becomes to you. Even still you hesitate to share your fears with him until he is the one that broaches it.

“What’s on your mind Honeybee?” he says as he draws circles along your hip.

“Nothing much,” you dismiss. “Just trying to figure out when it's best to plant everything.”

His sardonic smile tells you he doesn’t believe you one bit, “C’mon darlin’ I know ya’ better than that.” Which is a bit of an understatement, as it feels like these days he’s able to read you better than you can yourself anymore.

After letting out a long tired sigh, you tell him “I think she’s mad at me,” while you two were settling into bed.

“Now who could ever be mad at my Honeybee?” he says, bringing you closer to him.

“My mama,” you say solemnly, tears in your eyes. “She’s never replied to a single letter of mine, and I write to her everyday.”

“I’m sure she’s just busy,” he tries to comfort you. But they ring hollow knowing that she always used to say- something you even quoted her in your last letter- ‘I’m never too busy for you Rosebud.’ He pulls you close to his chest as he rubs his hand along your back, “Darlin’ your mama is a hard-headed woman- lord knows I got the scars to prove it- but I don’t think she could stay mad at you forever.”

“What?” you say, sitting up to face him fully.

“What?”

“What do you mean you have the scars to prove it?”

“O-oh…” he says with a slight grimace on his face, before giving a bit of an awkward chuckle. “We-well… ya’ remember before I left, I-I asked you to’ run away with us?” You nod your head slowly. “Well that night, when I went back to the farm to tell her… she… she had a bit of a fit.”

“That doesn’t answer my question E.”

His lips form a thin line, clearly reluctant to tell you more, but he does eventually cave with a long hard sigh. “She got so mad at the thought a you leavin’ she grabbed my hand somethin’ fierce, and… and… well…” he trails off as he presents you the palm of his left hand, where you can see some small jagged silvery lines along it.

“She… she did this?” you whisper, lightly touching the scars, unbelieving that your Mama could do such a thing. She was the one who hardly ever raised her voice and didn’t even swat at Bees in front of you. How could she hurt him like this?

“I-I understand not wantin’ your kid to run away,” he says, “but I don’t think hurtin’ one like this was needed. But that wasn’t even the worst part of it.”

“What is it?”

“She… she banned me from ever comin’ back to the farm again. Couldn’t even say goodbye to ya properly,” he says somberly, his eyes sad as he tenderly cupped your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you say, at a loss for what else you could say knowing what you do now.

“You don’t got nothin’ to apologize for baby,” he says softly, holding your hand in his scarred one. “And listen Honeybee, if she’s so mad that she don’t wantcha back, you’ll always have a home here,” he promises before he gives you a kiss to your temple and turns off the light.

You know the words were meant to be comforting, but they have the opposite effect and make your stomach drop at the prospect that she may be that mad. It has never occurred in your mind that she may be that cross with you for leaving

But like a fowl little seed, those words are implanted in your mind and take root. You wish he had never said those words, but you can hardly fault him for his attempts to console you in your hurt.

Would she ever be so mad at you? You wonder to yourself. You feel Elvis hands wrap around your waist and you remember the marks your Mama left on him in a rage. And that was simply from the idea that you would leave. What would she do now that you've actually left?

Elvis has never had a bad word to say about anybody, but you realize even he was being far more generous than was needed for what she had done. All that over a stupid kiddy idea of running away?

You lay there for hours with the only sounds being Elvis’ steady breathing. The longer you’re awake the more you think about it, which fuels the vicious cycle as those thoughts make it harder to fall asleep. Doubt creeps into your very soul that the home you are so desperate to return to will even be there come spring, and you silently weep.

But not as silently as you thought, as Elvis is awake within seconds. He holds you so close and so tight that it truly feels like he’ll never let go.

“No matter what,” he whispers in your ear. “Your home will always be here with me, Honeybee.”

You’re touched by his words and the way he holds you makes you feel so safe now and you kiss him fiercely, and want nothing more than to be as close to him as possible.

Up until this point you had been reluctant to go that final step with Elvis, pretty much doing everything but that last act. As greedy as he could be with your body (given how many hours he’s spent with his head between your legs), he had asserted you would be the one to decide when you would cross that final line with him. Though from the tone of his voice each time he said it, you figured he was gunning for it to be sooner rather than later.

You don’t know what exactly it is about the idea that you may not have a home to return to that makes you want to attach yourself further to him. You want to forget about everything when you’re with him and he makes it easy to do so. Being with him makes you so happy in way you don’t ever think you’ve experienced on the farm, and you

“Are ya sure sweetheart,” he groans, before his eyes snap shut as you rub your lower lips along his shaft, as you’ve done dozens of times before.

“Yes,” you whine, wanting to feel him the way he was meant to be.

When he finally slides into you, you can’t help the satisfied hum that escapes you, as he slides right into you. You’re on top and he lets you set the pace for yourself, which is good as even with all of your previous practice with him, you still need some time to adjust to the size of him up that secret channel of yours.

You can see the sheer will power it’s taking for him to let you go your own speed, so once the pleasure overtakes the pain, without any more preamble, you begin to quicken your hips and ride him like your life depends on it. It may very well, considering the closer you get to you climax the more it feels like you may pass out before you get to that point.

“This right here,” he grons, rolling his hips up into you rubbing his thumb along that button of yours. “This is where home is.”

“Yes,” you sob, tears streaming down your face, “Home… you.” you cry, unable to finish as he hits just the right spot within and your vision is being blurred by stars.

You feel so whole as he spills within you, and with his now softened cock still snuggly within you, “I love you Elvis,” you sigh into his chest, content to fall asleep then and there, but you quickly realize your mistake as your words seem to reinvigorate him and he takes you a few more times until the crack of dawn. But between his filthy words and his declarations of love one thing he says sticks out to you the most.

“Ain’t nothin’ ever gonna take you away now Honeybee,” he groans as you pick up the pace, his hand squeezing your bottom so tight, only further cementing how secure you are here.

Slowly but surely you stop writing to your mother. What was something you previously did everyday, became every other week, to eventually once a week once February came. And even the ones you do send are limited to very basic and dry summaries of the week, as to what flowers you were focusing on and general questions as to how everybody else is doing back home. Gone are the days of you waxing poetically about your confusion over your feelings for Elvis and you plea for a single response from her. She’s shown her interest in your life, as well as shown how willing she is to be involved with it anymore so you decide to accept it, albeit with a heavy heart.

The last time you expressed anything even remotely emotional with her was how you find it hard to think of the farm as being home anymore when she’s been so cold to you these last few months, and how you doubt you even want to go back.

She doesn’t reply.

Elvis seems to take to his new role in your life surprisingly well. Always willing to help you through your emotional turmoil when he was home and shield you from the rest.

He seems to take great comfort in you as well, and the greenhouse has now even become a place away from all of it. When he’s home one of the first things he does is visit you there, and simply sit with you for a few hours. You think it’s mostly to serve as a breather between all the chaos that is his life outside of these glass walls, but you’re all too happy to help him in this way as he’s helped you.

That feeling of perfection you got when you first shared that pomegranate with him, you feel it almost everyday in that greenhouse with him. The light shining through the panes of glass keeping the place warm, the fresh air coming from the sproutlings in their pots, his soft humming. All of it adding up to a dream you never want to wake up from.

The beginning of Spring came and went and neither of you brought up the fact that you were meant to be back at the farm. The most you do allude to it was you telling him to forward that final payment directly to your Mama, mostly as a last ditch effort to get her to finally respond to you for once.

She doesn’t respond.

You and Elvis decide then and there to wash your hands of her, though it was perhaps the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. But you can’t keep letting her silence break your heart so you focus all of your energy into two things: Elvis and making Graceland beautiful.

The first one is pretty easy to do considering when he is home, there is little to no distance between you two. He can hardly keep his hands off of you anymore when he’s here, with nights spent under the sheets, and days spent literally everywhere else on the property. He seems to be particularly fond of being in the Greenhouse, loving to see you so in your element in there only to bend you over your work table and take you hot and heavy from behind.

These encounters only make you feel his absence even more, as while you’re not exactly alone in Graceland it does make the big property feel all the emptier. Which in turn makes your second focus all the harder.

You’ve by now planted any and all flowers you intended to and they are all well on their way to growing strong, and now knowing you’re going to be staying, you’re happy that you’ll be able to do so for years to come. Now that you’ve gotten past the most trying part, tending to them is going to be a cinch…

Or it would be if you weren’t so tired all the time.

Oftentimes you find yourself napping in the most inopportune places around the property. Sweet Pea has apparently appointed herself as your official protector while you rested outside and by extension roped Brutus and Snoopy into it as well. You can’t even begin to count the amount of times you would want to rest your eyes for a minute only to find hours had passed and three dogs at the ready to guard you from whatever may come. WHich considering how you’ve been feeling sicker and sicker lately what with the fever you’ve been feeling and the nausea you’ve been having some mornings.

You don’t exactly understand why you’re far more sensitive to smell nowadays. You almost threw up the other morning from the smell of the eggs, which has Dodger and Miss Gladys looking very funny at you. You don’t pay it any mind though as you were just glad that you’re still able to appreciate the smell of flowers.

You’re in a far better mood today, what with Elvis set to return later, you decided to leave a surprise in his office. The roses were in full bloom now, so you decided to pluck a few for old times sake and leave some for him.

As you’re placing the vase down onto the desk, you watch as one of the blooms falls right off the stems and rolls to the other side of it. But when you go to pick it up, what you find is far stranger.

With the amount of fan mail he gets, you wouldn’t have paid the neat stack any mind if you hadn’t immediately recognized your own handwriting on the very top one. ANd you would have taken that as a very crazy coincidence if it weren’t for the fact that it also has your old address on the front.

And it’s not just that one, you find a couple dozen envelopes with your handwriting and address on the front, and an unpleasant feeling fills your belly as you tentatively remove a page from the envelope.

And it’s there that you read your own gut-wrenching words of your loneliness here and your wishes that your mother would write back to you. How you plead for her to reach out if only to reassure you that she’s alive and getting these letters.

You had imagined that they had either been destroyed the moment your mother saw them or gathering dust somewhere in your old childhood home. But now you find them here, a place you know very few are even allowed to be.

She didn’t get any of them you realize looking at the thick stack, an icky sense of violation creeping under your skin, seeing them worn and wrinkled in some places, but somebody definitely read these.

You want to throw up, and not just because of your newfound sensitive stomach, but due to the revelation that if he didn’t send any of them, then that meant… he had seen you be upset to the point of crying over this, all the while blaming your Mama for it and letting you take comfort in him.

Not only that, he read about your loneliness and actively decided to make you feel even more isolated by not letting you talk to your Mama. He held you as you cried over the fact she wasn’t talking to you and said nothing.

Your heart is pounding in your chest and you stagger back so far that you knock the vase full of roses right off the desk. You don’t pay it any mind and leave them and the letters where you find them. You have to get away, you have to go home.

You don’t bother to grab anything (it’s all his anyway), you simply find Jerry and tell him that he has to take you back to Tupelo right now. He’s stuttering trying to make the usual excuses of why he couldn’t take you, but he’s weak to your tears, and he silently leads you to the car.

It’s a long silent trip save for your quiet sobs from the passenger side. You don’t know if he’s intentionally stalling or if the drive is truly this long, either way it feels like forever before you can finally breathe within the Lee County borders.

You take comfort in the landmarks becoming more and more familiar until finally you see your home in the distance. You don’t take your eyes off of it for even a second, afraid it may disappear the moment you do so. You have a hard time believing it’s even real until you stand before the front door.

You hold the doorknob hesitating to open it, fearful as to what you may find on the other side, but ultimately you know that there is no possible way it can be any worse than where you just came from.

It’s oddly shocking how nothing has really changed in the months you’ve been gone. It’s almost as though you just walked out minutes ago, but you yourself feel you’ve changed so much since you were last here. The furniture arrangement is the same, as are the books on the shelf, and even your Mama's house slippers are in their usual spot.

You listen as someone is cooking in the kitchen, and you feel your heart warm knowing that at the very least you accomplished what you had set out to do and provide for your family, regardless of the sick feeling that work has left in your belly.

“Kate that you?” you hear from the voice that has accompanied you your whole life. “I told all y’all to take the da-” she cuts herself off upon seeing you.

You almost don’t recognize her, the streaks of white in her hair, the fine lines in the corners and the heavy bags underneath her eyes, overall speak to the way your absence has affected her these last few months. You feel guilty for every unkind thought you’ve had of her all this time, as you can now see for yourself how much she missed you. She looks as though she’s aged ten years in the months you’ve been away, and you can only imagine how you’ve so drastically changed in her eyes.

But none of that matters in the moment, as she drops everything in her hands and proceeds to take you in her arms and sob uncontrollably. You meet her halfway weeping just as fiercly in her chest, you thought you had run out of tears during the drive, only to find a new spring, as she blubbers in your ear “my baby’s home.”

Even after some time had passed like that, you can’t even begin to form any semi-coherent sentence as you blubber over and over again your apologies for being gone for so long. She’s long since stopped her own tears in favor of comforting you which only makes you feel all the worse.

“Shh, it’s gonna be okay,” she whispers, having long since stopped her own tears in favor of comforting you now. “You’re home now, Rosebud. Everything’s gonna be okay,” and guilt eats at you, that you could ever even entertain the thought that she wouldn’t want you back.

You remain in that state for what feels like hours, with your head in her lap as she smooths down your hair and in spite of all the turmoil you’ve undoubtedly put her through, it’s clear your comfort is her priority. Eventually though she does gather up the courage to ask you where you’ve been this whole time.

After all you’ve put her through you figure that she at least deserves the truth, so you sit up to face her. But before you can even open your mouth you hear the front door open. Any nominal contentment you’ve found being back home all slips away when you hear the familiar heavy footfalls of the man you’ve been dreading seeing all day.

“There you are Honeybee,” Elvis says, leaning against the doorframe, the familiar rakish smile in place. Those words are so familiar yet now they feel foreign as you no longer recognize the man who utters them to you.

It feels like in mere seconds your mama has brought you to your feet and now you stand behind her, and away from him. “What are you doin’ here!?” she shouts, her body tense and rigid, as though ready to defend you from a lion rather than a single man.

He hardly even glances her way, his eyes firmly set on you. “Here to take my Honeybee back home of course.” Your mama doesn’t even waste a second after hearing that, she only wordlessly approaches and takes a swing at him. But he was ready for that, as he easily catches her wrist, and brought her close to him “Ain’t so easy now I ain’t a runt no more?” he says, grinning ear to ear, a deadly look crossing his steely blue eyes.

This catches both of you off guard but your Mama is quick to recover and attempts to shove him right out the door with a mighty “Get outta my house!”

“Not without her,” he says, unnervingly keeping his voice low and cool, as though he were still very much in control of the situation.

He may still very well be, you think.

Before you can even think to help your mama, he easily maneuvers around her only to walk straight towards your frozen figure and put an arm around your shoulder.

“C’mon Honeybee,” he says, blatantly ignoring the tears streaming down your face. “Time to head home,” and you shiver when he runs his thumb along your cheek the way he’s done a million times before. You see your mama look wide-eyed at this familiar interaction, and to your horror so does Elvis. “That’s right you don’t know where she’s been,” he says, giving a faux innocent look while boldly admitting right in front of you he never sent any of those letters. “Why don’tcha tell her darlin’.” he declares, punctuating his familiarity with a kiss to your cheek. You don’t know what’s worse, the look of shock on your mama’s face as he does this, or the dissatisfied look he shoots you when you curl away from him.

Your mama doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out what he’s implying, as you watch her deflate as she looks at you and gives a very defeated “why?”

“Mama,” you whimper, wanting nothing more than to go to her, but Elvis’ arms keeping you firmly in place. “We-we needed the money, after the fire and…”

You stop yourself short as your Mama seems to contemplate your words, only to make some sort of realization of her own before, a look of horror slowly creeping onto her face. “It was you wasn’t it?” She seethes in a low voice.

“What was?” he says, trying to seem innocent but unable to fully mask his amusement at her state.

“The fire…” she said in a small voice, not even daring to continue.

No, you refuse to believe. Ain’t no way he would go that far, but then you remember Jerry’s skittishness when he learned you had a flower shop in Tupelo as well as his reluctance to deny you a single thing, that big favor he apparently did for Elvis to earn his shiny new Cadillac. All of it is making a lot of sense, but you’re still unwilling to go that far for a chance to be with you.

That is until he says, “Now that’s a mighty big accusation,” coolly, with a bit of a smirk as he looks down on her.

You freeze in place at that line. That’s not a no, you think, somehow still wanting to lie to yourself. He steals a glance at you and his face softens as he holds your shoulders and looks earnestly into your eyes as he says, “Honeybee you don’t think I would ever do something’ like that, now would you?”

You have to think on that for a moment, and you’re quiet until his grip tightens ever so slightly and his face noticeably drops from earnest to frustrated. You swallow deeply as you give a very unconvincing “No, of co-”

“Get your hands off her,” your mama spits, ripping you away from him, but he’s persistent, callously shoving her to the ground and gripping your jaw in his ringed hand.

“Because if it’s true,” he continues so softly even as the cold metal digs into your cheeks. “Then I wonder what else I’d be willin’ to do to keep ya,” he casually threatens a sadistic look in his eyes as a wide grin spreads across his face.

You feel your throat close as he glances down at your Mama, who’s struggling to get off the floor. He lets you go and you’re able to bring her to a chair. You once thought she was invincible but now you see her trembling clearly shaken up by this whole thing. Whatever your mama had; money, influence, respect, Elvis had in spades. She’s effectively powerless against him, but she still finds the strength to angle herself in front of you to try to block him.

She’s afraid of him no doubt about it, but she’s still willing to defend you with her life.

Would he be willing to go that far? You think and you let out a sob knowing the answer already.

“Choice is yours darlin’,” he whispers right next to your ear. “If you’re willin’ to choose.” and then he steps right out onto the porch. You hope in vain that somehow he’s decided to leave, but that quickly dies as you hear him strike a match and you smell the familiar miasma of his favorite cigars.

He wouldn’t, you think, but you can no longer put anything past him. You don’t ever want to truly find out what he’d be willing to if it meant keeping you by him, especially not at your mama’s expense. But you know in your gut how you can protect her.

If you have one thing to thank your earlier crying fits for, it’s that you’re tapped dry at this point, so as you say to her “Mama I gotta go now,” you can say it with a little bit of dignity.

“No… no Rosebud,” she pleads with you holding both of your hands. “Please stay… we can figure this out,” she says, the tears welling up in her eyes, as she comes to the same realization as you do.

“It’s gonna be okay Mama,” you vainly try to reassure her but mostly yourself. “But you gotta let me go,” you sob, wanting to do anything but. And you have to leave her crying in the home she made for you.

You find him leaning against the porch railing, eyes slowly opening as you move closer to him. “Yes Honeybee,” he says, cloyingly sweet, as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Elvis…please… just-just take me home,” you whisper, burying your face into his chest.

“Course sweetheart, anythin’ for you,” he says, and you shudder knowing he means it. You walk away from the porch and you breathe a sigh of relief as he drops the cigar into the dirt and stamps it out. “I really oughta quit anyway,” he says. “Heard it’s bad for the baby.”

“What?” you say, your blood turning to ice hearing that.

“Ain’t it like magic Honeybee?” he sighs as you both get in the backseat of Jerry’s car, the owner of which is pointedly not looking at either of you. Elvis pays no mind to it, instead absentmindedly rubbing your lower belly back and forth. “You plant somethin’ so small, and it’ll grow up to be somethin’ else,” he sighs in contentment, and you close your eyes to yet another revelation that is coming far too late.

“But… but… you said, that it only happens when you’re married,” you say, though your spirit has long since been defeated.

“Don’tchu worry none ‘bout that sweetheart,” he dismisses. “We are gonna get married real soon, and ain’t no one gonna be the wiser.”

There’s something so final in that revelation that you are now forever tied to him not by your own choices, but by his. He chose you.

He knew what he was doing and he knew you didn’t.

Looking back you don’t think there was ever anything within your control. What’s worse is that a part of you wishes you had never gone into his office today and could have lived blissfully, unburdened with the knowledge of what he was willing to do to get you.

You love him, which makes this betrayal feel all the worse. You glance to the side to see the fields of flowers you’re leaving behind, as he slowly slips a ring on your finger. Now he’s not even gonna pretend that you have a choice in the matter, you are going to marry him because he said so.

With his hand in yours you feel as the car transitions from the dirt road to the paved one that will take you far away from your home.

You close your eyes and you don’t look back.

Alternate Summary: In which Elvis sees himself as a triumphant Orpheus when he’s actually a victorious Hades.

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