#Elvis History

[hooked-on-elvis]

1972 Elvis is all mine. 💙

Elvis On Tour, 1972.

[dreamingofep]

February 26th, 1969

[elvisbdoll]

ULTRAVIOLENCE

Part One: Honey, I Belong to You

The first time I saw Graceland, it didn’t feel like a house. It felt like a kingdom—Elvis’s empire of velvet and gold, where time bent around him, where the world outside didn’t matter. But it wasn’t just his home. It was his cage. And maybe, in some twisted way, it was mine too.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the bedroom window, watching the heavy iron gates below, where fans linger like ghosts. They call his name, hoping he’ll step outside, throw them a wave, blow them a kiss. But he’s not theirs tonight. He’s mine.

The door creaks open behind me, and I feel it before I even turn—his presence, thick as the summer heat that clings to the Memphis air.

“You ain’t sleepin’,” Elvis murmurs, voice low and lazy, laced with that Southern drawl that made the world melt at his feet.

I don’t move. “Didn’t feel like it.”

His bare feet shuffle against the carpet, and then I feel his hands—warm, familiar—sliding over my shoulders, fingers tracing my collarbone. He smells like leather and cologne and the faint, lingering scent of bourbon.

“You stay up too much, baby,” he sighs, his lips brushing against the back of my neck. “Ain’t good for ya.”

I close my eyes as his arms wrap around me, pulling me back against his chest. He’s solid, unshakable, and yet I can feel something restless under his skin. It never leaves him, that thing inside him that keeps him pacing at night, that makes him throw back pills like they’re candy, that has him gripping me like I might slip through his fingers if he lets go for even a second.

“Elvis.”

“Mmm?”

I turn in his arms, looking up at him. He’s still in the open silk shirt he wore at dinner, his skin golden in the dim light, the cross around his neck catching a glint. His blue eyes flick over my face, searching.

“Are you happy?” I ask softly.

His brows furrow, just for a second, before he gives me that crooked, lazy smile—the one that’s charmed millions but is only mine in the quiet. “What kinda question is that, darlin’?”

A deflection. A distraction. His fingers tilt my chin up, his lips brushing mine, and suddenly the weight of the question doesn’t matter. Not when his mouth is hot and insistent, not when his hands are threading into my hair, not when he’s pressing me against the window, swallowing whatever words I might’ve said.

I let him take me under, let myself drown in him the way I always do. Because maybe love doesn’t have to be safe. Maybe it just has to be real.

And God, this is real.

Even if it ruins me.

Tags: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11

[halieghhh]

»»————> "ι'м ѕσ нυят" <————««

[elvisvideos]

Extended footage of Elvis arriving at his Beverly Hills home. The original film cut off where this one begins. 1968

[dutchs-blog]

Elvis Presley

[hooked-on-elvis]

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!

February 26, 1969. Signing the first contract with the International Hotel.

[lustnhim]

manspreading 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

inspired by a post i saw on tiktok. i just climb right between them and lay down on his thighs :( ugh, cute baby.

[aliengoth3]

New unseen video of Elvis and Lisa at Graceland in 1971 during Christmas

[lvrdollep]

1969 *✧･ﾟ:*

[presleysdoll]

happy birthday Elvis Presley , I cant believe he’s 90, his legacy never left, his aura never changed yet he’s been gone 48 years, will always love him forever

[presley4president]

Me core:

[elvisbdoll]

The other woman

The first time he kissed you, you were twenty years old.

You tasted him on your lips for days, felt the ghost of his hands on your waist even when you were alone. He was older—twelve years between you both—but that only made him more intoxicating. He carried himself with the ease of a man who had seen the world, and when he looked at you, it was as if he had discovered something untouched, something fragile.

Elvis Presley. A man whose name was a religion, whose face was worshiped in neon lights, but in the dim glow of your apartment, he was just a man. He let you call him baby in a voice barely above a whisper, let you trace the slope of his nose, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the plush of his mouth like he was something you could keep.

It started like a dream. A warm, golden dream where time didn’t exist—only the low hum of his voice, the scent of cologne and tobacco clinging to his skin, the way he held you against his chest as if he needed you to breathe.

But dreams don’t last.

You should have known.

—

The other woman wears fur coats in the wintertime.

You saw her once—his wife—standing beside him like she had always belonged there. Poised. Beautiful. The kind of woman who fit into the world he came from. She was the picture in a gilded frame, the pristine portrait of what a man like him was supposed to have.

You? You were the smudge of lipstick on his collar. The scent of something forbidden clinging to his skin when he came home too late.

At first, you tried to ignore the ugly feeling twisting inside you. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he was yours in the quiet moments, when his hands tangled in your hair, when his voice turned soft with sleep, when he said your name like a prayer.

But then the nights grew longer. The phone rang less. The excuses came easily to him now—Baby, I got caught up. You know how it is.

And you did.

Because the other woman has time to manicure her nails.

And you? You had time to wonder who else he was touching.

—

The first time you cried in front of him, he wiped your tears with his thumb, sighing like a man exhausted by love.

“I hate seein’ ya like this, honey.”

“Then don’t give me a reason to be like this.”

But he only kissed you.

And you let him.

—

You became the woman who sat by the telephone, waiting for it to ring. You became the woman who watched his life from the shadows, who saw him on television in a suit too perfect to belong to the man who whispered sweet nothings in your ear at night.

And slowly, you began to disappear.

The girl he once held in his arms, the girl who laughed freely and dreamed wildly—she faded like cigarette smoke, curling into nothing.

Because the other woman will always cry herself to sleep.

And you were so, so tired of crying.

—

The last time he kissed you, you tasted salt on his lips.

Tears. Yours or his, you didn’t know.

“You don’t have to go, darlin’,” he murmured, but his voice was heavy, like he already knew you would.

You pressed your hands against his chest, felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. For a moment, you let yourself remember the beginning—the golden glow of his love, the way it had wrapped around you like a promise.

But love was not enough.

And so you left.

You didn’t look back.

(But God, you wanted to.)

—

And somewhere, miles away, the other woman turned off the bedside lamp, resting her hand on the empty space beside her.

Because even the woman he went home to would never truly have him.

No one ever did.

Tags: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11

[dulcecitosstuff]

Elvis Presley

[elvisvideos]

At rehearsal. 1970