#elvis presley X OC

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Gentle On My Mind - Chapter 7

Initially set in 1967 when Elvis is filming Clambake. Feeling miserable and trapped after the Colonel banishes Larry and the spiritual texts, Elvis invites Gloria to keep him company through the last five days of filming. Gloria is an aspiring movie editor and more importantly she's a lot of fun. Will she be what Elvis needs to get him out of the depressive funk he's in?

Catch up with the other parts here.

Many thanks to @sissylittlefeather being my beta reader on this one.

A/N: We're up to 1968 now...

Pairing: Elvis x OC - Gloria, a budding film editor.

Word count: 5.1K

TWs: Infidelity, p in v sex, fingering, possessive kink, size kink, dirty photos, angst.

Elvis doesn’t say a word on the drive back to the set, and he refuses to let any of the guys help him pack his things, closing the trailer door in their faces angrily. He takes his time putting clothes in bags, staring around the room at everything of hers that’s still there. Part of him is hoping if he does this slowly enough she’ll be back to pick up her things too. He’d spent the whole journey looking desperately for her car in the rear view mirror and not seeing it. But what would be the point? He wonders. Seeing her again wouldn’t change anything. If anything, it would make things worse. 

Picking up the last of his possessions, he suddenly realises he hadn’t ever given Gloria anything. He looks at his hands, but he’s barely wearing any rings, and he doesn’t want to just carelessly take one off for her. She deserves better than that. He scans the room again but there’s nothing. Sitting down on the bed, heavily, he wallows in self-pity. He can’t believe she is the one girl he hasn’t given something to. Even the rose he gave her on the first day she was on set was taken away again by Charlie. How will she remember him now?

***

Gloria walks around the trailer slowly, gathering her things. She’d waited for a long time before driving back from the beach. Partly because it took her a long time to calm down, and partly to avoid running into Elvis again. She wonders who really has the power to drag him away from her like this, she’s not sure that it’s the guy who found them and drove him back. That guy had looked strangely familiar, although she can’t place him now. Once she’s packed she sits on the bed and thinks of all the fun they’d had in this trailer. All the things he’d told her, the tears he’d shed. She can’t believe how sad she feels right now. Sighing, she picks up her bag and heads towards the door. It was just a fling, she tells herself. You’ll be over it in a week or so.

***

A couple of days later the wedding photos are plastered all over the papers. He looks so happy, Gloria starts to wonder if what happened on the beach was just because he felt guilty. Maybe he felt like he should’ve been sad, maybe he felt like she wanted him to make love to her like that. Make love. She shakes her head, trying to knock the words back out of it again. Absolute nonsense. It was just a fling for both of you. This proves it. 

***

“Let’s get rid of them. Come on. Let’s burn them. It’ll be a fresh start for both of us.” 

Elvis holds the books in his hands. It probably is best to put all of this stuff behind him, now Larry is gone. Cilla is probably right. He feels a pang of regret as he throws them, one by one, into the flames. His hand grips the numerology book, immediately thinking of Gloria telling him she was just a foolish impulsive girl and he’d be president someday. He swallows down the lump in his throat. 

“A fresh start,” he repeats, tossing the book into the fire, watching as the edges curl up and then the whole thing is engulfed in flames. “A fresh start together.”

***

It’s the third day of filming in LA for Chautauqua. As usual, Elvis is disappointed by the script. But he doesn’t have many more of these left to make, and at least this is a little different from his usual movies. After the disappointment of Charro! he actually feels okay about it. Plus, he’s just finished wrapping the Singer special and that’s something he’s definitely proud of. Finally finding a way to get back to seeing an audience again, the whites of people’s eyes. He’s still afraid of what people might think when they see it on TV. Does he still have it? But his confidence is back. Sometime soon he’ll be back in front of real audiences again. Just like he told Cilla he wanted. 

He’s making his way to the set for the day when he thinks he hears a familiar giggle. Gloria. He shakes his head. It can’t be her, why would she be…

“Elvis!” Suddenly she’s right in front of him, the same exuberant smile, the same beautiful face. His eyes scan down her body and he notices she’s dressed a little more demurely than the last time he saw her. She grins. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“Well I mean it’s my movie, honey. Think it should be me surprised to see you, not the other way around.”

He kisses her cheek, his hand on her arm. His eyes are sparkling, the blue set off wonderfully against the white suit he’s wearing, and it takes everything in her not to melt there and then. 

“I’m here helping with the editing work,” she explains, trying to control the blush that she’s sure has spread over her cheeks. 

“Oh really? That’s wonderful,” he replies, warmly. 

They both stand there for a while, looking at each other, not sure what to say or do. Eventually Gloria breaks the silence. 

“Congratulations, by the way. On your marriage, and your little girl.”

Elvis’ mouth curls into a lop-sided grin. “Ah, thank you. She sure is the apple of my eye.”

“I’m sure. I um… I have some news too.”

“Oh yeah?” Still smiling. 

“I’m engaged!” She waggles her finger at him, showing off the diamond ring there. “Getting married as soon as this wraps up actually. History repeating.”

His face falls, though he tries hard to recover. ‘Oh… ah… uh… well congratulations. I never thought ya were the marrying type, but uh… guess I was wrong.”

She smiles. “Well, when you find the right person it’s the only thing to do. You know that, of course. You have Priscilla.”

She doesn’t mean it to come out like that, so cold and accusatory, but it does. He nods curtly. 

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, I better go. Needed on set.”

“Good luck!” Gloria replies, brightly, trying to fix what she’d just done. “Break a leg!”

***

They spend the month of filming largely avoiding each other, and being polite when they find themselves in the same place at the same time. Gloria can’t help the feeling when she sees him though, every time her heart leaps and that familiar tingling starts between her legs. She bites her lip and closes her eyes and tries hard to think about her fiance instead. Roger had told her he loved her after three dates. He’d moved in after a month. He bought her pretty gifts every day and told her how he couldn’t live without her. She liked him. Of course she did, maybe she even loved him. But the important part was his devotion to her, which was unquestionable. Everything he did was to make her happy. She’d never experienced anything like it. So when he popped the question, of course she said yes. Then work sent her to LA, and she knew she’d see Elvis again. She’d tried to avoid reading about him, since the day his wedding was in all the papers. Thought that perhaps, over a year later, she’d got over their little fling. She had a man now who wanted her and needed her and provided for her. Once they were married she’d give this job up. But she had wanted to do this last movie, just to see that her feelings were really gone. Of course, they weren’t. 

She knows they’re really not gone the night her and some of the crew crowd around a television set to watch the Singer special. Of course she’s seen him on TV before, when she was much younger, but only once. After all the furore about his wiggling hips her parents put a stop to her watching him, even that awful show where they made him sing to the dog. And she saw him sing on set, when he was filming Clambake. But it’s nothing like this. For a start, he looks so damn good in that leather suit. The sweat is just dripping off him and Gloria can’t help having flashbacks to the time he carried her on his shoulder and then spanked her. But it isn’t just the way he looks, it’s the way he acts. The man she met on the set of Clambake was a shell in comparison to this. She can see he starts off the sit-down part slightly shy, awkward, a little nervous. But by the end, as he sings Memories to two girls on either side of him, that’s all gone. He’s a performer. He’s in his element. 

Her heart is beating so fast by the end of it. She feels like the whole thing was a whirlwind of singing and dancing and him on his knees in that suit, singing like a man possessed. Her brain tells her over and over again to go back to her trailer and touch herself, get it out of her system. But her legs carry her to Elvis’ trailer, and she stands outside looking in. He’s still in his Walter Hale get up, for some reason, but his hat is off and his hair is wild. The guys are all in there, laughing and cheering, all so excited they’ve clearly forgotten to put someone outside as a guard. All the same, she can’t go knocking on the door, not with so many of them about. She notices the guy that came down to get him from the beach that day, Joe? She’d remembered where she knew him from, several weeks after filming had wrapped. It just floated into her head one day. He was the guy at the party who’d told her about the beach. That’s how he knew exactly how to find them when they were gone. 

She walks back to her trailer and tries to make good on her promise to herself of masturbation and then sleep. But she keeps seeing flashes of him from that show, and she knows he’s not far away. And worst of all, she knows he’s still wearing that white suit. She groans. The only thing to do is call Roger. 

“Hi honey, it’s me,” she announces, brightly. 

“Oh… um… hi honey. How come you’re calling so late? Something wrong?” He sounds sleepy. 

She looks at her watch. It is kinda late. “Nothing wrong, just wanted to hear your voice.” Nothing wrong, nothing like I’m only just holding it together not to run into the trailer across the way and fuck Elvis Presley senseless. 

“Well that’s very sweet, but I was just in bed.”

“Oh. Naked?” She asks, hopefully. 

“C’mon Gloria, you know I never sleep naked. And I’m really tired. Let’s just talk tomorrow, can we?”

“Did you uh… did you see that Elvis thing on the TV tonight?” She has no idea why she’s asking this, beyond trying to keep him on the phone. 

“No. Look, honey, I really need my rest. I’ve got work tomorrow.” 

“Okay, sorry. I just missed you, is all.”

“I miss you too Gloria, but it won’t be long before you finish this movie now and then you and I never need to be apart again. Love you.”

And without waiting for her to reply, he puts the phone down. Gloria frowns. He’s usually so much more excited to talk to her than this. He’s probably just tired. It is late. She takes a few deep breaths and tries to stop thinking about Elvis and the sweat pouring off him as he sings. Her hand moves to her belly and the temptation to touch herself thinking about him gets even worse. She pours herself a drink and puts a record on. Think about something else. Anything else. 

Three drinks later and all remaining sensible thoughts are gone. She pulls a fur coat and her boots on and walks out of her trailer towards his. It’s much quieter than before and the blinds are down so she can’t see inside this time. Crossing her fingers that he’s alone, she knocks on the door. It’s a while before he finally appears, looking slightly dishevelled, raking his hair back from his face. He’s shocked to see her. 

“Glory.”

“Can I come in?”

He nods and opens the door wide for her, feeling her brush past him in the small doorway. Closing it before turning to face her. 

“You okay?” He asks, tentatively. 

She shakes her head. “No,” she replies, and before he has a chance to ask why her arms are around his neck and her tongue is in his mouth. 

He pulls her towards him with his big hands, holding her body tightly. “Shit,” he mutters, as they come up for air. “Thought ya were gettin’ married?”

She shakes her head in a way that tells him not to talk about that. Her eyes trail over his body in the white suit of Walter Hale and she tries hard not to moan audibly. 

“I watched the special,” she manages to get out before he kisses her again. 

“What d’ya think?” He asks, his breath hot on her cheek, trailing kisses from the corner of her mouth down her neck. 

“Fuck me.” 

He giggles into her ear. “That good, huh?”

“I really wanna tell you about it…” she breathes. “But first I really need you to fuck me with that big dick.”

“Oh God, I’ve missed that filthy mouth of yours.”

She giggles and they stand there for a moment, just looking into one another’s eyes. He’s missed more than just her filthy mouth. This energy, this joy. He’s missed her terribly. 

“Can you keep the suit on, though?”

He blinks. “What? The whole thing? Wardrobe will be mad with me if we mess it up…”

“Will they? Do you need to wear it again?” Her head is tilted to the side and she’s smirking at him. 

He can’t help smirking back. “Okay, fine. I don’t care. You want me to leave it on, I’ll leave it on.”

She bites her lip. “The jacket can go,” pushing it off his shoulders. “And we don’t need this tie,” undoing it and throwing it on the floor. “But the rest can stay.”

“What about the hat?” He asks, picking it up from the table he’d left it on earlier. 

She giggles, remembering that first night in his trailer when he’d put on a hat and a jacket and pretended to be her boss. “Put it on, let’s have a look.”

He grins, putting it on his head and then spotting a cigar on the table and putting that between his teeth too. “Ya like Walter, do ya baby?”

Giggling and nodding. “You gonna smoke that while you fuck me?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

“C’mere,” he pushes her coat off her shoulders then picks her up in his arms and carries her over to the bed, putting her down carefully. She kicks off her boots.

Catching a glimpse of the long mirror on the closet door out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly has an idea he’s sure she’ll like. 

“You wanna watch yourself?” Nodding at the mirror. 

Gloria can hardly believe her ears. “Are you… okay?” She asks, but she doesn’t really want an answer. She likes him like this.

Elvis laughs, pulling her back up from the bed again and standing her in front of the mirror, his arms around her waist. He kisses her neck, cigar back in his hand for a moment.

“This way you can see me in this suit you like so much. And you can see yourself, getting fucked by my big dick.”

His hand moves down between her legs and squeezes. She hums with pleasure, grinning at his reflection. “I’d like that, big boy.” 

He pulls a lighter out of his pocket, lighting the cigar and puffing out a cloud of smoke around her. She can’t help giggling, until he unzips her pants and slides his hand into her panties. She gasps as his fingers touch her pussy and he presses more hot kisses to her neck. Roger never touches her like this.

“I don’t like it when girls wear pants, baby,” he tells her, teeth grazing her earlobe. 

“I better take them off then,” she replies, quickly reaching to shimmy them off. 

He grins. “Might as well take it all off,” he suggests, stepping back to take another drag of the cigar and look at her from behind and then at her reflection again. 

Gloria’s heart races at the idea of her being completely naked, in front of a mirror, and him behind her still wearing all his clothes. That TV special has certainly done something for his confidence levels, she thinks. She unbuttons her blouse and tosses it onto the floor, unhooking her bra and removing that too, so she’s just in her panties and socks. She looks back at his reflection in the mirror. 

He smirks around the cigar. “All of it, honey.”

She does as he asks, standing naked in front of the mirror. He takes the cigar out of his mouth so he can kiss her shoulder. 

“You’ve got a beautiful body, Glory. I missed it.”

“I missed your big dick.”

They both giggle, Elvis pulling her back against him. He slides his fingers back between her legs and starts to rub slow circles around her clit. 

“Your fiance…” he murmurs, close to her ear. 

“Average-sized,” she replies, quickly, panting a little at the pleasure building already. 

She knows it won’t be long before he makes her come, she’s so het up already.

“Mmm. That’s a shame, baby.”

“He’s nothing… like you,” she moans. 

Elvis smirks, taking another drag on his cigar as his fingers speed up their movements, watching her face in the mirror. 

“Come for me, Glory.”

She whimpers, tipping her head back and exposing her throat for his kisses. Her legs shake as the pleasure builds and builds and then finally reaches that wonderful crescendo. Moaning, her back arching, her head flopping onto his shoulder. 

“Mmmm. Good girl.”

She breathes hard, chest heaving, body tingling all over. He holds her for a few moments and then kisses her cheek. 

“Fuck. Elvis. That was so good.”

“Better than anything you’ve had lately?” His breath hot against her ear. 

She laughs, and elbows him in the side. “Stop that.”

“Okay, okay.” He runs his fingers down her sides gently. “How about you lean forward and put your hands on the closet… and spread your legs.”

“Something has happened to you since I saw you last,” she says, leaning forward and putting her hands on either side of the mirror.

He looks down at her ass and gives it a gentle slap, grinning as he grips his cigar between his teeth and unzips his pants, his dick standing to attention as soon as he releases it from the underpants he’d been forced to wear with the suit. Slowly starting to push inside her, he groans at how tight she is. Pulling her against him when he bottoms out, his mouth next to her ear again. 

“You’re so tight, Glory. Don’t think this man of yours can be giving you everything you need, hm?”

Gloria’s head spins. She loves Roger. Loves him. But the things Elvis is saying are turning her on so much. And he’s so good at this. 

“Hm?” He repeats, pulling back and thrusting into her, hard. 

She whimpers as he lets her body go and she falls against the mirror, looking at her own reflection smudged against the glass. He obviously wants an answer. 

“No…” she breathes, trying to get her hands back on the closet before he thrusts inside her again. 

“You like this?” He asks, starting to pick up a steady pace now, holding her hair to arch her back. “You like being fucked with this big dick?”

“Yes… Mr Presley…”

Smoke billows from his cigar as he continues to pound her pussy, watching his dick disappear into her over and over again, and then looking at her flushed, beautiful face in the mirror. She groans at the intensity of the feeling, knowing her second orgasm is coming soon. The sex was so good before, but this is unbelievable. She loves him being so dominant. 

He can feel her pussy clenching around him and it spurs him on to fuck her harder, knowing she must be getting close again. 

“Gonna come for me again?” He murmurs, mouth still around the cigar. 

“Yes… ohhhh…” she moans, feeling him hit that place inside her again and again. 

“Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

Her eyes go wide at his words, hands sliding onto the glass of the mirror, making it hard for her to stay upright. She manages to mumble, “mmm.”

“I wanna hear you say it,” he repeats. 

His impending orgasm is making him feel a little crazy, like he somehow wants to get one over on this guy who’s stealing his girl. His Glory. 

“You’re… the best… I’ve ever… had…” she pants, and then falls forward, her face against the mirror as he keeps going, relentless, fucking her like a man possessed. 

Her orgasm crashes into her with such force she almost screams, her walls squeezing him over and over as he continues to thrust. He moans and slams his palm against the closet as he comes deep inside her. Slowly, weakly pumping his hips a few more times and then falling against her fully. 

“Fuck me,” she says quietly, from between him and the closet mirror. “One TV special and you just think you’re God’s gift all of a sudden.” 

“Oh… ah… honey I-I…” he stammers, until he sees her face in the mirror, grinning at him. Realising she’s teasing. “Oh, you’re naughty.” 

He stands up and pulls her against him, his arms around her waist, growling into her ear. She giggles and squirms, but she’s enjoying the feeling of him still gradually softening inside her. He stops abruptly as he looks at the floor. 

“Ah. Shit.” Letting her go so he can pick up the cigar that is burning a hole in the carpet. 

She turns around and laughs. “Oh my God. Let’s try not to set the trailer on fire.” 

She admires him in the suit again as he puts the cigar out safely in an ashtray. But she wants to see his body now. 

“Let's get you out of this.” Her fingers undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. 

He smiles and lets her take his clothes off, feeling so much happier about his body now he’s lost that bit of extra weight. She stops to look at him once he’s naked, her hands exploring every inch of his skin as she follows her fingers with kisses. He’s lost the squishiness around his middle, and she’s almost sad about it. He’s so slight without clothes on, she wonders if he’s been eating enough. 

He’s still bashful though, laughing and blushing and asking her if she’s finished yet as she kneels down in front of him and runs her fingers down his legs. She giggles back, looking up at him through her lashes, wondering herself what on earth she’s doing. But she can’t stop, she even kisses his toes. She wants to touch every bit of him. His breathing is uneven as he stares down at her. No woman has ever done anything like this to him. She stands up again slowly and he takes her hand in his and leads her to the bed. They get under the covers and then just stare at one another, him absent-mindedly stroking her cheek as she runs her fingers through his hair. 

“So, what did ya think of the Special, then?” He finally asks. 

She grins. “Incredible. You were amazing. I’ve never seen you move like that before. And the songs… I loved the whole thing. You must be proud.”

He smiles a little. He supposes he is. “Yeah. I’m really proud of the way it turned out. The Colonel wanted a Christmas special, but Steve really stood up to him.”

“A Christmas special?”

“Yeah, he wanted snowmen and presents and me in a Christmas sweater…”

Gloria giggles. “Oh well I’m sure you would’ve looked cute, but… I mean that suit…” 

“You liked it?”

She puts her hand on his face, gently moving his hair back from his forehead. Some things hadn’t changed about him. He still needed constant reassurance. 

“Obviously I liked it, it was tight and it made you sweat.”

He laughs, and she thinks about how pronounced his cheekbones are now. 

“You think I look better than I did when I saw you last?” He asks, almost shyly. 

“I think you’re just fishing for compliments now,” she teases, her arm around him and her leg between his. 

“Well I think you look real good Glory,” he tells her, pulling her tightly against him and kissing her neck again. “Thought ya might want to compliment me back.”

She laughs, rolling him onto his back and biting his neck. “I told you how good you looked already. You’re so needy.”

He growls, easily overpowering her and rolling on top of her. “I’ve been dieting. And I love food. C’mon.”

He leans down and starts nibbling on her collarbone, making her giggle. “Don’t eat me!”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks. 

She shoves his chest, laughing, and pushes him back off her again. They tussle back and forth for a while, giggling until they’re both out of breath. 

“You looked good when we met and you look good now. I love you no matter how you look.” 

The words are out of her mouth before she notices the inclusion of the word love. She buries her head in his chest, wondering what to do next. Does she love him? Well, she certainly just said she does. Does he love her? He has a wife. 

Elvis looks down at her, stroking her hair gently. “I love you too, Glory.”

It doesn’t matter whether we love one another, she thinks. That’s irrelevant. She looks up, slowly. “Elvis, I’m getting married.”

“You don’t have ta.”

Gloria swallows, hard. “But you’re already married. And I want to… I… I’m going to marry Roger.”

“His name is Roger?” Elvis is struggling not to smirk. 

“Stop it!” She shoves him again, laughing. 

“He’s not going to satisfy you, Glory.”

“And neither are you, Elvis. You’re married and you have a baby, and a career. And I… can’t wait around for my own family.”

Elvis sighs. “Cilla and I aren’t… I mean, we don’t sleep together anymore…”

Gloria shakes her head. “I don’t want to hear this. I don’t… I’m getting married and that’s all there is to it.” She pauses for a moment. “But I’ll stay here tonight if you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to.”

Elvis feels jealousy coursing through his veins, the urge to find this Roger and tell him to call it off with her is huge and he wants to demand to know her address so he can go right now. He tries to swallow it all down. Maybe she’ll change her mind if she stays tonight. Surely he can persuade her if she stays in his trailer for the next week or so, until filming wraps. There’s no way they’re going to be able to stay apart now.

They spend the rest of the night talking, rather than sleeping, and several hours in Elvis remembers something he’d brought with him to set. He pulls out a polaroid camera, it’s big and expensive and it produces photographs immediately. Gloria’s eyes light up when he explains the concept to her. 

“Can I take some of you, honey?” He asks. 

She grins. “Dirty photos?”

He blushes, a little of the old insecurity back. “Well, only if ya want to…”

“Of course I want to! You fucked me in front of a mirror with your Walter Hale outfit on. Obviously I wanna do filthy stuff.”

He takes a few photos of her face, and then she starts to pose like a pin up girl so he takes photos of her like that. Then she starts to pose like the centrefold of a dirty mag and he takes some of her like that, too. He finds himself between her legs, taking a shot of her pussy and barely even blushing. After a while she holds her hands out. 

“C’mon. I want some of you.”

He looks a little uncomfortable, so she gets up and grabs his white hat and another cigar. 

“Here. Let me have one with you like this.”

She lies back on the bed and takes a photo of him leaning over her, smirking around the cigar. 

“That better just be my face.”

“That one was,” she replies, gesturing for him to lie on his back and getting up on her knees to take another. “But this one definitely isn’t.”

He grabs her waist and pulls her on top of him, and it’s all she can do to avoid hitting him with the camera. “Let’s see.”

They tussle again for a while and then sit up, looking through the photos. He tries to tell her she can’t keep the photo of his dick but she just giggles and tells him she’ll keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Eventually they fall asleep in one another’s arms. 

Gloria wakes up after only a couple of hours of sleep and looks at her watch. 6am. He’ll be awake in an hour or so to start filming again. She looks at him sleeping peacefully next to her. Then she looks at the photos again and smiles. Slips them into her handbag and gets dressed quietly. She can’t stay here. Can’t stay on set. She’ll just end up in his bed every night and then what will happen with her and Roger? Elvis will never commit to her like Roger has. She sighs, pulling on her boots and coat. 

She can’t wake him up or he’ll just beg her to stay. But she feels funny about leaving without saying anything too. She looks around briefly for a pen, and when she can’t find one she takes her lipstick out of her bag. Applying it to her lips she picks up one of the pin-up style photos he’d taken of her and presses a kiss to it. Turning it over she scrawls on the back. 

“Sorry big boy. You know I love you. Glory xx”

Quietly slipping out of the trailer she thinks she will probably never see him in person again. She sighs. Well, they’d at least had some fun.

***

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[starryschoolgirl]

Just A Man

| A Soldier's Song Installment |

Summary -> As the weeks leading up to Elvis' deployment to Europe begin to dwindle you and Elvis try to help your son understand what it will mean. Meanwhile, inevitable tensions between you and Elvis are pushed to the side as the two of you figure sex is better than facing your issues, especially with such little time left together.

Warnings -> mention of family death, domestic fluff, flirting, mention of war, pre-deployment, Elvis being a young dad & husband, (much needed) sex with 50s Elvis, angsty undertones, smut, kitchen sex, swearing, foot kink, stocking kink, almost footjob(?), breeding kink, oral (f. receiving), unsafe sex

WC -> 5.8k

A/N -> So this is more of a prologue to the actual events of which this au series is based upon, to sort of give a glance into what life was like before Elvis gets deployed to Europe, I hope you enjoy it! In the next installment, we WILL see Elvis in uniform. This is an installation of the A Soldier's Song AU

“That one made my hand hurt Frankie!”

The little boy giggled at his daddy’s shocked face.

That battering of a baseball against a leather mitt is all that kept you company on the back porch of your home. Watching the two boys, your two boys, in the yard tossing the ball back and forth puts a smile on your face, but as you turn your head to the empty chair next to you that smile falls ever so slightly, missing the warmth that often emanated from that chair.

Elvis had been at basic training when she passed and was only able to make it back in time for her funeral, but even then while you were a wreck he remained as strong as he could. He held you in one arm and held your little boy in the other as the service proceeded.

You’d only had two grief-filled days with him before he went back to finish his basic training, you couldn’t even figure out whether or not he’d really come to terms with his mama because it all happened so fast. And now you’d only have a few final weeks with your man, all crisp and in shape from basic training, till he was off to a poor war-stricken country in Europe.

With that in mind you remembered to smile, in the knick of time too as Elvis looked up at you after running to pick up the stray ball that had rolled along the grass toward the porch due to your little boy’s poor aim.

He stared up at you like the school boy he used to be, and said with that tone of voice you’d often heard since he first laid eyes on you, “Hey there Cutie”

And like the school girl you used to be, you’d blush and only offer a small smile as you waved him off, “Go play with your son”

Elvis gave you that look, he wanted to say something he couldn’t say in front of young ears. He got up, ball in one hand while he wore his leather brown mitt on the other, with each step up the wood porch his smile grew, you could feel his curled lips on your cheek as he leaned down to kiss it.

Then quietly he’d murmur in a cooing, baby-talk type tone, 

“Daddy wants to play with Mama though”

You rolled your eyes and put a placating hand on his clean-shaven cheek. After leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips you spoke quietly with that same baby-talk curve to your voice,

“Daddy can play with Mama when Baby goes to bed”

Elvis smiled softly at you and mumbled out a soft and assured, “Alright”, before stepping away to go back down onto the grass, giving Francis, or as Elvis nicknamed him, Frankie, an underhanded toss of the ball.

You turned one last time to the other chair and the empty cushion on it, you couldn’t look at it anymore. Thankfully you were needed elsewhere as you could smell the roast in the oven drift through the window of the kitchen out onto the porch.

After going inside as you tended to the food you could watch Francis and Elvis play about in the yard, it was quite big, but the two of them only remained within a small portion, part of the reason could’ve been because Francis couldn’t yet throw very far.

The sun was setting and the light practically flickered off of Elvis’ hair. Now being in the army he didn’t bother with that black dye, it would just be washed out as soon as he was back at base after all. And it wasn’t like he’d be making movies or releasing songs anytime soon, no not with what he was on his way to do in a few weeks.

You could just barely hear Elvis’ voice as he praised your son, “Frank my boy you might be the Babe Ruth of your generation if ya keep at it”. You couldn’t help but shake your head with a smile, Elvis talking to Francis as if the four-year-old knew who the Babe was and as if he knew what the word “generation” meant.

It was in Elvis’ nature to talk to children in that way though. He always treated them like little adults. You couldn’t recall a time when Elvis didn’t speak to children that way. His mama had made fun of him for it when Francis was two and he could only remark, “Frank is just people, like you and me are just people”

Oh goodness, you thought of her again.

You don’t think a day goes by when you don’t think about her. Elvis’ mama was a godsend, truly. And while he’d never open up about it, you know it’s affecting Elvis immensely. She was so involved in your life ever since you entered Elvis’ and she was always sweet and welcoming.

You could think back to a time not too long ago when after you’d eloped with Elvis and announced the news of your pregnancy at the young age of 18, your parents kicked you to the curb, but she welcomed you with open arms.

At the time Elvis was still driving a truck he hadn’t yet become the “movie star” that he was now. But despite the financial struggles of her Presley flock, Gladys happily welcomed another bird.

It was just a few months ago, before the whole fiasco of Elvis getting drafted and sent off to basic that you’d had a conversation with her in this very kitchen about that.

You told her how appreciative you’d always be toward her for being so welcoming to you, and she told you with an arm around your shoulder, “I’m a mother Hon, it’s only natural. The two of you were babies when ya had that itty bitty boy of yours, I couldn’t ever leave y’all out in the rain, you know that”

You knew no matter what Elvis would have stuck beside you, you knew he’d always be there to hold your hand. After all, you were mothering his child. But it helped so much more that his mother would be on the other side of you, holding your other hand to help you in whatever way you would allow.

Things were slowly returning to normal within the home, her lack of presence isn’t as pronounced, but that’s because she lives through memory now as more time passes, it’s almost like she’s not gone.

You hope that’s how Elvis viewed it. His stone face didn’t leave any slack for a crack or two, and for once it was getting hard to read him. But you’d continue to hope that it isn’t a facade and that he is okay. Yeah, you’d hope with all your might that your man was doing okay.

-----

Dinner was quiet, whenever your voice, or Elvis’ voice, or Francis’ voice didn’t fill the air, love would keep you all company. Of course as always Elvis got on Francis about playing with his food, having grown up poor Elvis was more sensitive to matters of waste such as that.

But if that was the stress high-point of the evening, then you could call it a good evening.

And as you now sat on the edge of the bed, a hand on Francis’ blanket-covered knee while Elvis kneeled on the floor next to the short, small children’s bed, you had a soft smile play on your lips as Elvis talked on the subject of him leaving in a few weeks.

Elvis and you had been explaining night after night to Francis what would soon happen, why his daddy would be going away for a while and what would happen after. After talking about it quite a bit within the first month of knowing about Elvis’ draft you and he decided it was best to be very open on the subject to make it less daunting when Elvis suddenly left home.

And after Gladys’ death you had to explain to Francis that his daddy’s absence would be different from his grandmother’s absence.

“Ya g-gonna fight bad guys Daddy?”

Elvis smiled and brought his hands up in fists, then with a few shadow-box moves which made Francis laugh, Elvis assured,

“You betcha, gonna give the bad guys one of these! And one of these!”

The little boy laughed, his laugh too big for his body as he bent over on the bed and held onto your arm with both his little hands.

After his precious giggles subsided, Francis sat up and asked curiously, a glimmer of what must’ve been a child’s worry in his eyes as he asked with that stutter that his daddy used to have,

“W-what if the bad, bad guys hurt yo-you Dad-Daddy?”

Your smile fell slightly as you and Elvis made eye contact at the suggestion. Of course that is something that you and Elvis had been careful approaching when it came to explaining this sort of thing to Francis.

You couldn’t explain it without truly worrying the boy, you felt tears prickle your eyes at just the thought. Elvis knew of your worries, he knew that quite a few of the girls you were friends with down at the beauty parlor had husband’s overseas, and that a few of them had gotten the dreaded telegram, along with a folded American flag.

He knew all too well your worries as he’d spent many nights being the one to soothe you back to bed. When he’d feign sleep even though he knew you’d spend mornings staring at him, just wanting to look at him as if you would soon lose this view.

Of course if he had died at war it might be different. Having been in a few films and sung a few hit records, he feared that if he died you might find out about his death through the newspapers. You would either find out through that, or as Elvis heard, on rare special occasions they’d send something much more personal, they’d send chaplains and military officers to tell the grieving widow in person. 

Elvis hoped if he died he’d be that special occasion, that way you wouldn’t be alone when you heard about his death, the same way you were alone when you saw his mother in her state of death.

“Well,”

He started before getting up, and sitting next to you on the bed. He wrapped an arm around your waist and reached a hand out to rest atop yours which rested on Francis’ knee.

“Listen buddy, that sort of thing might happen, but ya don’t gotta worry. Your daddy’s strong, and he’s gonna get home to you and Mama. He promises.”

Your lip quivered as you tried to smile. Elvis could feel the way your hand tensed under his, he quickly pressed a kiss to your cheek and mumbled quietly for his little family to hear,

“And ya know I’m not a liar, I wouldn’t piss on ya leg and tell ya it’s rainin’ now would I?”

You abruptly turned your head toward Elvis’ crude analogy and hit his shoulder lightly making him laugh as Francis giggled at his daddy using a “nasty” word. 

As Elvis laughed he stood up and pulled you with him, leaving enough time for you to kiss Francis goodnight before taking you with just a tug of his arm around your hip.

As you reached for the lamp next to your son’s bed your spoke softly,

“Get a good sleep Frannie”

Once you and Elvis were making your way out of the room he teased you softly with his hand still resting at your hip, “Wish ya would stop callin’ him such a girly name, his name’s Francis”

As soon as you closed the door you laughed softly and pointed out, “So he’s Francis when I call him Frannie but he’s not Francis when you call him Frankie?”

Elvis shrugged and popped out a “yup” as he guided you down the hall. Just before reaching the bedroom you told him you remembered you still had some dishes to do and made a B-line to the staircase to head toward the kitchen.

After getting down there and getting the dishes loaded you found yourself standing in front of the sink, staring down at the soapy dishwater with not a thought in mind.

It was Elvis’ voice that pulled you from your trance as he spoke, “Baby?”

You jumped slightly and turned around to see Elvis throwing you a confused half-smile, his red shirt from earlier was off and he was left in just black trousers and his wedding ring. There was a dampened towel on his shoulders, the tips of his hair were slightly wet, likely from having just washed his face.

You sighed softly with a smile at the sight, “I’ll be up in a minute Handsome, just getting some things done”.

Elvis’ neck stretched slightly as he saw the dishes were washed and now laid on the drying rack, he then turned toward the stove to see that the leftovers were put away. You didn’t have anything to do.

He took a few steps forward, till he could comfortably rest his hands at your hips.

“Looks to me like everythin’s been done, why don’tcha head upstairs with me?”

You took a moment to look around and realized he was right, quick on your feet you slid away from his hands and walked over to the oven and opened it, you gestured a hand toward the inside,

“I haven’t cleaned the oven out yet”

Elvis’ eyebrows furrowed as he shook head and mumbled with a hand on his hip,

“Honey, ya never clean the oven out till the 1st of the month, I mean unless things have changed that much since I’ve been at basic…”

You sighed softly. As you gently closed the oven door Elvis walked over to you with a small frown, his hands finding their place at your hips once again as he asked,

“What’s goin’ on Genevieve?”

You bit your lower lip softly, whenever Elvis called you by your name you knew he was serious, there was no wiggling your way out of it, especially now that he had you pressed back against a kitchen counter, his hands gripping your hips with resolution and a look in his eyes that told you he wasn’t letting you go without a fight.

With a shake of your head you looked away from Elvis, suddenly deeming the drying rack a few feet away to be a better view than your half-naked husband. Elvis’ head followed your gaze and suddenly it was him you were looking at again.

“I just, I wish you would stop doing that…”

Elvis looked confused as he ran a hand through his uncombed hair. He really looked different from a few months ago, his jaw was sharp and his cheeks sort of caved in, but not in the way a waif’s would. His hair was a crisp, fall-ish brown, and his body was cut in a way that felt a little foreign.

While he was naturally slim and tall, he was usually still soft and smooth around the edges. You’d realized his first night back from basic that his body was more sharp and angular, and you worried they weren’t feeding him properly. But as he’d been home a week or two now, his body remained sharp and cut, and now your worries were on your own lacking areas, you knew your food couldn’t replace his mama’s but you’d swear if his mama were here, he’d be back to his soft and squishy self.

“Stop doin’ what Hon?”

As your eyes lingered over his body more you’d completely forgotten what you’d first been talking about as you changed the subject by asking, “Are you still hungry?”

Elvis laughed softly and titled his head to the side, “What are ya talkin’ about?”

Your lower lip quivered in worry and concern, it seems all the dulled emotions you’d been feeling lately came together to overpower your own emotional maturity as your lip wobbled pathetically. As Elvis saw the sight his smile fell and his eyebrows furrowed in worry as he bent down slightly to look you head on. “Oh, Baby, now,” He cupped your cheeks with his hands to keep you from turning away from him. 

There was a soft incredulous laugh that left his lips, “Why are ya cryin?”

As Elvis pulled you close to him, you could feel his body shake with each laugh that left his lips, you knew what he was thinking, it was what he always thought (and sometimes said) whenever you started crying, it was-

“You women and your emotions…”

And just as you would everytime, you’d hit his chest with all your might (which would only evoke another laugh at your pitiful effort) and mumble into his chest wetly, “Stop laughing at me Elvis Aaron Presley.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t laugh anymore Mama, now what was it you wish I would stop doin?”

Your arms around his waist tightened slightly as you thought back to the original topic of discussion. Elvis gave you a moment as he rubbed his chin along the top of your head, ruffling your hair in doing so, but you didn’t care enough to mind.

“I just wish you would stop pretending you’re this indestructible force Elvis.”

You could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke,

“Well, I gotta make sure my son knows there ain’t a man better than his Daddy, ya know that Hon”

With a soft sigh you pulled back enough to look Elvis in the eye while your arms remained around his waist.

“I’m talking about with me, Elvis. You do that same thing with me that you do with Francis. You talk to me like I’m a child- Like, like I don’t know what you’re going into, like I haven’t been reading the papers”

Elvis’ smile flatlined as he listened to your words. You continued on.

“I’m your wife Elvis, I know that you’re not some indestructible being.”

As Elvis' eyes lingered away from yours, you placed a hand on his cheek to regain his attention as you could tell he was searching for ways to change the conversation.

“You’re just a man Elvis”

There’s his way out. Elvis bit his lower lip before breaking into a smile as he stared down at you. His hands that were wrapped around your waist fell down to each globe of your ass, giving you a soft squeeze through the fabric of your dress. The abruptness of the action caught your attention as your eyebrow lifted in suspicion and confusion at what he was doing.

Here you were pouring your heart out and he-

“Well, I can admit I am just a man, and a man’s got needs ya know?”

He had a boyish smile on his lips as he said the last part quietly, as if he were a child trying to tempt his mother into letting him get his favorite piece of candy. You knew how this would go, it would go as it always did. You and Elvis would avoid this topic and go on to avoid a few other topics, then in a few weeks or a month you and him would get into a huge argument of all the topics combined just to kiss and make up.

It’s happened often within your relationship, hell, you and him hadn’t fought the entirety of your pregnancy with Francis and on the day your water broke, all hell broke with it as you and Elvis got into a huge argument. You almost gave birth in the house because you refused to have him be the one to drive you to the hospital.

But that would be fine for now, especially when he smiled down at you the way he was now.

Your previous pure look of concern had washed away with a defeated smile as his hands continued to knead the flesh of your ass like dough and his smile only dug into his cheeks further, almost bringing back that full look of them.

With a fond tinge to it, you sighed out,

“You really are just a man”

He brought his nose down to nuzzle against your cheek before pressing his lips against the soft skin, murmuring, “Your man”

“Mhm, my man”

You began to giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips dragging from your cheek down along the sensitive skin of your neck. You tried tucking your chin into your neck as you continued to let you squealed laughs.

Elvis let out a soft playful growl as he spoke into the skin,

“Flutterin’ around like a bird”

To stop your incessant wiggling Elvis tightened his arms around your waist, his nose changed locations from the crook of your neck to the dip of your collarbone till it landed in the deep neckline of your dress, snug between your breasts as he nuzzled himself into the skin, trying to get a whiff of you in your purest form. 

The smell of you at the end of the day, the light scent of your perfume that somehow lingered late in the day mixed with whatever sweat had tried to grace your body, it was a smell he couldn’t get enough of. 

 His lips began to press gentle little kisses at the inside of both your breasts as he tugged at the neckline a bit more, trying to give himself more ground to cover with his lips. You laughed softly and buried your hands in his brown locks as you pressed numerous kisses atop his head.

You could hear him mumble where his head was buried between your breasts,

“Mm kiss me Baby…”

You laughed softly and between pecks on his forehead said, “That’s what I’m doin’”

He finally came up, his eyes lidded slightly as he murmured, “I mean really kiss me”, before kissing you with the same lips he just worshiped the skin of your tits with.

You hummed into the kiss with delighted surprise at the hungry tenderness of it all as Elvis’ body backed you completely against the kitchen counter. He felt around blindly for the counter behind you as he refused to break the kiss and then with two gentle pats to the back of your thighs you jumped up just slightly for him to pick you up by the thighs and push you onto the counter.

Elvis’ hands quickly worked the fabric of your dress, tugging it up till it pooled around your waist and as he pulled away from the kiss to look down between the two of you he was left with the sight of your legs, almost completely bare except for your seamed stockings that ended at your thighs and were held up by the garters connected to your panties.

His hands glided along the thin fabric of your stockings along your calves and thighs, he loved how they felt. You couldn’t help your smile as he admired you. When he stepped back he could pull one of your legs up nice and high so that he could see the seams on the back of your stockings that ran up your legs, giving the illusion that you had much longer legs than you really did.

All his focus was on that leg that he had stretched above your head, pointed to the heavens as he stared with admiration. You, his own point of interest, had betrayed him as your other lonely leg that dangled from the counter stretched forward to dig lightly at the bulge beginning to form in Elvis’ black trousers. Elvis’ brows creased and his eyes closed as his mouth opened to let out a low, heavy breath.

“Oh, Mama…”

Elvis’ grip that held your foot high had loosened at the undoing of his usually calm and collective nature within the act. “Mhm?” You took the opportunity and brought your other foot down to join in on the pushes and presses of your feet into the growing bulge.

He only repeated with a breathy, more defeated voice,

“Oh… Mama…”

His head fell back slightly and his legs looked to be going a little slack, knees bending in the slightest as his hips pushed into the pressure of your feet.

It was only when you attempted to dig your foot’s heel into Elvis’ groin did he make a move, spreading your legs apart and pushing his way between them with an eagerness. His hands were quick as he unclipped your garters, followed by the rough yanking of your stockings off your legs. You were thankful you had stabilized yourself onto the counter with your hands otherwise he might’ve yanked you off it right along with your stockings.

You figured you’d help him as you lifted your ass up and began to shimmy your panties off, having to bite your lip to keep back from whining at the cold slap of the counter against your thighs and warmed heat. As Elvis turned to look at you, his mouth was left slightly agape, he could never get used to the image of his wife being all pliant and pretty for him.

The men he used to work with as a young truck driver told him to never get married to a girl he liked, because when women became wives they lost their appeal, they became prudent and too good for casual sex with their husband. Oh how wrong those men were.

“Spread ‘em f’me Hon”

You obeyed as you watched Elvis kneel down, he had enough height on him to where even kneeling down he could easily be face to face with your bare cunt as you sat on the edge of the counter.

From below he made eye contact with you again and murmured,

“Spread those as well Baby”

You let out a breath at his words, feeling a heat spread from your chest up your neck from the embarrassment of where he was referring, but you’d listen. Your hand hesitantly danced down your body before landing at your cunt, and with a soft, wet sound, your pointer and index finger spread the lips of your pussy apart, giving way for Elvis to see the white discharge that was just edging out of your entrance, you had practically sprung a leak down there.

“You’re so pretty Baby…”

He looked up at you to make sure you knew it before steadying himself by gripping the sides of your thighs before pressing his head further between your legs. His aquiline nose ran along your core before anything else, but his tongue and lips were quick to follow as he licked a stripe up the center.

You let out a soft breathy moan at the feeling and tilted your head back to stare at the ceiling, the blank ceiling, boring enough for you to be able to focus entirely on the sensations Elvis was filling your body with.

As his tongue poked and prodded at your entrance you let out a cacophony of back-to-back breaths. As he moved his lips lower, his tongue now scraping along that gap of skin between both your holes, his nose was enveloped entirely by your entrance, and you could feel it inside of you.

Then his fingers on one hand reached toward that little nub of nerves that rested atop your pussy like a pretty bow, and like an expert he could easily undo that bow with the twists and turns of his index and middle finger.

That is what made you squirm and squeak, hushing out a high-pitched,

“Elvis..!”

His answer was a hungry hum which only pushed you even further as the low baritone of his hum reverberated in your pussy. “E-Elvis..!”

Your hands burrowed greedily into his hair as you contradicted yourself, while you made it seem like you wanted him off you, you only pushed his nose further and further into your entrance, you might suffocate him at this point. It was as if his life was in the hands of whether or not he could make you come.

You attempted to drive your hips further into his mouth as he pulled you closer with that hand still gripping your thigh.

As his fingers strummed your clit like the strings to a guitar your breathing got uneven as you felt the incoming of those waves of pleasure that only your very own husband could pull from you.

He groaned loudly into your heat as your grip on his hair became painful to the man bearing it, but he’d continue on till he got you to your release.

“Oh fuck Elvis..! I’m, I’m…”

Your hands entangled in his hair began to drive his head completely home as you let out a guttural moan, the pleased pitch cutting off as you’d reached the peak of your pleasure.

Your entire body felt limp, not even having enough strength in your hands to continue holding onto his hair. Elvis’ head remained tucked away long enough for your dress to fall over onto his head and hide him away as he finally pulled away for air.

You watched with tired eyes as his hands came up to pull the fabric off his head, he had the biggest lazy smile gracing his lips as he looked up at you, and for a moment you had a hard time deciphering whether or not the dampness on his face came from his sweat or your own pleasure, you settled on it being a mix.

“I make ya feel good Honey? Played with Mama just right, hm?”

He slowly stood up and brought the fabric of the dress up with him.

“You always do Elvis,”

He hummed with a smile and brought the wrung up fabric to your mouth with one hand and tugged your chin down with the other, leaving room for him to set the fabric between your lips for you to bite down on.

“Good, now, you’re gonna help Daddy feel good too now right? Gonna sit still f’me right?”

You hummed, “Mhm”, feeling eager to please the man after the trip he just sent you on. Elvis smiled down at you as he watched you hold the fabric between your teeth.

The fumbling of Elvis’ hands undoing his trousers was momentary as he’d become a bit of an expert at undoing his pants in the years you two have been married. You watched with blown out eyes as his dick shot up against his pubes and stomach as it was freed from the confines of Elvis’ pants and underwear.

Your legs were already spread and ready, your hole was already warmed up and loosened, you were his for the taking. 

As Elvis took a step forward he tugged you just slightly closer to him before lining his uncut cock along your hole. Then he pushed in. His eyebrows creased from the pain of needing to be patient at this part, trying to find a good balance of needing to be watchful of your expression while wanting to watch as his foreskin begins to prematurely slide back before he’s even completely inside of your warm pussy.

“It’s goin’ in smooth Honey? N-no burn or anythin’ right Baby? I can keep goin’?”

You hummed out a quick, “Mhm”, with an eager nod of your head, and you could see the relief spread along his face at not needing to wait, because to be quite truthful he wasn’t sure he’d be able to.

Elvis kept a hand on his base as he guided the rest in and when he was fully in, his arms wrapped around your waist tightly, practically pulling you off the counter as he wanted to be as close to you as possible while he pressed kisses along your neck.

“Fuck Baby, feel so good,” He groaned softly as he pulled out slightly just to shove his way back in, eliciting a used squeak from you as he did so. “Think that I still haven’t broken ya in properly after bein’ at basic f’so long huh?”

You could only moan softly at his words as you kept the fabric of your dress clenched between your teeth. As he repeated a similar motion he mumbled into the skin of your neck,

“It’s alright Honey, we’ll make more room in there, make more room for a little one or two…”

You wiggled slightly only for his body to press impossibly closer as he spoke through gritted teeth, “Just need ya to sit” he pulled out just to harshly press back in, evoking a whimper from you, “still.”

Elvis’ thrusts became fuller and more drawn out with every second that passed and every moan that left your lips. He was a chatty lover, and while he liked to believe he was talking you through it all, it was really himself he was talking through the motions of sex. He had a strange anxiety when it came to sex that had only shown itself since his takeoff in the entertainment business.

“Gonna fill ya so full of me, gonna leave a piece of myself here to watch over ya Honey,”

Your noises continued to be muffled by the fabric that was becoming soaked in saliva from being kept in your mouth for so long.

The build-up of precum that had been filling your insides made for a wonderful lubricant, even better than your body’s natural one. Elvis’ hips continued to thrust roughly into you. As the speed doubled, even tripled, Elvis’ breaths and voice got raspy.

You were certain he’d bruised your cervix by now, but the desperate rasp of his voice left you as gooey as your insides were.

“Shit, this is it..!”

Elvis buried face into your neck and you felt the heat of his breath sprawl across your skin as he groaned throatily. The animalistic, rhythmic pace of his hips dying down to slow downward grinds. He slurred out as he came down from that peak of pleasure,

“So good… So fucking good…”

Finally as his body came to a rest you spit out the fabric and inhaled as much air as possible through your mouth.

As Elvis geared himself to pull out, your arms wrapped around his neck abruptly as you held him close, mumbling a soft, “Don’t.” as you did so.

Elvis’ body felt stiff for a moment as he asked with hushed concern,

“W-why? Did I hurt ya Hon? You know you’re supposed to tell-”

You stopped his sentence short with a quiet,

“No, you didn’t hurt me. Just, wanna be with you a little longer. You don’t mind do ya?”

Elvis let out a breath of relief to hear that. He’d never want to hurt you. So in that moment of silence he held you close and buried his face into the crook of your neck, letting his nose linger on that pulse point that he watched you apply perfume on every morning for the past 4 years.

And you carded your fingers through his hair, kissing the skin of his head as a form of apology for how rough you were with it earlier.

His voice was like honey, sweet and thick as he assured,

“Of course not. I wanna be with you all the time, otherwise I wouldn't have married ya”

You smiled and remarked into his hair,

"Smartass..."

To which he fondly mumbled,

"Cutie"

This was more a passion piece, just because I really wanted to write something involving those pictures, seriously he's such a dad.

The masterlist will be posted and linked as soon as I get up from my nap! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this au feel free to just comment or message me!!

Taglist Lovelies: @suraemoon, @drtyelvisfantasy, @mydarlingelvis, @astral-eyed-cat, @lialocklear, @obsessedvibee, @sexystarfish, @everythingelvispresley, @thebardotreincarnate, @prettyprissyblvd

[sissylittlefeather]

A House That Has Everything: Chapter 1

A/N: New series! This one came to me when I saw these amazing AI photos on Instagram made by @blackvelvetep and @_chiara975ep. (Be sure to check out their pages on Instagram!) My fic brain went crazy and this storyline was born.

This is an AU set in regency England where Elvis is a gentleman with a large estate. Also introducing a new OC: Annabelle Martin. I hope you love their story! It's a looooong one, so settle in, friends.

Warnings: NONE YET, this will get smutty (obvi, have ya met me?), but it'll be a slow burn with lots of tension, so no real warnings other than I guess the mention of parents dying

Word count: ~1.9k

Annabelle takes a deep breath and arranges herself to knock on the large servant's door at the back of the great house. This is to be her first day at her new place of employment and to say she is nervous would be an understatement. She has undergone training as a maid, but this is her first real job. Her hope was to be married to some sweet farm boy before she needed to use these skills, but the death of her mother two years ago and her father last month has resulted in her current predicament. She is an orphan of no consequence with no one left to look after her and no marriage prospects. Thankfully, her aunt, a barmaid at the inn with some hidden connection to the family, secured this position for her at Graceland Manor. The letter she has clutched in her fist states she should report directly to the master himself. This is certainly unique as it is typically the housekeeper who would have hired her, but her aunt's connection is to Colonel Presley himself and not the staff. This is beyond unique, but she has learned not to question affairs of the heart when they happen to other people.

She lifts her trembling hand and raps her knuckles on the door. Nothing happens immediately, so she waits a few seconds and knocks again. Finally, the door swings open and a handsome young footman with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes greets her. He manages his initial shock when he realizes how pretty she is, her dark hair curled perfectly and blue eyes rimmed with feathery black lashes. His smile is genuine as he opens his mouth to speak.

"May I help you, miss?"

"I am Annabelle Martin. I'm here to see Colonel Presley about a position as a maid." His smile falls and he looks down at his feet, clearing his throat.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, miss." Her heart flutters with nervousness. She has nowhere else to go.

"I must, sir. Please."

"As much as I would love to take you to him, Colonel Presley died a week ago." She swallows hard.

"He... died?"

"Unfortunately so. A fever took him swiftly in less than a fortnight." Annabelle searches her mind for her next step. If this does not work out, she will be on the streets.

"May I see the housekeeper?"

"Mrs. Davenport?"

"Yes, I suppose. Please." He can read the desperation in her face.

"Alright then, come along." She follows as he opens the door wider and beckons her inside. He leads her to a small office and introduces her to Mrs. Davenport. Rather than trying to explain herself, Annabelle thrusts the letter forward for her to read. She watches as the older lady's eyes skim the words.

"Report directly to Colonel Presley himself?! Where did you get this?"

"My aunt delivered it. She said it was from Colonel Presley and that I should bring it and arrive on this date. Is it not in his handwriting?" Mrs. Davenport raises her eyebrows.

"It is." Annabelle breathes shakily as she watches the housekeeper try to come to a decision about what to do. "I will have to take you to the young master. I cannot make this decision when it is so clear what his father wanted, though for what reason I cannot understand. Come."

With that, Mrs. Davenport walks hastily out of the room through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the main level of the house. Annabelle does her best to keep her mouth closed as she takes in the overt splendor of the rooms. She's never been in a place like this with so much to see in every corner. She's so busy taking in the walls and furniture that she doesn't notice him at first. In fact, she hears him before she sees him, his smooth baritone echoing in the great hall.

"My father wanted what exactly?" When she does finally turn to look at him, her eyes widen. If she thought the home was stunning, it is nothing compared to the undeniable beauty of the man himself. His dark hair is windswept and falls perfectly on his forehead, just above eyes of the deepest cerulean. He has the bone structure of a Greek statue with thick brown lashes and heart-shaped lips that could be made of storm clouds. Eventually it dawns on her that he's speaking to her.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"What was it my father wanted with you?" He says it slowly like he thinks she might have difficulty comprehending.

"To offer me a position as a housemaid. He told my aunt there was an opening-"

"There is not. Not one that I am aware of. Molly and Sarah are still here?" He turns to the housekeeper and she responds affirmatively. "We have no need of you."

He turns dismissively, but Annabelle has no other option. She must appeal to him somehow.

"Please! Sir, I am an orphan. I have nowhere else to go." Initially, her impertinence catches him off guard, but when she mentions that her parents are dead, he turns back to her abruptly. He's all too familiar with that feeling now, his mother having died 25 years ago giving birth to him. His eyes rake over her face, seemingly searching for something.

"Fine. We will have a third maid. Give her the kitchen maid's room, since Mrs. Hall insists she doesn't need one." With that, he turns and walks from the room.

Mrs. Davenport turns back to Annabelle and huffs. It's clear she doesn't approve of the decision, but she cannot contradict the Master, even if he doesn't seem to know what he's doing in his new position. She begins the journey back down to the servants' quarters with Annabelle close behind her. When they reach their destination in the kitchen downstairs, she turns to Annabelle with her lips pursed.

"I suppose you have experience as a maid. Where else have you worked?" Annabelle swallows hard.

"No, ma'am. This is to be my first job."

"No experience?! How old are you?!"

"I'm 18, ma'am."

"How is this possible?"

"My father was a farmer. I worked with him there until he died last month. But I have trained." Mrs. Davenport scoffs. Just then, a young girl in a maid uniform with red hair and freckles bounces into the room.

"Molly! Come here and meet Annabelle, the new maid. You will be responsible for teaching her the role." Molly nods and walks over to Annabelle. She looks to be about fifteen.

"You haven't worked before?" Her eyes widen and Annabelle sighs.

"No, I haven't. But I'm a good worker. I'll learn quickly." Mrs. Davenport's eyes narrow.

"You had better. Now, go with Molly and put your things away. She will get you a uniform and you can begin after lunch." Annabelle nods and follows Molly up to the sleeping quarters, pausing at a closet to fetch two uniforms.

"Did she say which room will be yours? Surely she doesn't expect you to share with us." Molly says nervously.

"No, Mr. Presley said I should have the kitchen maid's room."

"You will have your own room?! Hm. I wonder what you've done to earn that privilege." Annabelle shrugs. She didn't choose this. Molly continues down the hallway to a room at the end of the corridor.

"This is you. We're right next door. And that-" she gestures to the door at the end of the hall next to Annabelle's door. "-leads to the house. It's locked from their side, so they can enter our quarters but we cannot go to theirs. Now put your things away, get changed, and come back down." Molly turns to walk away.

"Thank you." Annabelle calls out to her back. Molly nods curtly and takes off down the hallway again.

Annabelle goes into her room and begins to get settled. She looks around at the barren white walls, the simple frame bed, and small wardrobe. A sob threatens to choke her as she remembers her cozy little house on the farm with so many books and warm fires and comfortable furniture. She was only able to bring what she could carry in a small package, which means she had to leave all the books behind. Her heart aches thinking about them and the fact that she'll have nothing to read here. Perhaps she could ask Mr. Presley if she could use the library.

Mr. Presley. She doubts that he will say yes to anything she has to say. He spoke to her as if she were a child and treated her like she was less than that. He didn't even ask her name. It's true he softened a bit when she mentioned being an orphan, but it's not enough to counteract his rudeness. Maybe she's just not used to interacting with members of his social class and this is what she should expect from now on. Either way, she has no intentions of interacting with him again, if she can help it.

Then, she remembers that she's supposed to be changing and hastily dresses in the uniform Molly gave her. It's a little big, so she'll have to do some alterations tonight after dinner, assuming she's allowed a candle in her room and a needle and thread. She looks around the room and sighs, checking her reflection in the small round glass by the chamber pot. Finally, she makes her way back down the stairs to begin.

******

Mr. Presley stands at the window in the study, looking out over the grounds. How did this happen? He was not supposed to take over the estate for at least another decade. By then he should've been married with children, ready for this kind of responsibility. But now? At 25? He is nowhere near prepared.

Thankfully, the army granted him a leave to take care of things, but he still has two more years to serve before his term is complete and he can sell his commission. He might've liked to rise in the ranks, like his father had, to become a Colonel before this, but now he has no choice but to come home and manage the estate.

And then there's the matter of getting married. A house like this needs a lady to keep everything running smoothly. Besides that, the prospect of living in all these rooms completely alone is a daunting one. Of course the servants are there, but it's not like when he was a child and the strict lines between them were blurred behind the walls of the home. He cannot rely on them for companionship.

For some reason, thinking of companionship brings to his mind the new maid. She is painfully pretty, with her soft white skin and full pink lips. And there is an elegance about her that transcends her station, almost like she was born to be a lady but circumstance had other plans. He hadn't intended to hire her, but the knowledge that she has nowhere else to go made it impossible for him not to. Oh well. Obviously, it's what his father wanted and the estate can afford it. He tries to recall if he asked her name, but if he did he doesn't remember it.

He's shaken from his reverie about the maid when the butler interrupts and announces his lawyer, Mr. Crawford, come to discuss more details of the estate. Mr. Presley sighs and turns from the window. Will the responsibility of this new life never end?

******

To be continued...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

@ccab @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity

[elvisabutler]

down home southern cookin'

fandom: elvis 2022 | elvis presley rating: m pairing: elvis presley ( fameless big daddy electrician/handyman ) x female original character word count: 3069 warnings: housewife kink. big daddy elvis. pregnant sex. minor pregnancy kink and breastfeeding kink. sex around food ( the food isn't harmed ). p in v sex ( unprotected ). minor praise kink. talk of sweat. bags thumping on floors making you feel things. author’s note: welcome to day 14 of ally’s wet hot smut summer, breastfeeding kink with spark elvis and lilly. so, hi. i've been having a rough go around on actually finishing the main fic but i have made a bit more progress after moving past the block i've had formed for a while. that being said, enjoy this little one shot in the meantime. also if you have no idea what this series/verse is, the masterlist is right here. in addition, i truly do thrive on your comments and messages and love reading them.

"Is that meatloaf 'm smellin' darlin'?"

Lilly hears the door open before she ever hears Elvis's voice but at the sound of his voice, she can feel their children inside her move about, kicking and trying to roll around. It's been getting harder and harder to bend to reach the oven but she manages well enough, free hand on her belly as she opens the oven.

Elvis's thudding steps tell Lilly that he's heading to the kitchen to investigate not entirely unlike a bloodhound and she smiles softly to herself even as the twin she has taken to calling Gladys kicks her square in the rib. Her hand rubs at the spot as she stays bent over looking into the oven when she hears Elvis's whistle, low and appreciative.

"Wasn't expectin' that sorta greetin'. Ain't complainin', though." His voice is pitched low as she hears his bag thump on the floor. The thought of moving to a standing position enters Lilly's mind and yet she's just that slight bit curious as to what Elvis plans on doing.

After all, wasn't the proof of his appreciation for her backside growing healthy and strong within her? Wasn't his appreciation for a warm meal evident by the way so many of her dresses are slightly ruined? Wasn't he her husband not just in theory but in name?

It doesn't take long for her to feel the press of his front against her behind, the warmth of his body seeping through her dress. His hand moves to cup her stomach as he guides her into a standing position, nipping at her ear as she does. "They givin' ya trouble? Gotta get a lecture from Daddy?"

Lilly's laughter is always music to Elvis's ears and today is no exception. His lips curl into a soft smile as he kisses down her neck, hands wandering across her body. She makes no move to remove them. "They only started giving me trouble when they heard you."

"That so?" Elvis hums as one of his hands settles on her breast, squeezing it just light enough that Lilly's mouth falls open in a gasp. "They just missed their daddy as much as their mama did, didn't they? Jus' wanted to say hello."

He's not wrong, Lilly reasons. Jesse is the same way, trying to come crawling at the sound of his Daddy's voice as soon as he hears it if Elvis doesn't beat the boy to it. Still, there's nothing that says she has to boost her husband's ego any more than it already is tonight. It makes it easy to just hum quietly with a small grin on her face.

"They missed daddy, I don't know if mama did." Lilly teases even as she feels Elvis's hand tighten on her breast and feels the hand that had been cupping her lower stomach move ever so slightly lower. "I had the best company all day."

A huff of his warm breath tickles the hair on the back of her neck as he starts to use his hand to pull up her dress. "Jesse asleep?"

He knows it's too early for Jesse to be asleep, knows that Lilly keeps his son up just so that he can give him a kiss goodnight and help get him ready for bed even if he ran late arriving home. Yet, he feels the need to ask, to make sure Jesse isn't crawling around underfoot in a way that gets him into trouble. Elvis knows he should be a good husband and take a shower and make it so Lilly can rest her aching little sooties. Even with them not in heels he can see them a little swollen and he's sure if he touched them they'd be pounding. Elvis knows he should be a good husband like he always is and yet he can feel his cock swelling up in his jumpsuit. Seeing Lilly- seeing his *wife* bent over making food for him all while so *full* of him does something to him. It'd do something to any man worth his salt. Maybe he'd ask Charlie or Jerry how they feel about their wives when they've been pregnant. Though, Jerry's answer is damn nearly explained with his new niece or nephew Melly's got growing inside of her.

His cock had gotten them into this mess, first with her and him against the sink and even know their twins were merely the result of his cock seeing her backside as she bathed Jesse. If he were a different man, if he were the man he was almost two years ago he'd be embarrassed, mortified that his cock's acting like it's attached to a twenty year old. And yet, right now all he can think about is how thankful he is for it. Thankful it's proven its worth to satisfy Lilly in ways he knows now she had craved during her previous marriage. Thankful it's proven its worth by providing him with a healthy gift from God of a son and hopefully healthy strong little ones in a couple of months.

"You know he's awake," Lilly murmurs, moving closer to the sink for some leverage to lean on. "Wouldn't dream of putting our baby boy to sleep without letting him say goodnight to his Daddy." She pauses and leans back against Elvis, his body heat seeping through his jumpsuit and her dress. She can feel the sweat of the day on his skin and it should be nauseating and off putting but as she inhales deeply she merely smells the unique scent of her husband. A shiver passes through her. "What are you really trying to ask, Elvis?"

An idea of what he wants is on the tip of her tongue but she doesn't want to be too forward even after a child was born that was conceived in the strangest of ways or after he pleasured her with a garden hose. No, somehow asking him point blank if he was trying to enjoy what was between her legs was too much.

"If you'd let me- If ya'd mind bendin' over again. Or if ya'd mind if I put ya between the sink and me. Mindin' the yittle ones, course."

Lilly wonders if the way Elvis talks to her and the way Elvis seems to be completely and utterly in love with every part of her is ever going to get old. If it'll ever stop making her heart race and ever stop making her lose her breath. Maybe it's just because she had gotten so used to things with Nathan that it's still novel. The twins inside her do their own separate flips as she licks her lips.

"Minding them, of course." Her voice sounds airy, like it's floating into the air as she tries to remember how to breathe. "Facing you, right?"

Not looking out the window, pleasure crossing her face at every moment as she leaned against him, her legs too shaky to support the weight of her body. Not facing the window, watching the sun go down on another day, wishing this could be her afternoons forever more. No, she'd be able to face Elvis, see his face as it scrunched up when he grunted inside of her. She'd be able to see how he works up such a sweat that it drips down on her as they fuck. It's not that she hasn't since they've been married but this is another thing entirely. This is being able to see how Elvis's face looked like when he pleasured her against the sink almost two years ago. This is a reward for a hard day's work as she cooks their little buns inside of her and cooks a hearty filling meal for him.

His hands finally reach the destination he wants them to, her underwear. A hand slides against her clothed entrance, chuckling at how drenched has already made her. The pregnancy had heightened so many things and yet somehow she surprises him even with this. With a vagina that aches and yearns for him so much it cries out every second it's not filled. He finally speaks.

"Facin' me," his voice is a murmur and a growl as he shifts her underwear to the side just enough to slide his fingers where he knows she wants them. "Maybe I'll even lift ya up on the counter."

Lilly shakes her head, not trusting her mouth's ability to form words. Another time, she figures, when she wasn't carrying these precious little buns inside her. No, she wants to be pinned just as she was that first afternoon. Her hand reaches out to grab at Elvis's wrist, her hand trailing over her swollen stomach, an action watched with rapt attention by Elvis. A quiet but noticeable squelch is heard as he pulls his fingers from her. He opens up his mouth to speak only to watch as he realized something shifted inside of Lilly when she heard that squelch of his fingers. The look she has on her face is one he's gotten to know well both through her pregnancy with Jesse and now her pregnancy with the twins. She wants him and every second that she don't have him she'll get more and more frustrated. His hands move to undo and start to unzip his jumpsuit only to have her swat them away. Lilly's hand are deft little things, suited for sewing and domestic tasks even he struggles with despite his ample skills.

The rush of the cold air against his sweaty chest has him inhaling and has his overheated body shivering just a hair. Lilly's eyes watch the action and take it to mean that she needs to hurry, needs to reach down low enough to free his already swollen cock from the confines of his underwear. Elvis opens up his mouth to speak only to have Lilly's hand finally pull his zipper down low enough to yank down his underwear, his cock bobbing out of them not entirely unlike a goddamn Jack in the Box. Lilly isn't forceful except for these times when she's needy and he's already promised to give her what she needs. How's a man supposed to talk when he sees her hand around his cock, slathering the ample precum across his length.

"Just against it, Elvis. Please," Lily begs ever so softly, though she knows she doesn't need to. Any request she makes of Elvis he does and this would be no exception. She watches as he looks down at her with such a rush of love and clenches her thighs. Her nipples brush against the fabric of her bra and she whimpers at the mere feeling of his hand against her hip as he walks her back against the sink. She needs and wants every bit of him and he's determined to give it to her.

In bed, he would take his time undressing her, watching her dress fall to the floor and watching her ample milk filled breasts spill from her bra. He would suckle at her nipples until he saw her chest heave and her body shake with release. But right now? Right now against the sink he doesn't bother to even pull down her underwear. He should, and yet he can feel how aroused she is and just how she is craving him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's reminded this isn't proper, that she should insist he take his time and undress her and yet that voice is smothered by realizing no part of their relationship would be considered proper to her two years ago.

His actions make her happy so why should there be any shame attached to them. Her thoughts swirl in her mind with such force that she is caught off guard by Elvis removing her hand and entering her with very little preparation. A choked off sob of pleasure leaves her mouth as she looks up at him.

"Elvis," she whispers, her hands finding purchase on his chest and down his stomach. The hair on his body that rubs up against her skin every time they make love feels different in her hands in this moment, somehow softer while being just a little bit rougher. One of her hands plays with his chest, laughing breathlessly as one of his hands mirrors her, cupping her breast. "You can go— oh."

Elvis knows Lilly like he knows the back of his hand, he figures. Knows what makes his wife turn to pure putty in hands and knows how to have her pleasured in every way she had always deserved to be pleasured. It's easy to figure out just by watching her face and watching how it shifts when he thrusts just right and cups her breasts just right. "I can what, darlin'? Ya want it faster? Want your husband to move faster? Make it so ya comin' faster than anythin'?"

Lilly's eyes drift to the stove for a moment and then to the clock. She should tell him she wants him to take his time. That she wants to feel every thrust and feel his foreskin as it drags inside of her despite how aroused she is. She knows she doesn't have enough time though, knows that in about ten minutes she has to pull the meatloaf from the oven. Her vagina clenches and earns a slight curse from Elvis as he kisses her softly, waiting for an answer.

"We— the meatloaf. I don't want it to burn." As if she needs to explain why she needs him to go faster. "Tonight—If we can it can be slower."

Her skin is flushed and Elvis just takes a moment in between thrusts to marvel at the way it starts at her cheeks and how there's small splotches of it heading down to her chest. He's done that to her, not just the embarrassment she still holds on to about asking just what she would like him to do to her. His perfect wife, his lil darlin' is worried about meatloaf and can't always put into words what she desires. How had he gotten so lucky? How had God saw fit to put the nearest earthly thing to perfection in front of him? How had he found himself married with a son and young ones on the way to this woman?

"Even if 'm not. Ya— ya always know ya can get my engine revving," Elvis's voice is a murmur against Lilly's neck as he kisses and nips at it, his hips quickening their pace. "How long we got, Lil?"

"Nine," she answers, trying to buck against Elvis as best she can with her stomach and his own in the way. "I'll— I've been wanting—"

The words she wants to say are left in her head as his hand drifts down her chest and down her swollen belly to between her legs. Another time and another place she'd question what he's doing but she knows where his hand is headed. She knows before she feels the press of the calloused pads of his fingertips against her throbbing clit. It's been like that nearly all day and she knows better than to take care of it herself on days like this. Knows that what she needs is the warmth of his hands and the roughness of them to bring her to completion. So lost in her own pleasure she nearly misses the words leaving Elvis's lips.

"My perfect wife. My perfect lil darlin'. Takin' care of our yittle one and growing the other yittle buns. Could be like some of the other women and relax, sh—should be like 'em but here you are makin' me dinner and keepin' everythin' as it should be. Gonna show ya how much I love ya for this. How thankful I am for ya."

He pants it against her skin, one hand gripping at her hip while the other works against her clit as she's pinned against the skin. It should hurt, the way the counter digs into her back just a bit but any pain she feels is overtaken by the throbbing between her legs and the scrape of her nipples against her bra. Everything feels so warm and safe and loving that she feels herself starting to reach a crescendo, clawing at his chest before her hands slide to his lower back and down to his behind, pulling him somehow impossibly closer. An almost inhuman noise leaves his lips, a howl and a growl and a groan all mixed into one as he feels her clenching around him.

"That's it, Lilly. That's it my lil darlin'. God— Like a vice—" His words are lost in a haze of her orgasm and his own following closely after. Somehow both of their grips on each other get tighter as they try to catch their breath. Elvis makes sure to not lean too hard on Lilly, careful to protect their children inside of her. Time doesn't have a meaning for either of them until the shrill ring of a timer sounds signalling the fact that the meatloaf is finished.

"I— I need to get that, Elvis." Lilly whispers, still trying to remember how to breathe and walk properly. His only answer is a slow nod as he steps away. It's easy for him to watch Lilly's hips move as she walks the short distance between the sink and oven. A part of him thinks he should turn away when she starts to bend over but then he thinks of how she's leaking his release standing there and how she still likely has to finish one thing or another on the stove. He licks his lips and with a speed that surprises even him, he finds himself on his knees in front of her once she's pulled the meatloaf from the oven and set it down.

"Elvis, what are you— what are you doing?" Her voice is light and her eyes sparkle in a way they only do when she's amused at him and his antics.

In lieu of answering, his large hands grab at the edges of her dress and start to pull it up and up and up until her underwear is exposed to him. It's then and only then that he answers her, looking up through his eyelashes with a practically devilish smirk. "Felt like havin' dessert while you're doin' your work."

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @be-my-ally,  @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted, @marriedtopresley, @memphis-menace, @steph-speaks, @doll-elvis, @vintageshanny, @j-v-9-2, @sexystarfish, @jessicarcates, @chirssycrumble9456789, @shantellescrivener, @yomammalolha, @honey6578, @urmom11111111111119, @myradiaz, @elvispresleyxoxo, @joegramoe, @rainblue-art, @fav-fanficssss, @misspresley, @fallinlovewithurlove, @ash-omalley, @yynneessmons if you're missing from this list, you either changed your username or tumblr is tumblr.

[ya-secret-diary]

It started with a call-Roleplay with @elvispresleyslittle

It was Elvis' first time, he didn't know what to do and he was lost and desperate.

He just needed someone to talk to after one of his shows and so he called, he dialed the number Red West gave him and he waited

Bip...Bip...Bip

And a voice broke the silence

[arrolyn1114]

Next update for "Why Can't You See What You're Doin' To Me?" Coming soon!

Hey y'all!! First off, I'm so sorry this next update took so long but my life has gotten crazy busy these past few months. This next upload though is actually going to be 2 chapters because as I was writing I realized it was better divided up, you'll see why. Hopefully that will make up for the fact that it's been since like February I think since my last update.

The reason my life has gotten so busy is at the end of July when my lease is up I will be moving in with my other half so I've been consumed with moving related duties. After this next update I may not get the next chapter up until after I am moved and settled. I really appreciate your patience in advance and I love all of my readers, you guys are the best! ❤

I just have to do my final proofread of these 2 chapters and then I hope to have them up on AO3 by the end of this week if not sooner.

Also, as we approach the end of the courtroom battle I plan to wrap this story up and start a brand new document for Elvis and Jane's adventures afterwards. Seems like the best plan to do a whole new story after that point. I can't wait for him to enjoy his world tour and everything else he should have had in real life.

I did some updates to the tag list which is under the cut. I hope I got everyone who wishes to be on it but as always, if any changes are needed please do let me know. Sometimes user tags on here work, sometimes they don't cause Tumblr can be buggy at times which is why I highly recommend subscribing or bookmarking on AO3.

Thanks all!!

@thatbanditqueen, @be-my-ally, @ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @vintageshanny,

@from-memphis-with-love, @xanatenshi, @peskybedtime, @alienelvisobsession, @louisejoy86,

@artlover8992, @windsofthesea, @gayforelvis, @notstefaniepresley,

@lovininapinkcadillac, @dkayfixates, @jaqueline19997, @presleyenterprise,

@crash-and-cure, @literally-just-elvis-fics, @wildhorseinkansas,

@tacozebra051, @lookingforrainbows, @spooky-hazex,

@powerofelvis, @ashtag6887, @myradiaz, @richardslady121,

@elvisrealgf, @genetakovicluvr, @thetaoofzoe, @mydarlingelvis

@j-v-9-2

@mspoisonivey

@aaron57070

@rainyday10-4

@rocknroll50sep

@dream-in-x-dream2

@sasural

@satisfy-the-crave

@velvetelvis

@sillybookmarks

@everythingelvispresley

@elvisgirly

@1dluver13xx

@thedaisymaisy

@amydarcimarie

@p0lksaladannie, @oh-my-front-door, @fallinlovewithurlove,

@shantellescrivener, @i-r-i-n-a-a, @stargirllily19, @laura23elvis,

@meetmeatyourworst, @rachelljeann222, @precious-lil-scoundrel,

@peaceloveelvis, @returntopresley, @tupelomiss, @archival-ep

@pinkcaddyconfessions, @gatheraheart, @rachel-snider19,

@tina2345678, @annapresley8 @deniseinmn, @elvispresleywife,

@elvispresleysslut, @lovemoonsstuff, @sfull12345

@rosarodrigues, @all-hookedup-on-elvis, @queenheartz

@little-laamb, @pixiedustcosmos, @indiatuck, @sabovanhalen, @obsessionisthecure,

@hooked-on-elvis, @aprilbluey @laurenoned

@epthedream69 @underthememphissun @presley72elvis @m-s30 @eapep

@rjmartin11 @dreamingofep

[rafcraft]

Hello Elvis writers, I just saw Elvis the movie and I have become a bit of obsessed so I am starting to watch some of Elvis most memorable movies and I have an idea about a fanfiction but I don't have time to personally write it all by myself so I wanted to ask anyone here if you could like a collaboration.

THE IDEA :

The idea is that early 50s Elvis (1953 specifically) got a girl pregnant without knowing. The girl gets though the pregnancy but she didn't really want or liked the child. She eventually get married to a rich man who cheats on her constantly but she can't do or say anything because he is the one that has the money. That ends up with her taking her anger on her daughter (the main character) especially when that daughter starts to sing and develop love for music. The years pass and the child becomes a teen with some serious mommy issues. Her stepfather didn't really care about her he just threw money at her so she would leave him alone so she never really had a father figure. After a fight with her mother she takes some money from her stepfather and runs out of town. She goes to live at Beale Street because she wanted to live in a place full of music. She finds an apartment that she will share with a girl named Lola who is a prostitute (she mostly does naked modeling and is more of a hooker than a prostitute but I think you understand what I mean). The girl (main character) gets a job as a waitress at a bar after begging the owner of the bar found out she just only turned 15. After that we basically see her rise to fame. At 16-17 when she becomes even more famous she and Elvis meet and Elvis feels oddly close to her and takes her under his wings. Anyway some things happen but the major thing is that her mother comes to find her, she and her have a fight. Elvis comes to see what is happening and then the mother sees him she goes off on him and in a fit of rage she reveals everything and that's how they find out they are related and they try to deal with it after that.

That is basically the main plot. I know that I am yapping but I want to give you as many details as I can but at the same time not spoil anything to big in this post for thr people who will read it. I want to keep the important details for the person I am going to write it with.

If you are interested just comment on this post and I will dm you so we can talk about it.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love, 

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

*

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

*

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

*

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It’s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

*

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

*

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

*

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[presleyheart]

"What About the Plans We Made?" https://open.spotify.com/track/3GYlZ7tbxLOxe6ewMNVTkw?si=b697f3b0bb664dd0

TW: !! Swearing, angst, anxiety, medication, body dysmorphia !! Pairing: younger!fem!reader x 70s!EP SUMMARY: It was 1973, Elvis was freshly divorced from his marriage with Priscilla. You were one of the many infamous "side door girls". He had called you up, yet not for a 'booty call'-- for something else. He needed someone to talk to and take care of him. He trusted you, you were different in his eyes. Genre: angsty fluff, sad ending

You were walking down the halls to Elvis' room, usually the only time you'd be at his house was for parties and such. You looked into Lisa's room, she wasn't there. Whenever you were here, Lisa would cling to you and call you "Better Mommy"

You never understood it. Priscilla looked like the most role model-like mother. Everywhere in the papers and magazines.

Some nights, whenever Priscilla was out, Lisa would catch you the morning after your night with Elvis. No matter how hungover you were. "Where's mama?" "Not here, sugar" "Really?" "Mhm.." "Can you come play with me? She never wants to."

Small talks with Lisa like that were heartbreaking. Now that she isn't even here is worse, especially if you can gather the kind of mother Priscilla was from what you were told by her own daughter. -------- ---- --------

"Elvis?" You said, ready to knock on his door. It was left slightly cracked so it was just open.

There he was. On his bed. He looked at you, his eyes were red. He either was sobbing or high out of his mind. You skewed around the room and saw the pills on his dresser and assumed both.

"Princess? 's that you?" Elvis muttered, he sat up a bit. He looked like he was in so much pain. Your heart went out to him. He lost the two most important things in his life. He was ruined emotionally.

"Elvis.. Oh baby, what'd you do?" You hurried towards him. He had his arms open. "Shhh... don' worry about me.. jus' give your old man some lovin'." He slurred out, you gently crawled on top of him. You sat on top of his stomach so he could hold your hips.

Pills were scattered, bottles were knocked over. He could hardly hold his eyes open. He sounded tired on the phone and seemed even sleepier in person.

"You're sick." You said. He looked up at you softly. "I ain't sick.. I'm fine" He responded, a bit roughly, too. "You need someone to take care of you, it's obvious. I don't get it either- you have so many workers- how could they leave you like this?" "Shit, baby, don't... don't ask me. Quit hollerin'.. hurts.. Please?" He looked up at you pleadingly. He was almost like a wounded animal. His hair was a mess, he had bags under his eyes, had he even eaten?

You crawled off of him, to which he quickly reached for your hand.

"Don't leave me now, little.."

Your heart shattered. Was he really this petrified of losing you? You could have read every ounce of heartbreak he was in.

"I'm not, baby promises." That was all you could respond to him. It was hard to look at someone in such a state as this. It was even harder when you truly loved them.

"Sit up," you demanded. "I need you to sit up so you don't fall asleep."

He slowly got up. Eventually making his way to rest his upper back against the headboard. He looked at you softly, his eyes seeping into your soul. He released your hand before turning away from your gaze again. He knew better than to argue with you.

He had his robe on, black silk with red details. Throughout all of this, he still was very attractive. Petrified, of course, yet he still could not look bad in your eyes.

"I'm gonna go run you a bath, then we're gonna see what your little friends can make you for supper." You stated. He sighed as he was on his way to get up.

"Uh-uh... No sir, you stay down. I'll be gone for just one moment" "Yes ma'am." He responded, quickly sitting back in his former position.

-------- ---- --------

Eventually after getting the tub filled and the softest towel laid out, you went to go get him.

He was staring at himself in his mirror.

"Elvis?" You questioned, he turned to look at you. "Hon, I think I can handle taking a bath on my own"

"You could hardly get out of bed. Come on." You spat at him. You were almost frustrated at his dismissal of feelings. You could tell so much was wrong, yet he just wouldn't budge.

You coaxed- and by coaxed I mean FORCED him into the restroom. He was extremely anxious. His hands clung to his robe once he was in there.

"Baby you need your clothes off to be bathed." "I-I don't think you reall-" "Take your damn clothes off. Let me help you." "I don't goddamn want to!"

...

He YELLED at you. He had never, ever, in your entire history of knowing each other had he yelled at you. Your face contorted. It certainly wasn't sadness from you.

It was anger.

But not at him, to whatever led him to this.

"I tell you what, Mr. Presley. I have done nothing but try to help you. Quit being so immature! You know I won't hurt you." You had yelled back. He was stunned. He was frozen once more.

"'m sorry mama.. I'll be better." He trembled a bit. He was just like a little boy. He frowned slightly as he fiddled with the tied part of his robe.

"I jus' don't want you seein' my body right now.." He muttered. His eyes were pleading.

"Why not?" You asked softly. You felt slightly bad for yelling at him, but entirely so he should be able to let someone help him.

"I just.. I-I look different.. y'know.. My body isn't uh.. How it used to be."

He was beating around the bush. You hadn't even noticed too much of a difference within him. It was once he gestured towards his stomach you felt your heart drop.

"There.. There is nothing wrong with you? You look handsome as ever?" "Well 'cilla said-" "I don't give two damns about what that bitch said. Forget about her. At least for right now. You are so perfect. Quit putting yourself down. Especially not for her sake."

He fiddled with his hands. You haven't seen him be this sensitive before. Something really changed within him. He gently undid his robe

"Can I trust you to tend to yourself on your own?" You asked him. You were so concerned for him. You also don't want to cross any boundaries.

"..." He stares up at you softly. "You can wash me if you really don't trust me." He said. "I hardly trust myself now-a-days anyways." He admitted, with a slight light hearted chuckle.

He got into the tub and sighed.

"My mama would've loved you."

-------- ---- --------

You massaged shampoo into his hair, his back was towards you. He had gotten so tan over the years, his skin was so soft, too. He was the epitome of male beauty, yet he denied denied denied.

He let out little whines and whimpers. He was like a puppy. He leaned into your touch gently. Trying to be subtle, but you could tell. His leg moved a bit each time you touched a sensitive spot on his head.

To him, this was some of the most care he had in a long while.

Little "hm"s and "oh"s kept escaping from him. He shuddered occasionally. You really were making sure his hair was clean. You also had acrylic nails on, he could feel all the little scratches you put into his hair.

-------- ---- --------

After his bath, you had him back in his robe. His hair was still a bit wet, you wanted it to air dry. In old photos, Elvis had slightly curly hair and you wanted to see those curls again.

You were holding his hand as you walked to the Graceland kitchen, where Mary was waiting. She smiled slightly.

"Look who's finally awake." Mary said, with a small smile. "You could've woke him up, y'know.. He's just feeling a little sicky right now." Your hand grazed over his stomach as you went to put your arms around his waist. "Well.. it's a well known fact that you shouldn't wake up Elvis Presley because of how grumpy he gets, ain't that right sugar?" "Guess so." Elvis muttered

Mary went to the fridge and pulled out ingredients. "'s he hungry." "I can talk-??" "He's very hungry, why don't you make him his special sandwich, hm?"

-------- ---- --------

Elvis finished his PBB and went back up to his room, to which you followed.

"I gotta go now, baby." "Please, don't. You're all I have right now.."

His eyes were already filling with tears. You couldn't bear it. You threw away all the thoughts of consequence from not returning home. You crawled into bed with him and laid your head on his chest.

"Fine, fine.. I'm not going anywhere." "I love... can I say that? I-I just was divorced an-.. I shouldn't move on too fast." "I think you've been moved on for a long while, she treated you terribly." "Deep down I miss 'er.." "That's normal, though.. You loved her she just mistreated you." "Y/N.. this is something that just makes you think.." "Think what?" "What about the plans we made..?"

TAGS: @jhoneybees PS: I'll get to your fic later, just enjoy this for right now.. have fun sobbing xoxo

[be-my-ally]

Splashing Around

for the prompt "Quit splashin' me.”

can you tell i’m that annoying girl wanting to play mermaids in every pool?

Now, this is pretty much my first foray into writing early Elvis... it's very much a little fic with no background that is part of a larger story that is growing every day in my head, and also in my computer. It's also my first ever OC ever so please, bear with me with it + my suddenly terrible dialogue.

Silly as it might sound about an Elvis fanfiction, thank u to @whositmcwhatsit and @thatbanditqueen for cheerleading me to try the different style. and also, ofc, @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love

wc: 3k

This is sweet and fluffy and boring but! I have another fic Wet Bikini which is, uhhh, just pure smut, with a similar 'fun in the pool' premise which I've linked in case anyone is missing the smutty sexy fun times.

c. July 16th 1957.

It’s surprisingly early when the phone rings, Louise’s parents having only just left for work, and she rushes to pick it up - hoping it would be the call she was waiting for. 

“Hey little Lou-Lou,” The familiar voice rings out, perfectly confident that it would be Louise who answered. 

“Hi, Elvis is that you?” She asked excitedly, perhaps a little stupidly she thought after, no-one else would call her little Lou-Lou. 

“Who else is callin’ you up?” She giggles in response and can hear the smile in his voice as he continues, “I’m at home darlin’, but I’m all alone - and it’s so hot today,  and I was just thinkin’ how maybe a ride on the Harley would cool me down,” he pauses while she takes a sharp breath in, was he - was he about to ask her to go for a ride? “And I was thinkin’ maybe you’d like to come with me?” 

“Oh yes, yes - of course!” She takes a second to collect herself, “That sounds like fun, yes Elvis, absolutely!” 

“Pack a swimsuit, hon, you’ll need it when we get back - I’ll pick you up in an hour.”  

“Ok - I’ll meet you outside.” She’s aiming for nonchalant but she thinks it might just be coming across breathless. 

“Alright darlin’ I’ll see you later - bye now.” He hangs up and Louise stands there for a moment, still clutching the receiver as she does an excited little hop in place. She hurriedly puts the phone back on the cradle and runs back up the stairs to her room - rushing to get herself ready. 

As she’s brushing out her curls, styling them as tightly as possible in preparation for the wind on the motorcycle - she’ll wear a scarf she decides, she considers if she should call any of the other girls. On the one hand, she already felt a little guilty, as if she was stealing him from under their noses, and she didn’t know of anyone else who had been picked out for a totally private date from the group. On the other, she somewhat selfishly wanted to be the only one who knew he’d asked just her. Besides, she thought to herself, it’ll only be for however long they were on the motorcycle for - by the time they get back to Graceland he’ll be surrounded by all the guys and girls. 

An hour and a half later and Louise can hear, out of her bedroom window, the unusual sound in their quiet dull suburb of the roar of the motorcycle. She hurries outside where he's waiting, assessing him for a second; He’s not really dressed for the occasion, a light jacket over top of what is clearly a sleeveless vest, and soft white trousers, silly little cap atop his head. But he is dressed for the weather, and as always, he looks good.  He pats the seat behind him. 

“Hop on then darlin’,” She doesn't have to be told twice, immediately clambering on behind him. She comfortably wraps her arms around Elvis, glad that this wasn’t the first time she was going for a ride.

“Where are we heading E?” She takes the chance before he starts the engine properly to talk to him. 

“I don’t know baby -  just around.” He pauses, “We won’t go far but isn’t it just nice to be out? Nice to spend the day with one of my favourite girls,” She grins against his back, thrilled to be given such a title. A second later Elvis is kicking the bike into action and tearing off down the street. 

It was a pretty drive as he somehow, amongst all his other skills seemed to have a knack for picking the best and least busy routes. Louise was enjoying herself, the scenery was pretty, Elvis felt solid and sturdy, and the breeze was helping to cool her down. Although, the burning engine underneath their legs, and the heat of the sun from above rapidly made it less effective. He pants a little jokingly when he pulls off the quiet country road a little way out of the city. 

“I don’t think this is working out huh?” She shakes her head against his back, 

“It’s too humid for it to help I think, it feels like I’m suffocating out here.” She can tell he’s suffering too, his shirt sticking to his back - damp patches clearly evident and hair curling on the nape of his neck. She’d been concerned at first - weren’t they meant to be wearing leather? Or helmets? Or something? But as the day warmed up even the thought of an extra layer, or of heavy plastic and metal on her head, was terrible. 

“Hang on then, hon, I’ll get us home.” He barely gives her enough time to regain her hold before he’s zipping off and away. His desire to just be home right now making him drive even faster than before, although from the way he lets out a little whoop every now and again he must also be enjoying the additional speed. 

Louise on the other hand, was terrified, he had to be going close to a 100mph and she could feel it in the way the air was whipping past them and in the way his turns were getting wider and wider on the corners. “Slow down El! You’re scarin’ me!” She shouts at his ear, he laughs, but nonetheless the speedometer (if she could see it) indicated he was slowing, albeit not by a lot. It’s under ten minutes before they’re zipping up to the newly-installed gates of Graceland. They’re waved through quickly, and Elvis doesn’t so much as park as much as he simply kills the engine just inside the carport. 

Louise climbs off the bike shakily, Elvis holding out a hand to help her balance. 

“You weren’t really scared were ya Lou?” 

“No, no, course not!” She shrugs her shoulders back, shaking off the last of the fear and undoing the headscarf from under her chin, pulling it down her shoulders. She can feel her hair stuck to the back of her neck from the sweat - probably formed by both the heat and the terror. 

“Good.” He steps towards her, fiddling with a now loose lock of hair, “Promised I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt ya didn’t I?” She nods back at him, almost shyly, as he tucks the wave back, resting his palm on her shoulder briefly before patting it and moving away. 

“It’s so hot out here, must be almost a hundred degrees today!” He wipes at his brow, over-exaggeratedly flicking it as if wiping away dripping sweat. Louise gives it the appropriately polite giggle, “The pool’s ready for action though, had them fix it up before we moved in.” He seems to forget she was in it only last week, “It’ll be nice to get in that water!” She nods in agreement, 

“Oh yeah! Is -“ She stops herself from asking who else was invited, that’s no-ones business but his. From where they’ve stopped in the carport she can’t see anyone else’s car but, as she well knows, that doesn’t mean there isn’t people in the house.  He doesn’t notice, instead gripping her hand and pulling her with him into the house. He rushes them up the stairs once they’re in, 

“C’mon you can get changed in the dressing room!” 

——

It’s hot and humid as hell and Louise is sure her hair’s already been wrecked by both the weather and the motorcycle ride, but still - she’d spent hours on it the night before, and taken such care to keep it looking as good as possible despite the conditions that as much as sinking into the cool water of the pool sounded like bliss - she was determined to keep her hair dry. 

So, she sits demurely on the edge of the pool, her legs dipped in, splashing her feet about and feeling her skin start to tan as she leans back while watching Elvis play and dive around. She’s been here before a few times, in the past couple of weeks since Elvis returned and moved in, with the others but never by herself - and while they typically spent much of their time watching him, gushing and gossiping, it felt far more intimate to be the only one around. The only one today to titter at his tight little black trunks, or the way that he still hasn’t learnt to remember to take his watch off until he’s already in the water. She smiles down at his grinning face when he swims a bit closer. 

“You having fun, E?” He nods, brushing his hair back off his forehead and looking shyly back down at the water, 

“Uh-huh, you gonna watch me dive?” She nods, happy to be his adoring audience for as long as he wants, until that is, his enthusiastic diving down causes a splash. He comes bobbing back up, a mischievous look at the sound of her shriek, intentionally moving closer and causing a wave to rise up and knock against her knees. “See if I can get the whole way across on my belly!” She laughs at his boyish behaviour, shaking her head fondly as he forces his body under the water. When he surfaces again he comes up with a splash that carries up and over onto her lap, the spray catching her chest.

“El- Stop it! You’re gonna get my hair wet! Quit splashin’ me!” He frowns, swimming closer to where she’s still sat, resting his elbows on the edge of the pool on either side of her legs. 

“Awh doll, ain’t no fun just watching me!” She nods as if to say actually yes it is, but he ignores her, “No-one around here but us, c’mon honey, come and have a splash around,” She shakes her head, protesting, 

“It took me hours -  and I have a busy d-“ Elvis interrupts, imploring her to join him,

“Oh c’mon - I’ll, I’ll help dry ya hair if it gets wet!” She looks down at him, considering it for a moment, but before she knows it his hands are sliding up under her thighs where she was sat. He digs his fingers in as he tries to wedge them under and around her legs, and she giggles in response - somehow he was getting her exactly where she was most ticklish just above and behind her knees - and she thrashes around a little, but is trapped by his hands and the pool.

“No Elvis! You stop that rig-ight now - oh stop it!” She manages to get out between bouts of shrieking laughter, “You’re gonna make me - you’re gonna make me pee myself! Or, or,” He doesn’t stop but instead he seems to dance his fingers around even more at the threat, laughing himself, “or, or make me fall -“ He grins in sheer delight, tickling her once more before gripping her thighs tightly and tugging. She falls in with a splash, clutching at his arms and wet, soft, chest. She comes bobbing back up to him, gasping a little at the shock of the submersion. 

“Oh for goodness’ sake Elvis. It’s gonna take me hours to reset this; I’ll charge you the bill from the salon.” She sounds exasperated but she is, nonetheless, smiling. He just looks back at her, blinking, cheeks swollen like a chipmunk. “Don’t you dare - don’t even thi-“ The water shoots out his mouth, arcing up into the air before splashing down between them, his cheeks deflating as she squeals, backing away from the spray. He laughs joyously - boyishly, the kind of irrepressible giggle small boys seem to have while chasing someone - gripping her to him and pulling her close. 

“You wanna be my little bitty baby dolphin?” He offers her his back, “Wrap your arms round my neck and climb on.” She sighs a little resignedly but still enthusiastically clambers around to wrap her legs around his middle, the water’s natural buoyancy helping her to stay up, holding onto his neck and shoulders. “Go on then, hold tight!” She nods, tucking her head into his back,

“I’m ready!” He dives under the water, travelling for as far as he could with one breath before bopping back up just long enough to take a deep breath in and diving back under. As childish as Louise would find it to admit or confide to anyone else, she does close her eyes, pretending to be a little dolphin on the back of it’s mother, feeling the way the water seems to stream past in a way distinct from if she herself was doing the swimming. They come back up for the second time, this time to the sound of her gentle, giggling, breathless laughter matched to his own. 

Elvis turns her in his arms, pulling her around to be facing him but keeps a hand on her thigh, holding her legs still hiked around his waist. His other wrapping around her middle, to rest his palm on her back. She leans into his hold, her arms still wrapped around his neck holding him close, their faces practically touching. She takes a moment to examines his face. It’s funny, in some ways you’d have expected that by her frequent proximity she would have gotten over her tummy flipping every time she noticed something tiny, like the start of a pimple on his jaw, or the way his pores lay on his nose and yet still she feels almost giddy with being this close. 

“You wanna…” She’s sure he’s about to say kiss, and her eyes fall closed in permission, but before she knows it he’s pushing her to the side, “wanna race?” By the time she’s even registered what he’s said she’s a second behind, and he’s already swimming ahead. Louise rushes forward, grabbing his ankle and tugging him back, 

“Hey! Where d’ya think you’re going! You’re such a little cheat!” He laughs as he goes with his foot, hopping back to end up close to her again. He shakes his head, vehemently denying her accusation, 

“No - No! I was just gettin’ into position! Gonna go from this end to that end.” He points down at the curve of the pool. She drops his ankle,

“Hmm, well, if you say so…. So from here then?” She swims to the spot indicated and he joins her, agreeing. She nods at him as she gets into position, “You can call it.” 

“Ok.” He takes a moment to get himself ready before calling, “Ok, on your marks! Get set! Go!” He shoots off from the wall, Louise trailing behind for a second before catching up to him pretty closely. She could see, as she hit the wall on the other end, him coming towards her but she was pretty certain it had been a tie. He’s doing a victory pose, arms up, his tummy out, fake crowd noises coming from his mouth, “I won!” She shakes her head at his bragging, 

 “Nu-uh! I totally won!” Elvis turns, hair flicking back, 

“No, darlin’.” She goes to protest again but he steps closer, backing her against the wall of the pool, his tone lowering - crooning,  “No, I’m pret-ty sure I won and, that means I get a prize.” Louise has no desire to do anything but agree, his arms crossing behind her, his wide palms spanning across the small of her back. She leans forward, it’s not like they haven’t kissed before, but it had always been a brief thank you, or a stolen moment - and her tummy is suddenly aflutter with butterflies at the knowledge they were by themselves, in no rush nor with any other eyes on them, 

“What do you want for your prize?” He looks at her, eyes bright with the fun of the games and the anticipation of what was to come He just shrugs, waiting for her suggestion. She bites her lip, looking sideways for a second, trying for bashful but perhaps just coming across a little shy. “Hmmm, how about a kiss?” His eyes crinkle as he smiles fondly at her, almost as though he found her offer of a prize endearing. Louise blushes, immediately, as soon as she meets his eyes after saying it and for a brief moment panics that he might refuse. 

“Oh, I think that’s exactly what I deserve.” She pulls him closer, arms winding around his neck again, and her legs coming up to wrap around his waist as he stumbles forward to support her back against the pool wall. Their lips meet and she can’t seem to stop herself from gasping a little at the contact, at the feel of his full lips catching hers between them and the distinct taste of the chlorinated water still clinging to his lips. She tries to act casual, like she’s unbothered by the way the privacy of the moment feels like a revelation or in the way he catches her lip in his teeth causing a warmth to spread from her hips and stomach. 

He brings a hand up to cup her face, thumb lightly brushing her face, but as he tries to brush it down further to her neck it gets stuck - his pinky ring snagging on her now limp wet strands of hair. For some reason even after getting himself untangled the heavy atmosphere remained and she arched her chest into him, mouth opening as he pressed his lips back against hers. It feels like pure sparks crackling in the air when they pull apart, the air seemingly thrumming with it. It only takes a second, however, for them both to realise it wasn't just in reaction to their kiss, as a sudden crack of thunder and accompanying downpour explains the atmospheric change - humidity suddenly breaking.

“C’mon!” Elvis grabs Louise’s hand and pulls her around to the steps of the pool, pushing her up them before climbing out himself. He bundles up their towels, grabbing her hand and dashing for cover. 

They both end up in the kitchen, dripping everywhere, and tripping over themselves,  laughing as hard as they can as lightning cracks overhead. 

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Kinktober day 28 - Lapdance

A/N: Alright, here come the last few kinktober stories...

Pairing: 1969!Elvis x exotic dancer

Word count: 824

TWs: Grinding, p in v sex, public sex.

Kinktober masterlist

“You want a private dance?”

The girl who's asking is incredibly pretty and wearing a tiny dress that barely covers her ass. Elvis stares at her, drinking her in. He'd invited a bunch of exotic dancers to the party celebrating the end of his first stint in Vegas and they were all gorgeous. None of them were wearing outfits that left much to the imagination either, and each of them had asked him if he wanted a private dance. He'd said no, partially out of awkwardness and partially because he felt like he should be present at his own party. But this girl was…different. He wanted a dance from her, and he also wanted everyone at the party to see her giving it to him. 

“You can do it here, honey.”

She smirks. “Sure. Why not?”

She puts one knee on either side of his hips on the couch, her hands on his shoulders and a sweet smile on her face as she begins to sway her hips back and forth in time to the music. His hands find their way to rest very gently on her waist when her back arches and she tips her head back to give him a great view of her cleavage. 

“You want something fancy or just a bit of grinding?” she murmurs in his ear now, putting her breasts in his face and sticking her ass in the air. 

He groans, pressing hot little kisses to her skin, squeezing her ass as she guides his hands towards it. 

“Honey, do you have panties on?” He breathes.

She giggles, sitting herself down on his lap and staring into his eyes. 

“Why don't you find out?”

His fingers make their way between her legs, feeling the tiny strip of fabric there. 

“Mmm.” His other hand moves to the back of her neck, pulling her in closer, pressing their lips together. “Grinding is good,” he murmurs.

She bites her lip and stares into his eyes again, watching for his reaction as she starts to roll her hips against him. 

“Like this?”

He nods quickly, pulling her lips to his again, his tongue dipping inside her mouth, tasting her. 

Keeping the rhythm going, she feels her barely clothed pussy getting wet at the prospect of doing this in public. Her fingers rake through his hair, kissing him deeply and feeling his hardness against her. 

He moans into her mouth, the fabric of his jumpsuit rubbing his foreskin back and forth as she ruts against him. He feels her hand trail down his chest, pulling the zipper down as it goes. She shifts a little to keep what she's doing from being seen, pulling his dick free and stroking it a couple of times. 

His fingers dig into her hips and he stares up at her as she pulls back from the kiss, flushed and a little breathless. 

“Baby…” He whispers, suddenly becoming aware of the room full of people again. 

“You want them all to see me fucking you, don't you?” She murmurs.

Not waiting for a response, she adjusts herself and sinks down onto him, chewing on her bottom lip to stop herself making noise. Elvis’ chest is heaving as she takes him fully, her tight little pussy hugging his length. She starts to roll her hips like before, her forehead pressed against his. It feels so good but it's not enough. He knows if she moves more it'll be obvious to everyone in the room what's going on, but most of them are drunk by now and he's too turned on to care. 

He grabs her ass with both hands and starts moving her on him properly, sliding her pussy along the length of him, his hips thrusting up into her. 

Struggling not to make more noise as he fucks her from underneath, she whimpers. 

“Don't hold back, baby,” he murmurs in reply. “Be noisy if you want to.”

She moans, eyes rolling back in her head as she feels her orgasm building inside her. Elvis drinks her in, feeling giddy and horny at the idea of making a girl he'd just met lose her mind in a room full of people. He grunts with exertion as his hips snap up into her, and now the whole sofa is rocking and people are looking at them. Their drunken minds don’t fully register what's happening until they hear her orgasm, her head thrown back, crying out in pleasure. 

“Fuck, Elvis.”

Her walls squeeze him and he knows he's taking a risk as he lets himself go, thrusting up into her a couple more times before shooting her full of his release. He flops back on the sofa, exhausted, feeling her lying on top of him. Running his hand through her hair, he pulls her face a little closer to his and she feels his hot breath on her ear.

“Actually, I wanted them all to see me fucking you, honey.”

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978

[starryschoolgirl]

Elusive Engagement

a Baby Love snippet - Circa: March, 1968

Summary -> When the news leaks to the press about your upcoming wedding, Elvis holds his own interrogation which wreaks havoc within his entourage. But you're told not to worry your pretty little head about it, however you can't help when you have a hunch that the leak came from your family.

Warnings -> It's only a little angsty, crying, throwing bottles, angry Elvis, misunderstandings, possible manipulation, disapproving mother-in-law, Roy Orbison makes a very short cameo

WC -> 2.5k

Thank you to that lovely anon who suggested making this newspaper thing, you have sparked a snippet you inspiring poet. And many thanks to Jeanie and Willow for helping me with the newspaper, lovely those ones.

The shrill ring of the bedstand's telephone had been an abrupt and unpleasant wake up call to Elvis after a long night of playing piano keys and renting out a bowling alley. To be quite fair it wasn't that this caller was being rude, it was after all digging into the day, 1 or 2PM by Elvis' guess.

He drawled out a deeper than usual, "Mm hello?", rubbing his eyes with his free hand as he did so. The hand extended from his eyes to drag down the skin on his face tiredly, the pull of the skin would only serve to tug an eyelid open. 

A joyous voice had filled Elvis' ear, an old friend's voice,

"Now I knew you had a wedding coming but why didn't you tell me I was invited to your wedding? And why didn't you tell me I was gonna sang too apparently?"

Elvis' eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head in a tired confusion, his lips smacked before he mumbled, "Roy? Man what are you talkin' about..."

He shifted in the bed slightly and turned to your side, warmth was emanating off you, his personal little heater. Elvis pulled the cord of the telephone from the bedside table so that he wouldn't knock over anything on the table as he scooted closer to your sleeping figure.

Roy's laugh filled the line, it was loud and had a bit of a pitch to it in the way Roy's singing voice could have. Elvis pulled the telephone away from his ear as he settled next to you, placing a hand on your stomach for contact as he leaned his back against the bed's headboard.

As he ran his hand down your stomach to your thighs, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at the laced hem of your short nightie as he complained into the phone,

"It's too early in the mornin' for ya jokes boy, what's goin' on Orbison?"

The laughing on the other line had subsided as he realized Elvis really didn't know what was going on.

"Elvis, it's all over the papers here, ain't it on the papers in California? Your wedding, it’s been leaked..."

-----

As you awoke from your much needed slumber you reached for your favorite pillow on the bed, Elvis. Only, it seems Elvis wasn't in bed? Maybe if you reached further you’d feel him, he tended to roll around in his sleep.

After the first swipe around the bed your hand turned frantic as it searched for him, you quickly sat up just to see he was gone. You pulled a stray hair out of the corner of your mouth and tried to smooth your mussed up hair back to at least look presentable as you scooted to his side of the bed, the warmth of his body long gone and now just a cold bunch of sheets and blankets.

The pads of your bare feet against the wood floor filled the room as you walked to grab your robe, it was a very chilly March morning, then again every morning was as Elvis had an obsession with keeping the house cold.

You felt very carefree as you wandered through the upstairs hall of the Hollywood home you and Elvis had been residing in, you didn't hear the loud guffaws and crude jokes of Elvis' entourage, dubbed as the Memphis Mafia, so you hoped that meant you could enjoy a sweet domestic morning with Elvis.

Just the thought excited you as you let your robe flutter open while you pranced down the stairs girlishly looking for your fiancé. Just as you rounded the bottom of the stairs and steered yourself into the sunken living room you had seen Elvis in his usual dressy attire, his back was turned to you as he was facing another part of the room that you couldn't quite see yet.

Just as you were about to call his name, your feet finally landing onto the plush white carpet of the sunken room, Elvis’ voice boomed through the room as he yelled, “Speak Goddammit!!” His yell closely followed by a bottle that had flown across the room and shattered against the wall, your guess of it being a bottle had been confirmed as fizzy brown liquid began to drizzle down the wall that had intercepted the bottle. The sound that had filled the air as it shattered had made you jump and squeal from the shock.

Elvis' broad shoulders had turned at the noise of your distress and your eyes shot around the room in a bit of panic, Elvis' friends were here, but instead of being their usual joyous, loud selves they were quietly standing straight with blank faces, like soldiers in trouble with their drill sergeant. 

They were in trouble with Elvis, and if that couldn't be told from the way they all stood with sunken expressions, then the way a few of them remained in a flinched stance from the bottle being hurled just inches from their heads was the giveaway.

You made eye contact with Jerry for a split second before he looked away, when you tried to make eye contact with the others they only looked away as well, then you turned to a fast-approaching Elvis.

He hadn’t yet shaved and his hair looked to still be tussled from sleep. Your wide eyes softened slightly at his facial expression, he looked upset, you could tell by the way his jaw clenched and his nose was just slightly scrunched in a way that only someone who was often close to his resting face could tell.

Your voice was soft and questioning as you reached a shaky hand up to smooth back his hair, “Elvis..?”

You then realized why the others wouldn’t look at you, especially with Elvis in this mood.

Before you could say anything else you watched as his hands found the sides of your robe, pulling the sides together to hide your figure. You’d felt an embarrassed heat spread up your neck as you realized Elvis’ friends had just seen you in your short nightie, and with the cold air of the room, they no doubt saw the two little hardened details of your chest that Elvis liked to admire most.

You let out a breath as he tied the string of your robe especially tight.

“Elvis, what’s the matter?”

Elvis sighed, his hardened expression softening just for your eyes as his back was now turned to the other guys, he shook his head for a moment while staring down at the floor. Now you felt worried, you brought a hesitant hand up to cup his cheek as you murmured softly,

“Can I help in any way?”

He cracked a little smile at the question and placed his hand over yours as he turned his cheek to kiss it. With his unshaved cheek rubbing against your hand you felt the slightest tickle, and any hesitance or fear you might’ve housed for a moment was out the window as you couldn’t help your giggle at the sensation.

The sweet noise only served as a reminder to Elvis that he had a duty as a man to handle it on his own, and not have you worry your pretty little head about anything.

Elvis’ hands rested at your waist and he leaned down to kiss your cheek and murmured against the skin close to your ear, “No little one, why don’tchu you head right on upstairs, be up there in a minute with ya alright? Just talkin’ with the boys”

He pulled back for you to see his little encouraging smile, to which you returned tenfold with your own sweet grin.

As you headed back down the hall that led to the stairs the house was silent and as you had left sight of the room you could hear Elvis saying something quietly but couldn’t quite make it out. You wanted to but at the same time you didn’t see the point, Elvis was handling his business, therefore it was none of yours. As you reached the staircase you noticed paper placed on the first stair.

Of course your eyes glazed over it as you were taking a step up the stairs and just as you had passed it, the headline finally hit you smack dab in the face.

“ELVIS PRESLEY TO BE MARRIED IN JUNE”

Your eyes widened, and you quickly bent down to grab it, taking slow steps up the stairs as you read the contents. 

A close source had revealed the upcoming wedding? Who could that be? Is that why Elvis was so angry downstairs? No one was supposed to know until after.

As you had reached the top of the stairs you had to lean against the wall and think, a million thoughts going through your brain as to why one of the people close to Elvis would reveal it. They’d risk losing more than they’d gain. Elvis didn’t like people who couldn’t keep their trap shut about his personal business.

There were even a few times where Elvis had stepped up to his manager, Mr. Parker, because the man wanted to release some information to the press about you and Elvis to keep his name before the public due to his movie career going down the toilet.

That argument didn’t end well as Elvis had almost gotten the two of them sued by refusing to participate in a project unless Mr. Parker promised not to go to the press for publicity, as Elvis didn’t want your name being dragged in the mud. Those journalists often found a way to make anyone, even someone Elvis deemed as saintly and perfect as you, seem like last month’s garbage.

But a thought that seemed to reoccur in your brain at the moment was the worry that the leak came from your side. After all, your family didn’t approve of this union. Especially your mother.

No, she wouldn’t do that, would she?

Your body remained stiff even though you felt as if you were buzzing all over, this vibration in your stomach, mixing and stirring your stomach acids all around.

This could all be your fault. Those guys could all be paying for your own mother’s actions. It was enough to make you feel a little sick.

You kept a hand on the wall as you wandered down the hall to your and Elvis' shared bedroom, your steps grew faster as you heard a bang and Elvis yelling at one of the guys, as if your growing guilt would tackle you to the floor if you slowed down.

Once you made it to the room you closed the door behind you, and with the newspaper still in hand you sat on Elvis’ side of the bed, turning the rotary dial to your mother’s number.

After a few rings and a shaky breath you heard a familiar voice say “Hello”, it was Rienne, one of the maids.

You tried to remain composed, heeding your mother’s lesson that if you weren’t composed around the help, they wouldn’t respect you.

“R-Rienne, is mother home?”

Your palm felt sweaty as you nervously clenched your free hand into a fist, biting your lip to keep it from enacting its nervous quiver.

“Cosette, is that you? Oh how are you Dearie?”

“Rienne, please is my mother home?”

There was a short pause before Rienne answered with a yes, you spoke as softly as you could without stuttering, asking her to call for your mother. And when your mother finally did come to the phone she answered with a soft, quiet, “Cosette?”

Your lower lip wobbled as you spoke in a soft, quiet voice that almost completely mirrored your mother had it not been for the little crack at the end,

“It wasn’t you was it?”

As you were greeted with silence you brought your other hand up to clench the telephone nervously. Then your mother spoke once more,

“Setty, what ever do you mean?”

You breathed out wetly, allowing for vulnerability as you clenched the telephone as if you would your mother’s hand had she been here, “Th-The wedding, it’s in the papers Mommy”

More silence followed before your mother’s sympathetic voice, “Oh my love, I-”, she paused trying to find the right words, “Well, I-”

With her sudden loss of vocabulary your worry spiked and you questioned quickly, voice not raising in volume, only in distress, “It wasn’t you was it? Tell me it wasn’t please-”

“I told you not to get involved with that man, with men like him these things are bound to happen.”

You felt your eyes begin to burn slightly. You had almost worked yourself into tears from that last sentence. “You mean you didn’t leak-”

“Of course not my dear, why would Mommy do that to you?”

You wished you could see her, not only for the comfort she could offer, but also for the giveaway she could offer as well. You shared many traits with her, one of which being a giveaway for when you lie, and over the phone you really couldn’t tell. You wanted to believe her, you really did.

Suddenly her voice was much colder, as she instigated,

“Is that what that man has you thinking? Is he making you think that your mother and father are these big bad wolves? Figures, a man like him doesn’t have much to offer so he has to make it look like everyone else has even less to make someone stay. You know I warned you-”

The change of tone was abrupt, and the burning of your eyes violently increased from each syllable she spoke. Your eyes would be pools in no time.

“N-No Mommy, no he didn’t say anything, he-”

Your voice had caught in your throat. God you couldn’t do anything right, and now your mother is misunderstanding what a good man Elvis is. When you could finally speak, your nervous panic had left your voice so pathetically quiet that it came out like a choked whisper,

“He’s- No, I, it’s not that, I promise, I,”

Your mother cut in again with a scoff through the line, “It’s an isolation tactic my darling, he’s turning you against us. Goodness, why can’t you see that? I know I didn’t raise a stupid girl”

And just as it always had since you were a little girl, your voice gave out completely as you tried to explain yourself to your mother. The same way your mother’s voice would give out anytime she tried to explain something to your father. 

And as no noise would leave your throat, you would only be able to silently listen to your mother’s quiet voice that somehow even in a crowded room seemed louder and more present than any other person’s voice.

Despite its quiet softness, it could somehow often surpass Elvis’ loud harsh one.

Tears streaked down your cheeks as you sat on the bed and listened to her go on about what Elvis was doing to you, what it would be like when you finally married him. She topped it all off with how much someone can change when he goes from man to husband. And that you’ll regret it all in the end.

You bit your lower lip harshly to stop it’s quivering, and as her voice rang through your skull you didn’t even recognize the click of the door, or the sound of Elvis’ shoes striding closer and closer on the wood floor.

It was only when you felt a pull on the telephone did you look up to find someone else, Elvis. He looked at you with worry before mumbling into the line as if your mother were an afterthought, 

“Goodbye Mrs. Chevalier”

That was so fun to write! I had a whole other part written but I figured if it's a snippet, it's best I keep it short eh? Goodness I just love writing for this universe, I'm having so much fun messing around with these two!

Thanks plenty for reading!! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this au feel free to just comment or message me!

Taglist Lovelies: @fadedsummerlove, @lialocklear, @astral-eyed-cat, @suraemoon, @geanecore, @pinkpuffycloud, @s0phlabrunette, @that-hotdog

[everythingpresley]

My Secret Ken-Doll (part one)

summary: Elvis has a little secret named Kennedy Jackson.

word count: 3.1k

Author's Note: Was in the mood for some angst.... As always.

Part 2, Part 3, Epilogue

My Secret Ken-Doll

Elvis sat in the back of his Cadillac with Charlie Hodge on his left, Jerry Schilling driving the car and Red West in the passenger seat. Elvis could barely contain his excitement, he placed the palm of his hand on his shaking knee to cease the movement. He had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from smiling, the guys would tease him relentlessly if they saw how excited he was. 

Jerry pressed on the brakes, pulling the car to the side walk in front of the building that Elvis always seemed to disappear to the moment he lands back in Memphis, he was starting to spend more time in this unknown apartment building than Graceland at this point. 

“Good night.” Elvis said and quickly jumped out of the car. The guys had no idea where or who he was seeing in this apartment but everyone could tell it was a girl. 

He rushed up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time. Elvis took a deep breath and knocked on the door, he was grinning ear to ear when he heard rapid foot steps approaching the door from the other side. 

“Hi sweetheart!” Kennedy said grinning, opening the door wide open.

“Hi Kenny baby!” Elvis chuckled, opening his arms wide for her to jump in them.

Kennedy jumped in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and locked her legs around his slim waist.

Elvis smashed his lips on Kennedy’s lips, gripping her waist tight “I missed you.” he sighed against her lips. Elvis had been going back and forth between Vegas for the filming of Viva Las Vegas with Ann-Margret and Memphis. 

“I missed you too.” she replied “Let’s go inside before my neighbors see you.” 

Elvis chuckled and stepped inside the apartment, shutting the door behind him and placed Kennedy on the kitchen island while running his hands up and down her bare thighs. She was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt.

“Mmm what are you cooking?” he asked, the kitchen smelt like an assortment of delicious food.

“Well, I just finished cooking dinner. I made your favorite, mashed potatoes, fried chicken and biscuits and for dessert chocolate chip cookies.” Kennedy replied running her fingers through Elvis’ hair.

They had met a few months back when her friend was invited to one of Elvis’ many parties at Graceland by his entourage. 

Kennedy had went to the party reluctantly seeing as she had work the next day and needed to be up super early. Kennedy under no circumstances wanted to say hi to Elvis, she didn’t really want to disturb him in his own house and seeing as he was surrounded by girls, she opted to steer clear but once she caught Elvis’ eye, it was a done deal. He shrugged off the girls that sat around him on the couch and walked over to Kennedy who was talking to one of the guys at the party. 

“Hey, can you give us a second?” Elvis asked the guy, coming to stand behind Kennedy.

“Umm sure, no problem..” the guy smiled timidly and walked off.

Kennedy frowned in confusion and turned, surprised to see it was Elvis that spoke.

“Hi.” Elvis grinned, looking down at Kennedy. 

“Hi.” Kennedy smiled, feeling slightly nervous. He was very handsome especially up close. He had his hair pushed back and he was dressed in a blue button down with the first few buttons open, exposing his hairy chest. 

“I’m Elvis.” Elvis outstretched his hand out to her. 

“I know.” She chuckled “Kennedy.” She said, taking Elvis’ hand to shake but he instead pulled it to his lips and planted a kiss on the top of her hand while keeping eye contact with her. She raised her eyebrow and smiled awkwardly. 

“You have a nice name.”

“Thanks, my parents thought I was a boy and didn’t bother changing the name.” Kennedy shrugged making Elvis chuckle.

“Nah, I think it suits you.” 

Kennedy blushed slightly and chuckled. Elvis grinned at her reaction.

They talked all night but nothing happened between them. Kennedy had to go to work with almost zero sleep but she felt a deep connection with Elvis that night. She didn’t know if every girl felt that way but she thought she would never see him again until a few days later he showed up in one of his Cadillacs in front of her work place. 

He rolled down the window and grinned at her, tipping his large sunglasses down.

She frowned and looked at him in bewilderment. 

“Get in, quick!” He said as people walking around started to notice him.  

“What?” I looked at him like he spouted another head. 

“Quick!” He hissed.

Kennedy got flustered when she noticed people starting to quickly circulate around his car so she quickly rushed towards the passenger side and got in. Elvis quickly zipped out of there leaving behind a group of  screaming fans. 

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Kennedy asked him. 

“Don’t curse the lord sweetheart.” Elvis chuckled “You know how hard I had to look to find you?” 

“Seems like it was pretty easy if it only took you a few days.” Kennedy replied.

Elvis laughed and turned his head to look at her with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on his thigh “Well it was kind of easy since you’re probably the only girl that has the name Kennedy in Memphis.” 

“Hey!” Kennedy smacked his arm “You said it suits me.”

“It does!” Elvis laughed and looked at Kennedy once again, his eyes roaming down her body before he turned to look back at the road “You look so hot dressed like a sexy librarian.”

“Woah there. You say that to every girl you meet?” Kennedy raised her eyebrow at him.

Elvis look at her with a slightly gaping mouth “I-I’m sorry honey, I-I didn't meant anything by it. You just look good.” He stuttered, feeling flustered with how Kennedy was staring him down. 

“Elvis.” Kennedy chuckled “I’m kidding. Thanks for the complement… I guess?” 

“Ah doll. I almost crapped myself.” Elvis chuckled, shaking his head.

“Where are we going?” Kennedy asked him.

“Anywhere you’d like.” Elvis replied. 

“I’d like to go home.” 

Elvis pouted and gave her his best puppy dog eyes“Wrong answer.” 

“You said anywhere I’d like.”

“Anywhere else!” 

“Fine.” Kennedy rolled her eyes “I’d like to get some food because I’m starving.”

“Perfect! We’re going to my favorite diner. It’s very quiet, don’t worry.” Elvis winked.  

“So, what do you do exactly?” Elvis asked, taking a big bite of his cheeseburger. Kennedy sat opposite of him eating chewing on her own cheeseburger.

“I work in Finance.” She replied. 

Elvis rolled his eyes.

“What?” Kennedy chuckled. 

“Nothing. Your… partner doesn't mind you working?” He asked, eyeing her.

She chuckled and shook her head at him “Is that your way of asking if I’m single?”

“Uhh I-I-“ He stuttered, for some reason he always felt super nervous around her. 

“I wouldn’t have spent the entire night talking to you if I had a boyfriend or a husband now would I?” She asked him with a raised eyebrow.

“Well… I tried to kiss you that night and you fully dodged me. Even then I still had to look for you.” Elvis replied, mumbling the last sentence as his cheeks turned bright red. 

Kennedy leaned forward with her eyes wide “When?”

“What?” He looked up at her with wide eyes “When we went outside and sat in my backyard.”

Kennedy frowned “I don’t remember.”

“I gave you the look, I looked at your lips… You smiled. I leaned forward to kiss you then you just turned away from me and took a sip of your drink.” Elvis replied. 

“Oh!” Kennedy covered her face with both her hands “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you tried to kiss me.” 

Elvis laughed and shook his head. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his lips, taking a sip out of his Pepsi bottle before getting out of the booth and sliding in, next to Kennedy.

“What are you doing?” She asked, quietly when he scooted closer to her. His thighs were pressed up against her own. 

“We’re gonna try this again. I’m telling you now, I’m gonna kiss you.” He whispered, looking down at her lips.

“Okay.” Kennedy whispered, also looking down at his pouty lips. She licked her lips unconsciously as he leaned forward, his eyes darting from her lips to her eyes and back. He closed the distance and kissed her softly. Kennedy kissed him back and placed her hand at the nape of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. He smiled against her lips and cupped her cheek, deepening the kiss. 

Elvis and Kennedy continued to see each other and would constantly hang out secretly in Kennedy’s apartment since it was the most secluded and private place until Elvis asked her to be his. Kennedy said yes but insisted on it being fully monogamous, she knew how Elvis was with other girls and she didn’t want that, she wanted someone who will be faithful and true to her and Elvis agreed.

The oven dinged indicating that the cookies were ready. Elvis moved from between her legs and grabbed the dish towel, pulled the oven door open and pulled out the batch of cookies that Kennedy had just finished baking “Hmm, Hmm, Hmm.” He hummed while sniffing the freshly baked cookies “Probably my second favorite smell.”

“Huh and what’s your first?” Kennedy asked with a raised brow. 

Elvis smirked, placing the batch of cookies on the kitchen counter and walked back over to Kennedy, standing between her legs once again. He leaned down and kissed down her neck, nuzzling her neck and sniffing her simultaneously “You.” 

“I’m your favorite smell?” Kennedy giggled, running her fingers through Elvis’ hair.

“Uh huh.” He hummed against her neck and continued to kiss down her shoulder. 

“Are you happy to be back in Memphis?” Kennedy asked him.

Elvis pulled back and cupped her cheeks “I am so happy. I’m ready to rot on that couch all weekend and just cuddle you.” 

Kennedy grinned and kissed his soft, pillowy lips. 

Elvis and Kennedy had dinner and got caught up after not seeing each other for a few weeks when he was filming Viva Las Vegas. 

Kennedy placed the batch of cookies on a plate and scooped some vanilla ice cream on top, grabbing two spoons for her and Elvis. They both got settled down on the couch and turned on the TV to some random movie playing. 

“Oh I missed this.” Elvis sighed, leaning back against the pillows and threw his arm around Kennedy’s shoulders, pulling her to him. He kissed the top of her head as she laid her head on his chest, placing her hand on his little belly.

“I love you.” Kennedy said and kissed his open chest. 

“I love you too, Ken doll.” Elvis replied, running his hand up and down her arm. His favorite two nicknames for her were Ken doll and Kenny baby. Kennedy on the other hand hated nicknames but she didn’t mind it when Elvis gave her all sorts of nicknames when they had first met, finally sticking to those two.

Elvis tipped her chin back and kissed her gently. They made out for a while on the couch before moving to her bedroom. 

It been a week since Elvis left again for Vegas when Kennedy spotted his and Ann-Margret’s face plastered on the first page of the newspaper with the words “Engaged” in big letters. Kennedy frowned, hating that people thought they were together, she never wanted to be in the spotlight but she still hated when girls were associated with her boyfriend. She then opened the newspaper and read the article, her heart sank to her stomach when she realized it wasn’t just a rumor from some random stranger instead it was Anne-Margret herself who had said those words.

Kennedy gulped and threw the paper in the trash. What the heck? Why the hell would she say that? Kennedy chanted in her head repeatedly that it wasn’t true but she was panicking slightly. Elvis and her had already fought over this topic when he first started shooting the movie and picture of him and her being all close were published and rumors started to swirl that they were together. 

The phone rang and she knew it was Elvis but she was very upset and in no mood to argue with him. She instead chose to take a tub of ice cream to bed and just watch movies all day on her day off. She could hear the faint ringing of her landline but it was easy to muffle the noise when she increased the volume of the TV. 

Elvis was in his dressing room on set when Jerry came rushing in “What the heck Jerry? Knock!”

“You need to see this.” Jerry said, ignoring what Elvis just said. He rushed over to where Elvis was sitting on the couch and handed him the paper. Elvis gave Jerry a confused look and grabbed the paper from his hands. He looked down at the paper and read the words that were plastered on the first page “What the fuck!” Elvis exploded, getting up from the couch. 

Elvis threw the paper down on the coffee table and speed walked to Ann-Margret’s dressing room.

“Hi.” she smiled brightly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Elvis yelled.

“Oh. You read the paper?” She smiled. 

Elvis growled and punched the side of his fist against the door frame “Yes I fucking read the paper. Why the fuck are you going around telling people we’re engaged?!”

“It’s good publicity.” She whispered, feeling intimidated by this side of Elvis. 

“I. Have. A. Girlfriend.” He said with a clenched jaw “You know that.”

“Yet, I’ve never met her.” Ann shrugged “And we clearly belong together.” She said running her hand down his chest. 

Elvis gripped her hand and threw it off aggressively “Don’t touch me.” 

Elvis left and rushed back into his dressing room, calling Kennedy’s landline while tapping his foot anxiously. 

After an hour of the persistent ringing, it finally stopped indicating that Elvis had finally given up. 

As the sun was setting a few hours later, heavy pounding shook the front door of Kennedy’s apartment. She huffed and shuffled out of bed, she looked through the peephole to find an angry looking Elvis standing on the other side of the door.

She rolled her eyes and opened the door “What?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“What do you mean what?!” Elvis growled, pushing the door open, slamming it against the wall causing a small dent to appear on the wall “I’ve been calling you! You haven't been answering.” 

“I don’t think your fiancé would appreciate you talking to your side mistress.” Kennedy replied.

“You know that’s not true.” Elvis growled getting in Kennedy’s face but she stuck her ground, not really scared of Elvis no matter how scary he looked with his blue eyes turning a shade darker in rage, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenched tight “You know that’s just publicity for the movie.”

“She knows you have a girlfriend right? You told me, you told her, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay then why the hell would she go and say those things? That you proposed to her and that you two are engaged what the hell is that about?” 

“I-I don’t know!” Elvis said and side stepped Kennedy to walk into her apartment, pacing in front of the TV “I don’t know why in god’s name she chose to tell those damn reports that!”

Kennedy sighed and closed the door of her apartment, their neighbors definitely heard Elvis’ yelling “You’re fixing that.” she pointed at the dent on the wall.

Elvis rolled his eyes and walked over to her, pulling her into his arms. 

She sighed once again and wrapped her arms around his waist. He kissed the top of her head and swayed gently back and forth. Kennedy pulled away from his chest and turned her head up to look at him “Tell me nothing happened between you two.” she whispered, her heart raced at the question. Praying he would say nothing happened and nothing will ever happen.

“Nothing happened.” He gulped.

Kennedy winced “Elvis. Tell me the truth.”

“N-nothing happened.” He stuttered, his eyes watering as he spoke.

“Oh my god.” Kennedy whispered and shrugged him off, taking a step back from him “What happened?”

“It was one time.” Elvis whispered, biting down on his lower lip anxiously.

Kennedy’s lips trembled as she spoke “Was it more than a kiss?” she felt a lump form in her throat, her eyes filling with unshed tears. 

“Baby.” Elvis said and took a step towards her. She took a step back and away from him, shaking her head at him.

“Elvis.”

“Yes. It was when we first started shooting the movie. B-baby I-I’m so sorry, honey. Please forgive.” Elvis’ voice cracked, fresh tears rolled down his face. 

“You need to go.” Kennedy whispered, wiping the tears away from her face.

“What? No.” Elvis shook his head.

“Elvis.” 

“No. I’m not leaving. You’re my girl and we need to talk about this.”

“Not anymore. I’m not your girl anymore.”

Elvis let out an audible breath, his eyes wide in panic “Kennedy.” he took a step closer to her, shaking his head “Honey, please.” 

“Please go.” Kennedy’s voice cracked as more tears rolled down her face. 

“Kennedy.” He cupped her face and kissed her.

Kennedy kissed him back before she pushed him away from her “Go.” she said and walked to her bedroom.

“Kennedy wait a second!” Elvis rushed after her but she had already slammed it shut and locked the door before leaning against it and cried into the palm of her hand.

“Kennedy please open the door.” Elvis said, knocking on the door “Baby. She doesn't matter. It was a mistake.”

“Please just go, Elvis.” Kennedy sighed, closing her eyes. Her heart couldn’t handle the heart break she felt at that moment and she wanted to cry out loud but not when Elvis can hear. 

“I’m not going.” He sighed. 

“Please.” Kennedy’s voice cracked, clenching her eyes shut.

“Okay.” Elvis sighed and leaned his forehead against the door “I’ll come back first thing tomorrow okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

“Don’t bother.” Kennedy replied which made Elvis wince. He placed the palm of his hand on his chest, above his heart and rubbed that area as if it physically ached him. He didn’t want to leave but he wanted to give her a break to breathe. 

“I love you.” He gulped, wiping his tears and left, shutting the door behind him. Feeling his heart ache with unbearable pain. 

Taglist: @iuv0ana @girlblogger2002 @butlersluvbot @iheqrtaustin @dramaticpandabear @godlypresley @amiets2 @felis-haxb16 @marie73ep @scarlettlight06 @whatstruthgottodowithit @sassanoe @thatbanditqueen @18lkpeters @rjmartin11 @elvispresleyisfit12 @n0vaj3an @richardslady121 @elvispresleyxoxo

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

[sissylittlefeather]

A House That Has Everything: Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter 2 of my new series! This one came to me when I saw these amazing AI photos on Instagram made by @blackvelvetep and @_chiara975ep. (Be sure to check out their pages on Instagram!) My fic brain went crazy and this storyline was born.

Set in Regency England, Mr. Presley is the gentleman who owns and resides in Graceland Manor. Annabelle Martin is his newest maid after her parents have died and left her an orphan. Can he resist his affection for her, despite the difference in their social class?

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, masturbation (male), imagining some sexy things

Word count: ~2.4k

Need to catch up? Masterlist HERE.

Mr. Presley sighs and turns from the window. Will the responsibility of this new life never end?

******

After two weeks in her new position, Annabelle has settled into a new normal at Graceland Manor. It's not one she particularly likes or enjoys, but it's a routine at least. She's finally learned what her responsibilities are and how to do all of them. She's also met everyone in the house and learned who is worth talking to and who isn't. The other maids are not. They're both young and experienced and spend most of their time making snide comments and whispering about her. The cook, Mrs. Hall, is her favorite person, so far. She has a warm, welcoming air about her that makes Annabelle feel at home even in the big house that has no other home-like feeling. She hasn't talked to her much, but she likes her best of all anyway. And the handsome footman that answered the door when she first arrived is the cook’s son. His name is Jimmy and he's been nothing but cordial, albeit maybe a little too friendly. Most everyone else is nice enough, but she doesn't have a real companion among the group.

One of Annabelle's jobs is tending the fires in every room each morning. This means she's up before dawn every day. She doesn't enjoy that part, but it's actually quite nice to move about the house while everyone else is still asleep. Her favorite room is the library, which doubles as Mr. Presley’s private study. She never has much time to spend in there, but she does take a few minutes occasionally to look around at the books, even glancing at his desk a couple of times. He's a mess. There are papers stacked and sticking out of piles everywhere. She's not sure why, but she finds this a little endearing, even if she has sworn to hate him.

About 3 weeks after her first day, Annabelle walks into the library purposefully, ready to light the fire and try to look at the books a little. She's startled when she realizes there is a candle burning and someone sitting at the desk. There's only one person it could possibly be, so she tries to back out of the room as quickly as she can, but she hits the doorframe and it makes a loud thud. He immediately turns and stands up and she gasps.

Mr. Presley has an imposing presence even when he's not angry, so he feels almost terrifying when he is. He glares at her and Annabelle is overwhelmed with the desire to melt into the carpet.

“Where have you been?! It's freezing in here.” She shakes her head and stumbles over her words.

“I-I I'm sorry-”

“There's no excuse.” His eyes are wild and red-rimmed like he's either been crying or hasn't slept or both and his hair looks like he's run his hand through it about a thousand times. Annabelle recognizes the look of distress and her fear turns to compassion.

“Did you… have you been in here all night?” She asks in a small voice. He's obviously disarmed by the fact that she hasn't just run away from him.

“What?”

“You look like… have you slept?” She chances a step towards him and his imposing presence seems to shrink a little.

“That is none of your business! Just light the fire and get out!” He spits at her and turns away. She walks over to the fire and tends to it quickly.

As she works at the fireplace, he turns back and watches her. There was a hint of something in her voice that he hasn't experienced from anyone other than the Mrs. Hall in a very long time. Could it have been kindness?

He softens a bit as he watches her at the fireplace. Her shoulders are delicate and graceful as she works and he has the thought again that she wasn't built for this kind of hard labor. He feels an insane desire to help her, to take the task of making the fire and do it for her, but that would be inappropriate on every level. Still, something about her makes him want to throw propriety out the window and care for her the way men do in stories about knights and ladies. He's lost in this reverie when she finishes and stands up, turning back to him.

Annabelle is shocked to find him watching her when she turns away from the fire. He moves quickly to look somewhere else, but for half a second she could've sworn his expression was gentle.

“Are you finished?” He hisses, not looking at her.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get out. Be earlier tomorrow.” His attempt to put her in the right place in his mind comes out as unnecessary coldness.

“Yes, sir.” Annabelle whispers and goes to walk from the room. But at the door, she pauses and turns back.

“You could tell me… why you haven't slept… if you wanted. No one would listen even if I tried to tell them your secrets.” For a second, he meets her eyes and the warmth he finds there soothes an ache he didn't even know he had. And then he remembers himself.

“OUT.” He tries to yell, but falters the tiniest bit. She nods and leaves the room.

Falling into the nearest chair, Mr. Presley sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose. She's right that he hasn't slept. He's been holed up in the study trying to make sense of some documents since last night. Somewhere around 3am, the frustration had turned to grief and he cried for an hour or so. He was making his way back to frustration when she came in.

Why had he responded to her kindness with such cruelty? He knows the answer but isn't ready to face the reality of it.

******

In the next room, Annabelle sits in front of the fireplace crying quietly into her apron. She's so lonely and tired of the harshness with which she's treated here. There's not even anyone she could tell about her struggles. She's alone.

And why had she tried to connect with him? Not only is he a gentleman, he's her master, and not a very nice one at that. But something about him and his emotional state touched her and she felt compelled to offer herself in some way. And for no discernible reason whatsoever, his rejection hurts worst of all.

She starts to cry big, heaving sobs, knowing they're audible but no longer caring. Let them get rid of her. Maybe she could leave this miserable place and let Mr. Presley light his own fires.

******

On his way to bed, Mr. Presley hears the unmistakable sound of a woman crying coming from the drawing room. He walks quietly to the door and peeks through the crack.

The new maid.

His heart shatters when he hears the depth of her despair as she sobs. She's probably crying because he was so hateful. He lightly puts his fingertips on the door to push it open and go to her. Then he stops. It takes everything inside him to turn from the door and leave her there crying.

******

When Annabelle gets back downstairs, the kitchen is bustling with activity. Mr. Presley is entertaining later that evening, so Mrs. Hall is in a tizzy getting everything ready. Most days she does just fine by herself since she's only cooking for one man upstairs and the help downstairs, but when he entertains, she wishes she had some help. Annabelle wanders through despondently and perches on a bench.

“Love, don't you have something else to do?” Mrs. Hall asks, sweat running down the side of her face.

“Not really. I've done all my morning work already.” Annabelle kicks the floor with the toe of her shoe. She's still having to work to keep from crying.

“Get over here and help me, then. I'm assuming you know how to peel and chop.”

“Yes ma'am. I did all the cooking when I lived with my… my parents.” Her voice catches in her throat and Mrs. Hall stops and actually looks at her with her red little nose and tear-stained face.

“Love, what's got you upset?” Mrs. Hall asks as Annabelle washes her hands and takes some potatoes to peel.

“Nothing, ma'am.”

“Call me Gladys, dear.” Annabelle shakes her head.

“Oh, I could never.” Mrs. Hall laughs.

“Even Mr. Presley calls me Gladys sometimes.” Annabelle looks up at her in shock. That's far more interesting than her troubles.

“May I ask why?”

“Sure you can. I practically raised that boy. His mother passed trying to birth his twin and I had Daniel who was nearly the same age. Colonel Presley was lost for a good while after the mistress died and he paid very little attention to his son. The nanny they'd hired wasn't a very nice woman and Elvis- I mean Mr. Presley- used to spend most of his time hiding from her down here with me. He played with my boys and I taught him to cook and play the pianoforte. He's almost like a son to me, despite the difference in station.” Annabelle’s eyes widen with Mrs. Hall’s words. She tries to imagine a young Mr. Presley running through the kitchen, learning to cook and playing with servant boys. But more than the image of him as a child, it's the look that Mrs. Hall has when she talks about him that surprises her. It's a look of deep respect and love. She wonders how long it's been since Mrs. Hall has spoken with him. Maybe he has changed. “Now why don't you tell me what's got you so troubled.”

Annabelle looks down at the potato she's peeling and decides that she needs someone more than she needs to keep her own secrets.

“It's funny you mention Mr. Presley.”

“Why, love?” Annabelle sighs.

“He's the reason I was upset. Well, not the whole reason, but kind of the last thing I could handle. No one here has been very kind to me, him least of all.” Mrs. Hall nods and smiles.

“Hm. He likes you.” Annabelle looks at her with her face scrunched in shock.

“No, he does not. I assure you.”

“He likes you and he knows he shouldn't. He's trying to keep you at arm’s length.” Annabelle shakes her head.

“How do you know? Maybe he hates me?”

“If he hated you he wouldn't speak to you at all. I know my boy. He likes you.”

“No, I'm sure that's not it.” Annabelle continues peeling potatoes in silence, but her heart is pounding. Why does the prospect of Mr. Presley liking her make her knees weak?

******

That evening, Mr. Presley has several friends over for dinner. They eat and play cards and have cigars and brandy and recount their most recent adventures in London. His closest friend, Mr. Jasper Davies, asks what everyone else is wondering.

“When will you be married, then?” They're not eager to lose the company of their bachelor friend, but they know the expectation now that he's the master of a great house.

“I have no designs on marriage anytime soon.” Mr. Presley answers, knowing this won't be realistic for very long. He'll have to marry sooner rather than later. Still, he's never found any particular young lady of his station that he liked well enough to marry. There had been one girl, an actress, that he had loved quite a bit before he joined the army, but she was not a viable partner for him. None of the ladies of the county interested him and he found most of them to be rather one-dimensional and boring.

The conversation about marriage continues, but Mr. Presley has a hard time focusing. For some reason, the new maid enters his mind. He thinks about her slender white hands, too delicate for the work she does. And the way her uniform follows her curves down to her waist and then hides the rest. What he wouldn't give to be able to see her legs and feet unobstructed. He lets his imagination go even further and suddenly a picture of her naked and sprawled on his bed appears. His cock twitches in his pants and he has to adjust and clear his throat to bring himself back to reality. That's a thought he cannot have, especially not in present company.

Eventually, everyone retires to one of the many bedrooms in the house. Mr. Presley stops briefly in the library with the vague hope that the maid might be there. Of course she's not, but the brandy he's had makes his logic a little faulty. He makes it back to his bedroom where his valet undresses him and puts him in bed.

It's not long before he realizes he's staring at his fireplace, imagining the maid on her knees in front of it. This image is quickly replaced by an image of her on her knees in front of him. He curses himself for the inappropriate images in his head and the way his dick hardens at the thought of her, but he can't stop his hand from finding himself under his nightshirt. She's so pretty and kind and graceful and oh, God, he'd give anything to see her and feel her pressed up against him as they tumble naked together in the bedclothes.

He moans softly as his hand pumps his cock, sliding his foreskin back and forth, his thumb sweeping over the tip to collect the beads of precum as they gather. His hips buck into his palm and he strokes himself harder and faster. He tries to focus again on the actress that he normally thought of when he did this, but he can't. There is only the maid. The maid with her hands on him, with her mouth on him, with her thighs on either side of his hips as she sinks down onto him, with her lips parted and eyes closed as she reaches the peak of ecstasy and cries out his name. With that, he whimpers as he cums all over his hand, his cock throbbing and pulsing and leaking until his release has fully washed over him. He lays in his bed sweating and trying to catch his breath. The picture of her in his mind is so clear. He opens his mouth to whisper, but nothing comes out.

He doesn't even know her name.

******

Until next time...

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Taglist:

@ccab @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity

[elvisabutler]

spark ( chapter two: prayer )

fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: elvis presley ( fameless big daddy electrician/handyman ) x female original character word count: 10570ish so just shy of 11k this time. warnings: talk of children. a bit of negative self talk. infidelity in some form. elvis in glasses. religion playing an at least faintly important part. use of a washcloth in inventive ways. faint naivety regarding come and precome and pleasurable parts of sex, i suppose. fingering. implied/referenced masturbation ( m and f ). pining. talk of female reproductive issues. author’s note: so before you read anything involving this. i need you all to either go into this chapter blind other than my note about female reproductive issues or i need you to scroll all the way down to the bottom of this past the tag list for a bit of an explanation for that warning. i'm fine either way but i didn't want to spoil it in the warnings considering i left what happened fairly nebulous. all that being said hi y'all, welcome to the second chapter of spark! there is not a lot i can say other than telling you all i am so very thankful for every single one of you who read it and especially those of you who left comments in the notes or reblogged because hearing what feelings i invoked or what i did to y'all was a highlight and truly makes me want to interact with all of you more and makes me just want to hear more from all of you. this chapter and the next are a doozy but this one specifically has the nearly 6k bath scene as i've called it so you're in for a treat. special thank you to my southern gothic/southern sticky romance soulmate @precious-little-scoundrel because y'all know this wouldn't exist without her little whispers. additional thanks to my discord wives @ab4eva and @butlersxbirdy, my princess and my peach y'all know how much hearing y'all scream about my snippets made me know i was heading in the right direction. @blurredcolour thank you for also reassuring me that the one bit i showed you worked and wasn't just completely a mess. and last but not least @powerofelvis and @prompted-wordsmith thank you both for the edit job and smitty specifically for a few choice lines. i still am never gonna not laugh about you trying to sneak weepy in there though. and now before this author's not gets much longer, i present the second chapter of spark, titled prayer.

It's so quiet in the room. It's too quiet in the kitchen. It's too quiet even as Lilly hears Elvis's deep breaths against her back, hears her own softer breaths mixed with something that sounds almost like a whimper—a soft cry of elation with every other breath and shift of her body against his. Her vagina—her pussy—oh, she doesn't know what to call it now—aches in a way she's never felt before, not even when her husband took her for the first time in their bed. It aches but it doesn't hurt, it burns but in the way her legs burned after she would go running with Melly or how her arms burned after lifting up a basket of Nathan's clothes. Her—what had Elvis called it?—her clit, her button throbs as she feels his soft cock brush up against it as he moves forward just a bit, causing a noise that sounds so obscene Lilly can't help the way her cheeks darken even as another noise leaves her. Another whimper, this time lower in pitch, a keen leaves her mouth as Elvis stills his attempt to separate them.

"Lilly, darlin' I gotta—you gotta let me let ya down. Ya leg's startin' to hurt, ain't it?" Elvis murmurs, his hand moving down her flank, watching how her body starts to shiver, their shared sweat starting to cool on her body as the fan–the fan he just fixed whirrs above them. "Don't… it's gonna start hurtin' the more we stay here, darlin'. Let—" His hand moves to her thigh, feels how it's so sticky and slick with God knows what fluid, his or hers or both, and he's not sure how he's going to take his hand off of her if it starts to stick. Her shivers are starting to strengthen, be it from nervousness or the cool air or a combination and Elvis can't help the way a singular one flows through him, causing him to tighten his hold on her thigh and bury his face against her shoulder, a groan leaving his lips as he feels her clench at it. "It's—come on, Lilly, I gotcha, let me help ya."

It's those words, that mild parroting of words he had just whispered against the shell of her ear not even 15 minutes ago that has her head falling forward just a little, has her body going lax completely, a rag doll for him to maneuver how he sees fit. She doesn't trust herself to help him, doesn't trust the thoughts in her head that tell her to make him keep her this way, to keep him inside of her and keep her filled and aching all at once. Doesn't trust the traitorous thought that tells her Nathan would have never done this, would never be this gentle and calming with her. She'd already be standing on shaky legs with him tucking himself in his pants before telling her that was good. Elvis's arm catches her, holds her tight against him still as he helps her pull her leg down off the counter even as she hears that noise again that—squelch of her arousal and the sheer amount of come he had released in her. If this is how he sounded inside of her, what would happen when he pulled out of her? What would happen as he left her stretched and satisfied? Would—perhaps some would take. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

"Lil." His whisper is gentle, almost as if he's scared she'll bolt. "You hold onto me. Gonna get outta ya now. Gonna pull out of ya."

Her arm and her hand grip his own tightly, her shivers increasing as she feels Elvis start to pull out. The more he inches out bit by bit the more empty she feels, the more she feels as if there's a wound there that won't heal caused by him leaving. It's never felt like this with Nathan and she knows, she knows so deep in her bones and soul that should worry her. But her mind, her body, her everything has narrowed down to her and Elvis as he finally breaks free of her vagina and she feels a wetness like she's never felt before slide down her legs. Unbidden and unrestrained, a sob is wrenched from her throat as she's set down, her feet finally touching the floor once more. A sudden shift back to reality she wasn't prepared for.

Elvis's arm tightens around her even as her shivers worsen and as he feels and hears the sob that comes from her. He doesn't think he hurt her—not physically, at least—but he can't… he can't check her like this. Not when he looks down at her legs and sees his release sliding down her leg.

A realization hits him in that exact moment as his arm tightens around where—where a child would grow if any of his release caught. Where their child would grow if it caught. He hadn't worn protection. He allowed himself to enter her bare and come not once, but twice. Right in this very moment he could be sealing both of their fates. Her to have the child of a man who is not her husband and him—him, to see another man raise his child. To see his child grow up through pictures instead of being there for every waking moment. His thoughts are interrupted by another of Lilly's sobs and he shakes his head. She–she needs a bath, he can't let Nathan come home and see her like this. Even if he had been neglecting her, leaving her to wilt and leaving her to be watered and in the worst of cases fertilized by another man, Elvis couldn't be sure of his reaction to seeing the proof leaking out of his wife.

The fan creaks as it spins, unused to spinning after the break it had been given from being broken. Elvis's brain settles on the noise even as the air circulating causes even his body to let out a shiver. His own natural heat feels like it isn't enough in this one moment, as if it's too busy trying to keep Lilly warm to remember to keep him fully warm and yet he thinks he can handle it. It's nothing compared to winter in France. Nothing compared to the bite of the cold against his skin then. And yet—and yet it cuts far more to the bone, through his muscles and fat and everything that should protect him. Straight to the heart of him.

His arm finally falls from around Lilly’s waist as she moves to stand on her own, her legs a little shaky like a newborn deer. He hastily tucks himself back into his jumpsuit—she can't see what he put inside her, can't see his uncut cock even if it brought her pleasure he wonders if she's never had before. When she finally looks at him he has to stop himself from pulling her into his arms to kiss her. She looks… she looks like an angel and he's corrupted her like a devil. He's touched something that might not have been pure and innocent but was as close as he’s seen in such a long time and sullied it. Touched it with hands that have seen war and have seen death and threatened to cause death even in peacetime. What sort of person did that, what sort of man who believes in God with all his being now would do this to another man’s wife? Breaking not one, but two sins, and for what? To try and fix something that it isn’t his place to fix, that will never be his place to fix? To try and fix something only to potentially cause more things to break inside and out. He hopes she doesn’t see how his hand clenches into a fist, hopes she doesn’t see how he can’t look her in the eye right at this moment. He hopes—he hopes—he hopes she can forgive him, he hopes God can forgive him. 

Lilly can’t help the way her legs shake slightly and how her body trembles just a little bit. She’s not cold, not in a way that would cause this much shivering and yet here she was acting as if she had been dunked in a bath filled with cold water and shoved into a Yankee winter. Elvis was—is warm in a way she knows would help. Or at least she feels as if it would help because it would just be an extension of taking care of her, wouldn’t it? It would be him continuing the duty he’s given himself despite not… not being the man who promised to love and to hold and to take care of her in every conceivable way. He is just a man. He is just a man who she has grown quite fond of but a man nonetheless. A man who is not her husband and yet—no, this was just both of them being tempted and falling for temptation. In her mind, she thinks of never having Elvis speak to her again, thinks of a world where this act has ruined their relationship. No, their friendship, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out in anguish. He had been such good company. He is such good company and to lose that would have her all alone once again with nothing to show for it except… perhaps. Perhaps his release could catch inside her. Perhaps it could catch and form a child, their child and she would have someone to be with. She would have the child she longed for to spend her days doting on and mothering. She would have her company and she could be so much less angry—despondent over her friends and she could enjoy Melly’s pregnancy and any other ones that would come after because she’d at least have her own child. Too preoccupied with her thoughts, she nearly misses Elvis speaking to her and grabbing ahold of her hand. 

“Lil darlin’, ya shakin’ like a leaf. Ya got a robe or somethin’ in that bedroom of yourn?” He asks all while walking them ever so slowly to the bathroom near the other bedroom. It has a bathtub, that much he knows from using it but he knows it’s likely not anything compared to the one in the main bathroom adjacent to her bedroom. Lilly can only nod as an answer. “Ya good to go grab it? Don’t wanna—it’s not my place to see ya bedroom.”

He’s right and she knows he is but a part of her, the part of her that’s clinging onto his hand for dear life and doesn’t trust her legs to carry her into the bedroom and back to him shakes her head. “I’m—I don’t—walk me to it?”

“Lilly,” he starts before he looks up and sees her face pleading with him, begging silently in almost the same way it was up against the sink and he stops himself before nodding. “Just keep holdin’ my hand. I’ll walk wit’ ya.”

Between the walls and Elvis’s hand, Lilly’s steps are a little more certain by the time she makes it to the doorway of her bedroom where just on the inside there’s a hook that has her robe. She creaks the door open just slightly to grab it before pulling it on. It smells faintly of Nathan’s cologne and she can’t help but crinkle her nose in distaste, wishing it smelt different. The walk over to the other bathroom is just as slow and just as measured but the moment they reach it, Elvis moves to set her on the toilet after shutting the lid. His knees crack audibly as he gets down on the floor with a groan. Lilly winces as she hears the water turn on. “Warmer than you think I should have it.” 

He hadn’t asked what temperature she wanted the water but she figured it was best to tell him ahead of time, just in case he thought she needed it only lukewarm. His response is a chuckle before he turns the hot knob just a bit more. 

Her mind wanders as she sits there feeling more of his release sticking to her leg. Her mind wanders as she looks at Elvis in his jumpsuit still half open but done up so she can’t see what was between his legs, what had given her such pleasure that her vagina clenches 

involuntarily at the memory. Clenches at the memory of how full it felt, how it felt like it was catching, how it felt different than Nathan’s penis. Surely—oh surely with how full she feels even now with his release inside her it would take. It would catch and take and her belly would swell with new life. Her child would grow inside her and kick and roll and make her so happy even as she pushed them out, painful as everyone had told her it was. Her child would look like her if it was a daughter or perhaps a healthy mix of her and Elvis if it was a boy. Her breath catches at the image and she finds herself leaning against the toilet and clutching her hands to her stomach with her eyes shut. Her eyes shut so that the lord could hear her prayer because she’s only focusing on Him and the words she was praying up into the heavens. Please, Lord, please let it catch. Bless me with just this one baby.

Elvis looks over at Lilly over the rims of his glasses and is struck by how she looks so serene in the moment. How her robe covers her and how her head is tilted up as if she’s praying for something. His eyes drift down and notice her hands on her belly. Her hands that seem small compared to his on her belly and briefly, in a flash he berates himself for later, he pictures her growing round with his baby after the release he's just left in her has taken root. Pictures her blossoming and blooming right before his eyes as she thanks him with his favorite dinner with their child rolling inside of her under an apron. The word please leaves her lips, though, and it shatters that image quicker than anything else. She is married to an idiotic child, yes, but he is still her husband and is still a strapping young man. Perhaps still more suited for her than him. More suited to give her those children to help her bloom. He has to shut his eyes and pray for forgiveness and for God to dissolve his come before it reaches those parts of her that can bear fruit. She’s pleading with God that it doesn’t take—that they aren’t caught with their indiscretion and his mind is being selfish with the desires it has for her.

It doesn’t take long for the tub to fill and Elvis turns off the water before it gets to be too much. He can’t look at Lilly, hasn’t looked at her since he heard the word please fall from her lips and yet he knows he has to. He knows to help her into the bathtub he has to but he stares at the water, watching it ripple just a little until he hears Lilly’s voice. 

“Are you—? You can�� can you stay?” Her skin flushes at her own question, as if it’s the worst possible thing for her to say, as if it’s mortifying to have it leave her lips. He is not her husband. He is, at best, a new friend—and she wants him to see her completely bare. “You don’t—”

Elvis cuts off her words with a shake of his head. “I’ll stay for ya. Since ya want me to.” He pauses, his eyes finally looking at her: specifically looking at her legs where his release is still sliding down onto the floor of the bathroom. Had he honestly come that much? “Ya—e need to—I came in ya, Mrs. H—Lilly. It’s gonna need to be washed outta ya,” his hand twitches as his eyes drift to her stomach and he has to stop himself from placing his hand on it with his next words. “Don’t want ya bein’... Don’t wanna cause ya any issues.”

Don’t want to have my child growin’ inside of ya, is what he means, Lilly thinks. Her traitorous mind wants to be that mean woman Nathan’s accused of her of being and spit that she wants to swell with his baby. She wants to grow round with his baby because she wants a baby and Nathan won’t give her one. She wants a child to love and dote on and to cherish. She bites her tongue though, because it’s not right to say it, it’s not proper to admit she might do anything for a baby. Instead she nods and moves to take off the robe, motioning for Elvis to help her with the rest of her clothes as she stands up. Ever the gentleman, he obliges, and Lilly can’t help the goosebumps and shivers that dot her in his hands’ wake as his fingertips glide across her skin. Her body hunches over just slightly to protect her modesty as if he hadn’t just had her against her kitchen sink not once, but twice. Elvis frowns slightly when he sees this, the frown only deepening as she moves to step into the tub on her own. It doesn’t take him but a second to scoop her into his arms.

Lilly squeaks slightly at the unexpected touch before she leans against him, her hand moving to play with his chest hair until he sets her down softly into the tub. A whine escapes her lips as her vagina hits the water, the temperature difference reminding her of their actions. A moment passes before Elvis opens his mouth to ask something and Lilly tilts her head to the cabinet above the toilet. “Middle shelf.”

A nod is his only response to her direction until she hears the crack of his knees signaling how he’s back down on the ground. Her eyes haven’t left the water, watching how there’s little bits of white, stringy and almost clear swirling around the water. It was all going to waste. It was all going to be going down the drain and she was going to remain barren, a woman with no fruit of her loins to call her own when there should be no reason for that. Elvis eyes her before setting the washcloth in the water and humming, his hand moving to touch her shoulder, a strangely domestic touch that she doesn’t shy away from.

“There’s so much of it.” Lilly whispers absentmindedly, her head tilting just so as Elvis hums and chuckles slightly because she’s not wrong. 

“It’s just—that’s my—that’s what I produce before I actually release inside ya. Hell, I think most of it might be that ‘cause I ain’t ever produced this much.” A truth if he’s honest with himself, even in his younger days he doesn’t remember this much being in a condom and yet he had filled her with so much it’s just leaking out of her. He had filled her like he was her husband and they were trying for a child. He had done the unthinkable and yet there’s a small part of him that wonders how much of his release is inside of her. That small part has his cock twitching just slightly against his leg, ready to give her more if she asks, to fill her up and replace what’s being lost in the water. He shakes his head to clear it, to direct the blood flow back to his thinking self and not the desirous snake in his pants.

“This ain’t the part we gotta worry ‘bout anyway. It’s the thicker stuff,” he points to a small bit that’s floating from her vagina as he speaks, “like that right there that we gotta worry ‘bout. But the rest? Ya see how it's slidin’ right out? We don't gotta worry bout those parts.”

Lilly has to stop herself from perking up at that knowledge. That there’s more where this came from and that this? She can lose as much of this as she is right now while still perhaps having his seed catch. This was just the initial bit, the majority of it is still inside of her and she clenches, tightens her vagina even as it feels to be an insurmountable task as it throbs and pulses from the effort. She can't tilt her hips up like her mother had told her but later, perhaps, later she could lay in bed and tilt her hips to help whatever is left behind reach where it needs to be. 

Elvis can't put it off any longer as he stares at rippling water, he needs to help this along, other than those small bits not much of his release is coloring the water. If too much stayed within her—her body would change soon, her body would change and it would be all his fault. He would be responsible for her blooming and blossoming but with a child that wouldn't be, couldn't be taken care of the way he'd want them to. He leans closer to Lilly and finds his hand holding the washcloth sliding up her leg. 

"Don't—I gotcha Lilly. Gonna help clean ya out, alright? Gonna be as gentle as I can." He waits to see her acknowledgement of a nod before he finally moves his hand up to between her legs, the heel of his hand against her mound and his hand covering everything else.

Her body—her vagina feels as if he's shocked her, as if there's a live wire from his hand to her. A gasp leaves her lips even as she inadvertently grinds down on his hand, chasing a feeling she can't quite put her finger on. It’s almost instinctual the way she reacts, the way her eyes shut as she hisses, the pressure too much while at the same time too little. At her hiss Elvis pulls back his hand as if it’s been burned. It’s not his job to take care of her, it’s not his job to make sure she’s alright after their intercourse against the sink and yet he doesn’t think he could live with himself if he hurt her. He knows how to take care of a woman after sex and he’d be damned if he didn’t treat Lilly with all the respect—and love, his mind traitorously whispers—she deserves.

“Lil, ya alright? Did I…” he starts before his words are cut off with a violent shake of her head. Words are failing her and his eyes search her face for a clue as if that will explain her actions and finds it in the way she shifts in the bath slightly. “Ya sensitive down there?” 

Lilly nods and breathes slowly through her nose. “I think so? It’s—It feels like it’s throbbing, Mr. Pre—Elvis.” 

In the back of his mind he knows that means she took him well and that he pleasured her thoroughly. It means that her body is overwhelmed with the sensation. It means that it’ll be like that for days to come. A small, sick bit of joy shoots through him at the thought of her aching for him and his stomach roils as soon as the thought comes to him. He would be no better than her husband who ignores her if he took pleasure in the idea. If he took pleasure in knowing he left her aching for him while she is married to her husband. 

His words are measured when he speaks, a low murmur as he leans closer, taking the washcloth back in his hands. “Ya ain’t—I’m a lil bigger than most, should have prepped ya better. Jus’. We both got a lil’ overwhelmed, didn’t we? ‘S’alright, ‘m gonna make it better, darlin’. Gonna be gentle as I can. Gonna help ya get all this out of ya. Keep ya from having my baby.”

Lilly’s face falls at his words even though he doesn’t notice, too preoccupied with shifting his focus downward to her vagina. Her breath is slow and measured as she watches him, trying to give this a clinical air, trying to make her body realize there’s nothing arousing about this. This is him just trying to clean his release out of her to keep from being tied to her in some way permanent. Her hand drifts to her belly as she curls into him, her head leaning onto his shoulder. He’s methodical with the outside of her and using the cloth he tries to reach between her folds, tries to open her up only to feel as she tenses just that little bit harder. Forcing her open isn’t an option, not one he wants to seriously consider, at least, and he pauses. His fingers through the rough washcloth threaten to ignite another fire low in her belly as they rub slightly against her skin—at least, if the way she whimpers softly is any indication. Perhaps if he brushed against her clit, perhaps that could open her up. It’s helped in other times when he’s wanted to pleasure another woman. His thumb is already near it and without dwelling on his thought his thumb swipes against it, the wash cloth adding friction that has her unclenching faster than he thought was possible, the shock of it ricocheting through her system. A gasp escapes her lips. A gasp that sounds like his name. He refuses to dwell on what that means as he brushes his thumb against her clit once more. 

“Elvis,” she whimpers his name as his thumb swipes a third and a fourth time and she can feel her vagina clenching and unclenching at the feeling, at the sensation as finally she relaxes fully, allowing his fingers to enter her without a question. “Sensitive.” 

Her mind is narrowing to single words, the swirl of arousal curling tighter and tighter in her abdomen with each brush of his thumb and each press of his fingers inside of her. The washcloth shouldn’t help the feeling, it shouldn’t make her eyes want to roll in the back of her head from the friction and the slight roughness. The splashes of his arm and hand hitting the water as his fingers move in and out of her ground her and yet have her floating away. Her brain registers him speaking through her whimpers of pleasure. Pleasure that she doesn’t know what to—to do with, having been denied it for so long. 

“I know it’s a lot but gotta be thorough, Lilly. Gotta make sure it's all out,” he whispers softly to her, his fingers never stopping their task. “That's it, unclench for me, Lil darlin. Let—ya gotta help me, we gotta make sure there isn't anything left up there."

Faintly she can hear him and feel herself nodding, too busy trying not to rock against his fingers. That’s not what he’s doing this for, he’s trying to prevent—he’s trying to prevent a child. He’s trying to protect her marriage and yet her body wants to move on instinct. She wants to be beholden to her instincts just this once. Just this once she wants to have pleasure and happiness she doesn’t have to beg and plead for. It’s nice, this haze that overwhelms her senses, and she can’t truly recall the cold, distant figure of her husband leaving each and every day for work without so much as a kiss on the cheek as it has been recently. Instead she is nestled into the crook of Mr. Presley’s neck, lips tasting of the salt of his sweat. She wants to feel like he made her feel against the sink. Her body cants itself just so in order to earn another swipe of his thumb and she feels herself dangling on the precipice of something—of her orgasm, maybe? Was she about to find release on his fingers as he cleaned her body out with a washcloth? As he cleaned his release so a child didn’t form inside her, giving away their actions from tonight? A miniscule part of her feels as if she ought to be mortified but it doesn’t drown out her sighs and whines as she feels his fingers curl just so—trying to make sure she’s clean. It doesn’t drown out how her hips move once in another attempt to grind before he puts his hand on the back of her neck. A comforting gesture, yes, but when paired with his next words seals her fate.

“Take what ya need right now. Jus' takin’ care of ya. It’ll help get more outta ya. That’s it, Lil darlin, Elvis’s gotcha.”

A keen, high pitched and pained, leaves her mouth as she feels herself fluttering around—no, clenching around—his fingers before becoming practically boneless against him, the aftershocks from the orgasm causing a new round of shivers and goosebumps to happen. Her face burrows into his shoulder as he works her through them gently before her hand moves to grab his wrist, the sensitivity finally becoming too much. 

“Elvis it’s, o-oh—” Lily struggles to articulate her words and breathe and exist in this moment, the sensation drowning out any thoughts other than the pulse of her own heartbeat she feels between her legs. “It—”

Elvis shushes her, trying his hand on her neck, rubbing it and tightening over and over as he finishes cleaning her out, knowing that whatever is left is too high up for him to reach. He’d have to just pray to god for that to be done away with. "Shhhh, Lilly… Darlin', I'm sorry, bein' as gentle as I can.”

Lilly should object to how his hand at her neck feels almost as if she's a kitten being dragged along by their mother but she can't find it in her to do such a thing. She can't find it in her to since objecting would mean he'd remove something that truthfully is keeping her tenuous grip on reality and the Earth there. She figures she'd float away without it. There's a part of her that doesn't think she'd mind in that moment, that she'd understand floating away after what's happened because it almost doesn't feel real, especially as he takes care to wash her body despite her being fully capable of doing it herself. His grip loosens for the last time as she watches him lean over and unplug the drain. The water swirls slowly at first, gaining speed the longer she stares at it and the more of his release slides down the drain. She hears the crack of Elvis's knees as he stands up and winces for him even as his shadow towers over her. She should get up out of the tub, she knows this and yet her legs feel just shaky enough that she finds the task impossible until she feels his arms underneath hers.

Getting out with his support allows her to fully catch her bearings as he hands her a towel that she wraps around her body, drying herself off as he grabs another and assists with her legs, his knees cracking once again at him getting back down. She makes the mistake of looking down at him and seeing him look up at her with a surprising sense of worship she only ever usually associates with church and God. A shiver makes its way through her at the realization. 

Her voice sounds like it's going through a tunnel as she says something about how she's fine from here. She swears she hears herself say Mr. Presley and hears him say Mrs. Harris like he hadn't seen her naked and like he hadn't just helped her to clean out his release. Their formalities would make her laugh in any other situation, especially if she thinks of his seed catching inside of her. It wouldn't do to call her that when she was carrying his child, now would it? Wouldn't do for her to call him that as her belly rounded out with his baby, would it? Would it?

He leaves and she waits until she hears a goodbye burst forth loud enough to break through the tunnel her ears are in to finish drying off and getting ready.

She barely finishes making dinner as Nathan walks through the door.

Elvis… Elvis finds himself under his shower cursing his actions even as he remembers her face and her pleasure. He dreams of a life. He dreams of a life with her. He dreams of their life together. It feels worse than any nightmare.

Charlie notices something is up the moment he walks in the diner and sees Elvis already sitting down at their table, a plate with just bacon in front of him in addition to eggs and what looks like toast, or at least he hopes it’s toast. It looks like a plate for him and Elvis and yet he sees the man he's willing to call one of his truest friends eating it all as if it's just for him. He ought to be gentle about the whole thing, ask Elvis a question calmly and innocently. 

Instead, as any sensible friend who’s seen you naked and bleeding and cryin’ for your mama does, he steals two pieces of bacon and sits down in the chair across from his best friend and chomps on said bacon before asking one, singular question: "What are you doing?"

Elvis's hand darts out with a speed that betrays his army training to grab the other piece of bacon only to be rebuffed with a frown. "Eating bacon, Charlie. Ya suddenly blind now? Short and blind, what a catch for ya wife."

Charlie visibly recoils and waits for Elvis to apologize or give him some clue that the statement was just his normal, playful ribbing. The crunch of the bacon disabuses him of that notion as the minutes tick by. "We got a family so she must've seen something in me. Just thankful she didn't see you first."

"Ain't that everyone's damn thanks. Thankful I didn't see their wives back then but if I see 'em now they ain't gotta worry. Women don't go for this body like they did back in the day." Elvis stabs at his eggs and Charlie—Charlie thinks he knows what's going on and he can't help but roll his eyes internally. 

"Did some woman turn you down and now you're moping? Over a plate of bacon after church?" He tries to keep the judgment out of his voice but there's still a hint there that he can't do away with. 

If looks could kill as well as every gun both he and Elvis have ever used, Charlie's certain in this moment he would be preparing to go to sleep in his eternal resting place. As it stands he once again realizes that perhaps he ought to not poke his absolute bear of a best friend. Elvis's next words punctuated by another crunch of bacon and a laugh so bitter Charlie's never heard it come from him seals that idea.

"Oh. Charlie, my boy, my boy, that would have been better. I would have handled that like a champ," he shakes his head, "ya 'member Mrs. Harris? The—the woman I told ya 'bout?"

“Yeah, the one with the niece and the husband who can’t work his way ‘round a wrench. What about—?” Charlie stops mid sentence and stares long and hard at Elvis trying to school his face into something normal and something less like he looks about ready to murder him before realizing it’s impossible and saying the first words that come to mind in the most hushed tone he can manage. “Wasn’t one of your rules you wouldn’t sleep with a married woman?”

Elvis can’t help but curse the fact that Charlie has seen him through some of, if not the worst, parts of his life and can regrettably read him like an open book sometimes. He doesn’t answer with words. Instead he allows himself to eat a piece of toast that is both soggy and crispy all at once. His silence is practically deafening before Charlie exhales. 

“You—ou got me thinking your daddy died or something and all this is because you slept with another man’s wife? A man who’s practically ignoring her despite how she looks like a—” Elvis swallows and holds up his pointer finger before practically growling. 

“Not other fuckin’ word, Hodge. Not a single fuckin’ word. Lilly ain’t some fuckin’ European floozy we forgot ‘bout the next day. Don’t ya say ‘nother fuckin’ word.”

A chuckle leaves Charlie’s mouth despite his best efforts to stop it. Elvis is moping about a woman alright, just not the way Charlie thought he was. He wouldn’t have—He loves Elvis, he does but he would have never predicted him managing to charm a woman like that if she didn’t know who he was beforehand. If she didn’t know him as he was when they both came back from the war, both struggling with things they had seen yet pared down to a lean type of beauty: the scraggly pines that grew on Italian mountaintops. Yet maybe, just maybe, there was hope. Very stupid and unwise hope, but hope nonetheless that Elvis might be able to enjoy the same sort of life he has. 

"Cursing on the Lord's day. At me. She's got you—pass me your whole pig's worth of bacon and tell me what happened, E."

Elvis stares at the plate and lets out a heavy sigh as he scoots the plate over. “It ain’t a whole pig’s worth of bacon.”

“It’s as big as my head.” Charlie states, motioning to get the attention of one of the waitresses in an attempt to get a plate and different food even as he eats a piece of bacon.

“Ya have a tiny head, Hodge. Like a damn lil hedgehog.” 

Meanwhile across town Lilly finds herself in her sister’s kitchen, sitting at her dining room table with the light of the sun shining on her through the window. Her sister Melly busies herself with the finishing touches of a lunch for the two of them and Jerry. Lilly had tried to help only to be waved off with an ease that had her sitting down in the chair watching, her hands settling on her stomach as they had been since that fateful afternoon. It’s too soon to know, she reasons, too soon to know if Elvis’s seed took and has filled her empty womb with a child she’s craved for years. Yet her hands gravitate there anyway, almost trying to provide a cradle as if to tell the child she hopes is forming inside her that it’s okay to stay, it’s alright and that she’ll be their mother. She’ll take such good care of them and they’ll get to meet their cousins. They’ll get to meet their cousins and grow up with the one swelling underneath Melly’s apron. 

Melly notices this, of course, notices how her sister is cradling her belly and yet she doesn’t dare ask. She doesn’t dare ask if Nathan’s finally done right by her sister and given her the baby she so desperately wants. Her chest hasn’t changed and she hasn’t felt a firmness when she’s brushed against her but perhaps it’s just too early.

“You’re looking happier,” Melly comments as she sets down the plates of food. She leaves Jerry’s on the counter, knowing her husband will grab it when he comes back inside from dealing with the yard.

Lilly can’t help the way she smiles slightly and practically preens at the acknowledgment that she seems happier. Elvis might not be—Elvis might not have been by since that afternoon but there was something so beautiful about his actions, so gentle and nourishing about him that it stuck with her. The throbbing in her vagina’s finally stopped after days of her cupping it and playing with it next to Nathan’s snoring body, wishing her fingers were thicker and longer and wishing it was Elvis’s cock sliding in and out of her. That he was keeping her full and telling her he’s got her, he’s always got her while filling her with so much of his release that there’d be no other choice but to swell with his child. 

She doesn’t dwell on the fact that it’s taken another man to make her feel a way she hasn't for years. She can’t dwell on that because it’s improper and she’d like to just bask in the glow of everything for now. She’d like to bask in the glow of things before a different glow would overtake her. 

“I feel happier.” Lilly answers, still continuing to grin as she digs into the food. There’s a hint of nausea at some of it but she chalks it up to being hungry. “I feel different.”

Melly’s eyebrows both move upward as she settles into her chair and takes a bite of her toast first, knowing how her stomach reacts to food without a bland base to start off with. “Different. Does that have anything to do with Nathan and you? Anything you want to tell me?”

Lilly’s hand stills in its subconscious rubbing as her eyes widen. “No. Not—not yet.”

There’s something that shifts in Melly, a brightness that shines through as she looks at Lilly. If she is pregnant it's too soon to tell but the idea that she'd be carrying her second while Lilly is finally carrying her first delights her in ways she can't put into words. It's perhaps a secret dream she's always had. The scrape of her chair against the linoleum is harsh to both their ears and yet it’s a small price to pay for the feel of Melly’s hand against her stomach. 

“You’ll tell me as soon as you know?” Melly’s voice comes out as a whisper, as if she’s scared to speak it any louder. “You’ll tell me I’ll have a niece or nephew on the way?”

Lilly nods quickly as she hears the door open and hears Jerry’s voice carry into the kitchen. Melly’s hand moves off of her stomach as quick as can be before Jerry pops his head in and smiles. “Won’t ask what you two were doing before I got here.”

Life doesn't stop that Sunday and instead continues on and on with one week passing by and then another and another until Lilly knows she's due for her cycle and yet it doesn't appear. Her underwear remains pristine and white with not a drop of blood in sight. She doesn't dare tell Melly or anyone yet, knowing it could be a fluke, a stress induced issue but she swears she feels her womb hardening. She swears she feels it bloating in a way that feels different than what comes before her cycle. Perhaps, perhaps Elvis had done it. Perhaps Elvis had filled her and their child was forming unbeknownst to either of them. It occurs to her that she should try and reach out to him and see if he can come by her home. There's nothing that's broken for him to be fixed and yet he deserves to know what's happening inside her. That soon her stomach will round outward and their child will kick and roll and grow inside of her. That she is still married but it would be cruel to deprive him of ever knowing of their child. 

It's too soon for him to know, she'll tell him when she's sure, when there's no mistaking what has happened to her because of their actions that afternoon. She'll tell him then, she'll convince him to come by and press his hand against her stomach so he can feel what he's—what she wished and prayed to have happen even as he washed himself out of her. He ought to be able to be in their life somehow because he's their father and he'd make such a brilliant one. He'd make such a brilliant one and her mind traitorously tells her it's a shame she wouldn't be raising the child with him. 

Six weeks is a long time for him to be avoiding Lilly and he knows that. He knows that she didn't deserve to be left out in the cold like that—to be left without company and companionship like that but he can't help it. He can't help how his mind drifts when his exhaustion sets in remembering how her body felt against his when they danced and when she sagged against him. It’s a sin to covet a man’s wife as much as he covets Lilly. It’s a sin to want to be in another man’s home taking care of his wife in any way she’ll let him. It’s a sin and yet it feels so right, it feels like he’d be doing what he’s meant to be doing. Elvis is not her husband and yet his mind—his traitorous mind and soul tells him he should be and tells him she needs him in some way. She’s been happier, he thinks, since that afternoon—and his mind tells him that he had something to do with that. There’s a glow about her and it draws him in like a moth to a flame before he pulls himself away every Sunday when she passes off her niece. A nagging thought crosses his mind as the weeks go by and he swears that glow is stronger every time he sees her, that perhaps it wasn’t just happiness and joy causing her to glow that way. He ought to ask her and yet the idea feels invasive in a way that makes him think he has to find the right time for it. If his suspicions prove to be correct, he figures they both will need time to process it. 

Six weeks is a long time for him to avoid her and it makes it so that when he gets a call that sounds like Lilly crying there isn’t a moment of hesitation before he finds himself jumping into his truck and driving to her house she shares with her husband. Her door is unlocked and he wants to admonish her for it, tell her that she shouldn’t leave the door unlocked because you never know who might come in but then he sees her. He sees her tear stained face and her rumpled dress and fears the worst. A flash of pure anger courses through his veins as his mind swirls with possibilities of why she’s crying. Why her face and body betray such anguish that it twists his gut and has his mouth opening to speak before her voice sounding so small in a way he’s never heard interrupts him. 

“I was waiting. I was being careful!” Her words don’t make sense to Elvis even as his eyes trace over her form and around the house where they’re standing as if either thing holds the clue for what’s going on. As if some part of the way she’s carrying herself—hunched over—or the way things seem out of place—her lunch was sitting on the table only half eaten—would explain what’s happening, why she had called him crying, muttering about needing to fix things. 

His tone is soft and comforting as he moves to touch her shoulder, to pull her into some form of a hug. “Darlin’—” The word slips out before he can stop himself but he continues. “What’s… what’s wrong?”

Her eyes look up at him and he’s struck by how bloodshot they look. How long had she been crying? How long had her body been wracked by sobs that no one was there to comfort her from? Elvis watches as her mouth opens and closes several times before she shakes her head. “I—the oven is broke again.”

“Lil—Mrs. Harris, things I fix don’t break like that. Not this quick.” He tries to defend his work, knowing there’s no Earthly way that it was broken already. He had made sure to fix it, he had made sure that her oven wouldn’t need his touch for quite a long time after he was inside of it that day. In the back of his mind he thinks he’s missing something.

“It’s broken, Mr. Presley. It’s broken and can’t keep heat and bake anything and I’ll call someone else over if you won’t fix it. Just please take a look at it. Just make it work like I thought it was.” Lilly’s voice shakes but doesn’t waver when she speaks. If anything it seems to get stronger the longer she speaks. It seems she’s more insistent with every word that comes from her mouth. Something is broken—the oven he was supposed to fix is broken and she wants him to check it again. That nagging feeling grows as he looks at her in confusion. He prides himself on being a smart enough man, but… maybe it’s because she clouds his judgment. He can’t tell what she’s talking about.

“Lil—Lilly, why did you call me here?” He manages to almost stutter out the words, wincing he hears it. She has to answer him when he asks point blank, doesn’t she? 

Lilly is silent for the longest while and Elvis thinks he pushed too hard, thinks that he’s overstepped for once—twice—in their friendship and opens his mouth to apologize before she grabs his hand and places it on her stomach. In a rush everything clicks into place for Elvis and swears his heart stops. He should move his hand and yet he can’t, it’s almost as if there’s a magnet keeping his hand attached to her stomach. The oven is broken, her oven is broken and empty and can’t keep heat. 

The night before, when his body gave out and had him sleep he tossed and turned over images of him and Lilly together. Images of her swollen with a child and laughing next to him. He remembers being on his knees kissing her still-flat stomach and laughing with her hand over his and telling her how she’s made him the happiest man alive. He could still hear her giggles ringing in his ears when he woke up. That was fantasy, a dream dreamed up by an old man who shouldn’t be dreaming of a life with a woman he isn’t married to and who is married to another. They’re brilliant company for each other but—but she is not his wife and he is not her husband. 

“I’m sorry.” Elvis whispers the words and they feel so insubstantial, so insignificant to what he feels in this moment. The sorrow he feels for her being fed by her tears and the way her silence just drags on and on. Perhaps this was his doing, perhaps there was something there and he had broken it. Perhaps—perhaps he should have been selfish and not cleaned his release from her. Or perhaps—he can’t dwell on it. It threatens to drive him mad if he does. 

And yet his mind can't shake another time and place where his hand is there for another reason, with her hand over his, a smile on her face instead of tears rolling down her cheeks and onto his suit as she curls into a hug he offers. She looks so young and yet like she's been crushed by the world all at once. A flower run over on the side of the road, soaked in the gutter. The attempt he finally makes to move his hand is thwarted by her own grasping his wrist, forcing him to press down to feel that she's bloated but still very empty.

It was supposed to be different. Things were supposed to go well, she had prayed and begged and cradled her womb and for what? For her cycle to be off and there to be blood mocking her in her underwear? For there to be cramping that feels like it might threaten to tear her in two. No one she’s known has lost a baby, there’s no one she can ask to see if that’s what’s happening. If the child she swore was growing from the moment Elvis released inside of her not once but twice was gone. Or if there just wasn’t one at all and she had been deluding herself. Either option feels almost unbearable and feels like a lead weight in her stomach.

Elvis doesn’t speak and Lilly’s thankful for it. Her dream of telling him and them figuring out how he would be involved has been flushed down the toilet multiple times today and is currently flowing between her legs. Her hand finally loosens its grip on his wrist and her chest tightens as she looks into his eyes. Those blue eyes shouldn’t be so caring, they shouldn’t look so caring when looking at her. There shouldn’t be sympathy in those eyes directed toward her or her empty womb. Yet there is and Lilly is struck not for the first time at how different Elvis is from Nathan. She’s struck by how she’s been in this sort of position before with her husband and she doesn’t recall there being nearly as much care and—dare she even pretend?—-anguish in his gaze. She remembers frustration at himself or, or her? She doesn’t know. She can’t recall just now.

“I—I was late,” She starts, and shakes her head, sniffling. “I was late for my cycle and I didn’t—I don’t know why I called you.”

Elvis doesn’t dare say the first thoughts that come to mind. Doesn’t dare tell her that he thinks she knows exactly why she called him because the mere idea shouldn’t be put into words. He’s already damned himself and her anguish, her pain is perhaps a consequence of it. Had he not given in to his baser urges perhaps Nathan would have given her a child that she could tell him she was growing inside of her. If he hadn’t given into his baser urges she wouldn’t have thought his child was growing inside of her. He shuts his eyes, trying to not think of the image of her swollen with his child once again. 

“Comfort?” The word as an answer feels safe and from the look on Lilly’s face, how it relaxes just a little bit and how her hunched over position straightens out even as she grimaces in pain he was right. However, that urge to fix that had caused so many problems rears its ugly head again and Elvis knows he should ignore it but the grimace on her face reminds him that she’s in pain and to leave her in pain without attempting to help her feels cruel. It feels cruel to just allow her to deal with this on her own. Perhaps that’s why she had called him, taken the chance that he wouldn’t want her to be alone in this situation. Taken the chance to assume he missed her and just wants what he's craved from her more than anything else: her company. 

A nod is the only thing she manages before her body is wracked with another flare of pain as Elvis watches. He’s never—he’s never been here when she’s on her cycle so he doesn’t know if this is normal or not but he remembers June and remembers the other girls and knows, in this moment, he can’t leave her like this. Especially after she had called him. His mind tries to think back on what other women would do before he remembers how some would curl up in bed and ask for heat and any number of other things. The flash of memory at her in the bath after their activities and a flash of a fantasy of her in the bath with him runs through his thoughts until he shakes his head to clear it. 

“Missus—Lilly. Darlin’, I—wouldn’t it be better to be laying down? For your pain?” His words are chosen as carefully as he can and yet he still feels like he might have said the wrong thing until he sees her move to lean and sag against him as if he’s the only thing that’s going to keep her standing in this exact moment. 

“My—oh, just help me to my bedroom, you don’t—” The words are lost as Elvis picks her up, earning a bit of a shocked gasp from her. “You don’t have to pick me up, I can w-walk.”

Elvis stays silent for a moment or so as he walks, ignoring the ache in his knees that tell him he should have prepared more for this. That he should have known better than to pick Lilly up like this and yet he finds that it’s easy to ignore the ache as her protest grows a little quieter and she practically burrows into his hold. He is not her husband and yet he wonders if her husband’s ever done this for her. Ever treated her with care when she’s like this. 

Nathan had noticed her pain that morning and brushed it off, much to Lilly’s frustration. It’s not that she wanted him to know she had engaged in a transgression but she was his wife and she was in pain. Jerry had made sure Melly was taken care of after Lizzie and Nathan couldn’t even be bothered to call her sister or anyone. The neglect is what feels like an even worse knife than the one she swears she feels in her lower stomach. The neglect is why she called Mr—Elvis. Even in the short time she’s at least partially known him—the actual him, not the image she had of the man who taught her niece’s Sunday school—has taken care of her and hasn’t left her to rot and wallow in her pain and loneliness. He’s kept her company and fixed so many things around her house that at this point she’s thinking she’s going to have to break things just to have an excuse to get him to visit under the guise of working. 

She knows she shouldn’t relax in his hold, she shouldn’t burrow into his arms like he’s her husband and he’s just carrying her to their bed but she can’t help it, the sheer joy and calmness that settles over her from the care he shows overwhelming her. His arms allow her to feel safe in the moment, help her to forget how much pain she’s in physically and mentally. They are a balm to her aches even as she potentially causes some for him. It doesn’t take too long for him to reach her bedroom, using his body to open the door the entire way from its cracked open position. Lilly hears him sigh and feels his head move to try and avoid looking around before she feels him shift her in his arms.There’s a difference, she thinks, in knowing that he would have to eventually set her down on her bed and him actually doing it. 

A shiver runs through her body that has Elvis’s grip tightening as he moves his hands away. It’s not cold and yet here she was shivering like she was that fateful night.

“You alright?” he murmurs, low and questioning in a way that he shouldn’t be.

“You’re warm,” she whispers back at him, looking into his eyes and trying to pretend that answers everything. Pretend that telling him he’s warm will get him to stay and comfort her until it’s time for Nathan, cold, icily indifferent Nathan to be home. “I feel—it felt good.”

Elvis opens his mouth to speak before his breath catches in his throat at the sheer intensity of the look she’s giving him. He can’t put a name to what he sees in her eyes, only that it threatens to overwhelm him if he stares at her for too much longer. He has to leave, he needs to go back to work or home or just somewhere where her eyes aren’t burning holes into his soul. He finally starts to step away only for Lilly’s arm to find its way in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Her hand moves to grab his and grasps it so tightly he can’t wrench it from her. 

“Can you—can you stay?” She asks, quiet as a church mouse and looking as if she expects him to say no. As if she expects to be left alone to deal with things once again. It makes his stomach roil and twist and he feels almost like throwing up before he moves to sit down on the bed. 

“Not for too long, Lilly,” he answers, as he watches her move to the other side of the bed, letting go of his hand as she does. He sits down, groaning slightly as he does at the feel of her bed underneath him. It dips more than it did when she was occupying the same spot, his weight causing the springs to creak just a bit more. Lilly waits until he gets comfortable to move closer to him. He stays sitting, his body leaning against the headboard, not even daring to try and lay down in her marriage bed. It makes trying to cuddle with him harder than it should be but after a moment of a deliberation she settles on laying her head in his lap. The warmth of his belly seeps into her head, soothing any headache she’s gained from crying and the vantage point allows her to feel encased in what feels like a protective shell. Elvis tries to keep his hands to himself but as he feels Lilly settle against him and sees every wince and shift his hands move to her hair, running his fingers through it. Scratching ever so softly against her scalp. Lilly’s sigh tells him it was the right thing to do and emboldens him to sing, breathe out into the world the first song that comes to mind when he thinks of her. 

Lilly hears Elvis’s voice singing Jo Stafford to her, a song she’s only heard once or twice before but it feels so romantic that something inside her chest feels warm and feels almost like it’s blossoming the more she hears his voice singing in that low tone, his hands flowing through her hair. 

“But just remember, darling, all the while, you belong to me,” he sings, watching as Lilly’s eyes start to flutter shut, the pain and the emotions of today getting the best of her. The more he sings the more he realizes he wishes those words were true. The more he wishes he wouldn’t have to leave in a few hours. But she is not his wife and he is not her husband and he’ll leave in a few hours as he should. He’ll leave after he shakes her awake lightly, grimacing as she winces in pain and as her eyes practically beg him to stay once again. He'll leave watching her curl back into her sheets but won't see her head move to where he had been sitting or see her hands grab at the pillow that had been behind his back.

She will wake up alone right before Nathan comes home. She will wake up to a simple dinner made with two plates on the table. 

She calls him back over the next day.

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @be-my-ally,  @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted, @marriedtopresley, @memphis-menace, @steph-speaks, @coolgirl462, @vintageshanny, @memphisflash1935-1977, @j-v-9-2, @sexystarfish, @duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, @jessicarcates, @chirssycrumble9456789, @shantellescrivener, @yomammalolha, @honey6578, @urmom11111111111119, @myradiaz, @elvispresleyxoxo, @tryingtogettoelvis, @joegramoe, @rainblue-art, @fav-fanficssss, @moodyblueriver, @misspresley, @fallinlovewithurlove, @ash-omalley, @yynneessmons good heavens, i think that's everyone. those of you who didn't get the tag, know i'm gonna head to the messages within the day. also i including those of you who reblogged the first chapter. i would have done likes as well but there- there was a hefty chunk and i didn't know for sure if you all wanted to be tagged.

additional explanation: so if you haven't just read the fic instead of just scrolling down to the bottom to see what's up, hello. but even if you did just read the fic, let the record show that i myself did write this with the idea that lilly had a very early miscarriage. and it's why i added a tag just in case for it since i know some people avoid the subject matter for their own mental health. however i purposefully left it nebulous because she herself wouldn't know for sure and it's- the same result occurs either way, she is not pregnant and that wrecks her emotionally because she had put so much stock in the possibility that she would be. no matter what if she wasn't pregnant she was going to be sad and depressed and generally in a state of anguish. so, you can read this whichever way you want, it does not really change the intent/what happens afterward in this. but i didn't want to directly spoil all of you in the warnings especially since it causes a turning point of sorts, but i also don't want anyone to be in duress because of me. also i promise honestly these two have a happy ending, just trust me like y'all trusted me with professor presley, okay?

[ya-secret-diary]

Little One Roleplay with @elvispresleyslittle

Elvis's eyes remained on his girlfriend of that period, Ginger, an amused smirk on his face as he watched the woman continue to talk to her younger sister almost as if she were still a child.

It was the first time for Elvis to meet the young girl.

As soon as his beautiful girlfriend turned around, to ask him if it was okay for him if she left her younger sister alone with him, he simply and quickly nodded with a reassuring smile

"S'okay, gingerbread"

He looked at the 19 years old girl then to ask

"Are ya okay with it?"

@elvispresleyslittle