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crash-and-cure · 2 years ago

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 13.9k

My Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he says solemnly.

“...”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“...ok daddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are we going?

Why now?

When will we be going home?

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

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

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

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

But… did you really need his permission?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that such a bad thing?”

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

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

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

“And are you the wrong sorts?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No kiddin’, where y’all headed to?”

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

“You havin’ any fun?”

“...yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t it two truths and a lie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scratch that.

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Up to me to what?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh so you know Mr. Presley?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

“The lying one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why?” you cry.

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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