#the other boys becuase they are all DELUSIONAL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crash-and-cure · 2 years ago

Text

If I Were You Part 4 (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Elvis is here. Elvis is here and you have to deal with the tight rope that will be navigating his presence in your life both inside and outside of the party.

Note: Fun fact, this party was orignally meant to be a retirement party for reader’s dad, though in a certain part I couldn’t figure out a way to make it not seem as though Elvis wasn’t confessing his love for reader’s dad, so I switched it to an anniversary party (My original outline was insane, at one point there was an Elvis impersonator that was scrapped within the hour of me putting that idea in my notes). I know this one came out a lot earlier than the last one but that was because I was working on both of them at the same time with the intention of posting them as one. But then I went off the deep end and so they became 2 big parts rather than 1 insanely large part. That being said don’t expect the next part to be out for a while at least, becuase yes there will be at least one other chapter (please note I said the exact same thing two chapters ago). So please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for the final chapter(s?) of this story and the upcoming one shots.

Word Count: 14.5K

Warnings: Oh boy get ready for this one. Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and delusional behavior as well as some heavy allusions to blackmail, emotional and otherwise, here too. Dubious consent in some areas. Inappropriate relationship with Therapist (Which should go without saying). Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), Daddy Kink, Praise kink, cum eating, and oral sex (m. recieving). Also brief depictions of choking and a nightmare sequence featuring implied drowning. Depictions parental abuse that include parentification, favoritism, as well as emotional neglect and abandonment. Also mentions of Elvis' mommy issues, and more exploration readers daddy issues. Period typical misogyny depicted. Finally depictions of a toxic relationship that include power imbalances, emotional manipulation, uses of coercion, grabbing that leads to bruising and verbal mistreament. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

My Masterlist

He of course has the gall to look amazing right before he ruins your life, his suit almost entirely black which only serves to highlight the bold red scarf that draws your greedy eyes to his open shirt. The scarf itself you’re horrified to recognize, not because you’ve seen it on him before but because it’s almost the exact shade of red you’re currently wearing. His eyes give you a once over before his face breaks into that devastating grin of his, and the dress that previously made you feel dowdy now leaves you feeling exposed.

As he approaches you make an attempt to back away only to be halted by bodies that obstruct any escape. You can feel the beginning of a panic attack as he advances, the crowd parting as though he were Moses himself. You genuinely fear that your heart will leap out your chest as he gets within spitting distance and he spreads his arms while loudly declaring “Now if it ain’t my favorite Doctor.”

Before you can fully pass out from the lack of oxygen going to your brain, you finally see that he’s not looking at you. No… he’s looking past you. “And if it ain’t my favorite patient,” you hear your father say from behind you, all but shoving you out of the way to grasp Elvis’ hand and shake it vigorously. “So glad to see you could make it.”

“Other plans fell through, and I wasn't about to let the night go to waste. That reminds me though,” he looks back to one of the Mafia members who hands him a bottle of wine. “Now I know you said no more gifts, but I ain’t ever ‘bouta show up to a party empty handed,” he said handing off the bottle to you father. You catch a glimpse at the label, and you’re just barely able to suppress your gasp once you recognize it. Your father apparently takes it as his cue to make introductions.

“You remember my boy over here,” he said, patting your brother on the shoulder. “And my beautiful wife, and this,” nudging you forward, causing you to stumble slightly. “This is my lovely daughter, Y/N.”

“Um… Hello…” you say trying not to meet his eyes, so that he won’t know how rattled you truly are. “Pleasure to meet you um… Elvis,” you stick out your trembling hand. Your hope that he wouldn’t see how truly shaken up you were over his presence is quickly dashed when you seemingly jump ten feet in the air upon feeling his lips at the back of your hand.

“Pleasures all mine Ms. Y/N,” he says and you feel his lips brush against your hand.

You’re unsure whether he’s this committed to pretending he doesn't know you or if he’s purposefully baiting you, but as you all but rip your hand out of his, you can’t help your next response. “Actually it’s Dr. Y/N,” you say in your most self-assured tone that you could muster at the moment.

You feel the eyes of the party turn from Elvis to you as though everyone is prepared for god to strike you down for having the audacity to correct him. Your mother especially has told you off for how gauche it was to correct people on your title, as though she herself doesn’t correct people when they use the wrong title for your father and Danny. You can feel all of their gazes, your family’s especially, and you truly believe you’re going to suffocate under all the looks, and you wonder how Elvis can not only stand it but build a career off of it.

You’re only saved from this scrutiny by Elvis’ boisterous laugh, and suddenly your impudence toward the king of rock and roll went from blasphemous to downright charming as everyone within earshot followed suit. “A whole family a doctors,” he states while looking at your father. “You must be so proud, Doc.”

Your father is quick to recover from the apparent shock to his system and wraps his arm around your shoulders, though his tight fist tells you that he hasn’t forgotten how rude you just were to Elvis. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he said, bringing you closer to him. “Proudest moment of my life was seeing both of them get their degrees. This one especially” he says while ruffling your hair. “You don’t see a lot of girls becomin’ doctors, and I’m so proud that my little princess here did the impossible and became one of ‘em.”

This is news to you.

“I gotta daughter myself. Can’t say I don’t love the sound of a Dr. Presley,” he says unabashedly, looking straight at you.

That is also news to you.

You feel your heart leap into your throat at that comment. You’re contemplating letting yourself collapse to escape this situation, you wouldn’t be the first woman to do that in his presence and you’re about 60% sure that at least one of your family members would watch over you in such an event and Elvis wouldn’t be able to spirit you away. But you are already pushing your luck with that earlier comment, and the last thing you want to do is be the cause of another scene tonight. So you instead take the next best course of action, and you decide to run.

“Oh excuse me, can you hold that thought for a moment. I think I see my date over there,” you point to nowhere in particular, “I’ll be right back.” You don’t wait for any sort of dismissal as you make a quick exit from this conversation. Once you feel that you are away from watching eyes you pick up the pace, and once you’re out the front door you all but sprint to your car.

You can’t do this anymore. You have to get away otherwise, you're liable to explode from the sheer stress this entire situation is causing you. You’re leaving, and damn whatever consequences may come.

That fire within you is quickly stamped out when you turn the key in the ignition determined to leave, only to be met with silence. You test it a few more times again only to be met with the same result. Finally you give up and rest your head against the steering wheel while you scream in frustration. You have to fight back tears, as now going back inside is inevitable, and you do not want to have anyone seeing you now when you look as much of a mess you are on the outside as you are on the inside. You nearly jump out your skin when you hear a knock coming from your window, and you look over only to see a familiar blonde.

“Do I even need to ask?” you say tiredly, after opening your car door, part to talk to him, mostly in the hopes the cool night air will steady you somewhat before you go back inside. Jerry offers you a cigarette, and with the way he looks at you, it truly feels like the last offering before the firing line.

“He… he sent me out here to make sure you don’t do something stupid.” he says, which while an answer is far from comforting.

“Do they know?” you ask and he only gives you a questioning look. “The rest of you guys, I mean. About how I met him?”

“Hell most of ‘em don’t even know he was still in therapy after San Diego.”

“Tell me something. Was it one of you or him personally?” you say, but as you see his hesitation in raising a cigarette to his mouth, you back track. You doubt either answer will make you feel better.

“Look Doc,” he says, solemnly lighting up. “You gotta understand this ‘bout us. We all love him, but before Priscilla convinced him to go to rehab, we spent years just watchin’ him die. And now we can’t really say no to him, no matter how off the walls it looks from the outside, ‘cuz we gotta make it up to him somehow.”

“But why?” you ask. “If you saw how he was hurting himself, why didn’t you step in earlier? You do realize that more than likely it was the fact that nobody was saying no to him that kept enabling him?”

“You don’t think we tried?” he says bitingly, smoke seeping out his mouth. “That’s the thing about Elvis, even when you say no, that just means he’s gonna look for someone else to say yes. ‘Till you came along.” he says, using the cigarette to point at you.

“Oh yes, he’s really respecting my refusal,” you say sarcastically, thrusting your hand toward your childhood home as Elvis is no doubt laughing and mingling with the family you never wanted him to meet.

He goes quiet after that, letting a heavy silence fall between the two of you, and you feel somewhat vindicated by his clear discomfort at this whole thing.

“Would it really be so bad, Y/N? I mean most women would kill to be where you are right now,” he says after some time.

“Most women don’t have as much to lose to be with him.”

“Maybe, but I know that you’re good for him,” he says pleadingly. “And I think he could be good for you if you let him.”

“What the hell do you even know about me?” you say venomously.

“Doc listen… I don’t agree with how he’s going about this,” Jerry says, his hands thrown up defensively. “But I’ve known him for years and I’ve never seen him so… so…”

“Focused?” you finish.

“Exactly.”

Being the object of his focus is an intense thing to experience, and it’s something you didn’t fully appreciate until now. When you first started working with him, it was just the two of you alone together in your office and you had nothing to compare it to. The two of you were there for him and to help him get better. And then when you started to become further immersed in his world the focus was still on him, but back there he made it clear: He’s here for you and only for you.

You look down at your feet at this point and you notice the bruise he left on your inner thigh just barely peeking out from the hem of your dress, “What’s he planning Jerry?” you barely manage to whisper.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Either.”

“I’m serious Jerry,” you say with no doubt a crazed look in your eyes. “What the hell am I up against? Proposal? Asking me out in front of everybody? Exposing the relationship here and now? What?”

Jerry takes a long apathetic drag off of his cigarette, before taking an equally long smoky sigh. “I can’t speak for those other things, but I do know that all in all he’s pretty private, so I doubt it’s the last one.”

“...but not impossible?”

“Is anything impossible for him?” he says as he lets the cigarette fall before stomping it out and turning around to head back inside. And you’re once again left alone with your thoughts.

Elvis Presley truly does live on another planet than the rest. That not only he can live in this fantasy but bring people in as well. That’s what truly disturbs you about him. You’ve learned that even the most rational seeming people can fall prey to the likes of him and even your awareness hasn’t been able to shield you entirely from being just as affected by him.

And even knowing this doesn’t stop you from making your way back into the house, back into his orbit.

When you return to the foyer, you don’t need to try too hard to figure out where Elvis is in the house, as you can see many partygoers hovering around the den trying and failing to not look like they're waiting for an opening as Red and Sonny act as bouncers to the door. You speed walk past that entrance resolved to make yourself scarce until the end of the party. Evidently you’re not fast enough as Elvis calls your name, and you hope that people mistake your expression as being starstruck instead of being terrified.

“Why don’t you come in here? From the sounds of things, you probably got some interestin’ stories to tell,” Elvis says.

“Oh, I don’t know about that?” You say, looking around and praying for something that will get you out of here.

“Nonsense. Come sit over here,” he says, patting the coffee table in front of him. You glance at your parents, expecting some type of protest on their part. But nothing comes, if anything they are all too eager to follow his lead, so you concede and make your way into the room. You walk in with the same eagerness as you would walking into a lion’s den, and you take stock as to who was deemed worthy enough to sit with the King. You can make out most of the Memphis Mafia members and your immediate family alongside some of the more prominent friends of your father, all of which has you on edge.

You sit down in front of him, while he sits comfortably in your fathers armchair. The same armchair where your fathers episodes typically take place and where you used to sit with him for hours at a time in your youth. Your father has always been overly protective of that chair and hated when anyone took it, so to not only see Elvis sit in it with ease, but to see your father stand beside and even look glad that he is there is mind-boggling to you. Admittedly the image of him in your fathers spot, is making it a little harder to breathe.

To your horror Elvis notices, “Aaahhh, you don’t gotta be like that lil’ one, I’m just a man like any other.” His tone is comforting, but you can see a mischievous glint in his eyes, telling you how much he is enjoying your humiliation. “Here drink this,” offering his own wine glass. “It’ll help you simmer down.” With all eyes in the room on you, you shakily accept the all too familiar wine.

As you drink, he looks toward your parents and askes with an amused huff if you’re a fan. Your mother jumps at the opportunity, “Oh the biggest. This one was always beggin’ us to let her go to your shows when she was real young. I even remember her crying when you got drafted.” This causes you to do a double-take. You’re not sure if she’s knowingly lying in an effort to add something to the conversation, if she’s conflating you with your brother who was the fan or if she genuinely doesn’t know you that well. You share a look with Danny, who undoubtedly has the same thought as you, but gives an expression telling you not to contradict your mother.

It is at this point that you realize that the odd energy surrounding the two of you is not going unnoticed by the rest. You almost have to admire how bold it is to make a grand entrance to someone else’s party, and then proceed to shamelessly flirt with the host’s daughter. No doubt that is how the rest of the party is interpreting this interaction. Elvis, clearly aware of the audience and the part he’s playing in all of this, leans forward, and says teasingly “So I guess this is a dream come true for you.”

A nightmare really. “Yes,” you say looking down, humiliation burning your face, and desperately wishing you were anywhere else right now. “Speaking of drafted” you squeak out in an attempt to shift focus away from you. “I don’t think you’ve heard my dad’s stories from the war.”

If there’s one thing you can rely on is your father’s willingness to tell war stories. He can go on and on for hours about the men he saved during the war, you suspect so he doesn't have to focus on the men he couldn’t. It has the desired effect and your father begins to regale those around you to the tale of one soldier who everybody thought was beyond saving but he refused to give up on him, and how in the end he was able to save that man. As you think about the fact that you’ve no doubt heard this same story more than a hundred times all through your life, you glance at Elvis, you see he’s been keeping his eyes firmly on you. The unease you feel due to his gaze and the revelation of where you got your fervent need to save him, has you refilling your glass more than once.

When your father finished his story, you hear beside you, “Oh Y/N, where’s your friend Mark?” Your mother asks this innocently as you take a sip, and you try to refrain from choking on the wine. You’re not so shocked at the question itself but the fact that your mother is calling him your friend, when typically she’s the one to insist on referring to him as your boyfriend, despite all of your protests. The fact that she surreptitiously takes a glance at Elvis, is all the confirmation you need to tell you that it was by design.

“Oh yes umm… I thought I saw him, but it was somebody else.” You say trying to act as dismissively as possible, even though you feel so humiliated.

“Oh that’s too bad,” she says, clearly not feeling bad at all. “Well I'm sure he’ll be here soon.” You give a tight lip smile to your mother, as you steal a glance at Elvis who is trying to hide his grin behind his glass.

“Yes, it’s a real shame,” you say.

“Well it’s his loss, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.” Elvis pipes in, his gaze focused on you alone. You look away in apparent shyness, though in reality you’re trying to figure out who to bring in to steer the conversation away once again. That is until Elvis says “So tell me Y/N, where’s the prettiest girl in all of Memphis been hiding this whole time?” and you choke.

“Oh this one, when she doesn’t have her nose buried in books, she’s working at her own practice,” your father pipes in. “You’d never know it, but she’s one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. She got her degrees early and opened up her practice only two years out of school. And she insisted on doing it all by herself.”

That’s not true, you think to yourself. Your father refused to pay for your last two years of undergrad, and you had to practically beg on your knees for the funds they had set aside for a hypothetical wedding of yours to fund your practice. Despite the feeling of being more akin to a lamb being offered up for slaughter, and the backhandedness at the comment itself, you're happy, as that was the nicest thing your father has said about you in years.

Though to be fair it’s one of the only things he said about you in years, you tell yourself which immediately brings your mood back down.

“Sounds like she takes care of business.” Elvis says, leaving everyone in the room practically in stitches, but he does see your somber expression, and in his only act of mercy this whole night he changes the subject. “So Mrs. Y/L/N how’d ya’ like the spa today?”

How did he- Of course he did.

“Oh. My. Goodness. It was wonderful, I’ve never felt better in my life,” your mother gushes. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout it. Ain’t nothin’ but a phone call to get you spots. Who’d you end up takin’ anyway?'' he asks.

“Oh Y/N, of course,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Aaahhh, shoulda known for myself,” he says, reaching over to lift your chin up. “You’re practically glowin’.”

“Um yes, thank you,” you feel your face burn, and he grins at your discomfort.

That’s how the rest of the night proceeds, he would blatantly flirt with you, you would bashfully recoil, everyone would titter at the scene, and you would change the subject. When he figured out what you were doing, he ended up shifting gears and asking questions about you to your parents right in front of you, which only made you burn. What irked you the most was when he referred to your father as Doc, not because your automatic response to that was to look at him, not even at the sly look he gave when he noticed. No. It was that slight pang of something, you refuse to call jealousy, that you felt in the briefest of moments as though it were a pet name he was using on somebody else.

You know that you don’t have to put up with this and that nothing is keeping you in this room, so you could leave at any time. But you’re too afraid of what he might say when you’re out of earshot. There’s also no guarantee he wouldn’t follow you, and from the way everyone is still so enraptured by him, it’s almost certain that they would all accompany.

The only one who seems to have gotten over Elvis’ presence appears to be your brother. You can’t exactly blame him as he had grown up without your father for most of his childhood and upon his return, he very much craved the attention of the stranger that returned. Growing up the two of you had seemingly always had a designated time and place where one of you would receive your fathers love and attention. For you it was privately where you were more akin to an emotional crutch, and that was only when you were younger, whereas for your brother it was publicly where he could be shown off and bragged about like a trophy. Now intentionally or unintentionally, Elvis has seemingly usurped his place as your father only had praise and admiration to sing for him.

At some point in the night your sister-in-law asks you to hold your baby nephew while she runs to the bathroom, and you're left at a loss. Not because you’re inexperienced with babies, but because of how Elvis looks at you as you hold the infant. This is truly the moment that you pray everyone misses in this night, the way he goes a bit slack-jawed at the image of you right now only to be swiftly replaced with a look of hunger in his eyes. This, coupled with that Dr. Presley comment earlier, has you worried beyond belief of your hopes for his affection to wane.

You had hoped that eventually the novelty of having you would wear off, especially given the prospect of the upcoming world tour, and as terribly as it made you feel, you secretly wished this energy would ultimately find a new target. Now you realize, if anything, having you has only reinforced his feelings toward you.

Danny interrupts your inner spiral as he stands at the center of the room and clinks his glass. He picks up his son from your arms and makes a speech about your parents relationship and how wonderful and beautiful it is. He especially takes the time to thank your father for teaching him all the ways to be a successful man and how he’s going to impart all that he learned from your father on to his own son. You hope for your nephew’s sake that he doesn’t. Eventually he wraps up his speech and passes it on to you to continue the toast.

You had maybe recited the speech you were going to make for your parents ten times yesterday, but your muddled thoughts aren’t letting you concentrate, not to mention all the wine you’d been downing since Elvis had arrived. Maybe a sentence or two in do you realize that you’re going to have to compress your speech as the only thing worse than a slurring, erratic speech is a long one. So you end it by thanking your parents for giving you the kind of fairytale love and life to aspire to, and how you wish to find yours someday, and you purposefully avoid looking at Elvis. While everyone decides to kindly ignore your faux pas and politely clap to your words, your father is having none of that and quickly “suggests” you go lay down upstairs for the time being. Before you can get defensive and tell him that you’re not a child that can be sent to her room because he said so, you hear clinking glass from across the room.

You close your eyes, as you know exactly who it is before he even opens his mouth.

“If y’all don’t mind, I’d like to say a few words ‘bout the happy couple,” he said, grinning when he’s met with sounds of approval. “Now I only been knowin’ Dr. Y/L/N here for the last few months now. But goddamn 40 years… that tells you all ya’ need to know about ‘em. Love is a beautiful thing,” he pauses to look directly at you by this point. “But it’s also work. Like Y/N said, love is what makes life worth livin’ at the end of the day. So when ya’ find it, you gotta grab it, and hold onto it with both hands.”

You feel as though you’re going to suffocate at this point, with all the eyes moving back and forth between you and him. Typically you’re able to talk yourself down from the idea that people know about the two of you, but now you’re petrified as you can see the gears in some peoples heads turning as he’s no longer even trying to hide who exactly he’s looking at.

“The fact that these two, been able to make it work this long is truly inspirin’ to me. The life and beautiful family they made together is a dream most people could only wish for, but the fact they made it happen is absolutely wonderful. I always believed that there was such a thing as soulmates, and I truly believe we’re in the presence of some tonight,” his are eyes only on you by now, no longer entertaining the rest of the crowd with his attention. “Now I wanna raise a toast for these two, to the past forty years,” he says, lifting his glass upwards, with every single person following suit. “And…” he pauses, his eyes boring into yours, making sure you’re watching. “The next forty years to come.”

You’re going to be sick, the wine you gulped down not enough to settle your stomach. Everyone is so quick to fawn over Elvis or your parents, you’re able to slip past everyone undetected and make your way upstairs. Wanting to be as far from the party as possible, you find yourself in the upstairs master bathroom, where you proceed to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Dolly, your dad’s beautiful black labrador, was apparently locked in here so as not to disturb the guests downstairs. You appreciate her efforts in comforting you by laying her head in your lap and nipping at your hands in an effort to get you to pet her, however this inner turmoil you feel is not something that can be eased with playing with a dog. Eventually she gives up and wanders out, and that makes you cry even harder because how fucked up do you have to be that an emotional support dog gives up on you?

Why you? Why is he doing this to you? Months? Months!? He’s been your fathers patient and you only learn this now. Why would he hold onto this for so long other than to spring it on you at the worst time? Does he take it as a challenge everytime you push back, to further ingrain himself in your life?

You had opened yourself up to him, letting him in on the complicated dynamic between you and your father, because of all that you knew about him and his mother. Now he’s weaponized that knowledge to further entangle himself in your life. What scared you most was the fact that this was undoubtedly meticulously planned on his part. You could excuse that first week as more taking advantage of the opportunity with the chaos that followed that session, but now there’s no denying how capable he is of thinking things through. You never doubted his intelligence, but you never could have imagined how it would shine through.

And for what? What does he gain from this? To show you how he has your parents' approval? To corner you into a situation where you couldn’t be as closed off as you normally are due to an audience? To demonstrate to you how he is seemingly a viable option for you as a surrogate father figure? In one fell swoop he was somehow able to accomplish all of this.

You sit there and weep for a while, truly believing that you’ve hit rock bottom. But as you start to settle down you hear a very distinct voice coming from your parents bedroom, and you realize that rock bottom has a basement. As you rinse out your mouth, you can only hope that he at least gave enough time between the two of you coming up here.

You find him sitting in your parents bed furiously petting and praising Dolly, not even acknowledging you, which affects you more than you would like to admit. You whistle to get Dolly’s attention and when you point to the bathroom she obediently walks back in.

“You know that rope was there for a reason,” you say bitterly, still facing the door.

“What’s the point a bein’ famous if you can’t cross some lines?” he says with the most self-satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

You thump your head on the bathroom door, ��Ok, I walked into that one.” And he only responds with a deep chuckle at your frustration as you hear him coming closer to you.

“What did you do to Mark?”

“Oh you know how cars can be sometimes,” he says dismissively, though you can hear that slight edge in his tone as he boxes you into the door. The hands roaming your body and the kisses on your neck make it evident why he truly came up here. “Something as simple as a pulled wire and it don’t start.” He uses one hand to move your head to look directly at him. “Sometimes it’s somethin’ big, like all four tires bein’ slashed.”

It’s odd, he no longer tries to mask his downright terrifying behavior to you. It’s because he’s so sure that you can do nothing about it, you think furiously.

As he begins to gently pull down the zipper on your dress, you’re painfully reminded of the party downstairs as you hear someone’s laugh down below. You decide to just give in and hope that you’ll be able to satisfy him before anyone can come looking for either of you. “Now I answered your question,” he says, dragging the red material down before his fingers lightly trail back up your abdomen and pull your bra above your breasts. “You gotta answer mine,” you shiver at his raspy baritone as well as the cool night air hitting your nipples.

That pleasure is almost immediately replaced by fear as you feel his large hand take a firm hold of your neck and he gives a small squeeze for emphasis. “Why the fuck did you lie to me ‘bout where you were gonna be tonight?” he all but growls, and for as frightened as you are, you can’t help the shot of pleasure that races to your core.

“I…I,” you stutter, fear stealing your words. “I didn’t want them to meet you.” Your honesty is evidently unappreciated as you feel the ever so subtle increase in his grip, briefly cutting off your air. You want to say that you don’t think he would kill you, but if he’s proven anything tonight, it’s that you don’t know him as well as you would like to believe.

“And why is that?” he hisses in your ear, loosening his hold slightly.

“Because…because…” your mind scrambles for what has the potential to be your last words, trying to figure out what could possibly save you through the lack of oxygen. You fear that this may be the end until you see a photo on your parents wall; that of them and your brother at his graduation ceremony, all of them with grins that actually reached their eyes for once. All at once you have an answer that is not entirely untrue. “You… you saw how my parents were. I was afraid that they would try to take advantage of you. I’m so sorry Elvis.” your apology punctuated by your tears streaming down your face.

He takes in your words, and you’re terrified that it wasn’t a good enough answer until he finally releases his grip on your throat, and you’re finally able to take a shaky breath in relief. “Still tryin’ ta look out for me,” he purrs into your ear as he’s turning you around and planting a filthy kiss on you. Still unsteady on your feet you wrap your arms around his head as he guides the two of you backwards until his knees hit the bed. “Baby, you gotta come talk and talk to me ‘bout these things. You told me once that communication is key and all that.”

“I’m sorry daddy,” you mumble into his chest, and you feel him rumble in approval at your words.

“Well,” he says as he unbuckles his belt. “Show daddy how sorry you are.”

Your mouth goes dry as you look down and see he’s already standing at full mast. You doubt you’ll never not have this reaction every time you see how big he is, and you don’t need to be told twice as you drop to your knees. Though you do give yourself pause as you glance back over at the door, worried that anyone could walk in at any moment, but then you feel a hand underneath your chin and his ocean blue eyes draw you out once more as he tells you not to worry about the outside world, only him.

You gather as much spit as you can muster before you ease him into your mouth. You immediately start bobbing your head up and down his cock, praying he finishes quickly so that he can go back down without raising too much suspicion.

“Take your time darlin’, I ain’t goin’ nowhere” he purrs, putting his hand on your head as he’s still deep in your throat. “I need to know how sorry you really are.” As much as you want to make this quick in order to avoid anybody walking in, you oblige and continue at a more languid pace. You’ve done this enough to know just how to tease him and prolong this but also as a sort of punishment for how achingly empty you feel without him.

You try to justify your next action as you being efficient and wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, and not because you actually enjoy this. But as your fingers circle around your clit while you have a mouthful of his cock, even you realize how hollow those words sound.

“Hands where I can see ‘em darlin. I’m still upset with you.” he says, and you quickly pull your hand out of your panties and place it back on his thigh. You’re humiliated that he had noticed, but that is promptly replaced by longing as he takes your still glistening fingers and places them in his mouth giving a slight groan as he tastes you. “God I missed that taste,” he rasps. He brushes some of your fly aways out of your face, “I ain’t ever going that long without it again,” he promises.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of you at his words, nor the way your thighs clench together in an attempt to keep yourself from dripping everywhere. He evidently appreciates your enthusiasm as he forces your head all the way down and you're finally given that salty taste you’ve been seeking.

You swallow every bit of him, you say to avoid leaving evidence, definitely not because you enjoy the salty taste of him. Nor because you enjoy that purr he always gives after you show him you’re now empty mouth.

“Come up here and show your daddy some love,” he says in that deep baritone of his and your wine and cum addled brain has no choice but to comply. You should be more worried at the prospect of being caught and make this quick but as you crawl onto the bed with him and you see the way his eyes roll back into his head at the feeling of your wet panties brush against his sensitive cock. You feel powerful in a way you haven’t felt in months, so as you move the offending material away to fully sink down onto him, you put your hands over his mouth to hold in his groans. He merely quirks an eyebrow as he looks at you and you feel him bite his lip, apparently willing to listen to you.

You hate to admit this but you missed this feeling of being so full of him. You should never have experienced this in the first place, but now that you have, you wonder how you ever lived without it before. You take a moment to fully enjoy this feeling of being so complete, before you continue to grind down on him.

In the months since you’ve been with him, you’ve learned he has a particular love for your nipples, and rather than overanalyze it you choose to relish in it as he takes one in his mouth. You throw your head back but you have to bite down on your lip as some pathetic little whimpers escape from you as you do your best to not broadcast to everyone downstairs what the two of you are doing.

“Ahh look how good you take me baby,” he says, lifting the hem of your dress up to get a better look at the two of you joined together. And the sight is too much for you as you pick up your pace and essentially bounce on top of him, mesmerized as you watch him disappear into you. And before too long you finally cum, and your forced bite down hard on his shoulder to hold back what would have undoubtedly been a scream.

You relish in him as well as he snaps his hips upward, determined to finish once again, making the lingering aftershocks all the more powerful. And finally he lets out a strained groan and you feel him painting your walls. You bring him as close as you can manage in that moment, and you find yourself lost once again his fantasy that this could be the way things always could be.

“I love you so much Y/N.” you hear him mumble against your skin.

Your eyes snap at that and you’re pulled back into reality upon hearing his words. This is the first time he’s ever said that and you're frozen, barely able to breath in that moment let alone speak. But that’s ultimately for the better, for as much as you want to respond you know you can’t without saying the worst possible thing.

“Mama you gotta say it back.”

You do love him. You love him and you shouldn’t and you hate yourself for that. And you hate him just as much for forcing these feelings on you.

“Please Y/N, I need to hear you say it,” he begs, and you hear the slight quiver in his voice.

It’s those words that break you and you're now fully weeping, frustrated that he’s offering his love, but you’re burdened with the knowledge of how misplaced that love is. You remove yourself from him as you sob, guilt making it hard to look at him let alone touch him.

“Elvis I can’t love you,” you’re finally able to choke through your tears.

“Can’t?” he says with a hint of a crazed smile on his lips.

“What?”

“You said can’t not that you don’t.”

“Because it’s wrong Elvis!”

“If it’s about your job you don’t gotta worry about that, you can quit and I’ll take care of you. You don’t gotta worry mama.” he says trying to kiss away your tears. “You said it yourself, that there ain’t nothin’ wrong with how we feel, and that we should feel comfortable in expressin’ them.”

You hate it. You hate when he quotes you on something you said just to turn it around on you. This frustration alongside your uncertainty and humiliation is what finally breaks you, and you’re no longer thinking about tact anymore. He’s in your house, he’s in your head, he’s in your heart. You cannot let this go on any longer. “It’s wrong because you don’t actually love me!” you all but shout, “You just miss your mother.” When you realize what you had just said you slap your hands to cover your mouth as though that will take back what you had said. So scared you are of his reaction, you close your eyes and wait for the inevitable blow-up.

“And what about it?”

That truly takes you aback, as you were prepared for any other reaction from him besides seeming acceptance.

“Ain’t it normal? That our folks shape what we look for in who we wanna be with.” he said, taking your face in his hand. “Baby, you asked me once what I missed most ‘bout my mama. And I found all that and more in you.”

“Elvis, do you even realize how fucked up that sounds?” you say ripping his hands away from you.

“You wanna talk to me ‘bout fucked up?” he says with a derisive snort, before taking your jaw and forcing you to look at him for what he had to say next. “I ain’t the one that just sucked a man off in her own daddy’s bed.”

Your eyes widen at that statement, and you feel all the blood drain out of your face. He lets go, and you feel yourself fall back onto your parents bed, your knees suddenly unable to support you. He just looks at you with the slightest smirk on his face knowing he’s well and truly rocked you to your core.

You hurt him beyond belief with your refusal to admit say that you love him, and he paid you back in kind.

“Baby, either we’re both fucked up or neither of us are,” he says in an unsettlingly calm tenor, as he readjusts your dress for you. “I’ll see you monday mama,” he whispers against your cheek, before taking off and you feel yourself sink onto the mattress truly numb to the tears that fall down your face.

You don’t know how long you lay there curled in a fetal position in your parents bed before they arrive. You feel like a child seeking comfort after a nightmare, only this is one you can’t easily wake up from. Your mother seeing you in clear distress acts immediately and goes to your side, but your eyes follow your father. He was never one who knew how to handle any of your negative emotions, and as a result he quickly strides to the bathroom, opens the door for Dolly and just as quickly leaves you alone with your mother. You’re thankful for the small mercy you were given. What Elvis said, it definitely struck a sensitive nerve you didn’t even realize was there. You can’t even bear the thought of having to face your father so soon after hearing that.

“Oh sweetie,” your mother says cloyingly, while rubbing your back. “I understand why you’re upset.”

No you don’t. “You do?”

“Of course,” she said so sure of herself. “I know I would be upset if my date stood me up, especially for an important event like tonight.”

Despite her flaws and her inability to protect you from becoming your fathers emotional crutch for most of your childhood, you empathize with her to an extent. You’re hardly qualified to deal with your father’s condition as you are right now, you could hardly expect a young woman who spent most of her married life away from her husband to be able to handle this. In any case you at the very least appreciate her concern and her willingness to jump into what she believes to be a simple situation.

“Yeah, he… he really hurt me tonight,” you say in a small voice. For what feels like the first time tonight, you’re not lying to her, and you’re overcome by all your emotions at once.

“Oh I know sweetheart,” using her baby voice with you, wiping your tears away. You try to even out your ragged breathing, as best as you could as she continues. “Though I can think of one good thing to come from tonight,” a small mischievous smile adorns her face.

“What?”

“I think Elvis likes you~” she whispers in your ear, as though you were both schoolgirls.

“Ma,” you say in protest.

“No. No. I’m serious,” she says, trying to stifle her grin. “You shoulda seen how that man kept looking over at you. And now don’t be mad, but I may have let it slip that you ain’t that serious ‘bout Mark.”

“Mama you shouldn't have done that,” you say exhaustedly.

“Oh hush you,” she answers, swatting at the air. “He was the one askin’, and I’m not ‘bout to be rude to a guest askin’ questions.”

“You know your daddy and I only want what’s best for you,” she says while raking her nails down your back. “From what I've been hearin’ he’s got a type now, and you fit the bill perfectly. Hell, maybe your daddy can slip him your number. Who knows, maybe he’s in mighty need of a therapist.”

You have no idea. “Ma, don’t even joke about that,” you say in what you think to be a severe tone. You’re caught between wanting to laugh or wanting to cry over the fact that even your own mother didn’t recognize you when you were with him. Who are you becoming?

She only laughs at you. “Alright. Alright. You’re still sad about Mark.” she says while pulling you into a hug. She holds you there for a while and despite your limp state you still relish in it all the same. Eventually she kisses your forehead and says, “Tell you what though, why don’t you go sleep it off in your room. And in the morning I'll make your favorite.”

You already know you’ve extended your welcome in this room, so you eventually stumble your way to the door. “Might even extend an invitation over to Graceland while I’m at it,” she teases when you’re at the door.

You simply close the door behind you, not responding. You blindly make your way to your childhood bedroom and collapse on to the bed relishing the silky feel of your pillowcase on your face. You just want tonight to come to an end and you’re far too drained emotionally to even contemplate what you’re going to do moving forward. You feel a small smile arise when you breathe in the soothing, vaguely citrusy, scent of your pillow, and your eyes snap open, as you remember you didn’t have silk sheets in this house. You don’t even need to turn on the light to figure out what it is, and you simply bunch up the scarf and throw it on to the nightstand, now more irate than conflicted over his antics.

And what do you do about it? You ask yourself. He’s done this so many times, and your only response is to compromise. Despite how upset you are with him, you’re somehow able to fall asleep with his scent lingering on your pillow.

You’re not someone who ever put much stock into the concept of dreaming beyond a reflection of a person’s subconscious emotional state. So it’s not too surprising that your nightmares would do just that as well. You find yourself standing in front of a pitch black body of water you’ve never seen before and you hear a child screaming for help. You’re lucid enough to recognize this for what it is, and that in and of itself is your own personal hell. The feeling of knowing there is a trap before you but also knowing there is no way forward than through there.

You know this is a trap the moment you feel your feet touch the lake and you're barely able to lift it to take the next step in the viscous substance. But you keep going determined that if you can get that kid out then this will all be over. The closer you get the less frantic he starts sounding but you can’t stop yourself from trekking forward determined to see this through to the end at this point.

And at a certain point he starts singing and you know already that you’re not being called: You’re being lured.

Suddenly his voice stops all together and you fear the worst. Until the voice returns just behind your ear alongside strong arms that wrap around you. Before you can even scream, your mouth fills with oil and you’re unable to make noise anymore.

You know you should try something. Anything really; writhe, kick, thrash, hell even bite something to fight your way back to the surface. But somehow you don’t, and not even because your muscles won’t respond to you.

No.

You simply don’t want to.

And you know why.

Because in spite of the fact that you can feel the liquid entering your ears, you still, clear as a bell, hear his melodic voice.

And as you feel your breath leave your lungs, you simply reach behind you to bring him closer.

It is that very real lull in your breathing that wrenches you back to the land of the waking, as you fight for oxygen because clearly not enough is going to your head.

You’re horrified at the dream, but more so at your very physical reaction to it. You’re gasping for breath, tears stream down your face, and sweat beads at your brow. But most worryingly is that feeling you get when you shift your legs ever so slightly.

You didn’t wake up in a cold sweat.

You woke up wet.

It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream in the last few months, but it is the first time you’ve responded like this. Once you settle your breathing somewhat you finally take note of the fact that the sun is nowhere in sight meaning you at best got a few hours of sleep. Despite your resolve to do so you can’t fall back asleep. Still that ache between your legs is not something you can easily ignore.

You give in but try to think of anything besides him, though all that does is make the act feel cold and almost clinical, leaving you only more frustrated. Eventually you look over to the nightstand, and see his scarf in the minimal light of the morning. Its mere presence taunts you, until you take a hold of it and breathe in his heady masculine scent, and that’s when you finally accept what you need.

That’s how you find yourself biting down on the scarf to muffle your whines, relishing in his essence as one hand rubs the ends of the cool fabric on your sensitive nipples and the other desperately rubs your clit. You don’t even bother with penetration because you know you can’t fill yourself as well as he can. It’s on that thought you finally peak, your hips involuntarily rising and falling, and you can almost feel your entrance intermittently clench, still desperate for someone who’s not here.

As you come down from your high, your euphoria is quickly replaced by worry, not so much over the act itself, but over the fact that you physically couldn’t come without him in mind. There is no getting around this anymore. You are addicted to him, just as much as he is addicted to you.

How stupid could you be that you really thought you could try to teach him what a healthy relationship looks like by being in one with him. He’s hurt you. He’s actively causing you stress and grief over your career. And yet that doesn’t do anything to quell the ache in your chest at the prospect that you have to end this.

The fact that you’re hurting him just as much by being with him doesn’t help either. And that only further feeds your guilt over being so emotionally invested into his well being in spite of all he’s done to hurt you. And so on and so forth do you stew in a seemingly endless cycle of grief, rage, and shame all surrounding Elvis, until your mother knocks on your door a few hours later.

True to her word, your mother does make your favorite breakfast, and you're roped into helping clean up. You don’t fault her as it looks like a lot of work and your father has, thankfully, made himself scarce. You stick close to her while you clean up and she patters on and on about family drama and church gossip that you missed the night before. You meanwhile spend that time in your head just reflecting on the night before and having an internal spiral.

What Elvis said couldn’t be possible, could it? Because if that’s true, what does that say about you? Did you come into this field as some sort of voyeur that wished to gawk at the lives of people like you under a professional veneer and pacify yourself at the thought that you’re not as bad as them?

Or worse. Did you come into this job searching for a suitable father figure? Subconsciously looking for one that would attach himself to you, and by sheer chance that happened to be Elvis?

Are you even good at your job? You ignored much of Elvis’ alarming behavior long before the relationship turned sexual. Did you have blinders on only in regards to him, or did you do this with all of your patients? Some patients did on occasion cross boundaries, but you were always able to remain firm with them.

It’s these thoughts that have you eventually leaving your parents home and driving like a mad woman to one place.

“Am I bad for my job?”

“...Well hello to you as well, Y/N.” Mark says dryly as he opens his front door.

“Sorry… um hi.”

“That’s better.” he sighs. “I have no business being snippy with you right now. I’m so sorry about missing last night, but my tires got slashed and I had to handle it,” you internally cringe at that knowing the reason why, and you feel that in some twisted way it was all your fault. “Would you like to come inside, and discuss what’s got you so worked up?” He says stepping back and gesturing for you to come inside.

You walk in and silently seat yourself on the sofa, while he disappears into his kitchen and you can hear him shuffling around until he returns with two mugs. He places one in front of you before sitting opposite of you and taking a sip.

“What’s this about Y/N? Is this about seeing your parents again?” So he’s apparently decided to get right into it.

“No… Yes… Kinda, I don’t know.” you say defeated. “It’s just something one of my patients said to me recently. I…” you let out a long sigh, before taking a drink of the coffee in front of you. “I fear I myself have a codependent personality, and I… I don’t know subconsciously specialized in this very topic as some sick form of denial or normalization. That no matter how bad I may personally be, I could take comfort in the fact that I was not as bad as them. And I don’t know, something about seeing my father yesterday somehow reinforced those doubts that I’m some kind of hypocritical gawker of my patients.”

Even though you know that this isn’t a session, you find it odd to be on the other side of this. You know without giving him the full context he won’t be able to properly help you, but you know you can’t without facing serious repercussions.

“Your… contentious relationship with your father is something that I believe does affect your relationships. But not in the way you fear. When we were together I felt that you were distant emotionally, and you were very reluctant to be vulnerable with me. But in contrast you did want me to be as open as possible, which was hard to do without that reciprocity.”

“...Why am I just hearing this now?”

“I’m gonna be honest, I wanted to bring it up. But I felt like the last thing you wanted to hear from your colleague, let alone your ex, was that you needed to see someone about your issues. Especially considering it’s hard to frame that in a way that doesn’t make it sound so… Freudian.”

You want to argue, but instead you sigh in defeat. Objectively you know he’s right, as he’s one of your closest friends and confidantes, yet even you can admit one of the things that made you incompatible with him, was how tight-lipped you were about your feelings. Hell, he didn’t even know about your issues with your father, until about a year after the two of you had broken up for the last time. Which makes it all the more striking that you’ve been so open with Elvis in comparison.

“Now… about this patient.” he starts, snapping you back to the conversation at hand.

“I’m not here to discuss them.”

“Yes you are,” he says, putting down his mug. “Y/N, I’ve known you for years, and you’re not one to so easily be shaken. So forgive me if I find it hard to believe that one thing a single patient had said would affect you to this point.”

“I…” you start, but quickly deflate as what was the point of even coming here if you weren’t going to be honest with him, if not yourself? “I fear in this case, I’ve become a little too emotionally… invested in this particular patient,” which is as vague as you can get while still describing the situation. “And due to that I’ve most definitely crossed some ethical boundaries that I shouldn't have.”

He gapes at your confession before clearing his throat. “Y/N, this… this happens to the best of us. Some patients may have similar experiences and so we uninten-”

“You don’t understand Mark,” you nearly sob, “What I’ve done, it warrants nothing less than my license being revoked and… and…” you begin to hyperventilate at what possibly awaits in your future. It’s not as though you haven’t imagined the worst case scenario, but this is the first time you’ve had to verbalize that possibility. And even still you're not able to fully express what you fear, because your greatest fear isn’t just that you’ll lose your job, or that he'll get bored and let you go eventually. It’s that he won’t.

You bury your head between your knees as you try to calm yourself. Mark crosses over and rubs a comforting hand on your back, which only makes you weep, because all you can think about is how you wish Elvis was the one to comfort you right now. All your resentment, both for Elvis and yourself, your frustration and your anguish comes out all at once and you cry for at least twenty minutes. What a pathetic image you must make right now, sobbing your eyes out over a man, on the precipice of being unemployed due to your own actions in your ex-boyfriends house.

Eventually when you’re able to pull yourself together enough, Mark finally says something. “I’m not gonna ask what this boundary crossing entailed, but here’s the thing Y/N. Whatever ethical boundaries you crossed with this patient, I think you’ve built up the possible punishment as being worse than it actually would be.” This gives you pause as he continues, “The secret you’ve been trying to keep, it’s not worth the emotional turmoil it’s causing you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Y/N, I’ve heard enough cases where the therapist in question should have definitely had their license removed. However they were able to appeal to the board and simply got slapped with a probationary period so long as the accusations didn’t delve into criminal territory and they cut all ties with the patient in question. Not to mention these were all men, so more than likely the board is going to go easier on you because you’re a woman.” He throws his hands up defensively at that statement. “I’m not saying I necessarily agree with them, I’m just pointing out the reality of the situation.”

“...These men in question, what did they do that you feel warranted their licenses being removed.” You suspect what he may be hinting at, but no matter how much you don’t want to hear it you have to confirm for yourself.

“I’m talking full on sexual relationships with patients. Which yes typically would call for immediate license removal, but these men were able to get away with it due to the fact that they reported themselves, which at the very least did display some level of remorse. Even if it was as a means of getting ahead of the patients reporting them.” He looks at you solemnly, “If it’s a matter of reputation you’re worried about, these cases tend to be handled as quietly as possible, names rarely even being used if no criminal charges are filed.”

As he says those words, the tightness in your chest that has been a near constant presence for months begins to alleviate somewhat. How… how did you miss this? If what he’s saying is true then you can walk. You can walk away and not have to lose everything. There is the small chance of him going public in an effort to ruin you, but with his pride, you doubt he would want any of this being known. You have a way out now, and when you realize that it makes you… sad.

Shame and guilt washes through you, because you know what you are doing is wrong and the fact that you feel distressed that you won’t be able to continue to do the bad thing, is definitive proof as to how terrible a person. You know that you have to end the conversation now because if he’s already bringing up those types of therapists, you fear that he may already have an inkling as to how involved you are with Elvis. You hang your head not wanting to see if he’s figured it out or not, and you gaze into your now cold coffee, just barely able to make out your own reflection. But even with a clear picture you doubt you would be able to recognize yourself.

“Look Y/N, I don’t deal with patients as consistently as you do. But I do know that in this field, attachment is not as uncommon as we would like. Especially with the type of patients you specialize in. That being said, the very nature of our field makes it hard for us to not become attached to some degree. But it’s the level of that connection that defines how well we are able to do our job. If you have become so attached to this particular patient that something they say will affect you this much, you won’t be able to treat them properly, and you definitely won’t be able to treat your other patients properly.”

You nod solemnly at that before letting out a long sigh. “Thank you Mark, I-I really needed to hear that. You’ve… you’ve definitely given me a lot to think about,” you sigh, putting down your coffee with unsteady hands.

“Of course.” He smiles, before a pensive look comes over his face and he catches your shoulder. “Out of respect for our friendship, I’m not gonna report this, but understand that this is the last I want to personally hear about this situation until you’ve taken proper action.”

“Meaning until I’ve reported myself and cut ties with the patient.” you question, completely drained from the madness that has been the last two days.

“Meaning until you’ve done what you think you can live with, whatever that may be.” he says while pulling you into a hug. For all that you had to hold back, you feel some pressure lift from your shoulders now that someone knows to some extent what has been making you act the way you have been.

You can reflect on why you essentially needed Mark’s permission to break it off with him at a later time, but right now you’re going to use the momentum in order to officially purge Elvis from your life.

Once you’re back in your apartment, you immediately get to work removing any and all physical evidence of his influence in your life. You pack up all the clothes, all the jewelry, all the records, and every other gift you can find, you even go so far as to remove a lightbulb he had replaced for you. In the end you’re left with a gutted apartment and a painful visual reminder as to how much of an impact he’s left in your life in such a short amount of time.

You’re almost grateful at the sound of your phone ringing, as it pulled you out of your thoughts before you could dwell on that observation for too long. As you lift the receiver off the hook you realize how late it is and that the chances of this being a normal phone call are slim. Hesitant though you may be, you still commit to answering.

“You’re a remarkably hard woman to get a hold of Ms. Y/L/N,” a voice answers in an accent you can’t quite place, though the man sounds vaguely European. You’re completely caught off guard by the man's use of your last name, as you don’t recognize the voice and you hope against all logic that for once, this not be Elvis related. But you’re not that lucky and you know it.

“Dr.”

“What?”

“It’s actually Dr. Y/L/N. And may I ask who this is?”

“You’re speaking to the man that gave the world Elvis Presley of course.”

You realize all at once who you’re talking to. How could you not? He’s not only been the villain of the media but he’s been the proverbial boogeyman in your office. You had never met the man, nor heard him speak, but you’ve heard the very worst about him from Elvis himself, so you already don’t have a favorable opinion. But you can’t act on those feelings without giving yourself away as having some connection to him.

“Uhm… Ok. I-I don’t know what that has to do with why you’re calling me?” You say, willing your voice not to betray how shaken he has you. In the back of your mind you never feared being confronted by your patients' abusers as you always told yourself that if this were to ever occur you would be a bulwark for your patients. A pillar of strength and self assurance that those that did them harm had no power over you, therefore no power over them. But now with all that you have to lose you find your palms are clammy and your knees quite literally shaking.

“Don’t play coy with me girl,” he says in a voice so vile it has your skin crawling. “Now I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout therapy, but I think even I would a heard about this radical new treatment of shrinks fucking their patients to make them right in the head. But only the best and newest for the King of Rock and Roll I suppose.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins, as this is the first time you’ve been directly accused for your repeated misconduct. “I think you have me confused for someone else,” you say in a small defeated voice. In spite of the fact that you know you’re made, you still hold on to the smallest sliver of hope that playing dumb will somehow get you out of this mess.

“I know exactly who I am talking to Ms. Y/L/N.”

And it’s with that final misuse of your title that you start seeing red. “You obviously don’t, as I’ve told you before, Mr. Parker, it’s Dr. Y/L/N. Unlike you I take pride in my title because I've actually earned it. And do you know how I earned it?” you say all the pent up rage at your situation of the last few months finally coming out, and being directed at a man who both does and doesn’t deserve it. “From studying the likes of you and how you operate as nothing more than a parasite that is determined to suck the life out of vulnerable people. You go through life believing we’re all simply puppets for you to control, but here’s the reality you refuse to accept, you have no authority over him, and you sure as hell hold no authority over me.” Your chest is heaving at this point, the smallest ray of pride finally shining on you after all these months of shame. All too quickly though, all the wind is knocked out of your sails, as you hear him do an almost full belly laugh at your tirade through the phone.

“Quite the spitfire, ain’t you? I can see why you remind him of his Mama.” That hits you like a punch to the gut, because that observation on his mother didn’t exist in Wilson’s notes. Only yours. How could he have accessed those?

“She ain’t ever had a nice thing to say about me either,” he continues on, emboldened by your stunned silence. “But it’s you and me who are the same, ain’t we? Choosing his schedule, his medical doctor, hell his family even. Of course the only difference is I ain’t ever get into bed with the boy. The other girls ain’t never had nothin’ between the ears that I had to worry ‘bout. But you… you’re different. You came along with your snooty degree and your cockamamy talks about feelin’s, and you think you can take everything I worked so hard to build.”

“I don’t think you understand Mr. Parker,” you say sternly. “Even if I was his therapist and even if I was doing all that you're accusing me of, after all I’ve heard you done to that man, what does this have to do with you? As far as I know from what the news has been saying, you’re his former manager, who abused and exploited the man for almost twenty years.”

“It is a shame really, his ability to be so easily influenced by outsiders,” he says, ignoring your denials and not even trying to refute your statements. “Truly he’s incapable of being left to his own devices for too long. And the fact that he now latched himself on to his shrink of all people proves my point, he needs someone else to be in charge of him. Now there are of course legal routes to go through with that, but I don't think we need to do all that, especially when you’re now in his ear.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His daddy, a good friend of mine, would of course be appointed guardian and of course with his hands full taking care of his son, someone’s going to have to take care of the business side of things. In spite of all that ugly business months ago, he loves his son and would no doubt be happy to step in.”

You’ve heard of such circumstances where an adult is deemed unfit to take care of themselves, and all financial assets, medical decisions, and power of attorney are handed over to a family member with the understanding that they will have the interest of the person in mind. Elvis’ next of kin wouldn’t be his young daughter, it would be his father. Vernon, whom you never met personally, but the last thing you heard about him was that his role in the company had been reduced significantly, to the bare minimum monthly stipend and almost no contact with his son.

“Nothing about his mental state would deem that necessary and he’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions.” you assert, more to yourself rather than Parker.

“And where have those decisions led him? Sleeping with his therapist speaks volumes as to how unwell he is in the head. Not to mention all the other crazy stunts he’s been pulling in the last few years when he was givin’ away cars and shootin’ TV’s. He even tried to put a hit out on one a Priscilla’s boyfriends, and he only gave up on that idea because he went to rehab. No doubt any judge will just take one look at all that and know that this boy can’t take care of himself. Especially when he don’t know who to trust.”

“And he can trust you!?”

“He can trust that I want him to make money, so that I can make money,” your stomach roils and your jaw drops at this statement, truly astounded and rendered speechless by the audacity of this man. But you know that it’s not the money, it's the power that Parker wants back. You realize that this is why he went to you rather than Elvis, he wants to control him and he believes he can do so vicariously through you. He doesn’t realize how little control you have anymore.

“I take it, you know exactly what a situation like that would mean?” he says smugly over the phone. “I am not an unkind man Ms. Y/L/N, and I know you just wanted to help him. But perhaps you can start helping yourself. I made that boy what he is today, and I want back in. And I know you’re the key to that goal. You’re going to preach the benefits of forgiveness to him or whatever the hell story you need to spin, and once you get that done, I can work the rest.” He says slowly, emphasizing every single word of his sentence, as though you were stupid.

“I would never in a million yea-”

“You probably thought the same thing about sleeping with a patient. And yet you did just that,” he tuts as though you were simply a naughty child. With the way you’re rendered silent while looking at your feet, you have serious doubts that you aren’t. “If your fancy degree can tell me one thing, it’s that you’re not a stupid girl. And from the song one of his buddies’ been singin’, you want out.”

“Who?”

“It don’t matter who,” he states gravely. “What matters is that the only way you can get out is if I can get him to let you go. I’m a man who always gets what he wants, and in either case I will. The only thing you need to worry about is if you will be on my side or in my way.”

“You’re not gonna get away with this!” you shout, but you’re only met with the sound of the dial tone. Elvis had described how in his worst interactions with Parker he was prone to fits of destructive rage, and you have never sympathized more with him than after this single encounter with the man as you throw the receiver to the ground.

But you don’t have the luxury at being righteously angry at him because at the end of the day this is all a result of your pride and stubbornness. You should have let Elvis go long ago, you should have turned yourself in long ago and now the relationship will not only hurt you but devastate him. There was no reason it had to have gotten to this point.

It’s ironic really, you wanted to be the hero of this story, who helped a troubled man out of this dark place, only to get just as lost in that place with him. It hits you like a semi what those dreams meant now. But unlike those dreams you’re given the awful choice now of who will be the one to get out. You are so far from the heroine of this story, you are in a position where you have to decide whether or not you’re going to become the villain.

No… It’s choosing how you’re going to be the villain, as either option is going to hurt him in the long run. Unless…

As the idea forms in your head, you surprise even yourself how you don’t feel the onset of a panic attack, instead you feel an almost unsettling sense of calm. This dreadful feeling of finality washes over you, keeping you grounded to the moment, because no matter how much you had tried to prevent this, this shoe was meant to drop eventually. But that doesn’t mean you're going to let that asshole be the one that comes out on top of it in the end. As you pick your phone back up to make the call, you know that this is the end for you, but it doesn’t have to be the end for him.

You would think that it's lucky that he’s the one that picks up, were it not for the fact that this night has you truly believing you’ve tapped any luck of yours dry. You don’t leave a alot of room for him to speak, you just tell him to meet you in your office as soon as he can. He sounds perturbed but intrigued and he agrees to be there.

As you sit in your office, you once again see your doctorate degree. You know that save for proven academic dishonesty, your old university can’t revoke your degree, but you idly wonder if they would make an exception once they hear how monumentally you’ve messed up. You hang your head in shame as you prepare yourself to face the future.

You hear him enter your office, though with your head in your hand you’re too ashamed to look at him fully. You ignore his questions and simply slide the document toward him.

“Baby what’s this about?” He said, grabbing the papers.

“That's the file needed to make a complaint against a licensed psychiatrist in the state of Tennessee,” you say, absolutely sure of the steps that must be taken to protect him. “If you need, I can give you the number of the board of psychologists to file the complaint directly to them.”

“Darlin’ you’re scarin’ me. Why would I do that?” Sounding even more confused.

“Elvis, I-I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice quivering. You steel yourself as you take a deep breath and open your no doubt bloodshot eyes again. “I don't know how… or who, but… Parker got a hold of me.”

The concern in his face drops and is quickly taken over by a fury you’ve never seen in him before. He stands up and immediately begins to stalk around the room, restless and enraged like a caged lion as he all but roars “What did that sonuvabitch want?! What did he tell you?!”

“Elvis…”

“That old toad ain’t never spout anythin’ but lies! I swear if I ever see him again, I’m gon-”

“Elvis he knows!” you shout. You’ve never raised your voice to him, so he's taken aback and you continue. “He knows about us, and he’s threatening to go public with it if I don’t get him back in. And if he goes to the media, then he’s going to use this as a reason as to why you should be under a conservatorship.”

“What the fuck is a conservatorship?!”

You swallow the bile in your mouth as you tell him what that would entail for him, and how either way Parker finds a way back in. “Elvis this is why you have to be the one to report me, because then it’ll at the very least demonstrate how you are capable of looking out for yourself.”

You expected more rage. You expected belligerence. Hell you were even prepared for denial. What you weren’t ready for was the quiet. Elvis, who's someone almost constantly in motion, falls back into his seat, completely frozen. His face is devoid of all color and his breathing is coming in short bursts, but it's his eyes that frighten you the most. It’s the look you’ve become all too familiar with as it’s the almost exactly the same thousand yard stare you’ve seen in your fathers eyes hundreds of times. Acting on instinct alone, you crossover to him, drop to your knees and bring your hands to his face to try your best to ground him.

You beg, you bargain, you even resort to kissing him all over his face in an effort to bring him back to you, until eventually you feel the tears start to fall down his face. It’s like a floodgate has been open as he leans forward and you hear him break into heart-breaking wails on your shoulder. You’re no stranger to people crying in your office, not even to men crying in your office, but this is a new experience with Elvis. His full body, wracking sobs are a devastating thing to hear, and you can’t help the tears that fall from you as you hold onto him. You cry even harder as he begins to whimper how much he loves you and how sorry he is that he got you into this mess.

“I-I’ll go back,” your head snaps up at this. “Y/N, I’ll go back to him, if that’s what I gotta do.”

“Elvis, please…” you sob.

“He’s still got his goddamn claws in me!” He shouts in your face, and seeing your fear he dials it back with a softer tone. “But he ain’t gon’ get them in you Y/N. I-I can’t lose you too.”

“No Elvis, listen,” you plead, taking his hands and all but begging on your knees. “If you report me, and we stop, then he-”

“Then he can still go public and paint me as a fuckin’ headcase,” he says disheartened, as he seems to accept his fate.

You, on the other hand, are having trouble wrapping your head around how you could have overlooked something so crucial. He’s right, you think, Nothing can stop Parker from going public at any moment. Unless…

Suddenly a new idea strikes, and you gather yourself for what you have to say next, “Not if you get ahead of the story.”

“What?”

“If you get to the press before Parker, then you’re the one who controls the narrative. Parker is a known crook so anything he has to say about it will be seen as him desperately trying to be a part of the story.” you try to reason.

He looks at you and you can hear the gears shifting in his head as he thinks of this suggestion. In spite of his tear stricken expression, a small smile begins to form until it abruptly drops, “Baby… if I do that, then ain't you gonna lose your-”

“I know,” you cut him off, attempting to sound as neutral about the whole thing as possible. You’re trying to remain a bulwark for his sake, because the last thing you want is for him to feel guilty for the situation you created. “It’s alright Elvis. If you go back to him, you’re going to die.” You’re not sure what makes you so certain, but you’ve never been so sure about anything else you’ve said to him. “I-I couldn’t live with myself if you went back to him because of me,” you speak truthfully, though your bottom lip quivers. “This is-” you choke, but quickly recover. “This is the best way to ensure that he doesn’t have anything over your head.”

And just like that everything you’ve built, everything you’ve worked for will be dashed away. You could have potentially survived a private investigation, but being thrust into the spotlight on an international, no global, scale and your actions of the past year being put under the microscope. There is simply no way, whatever story Elvis comes up with, the psychology community at large will have to put up a hard line as to acceptable behavior and they will do everything in their power to disown you.

All those sleepless nights spent studying, all the money you saved, and all the estranged relationships. You’ve put everything you are into building up this practice and all of it is being thrown away to save one patient.

Let’s hope he’s worth it.

“You’re comin’ with me,” he states, taking your shaky hand in his.

“Elvis, no…” you half-heartedly protest, but it seems that the last twenty-four hours have taken all the fight out of you, as your grip on his hand tightens because even you recognize you don’t want to let go. You’re fucked anyway you spin it, so whatever story he spins about your relationship is out of your hands anymore.

“Yes you are,” he states, putting his hands underneath your face and bringing you to look into his eyes. His cerulean pools bore into yours, and you know you’re done for. “Baby, I promise you right now. I’m gon’ take care of you, and you’re gonna take care of me.” he breathes out caressing your cheek. You lean in further and you resent how easily you submit to his touch, how you’ve both literally and metaphorically put your life into this unstable man's hands. You see one corner of his mouth curl into an relieved grin as he says, “Our life’s gonna be perfect. You know why?”

You know for a fact it’s not (at least not for you), but you know exactly what he wants to hear. “Because I’m your girl” you answer in a small voice, while a few tears fall out of the corner of your eyes.

“That’s right mama,” he says, brushing away your tears, his mind fully lost in the fantasy you’ve helped make a reality. “You’re always gon’ be my bestest girl.”