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aconflagrationofmyown · 8 months

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but then…Gigi

Part 4 - A Big Daddy Elvis Fanfiction

Previous chapter link for context, picking up where we left off

I owe so much thanks to my friends for all their help and input and the joy they bring me, thanks to them and my precious followers this fluffy/wacky little universe even exists. I’ve never had so much fun on a collaboration before in my life, I love y’all so.

Warnings: 18+, sexual content and heavy themes… ok so this is smutty and fluffy, right? But still there are some things that might be offensive regarding narrator’s voice so I want to warn about those and distinguish them from my own opinions. For much of this part we are in Elvis’ head and, due to it being summer of ‘77 -it’s a bit of a rollercoaster in there. Please be warned there are throwaway lines reflecting poor self esteem, depression, misogyny, severe health issues and the use of the word fat to describe oneself negatively.

Enjoy

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Elvis feels a pang of sympathy for his boys’ hysteria when he runs into a crowd of fans as he himself sits panicked in the Stutz, engine off and his shades on, watching Gigi check that the coast is clear on the sidewalk and buzz into her apartment building -in just his jacket and panties. Her sandals are gone somewhere, too, probably back at Graceland. Only that anklet left on like some harem jangle.

Her sooties must be burning on the sunbaked concrete, maybe that’s why she’s skipping everywhere she goes like a damn foal. His blood pressure feels like it’s skyrocketing just watching this show and the fact she looks like she’s in her element terrifies and excites him and -getting to know Gigi is a dangerous hobby.

As shameless as a toddler that one, and every bit as unpersuaded about needing to give a shit about things like flashing her butt cheeks for all of Memphis.

Her tanned butt cheeks.

Which brings up all sorts of questions he’s too scared to ask and will have to address with Tammy. He’s sure she’s to blame for nude sunbathing, he just hopes that wildcat has enough decency to do it privately. Very privately. Hopefully in a bullet proof bunker if Gigi is with her. This girl has been directionless and fatherless for too long; Elvis’ mouth dries out in anticipation of being that guiding, molding, firm hand in her life -the rest of his body too sedated to respond normally although he feels that weird ass dribble his pecker has recently started to do when it’s very much willing but can’t physically swell to poke a gal. He thoroughly regrets not wearing underpants to catch some of this… horny… pre-cum…incontinence…the baby blue of his tracksuit showing a small stain on his leg. Just the size of a penny. Maybe a quarter.

He takes his glasses off and rubs at his sweaty eyes.

Gigi is standing in the opened doorway, waving him in with a huge, expectant smile on her face, and feeling something he hasn’t felt since 1955 sneakin’ into Barbra’s room, he lumbers out his side of the car and doesn’t even bother to make sure no one’s looking, even though she whipped her head around to clock their surroundings like top paid security for his sake. If someone sees and thinks he’s going into a college girl’s dorm to corrupt her then they’d be right, and it'll make far prettier gossip than what’s coming out in Red’s book next month.

He slips past her and she runs her hand along his chest as he goes by, giddy and fond. She waves to someone behind his back,

“Hey Paolo! Good afternoon!” Elvis turns just in time to see an old shriveled man in an undershirt waving wildly at her as the door shuts.

“Who’s that?”

“Our repairman. Sweetest little man.” Gigi gushes and Elvis motions for her to lead the way up the stairs while speculating with nauseating surety on what Gigi might be found wearing -or not wearing- when dear sweet shriveled perverted Paolo makes up a problem with her sink and comes into her apartment. “He’s taught me how to make Limoncello jello! You won’t find anything more refreshing!”

“How very epicurean for a regular, ole handyman.” he can’t help but grumble, usually highly self-aware and unbiased for the potential learnedness of common folks. He knows he’s one. But right now he wants to make a carpet from Paolo’s nose hair.

“What does epicurean mean?” Gigi doens’t without missing a beat as she unlocks her own front door.

Now they’re back on solid, Elvis-worthy ground, he can smile indulgently as he enters her space and explain, “Somebody who likes to in-duuulge in the luxurious and the sensuuaal, it was a whole philosophy.”

“Oooh, that explains why I didn’t understand.” she giggles, “I’ve flunked philosophy twice and I’ve got a whole pile of papers over there that’s supposed to be homework but a hero of mine invited me to go swimming at his place so, there they sit!” she shows off a rather alarming stack of papers next to the poorly made up bed, half hidden by the swim suits and cut offs strewn about the carpet. “Sorry for the mess, a lotta the girls got ready over here and wrecked it. Half of it is mine though, you should’ve seen the things they suggested I wear for you! Thongs, Elvis! Actual thongs! And here I was unsure if you felt just fatherly towards me or what so I- I didn’t wear a thong.”

Elvis takes a seat on her bed since he figures they’re now past being modest about what they’re gonna do and asks, “What’s a thong?”

“You don’t- it’s this sorta thing.” Gigi is a little shocked that this man of the world doesn't know such a thing and spins around a few times before finding a very small scrap of fabric and bending over, she picks it up. Elvis forgets what she was getting off the floor for a few minutes before she starts spreading the fabric strings apart and pronouncing, “This is a thong!”

Elvis squints his eyes as if trying to see a ship on the edge of the horizon or something, “I don’t get it.” he says at last, “How’s it work? Go around your neck?”

“No, silly!” she giggles even harder in shocked exasperation, “It’s panties.”

“No way in hell.” he sounds awed, “No way, how in tarnation does that work?”

“They’re like…very little, small, tiny panties!” she explains with a hyped tone as if the more enthusiastic she is the quicker he’ll get the mechanism.

“That -those ain’t gonna hold or cover nothin’.” he insists, “Now you’re the one pullin’ my leg.” he notices there’s a magazine with his face on it stashed under the teetering bedside lamp and makes mental note of that before leaning back against her massive stuffed bear.

“They’re not supposed to work, they’re supposed to be sexy?” she tries again before playfully putting them on her head and striking a pose.

“Sexy, hmm?” he rumbles, his eyes twinkling and she knows she’s got his interest at least, whether he’s fibbing ignorance on knowing about thongs or not, she can’t tell. Suddenly it strikes her that Elvis Presley himself is lounging on her bed, leaned against the stuffy she grinds herself on to the thought of him pretty regularly. Suddenly having his jacket zipped at all feels oppressive from the rush of heat that sight floods her with.

“If they were for comfort we’d just go without.” she laughs, “They dig up into your…” she looks about before dropping her voice and taking a couple steps closer to him, “butt crack.” she blushes furiously at having to name it and his fingers itch to do unspeakable things to this little girl.

“Show me.” he says, low and steady and a little removed, just cool enough to be commanding, just warm enough to make her feel (very) admired. He sees her sweet blush turn into droopy lidded arousal before his very eyes and with meek acceptance she hooks her fingers into her swim bottoms without a pause.

They drop to the floor in a nylon puddle between her legs. Just like that. Simple as that, her bare little pussy lips are peaking out from his jacket at him and she smiles gently at his shock as she hooks her legs through the thong’s leg holes and shimmy’s the stupid excuse for lingerie up her stems. “It’s just you, daddy.” she explains in a confidential whisper that melts his heart.

“Yeah, jus’ f’me, baby girl.” he makes a pronouncement of his own, hushed and boyish and her own heart feels too big for her chest at the way his blue eyes somehow soften in wonder at her exposed self. She had expected something rougher, ravenous, impetuous. Not this revenant appreciation that bends his whole frame towards her with open mouthed puffs of longing. He aches, wishing he’d brought his Polaroid to snap this memory forever, add it to his collection. A little something tangible he could thumb at it in the future and remember this night when an terribly hot, painfully young, big tittied woman had wanted him.

“Will ya do a lil spin f’me? Wouldn’t want that wedgie to go unappreciated, now would we? So sweet to try it on for me.” he coos and then hums deep and appreciative as she does a couple slow spins for him, that humm she’s only ever heard in amplified concert footage sending sparks to her very toes.

“You like them?” she asks, toes curling in nervousness for his verdict.

He lounges back and strokes his mouth a few times while cocking his head to the side. She’s breathing so heavy he thinks if he even blew on her she’d come. “They’re practical.” he decides definitively.

“Are they?” she sighs with relief.

“Mhmm,” he mumbles soberly, “quite. For what we’re up here to do, they’re practical.” he adds this slowly and doesn't miss her shudder or the way her eyes light up in relief that they’re getting to the point. He likes that she’s letting him lead, she’s a good girl. “Step closer baby.” he stays lounging so she does all the work and when she gets to the edge of the bed he keeps motioning with his fingers until she’s kneeling on it herself, clambering forward over his lap. “See, when a man makes a meal of a lady’s lil garden, s’real important to have unrestricted access.” he proves his point by slipping his index finger along that abominably small seam of fabric that’s poofy and filled out with bare labia lips.

“Daddy.” she wails at the contact, shaking apart already and that along with her little place has his head thudding some kinda way. She’s gripping onto his neck, near clawing whatever part of him she can grab, close to tears again like a child not getting what she wants. The art of the tease seems lost on her, she’s so hungry.

He’s gotta ask. “Honey, y-yo- honey you ain’t actin’ younger for my sake, are ya?”

“Oh no,” her face turns down again and he’s done it again, insulted her somehow, “you find me immature?”

“No!” he shouts and then tries to moderate himself, “No, no it’s jus’ that -you’re a baby, thas all.”

“Well,” her grin is guileless, “you’ll just have to bear with me, big daddy, I’m all so excited I’ve got Elvis Presley in my room! Elvis Presley! You’re Elvis Presley.”

“I-I-I am.” he admits, perturbed, “What’s wi- why Big Daddy?”

“Cause that’s what you are!” She says it like she’s assuring a pageant queen she won the prized title. “Elvis Presley’s about to eat my pussy.” she murmurs to herself as she kicks her feet and he recalls yet again that he is sat down on her fluffy pink bed for a reason. He tips her over into the sheets.

“So uh, you’ve thought of this before, hmm?” he smirks slyly and reaches out to clasp an ankle in his big, ringed hand, his tanned digits encircling it entirely and he thumbs at the veiny soft spot beneath the ankle.

Gigi moans at his slight pressure.

“That’s a pressure point for the reproductive system, did you know that sir?” she is as eager about information as he is, and clever too.

“So that’s why all the girls lose it.” he hums with a laugh, “No, Gigi, I didn’t know tha’, you like gettin’ rubbed?”

“YES!” she sighs so loudly it’s like a little wind tunnel through the room, “Though it doesn’t happen much.” That makes his heart hurt in sympathy and he adds his other hand to knead her toned calf, those legs of hers spreading jello, just like he calculated they would, “I love to rub folks though! Love givin’ people rubs.”

“Who do ya rub?” Elvis is cross at this new information.

“Oh, anybody who needs it!” she makes it worse.

“Lotta demand for that at Uni?”

“Yeah, so many sore athletes after games.” she is perfectly sober about it, while so enthused he wants to murder every person those sweet hands have descended upon in soothing kindness. “But I think you’re the best I have ever had do it to me, oh Lord you’ve got magic in those hands.”

He’s tempted to tell her how true that statement is but he can’t bear her laughing at him right now so he leans further across the bed and inches towards her knees with his squeezes and tries to elicit more of those moans.

“Oh god I can’t believe Elvis Presley is rubbing my legs.” she gasps again to the ceiling and it’s this youthful narration of her life happenings that makes him think of his Yisa and if he could he’d put both of these little darlings back into their fragile eggs to keep them away from the cruel world.

“So, you done thought of this before, baby girl?” he asks, casting a little smug look over at that ponderous stack of his records and the TV set stationed right at the foot of her bed. He knows the answer already, thanks to Tammy, but it nags him, the question of which Elvis she was touching herself to after her first visit to his house. Her closed eyes and near drooling mouth give him the idea that if he’s good enough at this, puts enough effort into being what he used to be naturally, she can keep those pretty eyes closed and he can morph back into whatever daydream she’s once had. He could give this pretty little girl a little time capsule and before she’s fully awake, slip away again, leave before she recalls it was the gift of an old man, his potency gone to seed but his love for women and their secret parts just as strong.

He bends over, gut digging into his diaphragm and knocking out his wind, presses a kiss to the inside of her knee. “Tell’me ‘bout when you thought of me.” he murmurs into her warm skin. He notices he leaves goosebumbs in the wake of his touch.

“Mmm?” she’s goners with just this firm kneading of her limbs, breathing heavy and sedated from lust.

“Have ya thought of me when you’ve played with yourself?” he’s a little sterner than he should be, just because he knows the answer and wants an honest reply.

“Oh yes.” she gives it, unabashed.

“Is it my movies? Ya watch my movies when ya touch y’self?” he prods, working up to that baby soft stretch of inner thigh that still seems like the most fragile of all God’s creation, like cotton Candy holding ligament and muscle together by some miracle. “Or ya prop up that record right there?” he pulls his head up long enough to point at the foremost record cover in the stack -Live From Madison Square Garden, it reads, and features him silhouetted against black, crouched in a white jumpsuit.

A more mature option; interesting.

Gigi opens her eyes and cranes her head to see what he’s pointing at. “Oh, yeah, sometimes that one,” she nods, “it’s the closest thing I could find.”

“Closest to what, the genuine article?” he snickers in judgment, “It’s goddamn cardboard, at least watch a movie like a normal pervert.”

“The closest to how you are now!” she pouts adamantly, “You’re so…smooth… in all your movies. Nothing like how I know ya when you drive past on the street.”

Well, that’s something else, even if Elvis doesn't quite get what that something is. It’s absurd, the fact she existed all along on some sidewalk he sped past. “How’s that now, honey?” he asks.

“I couldn’t find anything closer to what you are now!” she explains, “Nothing since Aloha and -well I like that one, don’t get me wrong but I,” she bites her lip and a skittish flinch settles into her eyes.

“What about that one, darlin?” he begs softly.

“Well I like how hairy and strong ya look but,” she doesn’t look down or away when she gets to her point, instead she bends forward to be nearer to him, to hold his hands as they lay on her legs, to peer into his eyes gently, “you seem too sad in it for me to -to use it like that.”

He’s touched, so much so he swallows hard and dips his head to kiss her knobby little kneecap. “T-that were a rough time in my life.” he admits and his voice has gone wrecked. It is odd beyond words how he feels like she’s a child to be protected but just like a child at a sleepover he can duck under the covers and admit his worst fears to her.

It all goes back to being proportionally heartbreaking as Gigi leans forward and makes him lean back, clambering methodically back into his lack as if she owns the damn space, holding his furry cheeks tenderly as she licks those luscious lips and slots them against his. This he is familiar with, nothing odd at all about this age old ritual of him being seductively depressed and a girl soothing it away with her tongue and hands in his hair.

He allows himself the liberty of stroking her bare back beneath his jacket, figuring if he’s gonna lick beaver he might as well do a little seducing beforehand, cherish her like she deserves, give them both the works. As much as he can give with this dull headache and the meds making him feel so leaden he could fall asleep in seconds. He takes a breath and tries to clear his head, focusing on kissing her well, kissing her better than any of those stupid young jocks ever managed.

Back at making a case to her that he could make her happy. He doesn’t know why he keeps trying that argument when a couple decades worth of broken hearts and homes behind him suggest otherwise.

“Wanna see what I used to pretend it was you?” she tempts against his lips as they surface for air, sounding so demure yet utterly unrepentant even as she confides, “After you petted me and sent me home I needed you so bad, couldn’t find anything that felt like you now, so I shut the tv right off. Grabbed my stuffy ‘cause he was fuzzy and had a belly like you and then I grabbed…here, wait here, don’t you move now!“

Her little butt is already bouncing out the room into the en-suite before she finishes the sentence and he is left to sit on the bed and await her return, processing the fact she had wanted hair and a corpulent figure.

Bizzare taste, definitely dealing with father issues, painfully sweet.

He groans in recognition that she’s entirely to his own taste.

She comes back holding the most bulbous bottle of shampoo he’s ever seen in his life. The size of his damn fist easily, bright yellow and shaped at the top like like a lemon an- hell it’s even named “Lemon-Something-Or-Other”.

“I used this!” she proclaims with a giggle that jiggles her whole body.

Elvis just stares, torn between impressed and horrified. “You’re tellin’ me that…thang…fit up your lil cooch?”

“Well, no,” she admits, mood immediately deflating in disappointment with herself, “but I’m working on it! Or maybe I don’t have to, now that I’ve got the real thing, as you call it!”

Gigi bites her lip and winks in an attempt to be seductive and it’s the most ludicrously jarring thing Elvis can imagine, he roars with laughter at her art of being a cock tease without trying and a total clown when she does try.

Oh fuck he’s in love. Yeah, already established that awhile back but, it’s just, it’s hitting him again.

“I think you’ll find the real thing a bit disappointin’ by comparison.” he wheezes, too amused to be insecure.

“Oh really?” she perks up in palpable relief, “Oh thank jesus! That thing’s huge and I was gonna try for you but- but -but it’s huge! And I was just gauging from what I saw floppin’ around in your tracksuit that night and I was trying to not be obvious, so I couldn’t exactly clock it real good but it looked awfully wide, like a paper towel roll when it’s halfway gone and this was the only thing I could find like it, I wasn’t going to use anything of Tammy’s and besides they weren’t fat either so I just…” She trails off with a shrug, still standing there before him holding the fuckin’ Lemon Drop Shampoo.

She’d tried not to be obvious, she says, but he’d caught her staring well below his belt half a dozen times in two days. “So,” Elvis is still wiping the tears of amusement from his eyes, “so ya used a shampoo bottle and a teddy bear.”

“Yeah.”

“And did it work?” his eyes darken at the prospect of hearing her tell him this naughty story.

“Sorta.”

“How can it ‘sorta’ work?”

“I came,” Gigi sighs, “but I felt so empty..after. Cried myself to sleep” her embarrassed giggle does not deceive him from the certainty that she’s telling the truth.

“Oh baby, what’re we gonna do with you?” he asks her and God Almighty all at once.

“Hold me, please?” she whispers.

“Course, baby. Nothin’ I’d rather do, get over here,” He holds out his arms and she cruises in at a deceptively fast speed, colliding back into his chest and tucking her face into the crease of his neck, she’s pressing kisses there into that sweaty fold and he rubs her back, traces the dip of her waist, the slow curve outwards of her hips, thumbs at the flimsy material of her panties. Feeling her soft skin and treasuring it. Wondering what she’s thinking and not knowing she’s thanking God she gets to be held by him.

“You make feel so safe.” her breath ghosts over his face and he’s not sure how it’s so fresh and lovely after scarfing down burgers and cherry coke but he can’t get enough and he grabs her face as gently as he can manage with this much wonder filling him in a rush.

He’s pretty sure she ain’t ever had a chance to kiss with tongue, she’s eager to slip hers in but she’s got that petrified immobility of a gal who’s never gotten the chance to give and take, just give while some stupid rash boy slobbers and knocks her teeth.

Elvis is quite good with his tongue.

He flicks at her tongue, he waits, taps her butt until she gets his prompt. She flicks. He trails it alongside her own, he waits. He taps. She mimics. They get a good commerce going and soon she’s squirming and writhing in his lap while he stays put, his patience and experience a buoy for her as she flounders with so much desire she doesn’t know how to cope beyond undulating against him and tugging at his hair, their mouths wide and uncaring, devouring.

It’s fun with a girl leveraging down on him from his lap, one might think it would put him at a disadvantage but it doesn’t, he turns her silly head with a firm hand at the nape of her neck, and she’s just a dolly up there for him to work against his mouth. Rather like how he’s gonna work her pussy if they make it that far. For now, there’s this age old dance and her pretty breaths.

He sucks her tongue and she lets out a cry that’s distorted by the absence of any control over her own tongue and suddenly he can feel her move more frantically, fumbling between them until he hears the zzzz of the zipper as she undoes her jacket front and frees her full breasts like the thin cloth was suffocating her. It becomes clearer what she needs when she continues to fumble between them, unsatisfied, until he feels his own taught closure opening and the fan air hits him and goosebumps spread and shame flares and then it’s unity. Their chests meeting, pressing, soft and warm and she shudders against him like she just touched a force field.

She mewls into his mouth again and traces his puffy lips with the tip of her tongue while he breathes. “Feels so right.” he realizes in a mumble.

“Mhmm.” she says as she presses more kisses to his panting mouth. Gigi reaches between them once more and he watches cross eyed from the closeness as she hefts one boob up and presses it between them more firmly, before repeating the procedure with the other until, until they are smashed to her satisfaction. Then she starts grinding, those fat titties of hers, against him with the rest of her- against his hairy, saggy man boobs, she’s dragging her nipples across him and worrying them red with his rough texture, her toes curling from the friction. Her nipples are pebbled and she’s crying out, can’t stop moaning or calling for God because he feels so good against her. Cradling her boob her fingers press selfishly against one of his own nipples and lil Elvis wants to fight against his induced state, desperate to twitch for this pretty girl’s attention. “Oh god, you’re so hairy, like a nest! So perfect and manly and, I’m gonna, let me, let me please, please oh god, feels so good!” she’s working herself up to a squealing frenzy going over one particular patch of ratted curls… from…rubbing her pretty nipples on his chest hair.

Elvis just sits there and computes, watches, like a green boy, Gigi’s cradled boobs, her gaping mouth, her long throat and her cramping widdle sooties. God, what he’d give to suck those curling little piggies.

He’s hot as a furnace, this man, and those coarse, wiry curls are zapping her already throbbing nipples until Gigi can’t seem to breathe, so much sensation crowding her senses but not where she needs. She grinds down on him, where they’ll join so perfectly, and she feels that perfectly fat cock of his wedged on top of his thick thighs that he can’t manspread for once with her on top of him. She reaches down and positions him through the silky track bottom until she can slide along, feeling the width of him parting her pussy lips even with the thong’s fabric obstructing. His pants are sticky to touch, even though he feels too heavy and floppy to be fully hard.

Elvis should kiss her again. Warn her he ain’t good for nothin’ before she gets her hopes up and he gets to humiliate himself like some useless old fuck.

“Daddy, daddy fill me up, daddy.” she beats him to it in the prettiest little beg he’s ever heard.

“Oh Gigi.” he groans compassionately before grabbing her hand and bringing it up away from his messy lil pecker, “I’s gone lick you, don’t you recall?”

“Yes but I’m past that, I need you inside me!” she gasps, grin growing by the second.

“Ah, yeah, well baby it’s a big deal, takin’ innocence and uh-“ he scratches the back of his head and she escapes his hold and her hand is back to it, squeezing his cock and it really does feel nice, in a head scratch sorta way. “Look, Gigi, honey, I’m sorry but lil Elvis is shy tonight.” he holds his breath as she slowly processes this.

She doesn’t retract her hand as she registers what he’s saying. “Aww, but I can kiss him!”

“M-m-maybe some other time?” he pleads like he’s asking a child to please let him get away with just five bedtime stories. Six is overkill and Daddy has work tomorrow.

She pouts briefly before bringing her sticky hand up to her mouth and licking her fingers like a barbarian. That sight alone almost fixes his damn ED. Gigi likes the light taste of him, humming in approval at the first taste like a baby trying candy for the first time.

“T-t-that means he likes ya, though.” he assures her like an idiot and she smiles around her digits.

She’s very sober and a little mournful, the way she keeps looking at him, not at all petulant or even the slightest bit contemptuous, just concerned and it primes some pump inside him to explain more than he ever should but he can’t seem to stop the words as they come out, “Had a migraine this mornin’ before ya came over and I wanted to be in ship-shape for some fun -fun with you- so I had to take some lil helpers for the head and they, well, they, they mess with…that.” he motions to his lap.

“Awww,” she laments, heartbroken as if he had to endure having his head sawn clean off, “you had a migraine? And you still had us over? Oh poor, sweet daddy!” she shifting in his lap to rub at the back of his head and into his hair and he tries to mumble assurances that it’s better now but they get lost in the glorious blubber of her frankly unnecessarily huge breasts that happen to be smashed in his face as she attends to his head. “I’ll put some oils on it- I’ve got a bathtub, we could put you in tha-”

“-Baby girl,” He laughs, excavating his chin from her cleavage, “it’s better now, I was just explainin’ the faulty mechanics. I ain’t always so stove up, didn’t want you thinking-“

“Oh I wouldn’t care!” she gushes intensely and he’s very worried that streak of the insane fan in her is larger than he thought but it’s too late, she’s caught him in her big tittied, huge nippled, anklet wearing trap, “I’d lick you and suck you and wiggle you inside me soft no matter what, all my days! I don’t care!”

“T-that’s real touching.” he murmurs in a daze. She’s perfect, every man’s wet dream - and he’s the damn lucky bastard that gets to have her. And he can’t even make full use of her.

“I’m gonna give you a back massage with some marjoram oil-“

“No, no you’re not.” he grabs at her to keep her forcefully on his lap, “I don’t need no hippy potions, I ain’t no witch’s experiment or an ole man. I’m here to eat beaver. Or…baby seal, with that bald thing.”

“You sure? I-“

“Gigi, be good.” he puts his finger to her lips and she freezes like a chastised bambi. “Good baby girl. Now you lay back f’me and spread those pretty legs. A man needs room to work his magic.”

“Ok.” she agrees in an excited whisper and tips out of his lap sideways onto the sheets, giving him a full view of her -nearly- naked self for the first time, completely serene and without artifice. He knew she'd be even worse without clothes, worse for his obsession and his indulgence and everything else but this -this is an Angel.

God, he really adores women. Best idea ever to make ‘em, and to make them with fat boobies and lil holes to rub peckers into and sweet faces to paint slimey and cute widdle toes to rub your balls against.

“Ok, let’s see what we’re workin’ with here.” he smirks and gets on his belly with a grunt, heaving himself up the bedsheets and in between her long legs, taking his fingers and moving aside that stupid little string they call underwear these days. “Oh lord, look at that.” he appreciates the pretty pink beauty of her and the smooth pale skin of her kitty, so delicate and girly and -he’s a little smitten. More than he expected. Which was an oversight with the way she keeps blowing his hopes out of the water.

“You’re the prettiest thing I ever did lay eyes on, sweetheart.” he swears with his whole heart, shuffling in closer and kissing her thigh.

Gigi cranes her neck and unsatisfied with the narrowed visuals says, “Wait, lemme prop up.” and stuffs a few pillows behind her back and sits up, legs spread wide and her smile pleased like she’s about to watch her favorite film, “Ok, now I can watch you. Go ahead, daddy.”

“Umm, alright.” he clears his head once more at the thought of her wanting to watch and dives in. Somehow he gets the feeling if he doesn’t go for it she’ll come in seconds anyway she’s so high strung and then he’ll have barely gotten his taste.

Furry, silky, warm -that’s how his hair and head feel beneath her hands, his fuzzy sideburns and his hair so little styled after the pool fluffs and tufts adorably and his cheeks puff out with his vigorous exertions and his sideburns chafe her thighs and his hands are everywhere at once -Gigi watches all these things and marvels in her heart at it. He’s very voracious about it while still having a great deal of -nuance- to it. Like a man who is in a watermelon eating competition, he may look rabid but if he’s won a few then he must have a calculated method down amid the mess.

The predominant feeling is comfortable intimacy. They are both surprised by it, she by the naturalness of watching the most famous face on planet earth smeared from her pleasure and rapturously content with her taste, he with the pleasant rightness of her legs squeezing his shoulders snuggly and her hands petting his hair away from his sweaty forehead. His scalp sweats the more he works and she rubs his neck as if mindful of the lurking migraine, as if she can only thank him for his touches by returning them.

She praises his tongue in breathy awe, “so long and pink and wet and oh-“

Nose buried in pink and wet and sweet womanliness Elvis hums his agreement. Peeking up through his lashes he can see the one hand not cradling his head is industriously tugging on those dark, large nipples of hers. He grinds himself against the bed on pure instinct. Another day, another night, he’s gotta get those large nipples of hers in his mouth.

She calls him beautiful. Again and again. “Beautiful, you’re so beautiful, worse in person, more than I ever imagined, in my wildest-“

Again and again. Beautiful, she says. More than dreams. More, he’s more and more till Gigi’s praise dissolve into shrieks and pants, screams that whimper out into the low apartment ceiling as the afternoon sun dims, as he keeps going until they build again. And again, her hips are nothing if not insistent on grinding up against his mouth. The room smells of sweat and pleasure and sun-in. She’s vocal in her gratitude, persistent in returning his touch, petting him to say thank you when she finds she can’t form coherent sentences.

Eventually there is no more.

Just peace, and him, heaving back his breath against her thighs in a pussy-drunk stupor, and her shaking from seizing one too many times. His scalp is burning beneath her hands, his neck too. Inflamed and angry, she thinks of how much he loves to give. Wished she’d looked at the clock, something to tell the girls about. Just how many minutes, hours, days? he’d spent pleasing her.

“Good?” he asks in a hopeful little slur and the pink of his cheeks and the shiny glimmer on his nose is so childlike and content in his pouty snooze that her heart melts and she curls over him as best she can and squeezes.

“It was everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she breathes into his burning ear, “I’m hooked.”

His laugh rumbles the whole bed, “Me too, baby girl.”

Their skin is sticky and tacky, they adhere to each other in their embrace. He is soothed by such a clasp as theirs while the longer he lays on his stomach the more keenly aware he is of how it hurts. Now’s the time to roll over and mention something about needing to get back. Now would be it, but for some reason the words don’t come and he lays on his knotted gut, suppressing winces and biting his lip against the pinches, trying to recall the sweetness of her, what made this worth it. Her breath fans his neck, wafting across his cheek -cuddle bug, he thinks, fond. Home, he should go home, but never has it felt so utterly foreign. Like a figment of what he wants and needs, like Christmas morning without your mama. A house is just a shell without heart. He wonders if his boys have got the front den cleaned yet of barbecue and would-be-in-laws.

“Do you need to get off your…head?” Gigi whispers softly and it startles him. She’s got a point, all his blood is rushing to his brain the way he’s laying.

“Probably should.” he grunts and slowly, like a pair of cats, they uncurl from around each other to be face to face for the first time since they shared such pleasure. They’re both a little pink and their smiles are too wide. He wonders at the happiness she’s releasing, marveling that he put it there. He’s got to be careful or it won’t be too long before this little girl realizes she’s got him wrapped around her finger already.

She rubs her nose against his. Another way to kiss.

She asks him if he needs a drink.

“I’ll help you with your philosophy homework.” He promises instead, it’s a reason to see her again. And soon. A reason to see her again and a hint it can’t be tonight.

Tonight he needs his pills, his bed, an enema and god knows what else just to make it till morning. He could cry from how badly he wants to be spontaneous, to go to a girl’s place, make love, cuddle like this and when he says he has to go and her eyes well up with tears at the prospect of his absence -he’d like to be able to say he can stay.

“Hush it’s alright, I’ll stay. I’ve got you, no one’s gonna ever leave you cold again.” something like that. Instead he says he can help with her test. Instead he tries to fool himself into being something less than heartbroken at how even the simplest thing in his life has to be a big production.

“Will you really?” Gigi’s face lights up at his piss poor offer.

“Promise.” he repeats.

“And will you promise me you’ll let me repay you?” She presses slyly, her hand petting down his chest and over the swell of his gut. Some childlike weariness in him wants her to rub it better. He remembers feeling the same way as a child regarding his mother’s touch and despite the fact that Gigi’s a baby girl - his baby girl - he trusts she’d make one Gladys Love Presley proud, doing her best to take care of him.

“Mmmaybe.” he looks down at her with playful suspicion.

“Promise me!” she demands, kicking her feet and flipping over to look down at him, swinging a leg to straddle him again.

He can’t help the wince his face flashes at the pressure of her hands from that high vantage. She flings them off him like she’s been burned, likes she’s the one who got hurt. “Oh shoot, sorry, sorry.” she gasps, her eyes wide and blue and tearful, “It’s bad, huh?”

As if not being able to get it up weren’t chastisement enough for his ego, now there’s this. “Uh huh.” he grits and the stab passes for the moment.

“Do you have something for it?” she hopes, “Do you need to go home?.”

There’s the out he needs. Didn’t even have to say it himself. Melancholy descends like fog over his soul but he reminds himself it is what is, he’s better off than most. So what if he can’t have sleepovers on whim or shit like a normal human or skip having his blood pressure checked every goddamn morning -he has a lot, and he got to eat Gigi’s silky smooth bare pussy. Today was a good day. Not even a wash, it was a good day, she made it a good day.

“Yeah, I need to get home.” he sounds every bit as despondent as he feels about it and he hopes she’ll take that as the compliment intended.

“Ok!” she chirps without missing a beat, jumping up in nothing but his open jacket, skipping out the bedroom door, left turn into what seems to be the kitchen.

Well, she handled that better than expected. Elvis almost hopes she’s still orgasm-happy and it doesn’t reflect her readiness to have him out of her place. He idly flicks at the stack of papers to get some impression of where the test is stumping her. He fidgets with his zipper and closes his jacket back up, coloring at the memory of letting her expose him like that.

She comes bouncing back within the minute holding a glass of water and presenting it with authority, “Now you just drink this daddy, it’s got fennel tincture in it and will help your stomach. You just drink that while I pack my bag. I’ll be fast, don’t worry,” she goes on as he tries to compute what she means and sniffs her concoction warily, “I pack light anyways and we can always come back for the rest of my stuff later.”

Come back. For her stuff. Don’t worry -she packs light.

The fennel wafts around him, the smell of licorice and fairgrounds and his mama’s hand in his and daddy winning him that stuffed tiger. Fennel, for his stomach. He shakes his head. His tongue feels fuzzy.

Come back. For her stuff. She packs light.

She is coming with him. That’s what she must mean, he realizes as he drinks her awful drink and watches with teary eyes her bare ass bend over to grab jeans from a dresser and throw them in a duffel bag. Like Graceland is summer camp.

Come back for the rest later, she’d said. She is coming back with him, just knowing she’s welcome. He didn’t even have to beg, to ask, to suggest, to hint. Send a limo, nothin, just eat pussy and now she’s gonna live with him. Let her press her skin against his own just once and suddenly, he’s never gonna be lonely again.

She bounces into the bathroom and comes out with the damn lemon shampoo, to match the lemon conditioner abandoned on the floor.

Cheap drug store shit.

“Hell no, you’re not bringing that stuff into my house.” he lays down the law, his one condition and the first time he’s vocalized any acknowledgment of her entitlement to his hospitality, “You’ll use mine till we get you sorted.”

“I like the way you smell.” she admits, dropping the bottles there in the middle of the floor. That's that sorted.

It’s still not sunk in fully as Elvis drives his quite recognizable beast of a car through Memphis’ now dark streets, while Gigi sits beside him with her white stack of papers catching the street lights glare as they pass. His giddy joy at her willingness and her entitlement to stay with him is overshadowed by the cold lump in his throat, panicking about how to keep a shred of dignity intact or retain an iota of her attraction for him when she becomes aware of his routines.

“You’re gonna teach me how to help, right?” she asks very soberly from her side, as sober as he’s ever seen her.

“Whatcha mean, baby doll?” he tries to keep his tone light.

“You’ll teach me and show me how to care for you, right?” she presses again, “I wanna take care of you, like you take care of me.”

Simple as that -for her. He grunts out something she mistakes for a yes.

Elvis puffs harder on his lit cigar and feels like he’s gonna choke, ends up rolling his window down, gulping in fresh air as Gigi does it on her side too, hanging her head out the window and whooping into the night. He wonders what might distract her while he slips away this evening, maybe a movie or maybe the hot tub or maybe the horses. Maybe Tammy is still there like a bad penny and will keep her distracted. Tonight Elvis would welcome that. Only tonight, and his hand tightens on the steering wheel in frustration over his own worn out body and how it just can’t walk this stuff off anymore.

She’s still hanging out the window, she looks so young like that. His vision blurs.

Somehow Gigi’s feet have ended up in his lap by the time Sam’s letting them into the front gate. She wiggles her toes under his belly, rubbing at the soft skin. Grinning at him suggestively, like a fat man’s belly is the most sexy thing imaginable. He wants to snort.

“Think they saved us any barbecue?” she grins.

“No, it’s all in Gingersnaps’s hair and I ain’t touchin’ that ever again.” he allows himself to be a bit of bastard, it can’t be wrong when it makes Gigi giggle in maniacal glee in the passenger seat, secure now in having her Daddy’s attention. “I’m in the mood for peanut butter anyway.” he retorts.

Hope y’all enjoyed! Your “bugging” and “screaming” is music to my ears, fuel to my fire and keeps me writing, please never hold back -this is a safe space for feral little Elvis loving rodents…like you and me.

If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. I’ll admit I’m disorganized and have trouble keeping all the requests sorted when they’re scattered, what I do check regularly are the requests in the notes for chapters -and I do manage to get those added. So, if you’ve put in a request and I’ve failed ya, or if you’re new and would like to be added, please pop a note below. Xoxo

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#elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #elvis fanfic #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #70’s elvis #Elvis #elvisaaronpresley #elvis photos #elvis the king #70s elvis #elvis fans #Elvis smut #austin elvis imagine #big daddy Elvis #big daddy elvis fic #but then…Gigi

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aconflagrationofmyown · 11 months

Text

but then…Gigi

a future forward one shot, circa 1979

Snuggle me Tender

Trust me I laughed and cringed every bit as hard as you over that title but after the strain of pushing this mushiness out of my brain in under twelve hours I haven’t got any sensible titles left in me, ok?

Requested: Yes / No

Warnings: next to none? complete fluff and no rancidity for once, just Big Daddy Elvis with a very young baby and a very young wife and tour life and mentions of his health concerns…so much baby talk which I do not apologize for, if you’ve never done it I suggest you do, it adds years to your life. To quote Alex Turner: “I’ve been feelin’ foolish, you should try it.”

Word count: 2,884 is my version of a blurb, ok?

Notes: this is dedicated to my baby Bri whose devastating prompts lead to this whole Gigi endeavor and whose sweetness lightens up my life

Blaring horns end the set with its iconic flourish, their brassy notes echoing in his ears as he exits. It was a good show, a lively audience and Ronnie kept the rhythm together this time and even the sound system was decent for such a packed out stadium. Elvis is satisfied as he takes his final farewell of the sea of glossy, enamored faces, the frenzied send off of their ovation thudding into his veins so thickly he thinks his pulse will jump straight outta his wrists.

He flicks his writs irritably and hooks his thumbs into his belt, hoisting it just that little bit from where his exertions made it creep down and down and ever down, keeping it where it’s not pinching him as he lets the boys hustle him off the stage and into the back hallways in a well worn maneuver. The clapping and roar of the crowd is still deafening and he’s still attuned to it, vibrating like a leaf and the shake, rattle and roll of it pounds along with his chest and more worrisome still is the way his vision flickers with it, like some damn techno scene. But it’s just the fluorescents, and this interminable hallway leading to his dressing room.

And to his girls.

He takes a deep breath and tries to begin the effort of steadying himself just a little before foisting himself on them. It’s easier, so much easier, with them here, but his blood pressure still skyrockets each time he performs and it doesn’t seem like there’s a pill or a regimen out there to prevent it. It might be the death of him one day and awhile back he might have flippantly hoped so.

Now he’s got his girls to live for

and he tries his hardest to moderate himself, to temper himself in between to be the man he wants so badly to learn he is, not just the icon he’s perceived to be. Every step takes him closer to the anecdote and he breathes easier, hiking his belt higher so he can really gulp in those belly expanding breaths and he feels Charlie patting his back, his boys murmuring in an affirmative babble that it was a good show.

Elvis knows it was. He doesn’t need them to tell him. There’s only one persons opinion he gives a shit about right now and she’s probably conked out asleep or at the tit. Both of which sound like damn good options to mimic, in Elvis’ opinion.

Little Miss Erin Love Presley.

She’s become his life and between her and Gigi and Yissa he is bombarded with the insistence that he is wanted to the point that he’s gradually had to assume that, well…that he is -wanted, that is.

He’s wanted. Not just needed.

And so he allows them to fret over his pulse and he agrees to less stimulants when possible and he endeavors to be a more cheerful bastard despite the persistent urge to bite heads off most days.

Ricky jogs ahead of him, opens the door that Sam’s been standing in front of and ushers Elvis inside hurriedly before closing the door behind him, leaving him alone with his little family. Nearly blinded by the change in lighting, Elvis staggers towards where he knows there's a couch in the gloomy dressing room Gigi so considerately dimmed for his sake.

“You were magnificent, daddy!” her soft praise registers more profoundly than all the applause out there and Elvis sinks into the couch utterly spent, yet entirely satisfied.

“Thanks darlin’.” He murmurs with his head tilted back, winded and a thousand miles away but he’s trying to come back down. His hand reaches out for her hip and the give of her soft flesh tethers him to earth.

Gigi doesn’t skip a beat before she’s bending down and unclamping the large buckle from his belly single-handedly with practiced ease, delighting in the relieved groan Elvis lets out as she removes the heavy ornament. She swings it away from him only to replace it with the soft weight of their baby girl.

“I’ll get your medicines, you hold tight.” Gigi soothes, her hand lovingly pushing his hair back from off his damp forehead before she bends to kiss it and he chases her wearily for a taste of her lips which she presses to his ardently before pulling away to go find his pills.

Baby girl is perched on his belly in her tiny sequined onesie, balancing like a Pilates teacher on a ball, her wobbly little neck doing its utmost to stay straight and fix him with her appealing stare. It’s devastatingly effective when paired with her pitifully frustrated little squeaks.

Elvis knows what Lovey wants and a few months ago he might’ve been appalled at the notion of it despite being an utter sap for his daughter. It had seemed too gross to subject her to the post-show sweat and musk that cling to him in moments like these. But like her mommy, the little girl wouldn’t take less than the deepest of intimacies and so he has learned that Lovey will continue her fussing until she feels the warmth of his skin beneath her.

The tiny wrist golden chain around her wrist jangles as she tries to pull herself up the ornate expanse of his jumpsuit front, clawing determinedly up the exquisite sundial motif towards the heaving expanse of his sweaty chest. ‘Return if found’ her bracelet reads and Elvis smirks at the notion of her being put down long enough by either of her parents to be misplaced.

“Hey cuddle bug, hey how’s it goin’, hmm?” he coos to her and finds his voice is fried and gravelly.

Without having to even reach he finds Gigi pressing a plastic cup into his hand that he ravenously accepts along with blood pressure regulators she presses into his palm, small and round and white. He throws them back with exhausted gusto and his baby nearly wobbles backwards in her arc to follow his movements with her big ole baby head.

They made a pretty baby, he and Gigi, how could they not? -but even the prettiest of babies have bowling balls for heads compared to the rest of their body and it still tickles Elvis immensely. He wheezes a laugh into the last of the water while catching her head with his other hand and crushes the cup with something bordering a burp and a groan.

Lovey’s bright little eyes expand just a fraction more at the vibrations against her belly. “ ‘scuse me, miss.” he teases, eyes still wavering blearily as he tries to focus on Gigi rummaging for something at the far end of the dim room. The water makes him feel at least partially alive again and he runs his hand beneath his nose to catch the sweat and what all that is collecting atop his lip.

Heaving in a big breath he feels his hands calm their shakes enough he looks down at Lovey’s valiant attempts to reach the apex of his unzipped suit, clammy baby hands snagging the hair on his belly and tugging. He’s gonna have bald patches down there at this rate, he’s told Gigi this and she just lathers more hippy oil on him and says he’ll be alright -so he guesses he will be.

“Look at you baby, so strong, yes you is, fightin’ gravity like a champ, got yo’self halfway up the sun, yes you has. Want daddy to help ya? Hmm? Yeah? You want a kiss, don’t ya? Me too, I want kisses from my bestest girl.”

He hooks his thumbs beneath the giving flesh of Lovey’s armpits and pulls the floppy length of her higher till she’s balanced on his broad chest, in between his gaping jumpsuit front, watching as she crows and grins the minute she feels his tacky skin beneath her palms. The swell of his belly keeps her high up and her little elbows dig into his soft chest, it’s a well worn ritual to spend her “belly time” on his chest, fascinated by her daddy’s face. It holds her interest more than any gaudy toy or tv show ever could.

Elvis pats her bottom gently with his ringed hand, careful not to pinch her delicate thighs as Lovey kicks and shudders in delight at getting her way. She’s a little masochist, his baby, she drools and coos even as she grips significant portions of his chest hair and tugs in glee as if it’s her own personal shag carpeting to aid her towards scooting up that last little bit needed for her to kiss him on the chin.

“Das it, das it almost there, gonna give daddy a kissy? Gonna gimme kissies? I wan’ ‘em so bad, yes I do!” Elvis pickers his lips and she strains every ounce of her little self to grab ahold of his sideburns. It’s all over then, Lovey is triumphant in her grip, a pack of wild horses can’t tear anythin’ that baby has once she’s grabbed ahold of it. With a gurgly little crow she scoots herself up till she’s able to devour his chin.

She’s quite coordinated when preening her angelic little face up to receive a kiss but upon dishing them out she goes about it like a starved man would a set of pork ribs, open mouthed and with the goal to slobber as much as possible on the recipient. Elvis can’t bear to turn her away ever and in his after-show state of permanent dampness he doesn’t even think twice as a sloppy, gummy and fervent baby adds to the sweat rolling down his throat.

“Fank you.” he murmurs, tilting his head to facilitate her attack, “Fank you so much, ooh, I love your kisses, ya know that? Favorite kisses in the world, yes ‘dey are! Better than any of those out there, Mhmm, way better. Yes, yes better gimmer another -aww thank ya!”

Gigi watches from the side as she finishes her breast pumping by the dimmed vanity as Elvis puckers his cherub lips and pecks at their baby’s matching glossy pink pair. In this moment with their bobbing heads and tender coos and the nearly identical soft forms of them both slouching in their matching jumpsuits -they could be twins. The thought makes her smile and right in this moment there’s a belonging she feels so strongly and richly that her eyes burn with it.

“I thought it went pretty well, mhmm, what’d ya think about the new song, hmm?” he always does this, consults Lovey’s side-of-stage perspective on his show and he swears to Gigi that her feedback is essential for the success of what has been a certainly well received comeback tour. “Yeah I thought so too, ‘could tinker with those background vocals but the bass was tight. Yeah, yeah man, I know, I told ‘em, but they don’t listen, no dey don’t! I know! I know I told ‘em! Can ya believe that, Lovey? Oh well.”

With each of his heavy breaths and remonstrances Elvis’ chest heaves and sends Lovey tilting further and further up to his face till she’s careening alarmingly into the crease of his neck, wedged between it and the couch back. The tip of her tiny body makes Elvis die laughing with a fit of those genuine, hiccuping laughs that their baby loves to mimic until they both end up dry coughing from their mirthful wheezes. He gets them both situated again, Lovey firmly back on the safe expanse of his tacky chest with his hands criss crossed over her tiny back. One of his hands can span the entire width of her little ribcage and folded over each other as his hands are now, they looks like a bejeweled turtle shell sheltering their Lovey’s delicate back.

Gigi packs up her kit and rummages through her sack for Elvis’ glasses before they’re needed for the camera-flash-lit trek back to the hotel.

Lovey lets out a vigorous yawn, suddenly utterly tuckered out from watching her daddy perform and waiting up to kiss him backstage. It catches Elvis’ attention and yet again he’s amazed by the fact he feels even remotely weary himself, like he’s able to tap into his girl’s calmer systems and regulate his own just a little to match them. Not so much a family as a trinity of souls so intertwined they’ve long since lost where one ends and the other begins.

“You sleepy, hmm?” Elvis hums to her and strokes over her head soothingly, “How bout we go back to that nice hotel then, we can eat somethin’ and yer mommy’ll call up Yissa to say goodnight. How’s that sound, hmm?”

Lovey rubs her face into his chest to emphasize how much she needs this sleep plan to be enacted speedily, the tired rub backfiring as his chest hairs tickle her sensitive little nose. Without fail it makes her sneeze violently and afterwards she’ll gaze up him dazedly as if asking for explanation as to her own bodily functions.

“Hutchooo, bwess you.” he thumbs at her sloberdy chin. “Dat was a big one, wasn’t it? Mhmm, daddy’s sorry he’s so fuzzy. Don’t got that problem when ya snugglin’ wif mommy, do ya? Nu-uh, smooth as marble, that pretty girl, ain’t she? Mhmm.” he ponders Gigi’s loveliness with a dreamy look of appreciation and his baby resignedly lays her head in the sweaty thatch of chest hair, wadding it away from her face with a tiny fist, Elvis stares over her head at Gigi who he knows has been playing at being busy to let him wind down.

They share a knowing little smile and Gigi shoves off from her perch on the vanity and clip clops over to him in her strappy heels, bending at the waist and offering him a lovely view down the neck of her dress as she gently fits his tinted glasses on his face. “There, all set.” she murmurs fondly while fiddling with his hair, dabbing at the mess of sweat and drool that the now sleeping baby has left in her wake.

Ricky cracks open the heavy metal door with great care but it’s not enough care to please Elvis who barks

“Gently, for God’s sake, there’s a baby sleepin’ in here!”

and Gigi smirks as she herself gets manhandled by her new husband to sit beside his bulky manspread, for no other reason perhaps than to keep her ass pointed away from Ricky. Gigi suspects that Elvis likes to bark at his traumatized entourage just because he enjoys getting to cite the baby’s needs. He has a baby again, and it’s turned him into more of a bear than a man on this tour. That thought makes Gigi sigh dreamily and she lays her head on Elvis’ shoulder and watches as Lovey’s sleeping breaths stay even and calm despite his outburst, utterly secure in her daddy’s love.

Gigi gets her thigh patted in recognition and she shudders as always from that promising touch, feeling how torn he is between winding down or thrumming off into the astral sphere. Only once they’re in the hotel and snug in the white sheets with Yissa on the phone will she know which way the night will go.

“Car’s all set.” Jerry quietly delivers the message that Ricky fled before he could finish delivering.

“Thanks man.” Elvis nods and after exchanging a look with Gigi asks her, “Ya ready, baby girl?”

“Yes.” she nods and gives him her arm as an aid to heft himself out of his burrow in the couch, his one arm still occupied cradling Lovey to his chest.

Gigi helps him drape his coat around his shoulders, flapping around him like one of his capes, allowing him to pull it over Lovey’s face in the ensuing glare of the photographer’s flashes as they speed down the hallways and into the parking lot, hand in hand.

Lovey is used to the racket, the screams and the pounding of an audience a natural backtrack to her young life. Nevertheless, Elvis moves gingerly, stays calculated in his movements lest he jostle her as he follows Gigi into the car, scooting into his seat as methodically as possible, his exhausted thighs quivering from this last ounce of endurance demanded of them. He succeeds though, Lovey still snoozing and drooling onto his chest by the time the Limo door shuts and they’re off in a streak of light and motion against the night sky.

He can feel Gigi slip her smaller hand into his own on the seat between them, tugging until he surfaces from his trance and turns his face towards her with a relieved sigh to find her always there beside him when he needs it.

“You alright, daddy?” she checks in with him and he watches as her features, so lovingly crafted by a generous God to make her appear young enough to be his baby much less have one herself, are gently lit by the occasional street lamp glowing into their speeding haven.

“Yeah darlin.” Elvis rumbles from deep in his chest, rubbing the back of his knuckles against her soft cheek, watching as Gigi leans into his affections as eagerly as that first night they met, “Never been better. I mean it, gonna need to make this the order of business. You and Lovey waitin’ for me, end of show -I could go on forever like this.”