#milaselvisfics

[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

DADDY ISSUES - Part One: Motive

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: You're just a waitress, nothing more. But when your cousin, Steve, gets into a jam and needs your help, you have no choice but to indulge him and become the front-row face of Elvis Presley's '68 Comeback Special. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: None! Inaccuracies to the actual special probably lmao. this chapter is tame. the others won't be

Rating: Pg (but this series will be very NSFW, so minors save yourself the trouble + DNI)   ||     Word Count: 4644

A/N: it's finally hereeeee!! happy thirsty thursday hunnies + i hope you enjoy part 1 of the series! i promise smut will be forthcoming, but i have it plotted for almost every part so i wanted to start out with plot stuff instead 😅

Song Rec: motive - ari (feat. doja cat)

This is Part 1 of Daddy Issues. Find the rest of the series here!

[ masterlist | taglist ]

🦋 mila

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“Order up! Table seventeen.”

You let your slippery white shoes glide across the checked floor as you slide up to the counter. You grab the plate from off the rack and trot out from behind the counter to deliver it to table seventeen.

“I got a burger and fries?” you ask, placing the plate down and proceeding with the rest of the order. You load the family’s dirty dishes onto the tray and snatch up the ringing telephone as you pass by it.

“Chadney’s Restaurant, how can I help you?” you say into the speaker.

“Hi, I’m calling for Y/N?”

“Uh…yes, this is she?” you respond, setting the tray down. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Oh Y/N, perfect, this is Steve, your cousin,” the voice replies.

“Steve Binder? Why are you calling me at work? Didn’t your mom give you my new home phone number?”

“Yeah, but I knew you wouldn’t pick up. Listen, I’m in a bit of a bind at the moment, and I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“Well, seeing as you’re right across the way here, I was just wondering how many people are in the restaurant right now? Do you think any of them would be willing to come down here to be part of a live studio audience?”

You sigh, glancing around the restaurant quickly. It’s later in the afternoon, but because of the restaurant’s vicinity to NBC, it’s usually crowded most of the day. Only a few tables are empty.

“Yeah, it’s busy. I don’t know… there are some younger people. Who’s performing?”

“Elvis Presley.”

You feel your mouth drop open and your blood run cold.

“Y/N! We have orders ready to go out!” You wave a hand dismissively at your boss screaming from the kitchen.

“So, do you think anyone would be interested?” Steve presses.

“Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. Listen, I have to go. If you want them, you’ll have to come down here and get them yourself. I gotta go, Steve, bye.”

You click the phone down before he has a chance to protest and get back to work. You’re only able to run about two orders out before the door swings open and you glance up to see your cousin waltzing in with another man you don’t recognize.

“Hi everyone! If I could just have your attention please!”

Murmurs spread throughout the restaurant as forks and knives clink down onto the old yellowed ceramic plates. Silence settles before Steve continues.

“Hi all, I know this is sort of out of the ordinary, but my name is Steve Binder, and I work for NBC. We’re actually across the street right now gearing up to film a show with Elvis Presley, the King of rock’n’roll, I’m sure you’re all familiar. Unfortunately, we seem to have lost our audience. Again, I know this sounds strange, but would any of you be interested in attending the filming to be part of a live audience?”

You hear a gasp and turn to see your coworker and only true friend, Candy, standing next to you. She glances over at you with a big smile and nudges your arm with her elbow.

“Elvis!!” she whispers.

By the time Steve has finished with his announcement, practically everyone in the cafe has jumped out of their seats and rushed toward your cousin, cheering and jeering to get in line. You walk back behind the counter to put your apron away as Steve gestures the people funneling out of the restaurant toward the NBC Studios building across the street. You start stacking plates when you hear Steve’s voice behind you.

“Thanks for your help,” he says.

“Not a problem,” you respond, turning around to hug him. “Now, what’s this I hear about Elvis Presley?”

“Crazy, isn’t it? Bones Howe and I got a call from his producer, Jerry Schilling, about helping him reconnect with his previous persona, his famous image. We met him, talked for a while, and boom now we’re here.”

“That’s amazing!” Candy adds, walking up to lean against the counter. “You know your cousin here,” she gestures to you, “is like the biggest Elvis fan on the planet.”

“You don’t say. Actually…” his eyes light up and he points at you. “Y/N, you know, you’d be perfect for this. You’re exactly the kind of person we want to showcase on the special. Young, fresh, attractive, a real and authentic person. Do you think you could come with me now?”

“No. No, you know I can’t do that," you reply, shaking your head.

“Why not? There’s not a soul in this place, anymore.”

You look around and shake your head.

“There are still people here, and I’m still on the clock. I can’t just leave. I’ll get fired.”

“Ah, Y/N, lay off it. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, honey,” Candy says. “You should go!”

You shake your head and turn, trying to go back to work, but Steve speaks up again.

“I can get you a prime spot. Right in front of him. And your friend is welcome to come, too. C’mon, Y/N. Please.”

Memories flash through your mind. Fans screaming, police lights flashing, flashes of black fabric. You glance back into Steve’s bright blue eyes and feel anxiety rising in your chest. It gets harder to breathe and your fingers start to feel like they’re vibrating. You can’t do this. You shouldn’t do this. You’re not ready. But Steve’s pleading eyes are too strong for your will. You sigh deeply, running a hand over your face.

“Alright fine,” you respond. “Just give me a second to figure this out.”

Steve nods and you turn toward Candy with a deep breath. She wastes no time, jumping over the counter and grabbing onto your wrist to drag you into the kitchen where your boss, Frank, is cooking up a storm.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” Frank asks, wiping sweat from his forehead. “If you’re slacking, I can replace you quicker than a flash.”

“Well, that’s actually something we wanna talk to you about,” Candy says, and you frantically shake your head at her. “A Mr. Steve Binder from NBC Studios just stopped by and he’s looking for some people to join a live audience for a show they’re recording across the street. It’s an Elvis Presley show.”

“Is it one of those goddamn movies again?” Frank asks. “Cause if I have to hear one more word about those shitty films again, I’ll fire both of your asses.”

You shoot a pleading glance at Candy and mouth the word ‘no’, but she just rolls her eyes and shakes her head at Frank’s rude comment.

“No, it’s a musical performance, Frank. And don’t threaten us like that,” she responds, and you feel panic start to pump through your veins.

“What does any of this have to do with me, anyway?” Frank asks gruffly. “I don’t care what you do in your free time.”

“Y/N and I are leaving work early to go be a part of the audience,” Candy says, angrily. “That’s what it has to do with you.”

A clanging noise sounds as Frank drops his metal spatula onto the grill. You drop your head into your hands, clutching onto the roots of your hair and dreading what words will come next.

“What did you say?” Frank asks, turning around with an irate expression on his ugly, bulbous features. You know he isn’t really asking Candy to repeat herself but giving her a chance to change her answer. She keeps her mouth in a straight, flat line, refusing to budge.

“If you think you two little girls can just leave whenever the hell you want, you’re wrong,” he says, jabbing a fat swollen finger at you both. “You walk outta here right now, you’re fired. I don’t wanna see your damn face in here again, do you understand me?”

You falter, feeling all of the blood drain from your face. No, no, no. You can’t be fired. You need this job. But apparently, Candy doesn’t.

“So be it,” she says resolutely. “Come on, Y/N, let’s go be on live television.”

Before you have a chance to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness from Frank, Candy’s fingers are latching onto your arm and dragging you away.

“Goddamn it! Fired!” Frank yells as you both dash out of the kitchen. “Do you hear me? FIRED! If I EVER see your faces in this restaurant again, I will-”

The rest of what he says is cut off when Candy slams the front door to Chadney’s, never to be opened again. Steve is waiting for you outside, and he perks up when you both approach him. You don’t hear a word of his greeting or Candy’s introduction. So many anxieties and worries are running through your brain. Your whole body feels cold and shaky, and all you can do is focus on remembering to breathe before you have a mental breakdown. The cold air-conditioned breeze shakes you back into consciousness when you walk into the NBC Studios building.

“Alright, so I’ll take you over to costuming and get you all set up, and then we’ll cart you out to the stage,” Steve explains as you dodge people running up and down the hallway with all kinds of props, costumes, and various objects.

“I thought you wanted ‘authentic people,’” you counter as Candy drags you along. You lean out of the way and nearly miss a man carting a huge stuffed moose down the narrow hallway.

“Oh, we do, but we want to make sure that everyone is styled as contemporarily as possible,” Steve says. “No offense to your uniforms.”

You quirk an eyebrow, not the least bit offended. You despise that faded blue dress with the hideous red Chadney’s logo over the left lapel. The creamy white tennis shoes are even more atrocious. Steve leads you both into the costuming room where there are dozens of people everywhere getting dressed in bright yellows, reds, greens, and blues.

“This is Barbara, and she’s gonna help style you today,” Steve says, gesturing to a middle-aged blonde woman with black squared glasses. “For Y/N, we want to put her in something extra stylish because she’s gonna stationed right in front of the camera.”

“Woah, woah, wait!” you say, holding your hands up. “What? No, Steve, I don’t want to be right in front of the camera. I would actually much prefer to get lost in the crowd as much as possible.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re everything we’re looking for as our front girl,” he says, dismissively waving his hand. “I think this one, Barb.”

You’re too busy having your third massive freak out in the last twenty minutes to pay attention to the fabric Steve pulls for you. Barbara shoves you behind a changing stall, pushing a hanger in your face. You reach for Candy only to see her being pulled away to a different stylist.

“Go ahead and get dressed, honey,” Barbara says hurriedly. “Then we’ll figure out what to do with your hair. Oh, before I forget, what shoe size are you?”

You just have enough time to shout your size at her before she’s running off among the chaos around you. You sheepishly duck behind the stall and yank your work uniform off. As quickly as you can, you pull the soft fabric of a dress over your skin. You glance down at the garment. It’s gorgeous. It has a deep red top with fluffy sleeves and little buttons. And the skirt portion is full of rust, orange, yellow, and white floral patterns. Surprisingly, the dress seems to fit very well, perhaps a bit small and tight in some places. By the time you’ve finished admiring it, Barbara is pulling you out to throw a pair of white gogo boots at you. You stuff your sweaty feet into them as Barbara pulls at your hair. It happens so fast that you can’t even comprehend how, but she somehow gets your hair into a beautifully relaxed beehive with a little orange headband that matches one of the colors on the skirt.

“You look great! Now get out there, we’re almost out of time,” she says, pushing you toward the door.

You really wish you could see yourself and at least know what you look like before you go out to be broadcast, apparently front and center, to the American public. But you get swept up by the other audience members rushing toward the stage. You aren’t really sure where you’re going, so you just mosey along with the big group and hope someone knows the right way. Eventually, you find yourself in a rough line, spanning out into the hallway. You can hear someone’s voice, it's familiar but you can’t place it, as he directs people around the tiny red stage in the middle of the room. You peer around the line to get a look at the man with the familiar voice and smile to yourself when you recognize his glasses and shaggy haircut.

Bones Howe, Steve’s business partner. You’d met here and there but would be surprised if he remembers you. You and Steve are cousins, yes, but not blood-related, so the times you see each other are rare. You step up after the older woman in front of you who reeks of cheap perfume.

“Y/N! Hi, nice to see you again. Wow, Steve was right, you look great. Just what we’re looking for,” he says with a big smile.

“Hi Bones,” you chuckle, feeling flattered at the fact that he remembers you.

“Alright so we’re gonna have you placed right here,” he says, pointing and pushing your back gently to guide you. “Now just a quick reminder to act natural but also remember that the camera will be on you the majority of the time. So just don’t pick your nose or do anything you wouldn’t want your mother to see. Thanks again for doing this!”

Before you can ask a question or say ‘you’re welcome,’ he’s gone. You shrug and take your place, once again directly by the stage. Just as you’re settling in, lazily glancing around to see if you can find Candy, someone slides in next to you.

“Hi! I’m Trixie!” a high-pitched voice says and a small hand reaches out beside you. You turn to see a beautiful woman, tall and curvy, with dark black hair and bright brown eyes. She’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, a plaid skirt, and matching knee thighs with heels. All in a vivid color of bright lavender that compliments her skin perfectly. You smile, reaching to shake her hand.

“Y/N,” you respond with a smile. “I love your outfit.”

“Thanks! I picked it out myself,” she says. “So, did you call in on the radio, too?”

“Uh…no, no I sort of…got picked, I guess,” you respond with furrowed eyebrows. Call in on the radio?

“Oh, very fancy! I called in as soon as I heard on the radio. Are you an Elvis fan? I’ve been to three of his concerts, own all his records, and seen all his films,” she says, leaning against the stage with a big smile.

“Yes, big fan!” you say, nodding. “I’ve also seen all his movies. And I’ve only been to one concert but it was…the best night of my life, honestly.”

Minus the riot that broke out after…

“Wow, that’s awesome! Which concert, I wonder if we could have been at the same one?”

“Russwood Park 1956,” you say with a deep breath.

“Wow, that must have been amazing! I remember reading about it in the papers,” Trixie says. “What was it like?”

Just as you’re about to answer, you hear that familiar voice again and glance up to see Bones kneeling down next to you.

“Ladies, if I could actually bother you both to sit up here on the stage, that would be incredible,” Bones says with a wink. “We want to make sure that it looks casual, like Elvis is just a regular guy hanging out with a bunch of kids. Alright, great!”

You look at Trixie and shrug with a nervous smile. You both hop up onto the stage, sitting sideways next to each other. You glance around you to see that a huge crowd has packed in behind you.

“Hi all and welcome to NBC Studios!”

Applause erupts all around you, and you gently clap your hands together.

“We’re so pleased to have all of you, and we’re super excited for the show. Just a few things before we get started to make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible.”

He points up toward a flashing red light that says APPLAUSE. Very subtle...

“Now when that sign lights up, what do you do?” Bones asks.

The crowd erupts into applause again, and you shake your head at the sheer absurdity of it all. Bones continues to explain how things are going to work.

“And lastly, ladies and gentleman, this is television not radio, so when that goes on and you clap, let's see it on your faces.”

The crowd claps again, and you glance around to admire the variety of expressions on the faces of the audience members. Some are definitely more cut out for this acting natural thing than others.

“Now Elvis is performing tonight just for you so keep that in mind. Let that inspire you,” Bones says. “And without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, here’s Elvis Presley.

And there he is, indeed. Ironically in black, again, just like the last time you saw him. He takes the stage with a smile, and you drink him in. He looks incredible, tan and fit and happy, probably better than he had when you’d seen him last. But he seems nervous, a feeling which you hadn’t noticed the last time you’d seen him. He shakes himself out and glances around for a moment, nodding, before grabbing his guitar. You feel Trixie latch onto your hand and squeeze excitedly. You shoot her a smile as he begins to sing.

Heartbreak Hotel, one of your favorites. You feel a smile spreading across your face as his hips start to move back and forth with the beat of the song. His voice is incredible, even better than it had been when he was young. Back then, it was smoother, higher pitched. Now, it’s deep, rich, and raspy. A man’s voice. You bring a hand up to cover your mouth as he leans back, holding the microphone stand tightly. His eyes travel backward as a smirk crawls onto his face. And for a quick second, your heart stops and smile drops.

Had he seen you? No, it’s impossible. You’re kidding yourself and hoping for something that won’t happen. Something unbelievable.

So you think, until he tilts his head down and stares right at you. There’s no mistaking it this time. His eyes are trained on you for a few seconds until he removes the guitar and hands it off to a bandmate. He drops to his knees right in front of you and pushes his crotch up into your face. A sense of deja vu hits you like a brick. You suck in a sharp breath and throw a hand onto your face in embarrassment as you catch him wink at you. When he gets up to go back to center stage, you feel your chest release a shaky breath.

Despite everything in your body telling you this isn’t real, here you are again. Somehow almost in the exact same spot you had been during the performance in 1956 in Memphis. Right by the stage, right where you can see him. And he can see you. Your lips part, and you grip hard onto the fabric of the orange dress, feeling the blood once again drain from your face. You’d never thought you’d ever see him again. You couldn’t believe how lucky you’d been to see him the first time around at all. It’s 12 years ago now. You were only 16 then, now you were almost 30. Everything had changed that day. Your expectations for life, your standards for men, your understanding of sex. Everything.

You were just a face in the crowd, nothing special. Sure, you’d fought your way up to the front, but you were so small then. It was just easier for you to get there and weave through the crowd. You were just watching him in that black suit as he threw himself around onstage. You’d screamed with the other fans, gripped at the stage, overreacted like the teenage girl you were. There was nothing special about you. You were utterly ordinary. Until he’d knelt down by you, right in front of you, and reached out with his beautiful slender fingers, curled those fingers around your chin…

You absentmindedly reach up to touch the skin on your jaw, remembering the feeling of his strong grasp on the bones underneath the skin.

How it felt to have him touch you. You, out of everyone else in the crowd. He’d leaned so close to you, so close that you could see the beads of sweat on his skin, rolling down his dark black hair. He’d sang right to you. Right in your face as his eyes searched yours and he gripped onto your jaw. You’ll never forget the feeling of emptiness when he’d left your space. When he’d retreated from you. The need, the desire you felt to get him back. To have him next to you again. To have him that close to you. You would never forget that day in Russwood Park. Never.

You smile as you watch him, knowing that you’ll never forget this moment in time either. He moves around similarly to how he used to but with even more confidence now. He doesn’t have the body of a child anymore, but a man’s frame. Tall and thick. Your eyes gravitate toward his ass, and your mouth falls open as you watch it move. The full leather suit he wears hugs him in all the right places, especially there. You bite your lip at the way the fabric moves against him and shines in the light. A few people around you start to sing along, so you join in, clapping to the time. You drop your face into your hands, feeling heat creep into your cheeks as he wiggles around on stage again. You clap with a huge smile on your face as he speaks into the mic.

“It’s been a long time, baby. A long time,” he says.

After he performs, the crew brings a stool up onto the stage and he sits to chat about his career and where he’s at in his life right now.

“But that’s one thing about this tv special that I’m doing,” he’s saying, “They’re gonna let me do what I wanna do. Sing the music that I want. The music that I love. The music that makes me happy.”

You catch him glancing up at something, and your eyes follow his gaze to rest on a beautiful woman sitting in the upper sections. His wife, Priscilla. You recognize her from the magazine covers you’ve seen of them together. You’d been crushed when they’d gotten married. Of course you’re happy for them both and never at all expected that he would fall in love with you or anything like that. You knew it was implausible, but still, you had hope. Hope that was all but crushed when Mrs. Presley became a reality.

You shake off the slight disappointment that you feel trying to settle into your chest and enjoy the rest of the show. Even though Elvis’ back is toward you for the remainder of the taping, you still love hearing him talk about himself and his music. You’re having such a great time that what ends up taking three hours feels like three minutes. And you can forget, for that time, about the fact that you no longer have a stable income. You crane your neck as Elvis walks off the stage, smiling and waving to the crowd. You want to see as much of him as humanly possible. It could be the last time.

You watch as he stops momentarily to talk to a tall man with shaggy blondish hair. You turn to Trixie, who is gushing about the performance but glance back at Elvis out of the corner of your eye to see him gesturing toward your area of the stage. For a moment, your heart skips a beat but you shake yur head. No, he couldn’t possibly have singled you out again. That would make you too lucky. Way too lucky.

After the show, you’re ushered back into the costuming area and stripped of your clothes. You sigh and shrug back on your old uniform with all the ketchup and coffee stains. As soon as the fabric hits your skin, it’s a harsh reminder that you need to find a job. Like yesterday. You emerge from the changing station and gently place the dress on a table with other random pieces of clothing, but not before fishing out a small strip of worn paper. Trixie had written her name, address, and phone number on it. She’d said she’s looking for a roommate and, apparently, really likes you enough to consider you. Maybe it’s time for a move, after all.

“Thanks for your help, Barbara,” you say. She glances up at you with her magnified eyes and smiles warmly. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where I can find Mr. Binder, would you? I have something I wanted to ask him about.”

“Upstairs, to the right in the recording studio,” she responds. “If you get lost just ask someone and tell them Barb sent you.”

You thank her again and place the white gogo boots on the floor next to the table. But as you turn to leave, Barbara’s voice stops you.

“Take them,” she says softly, gesturing to the boots and the dress. “They were made for you.”

You normally wouldn’t indulge such an offer, but now that you’re jobless, you figure some free stuff can’t hurt. You smile and reach down to grab the outfit, tucking it under your arm as you wind your way around the crowds and pockets of people. When you get upstairs, you take a moment to glance around at the posters on the wall. Your eyebrows raise as you see one for Star Trek. Very cool. Your eyes swing to the right and you see what looks like, to your untrained eyes, a recording studio. You debate knocking but aren’t sure if it’ll interfere with any of the recording process, so you just quietly step in and press your back to the wall.

“Cue the gospel number now,” Steve says quickly, and you lean away from the door as a lumbering fat man waddles in.

“No,” the fat man mumbles, “None of this will be in the special.”

He gestures toward two businessmen sitting across the doorway. You hadn’t even noticed them when you’d walked in, but they look displeased in their stiff black suits.

“Can you make a note that that should be in the special,” Steve says, and you chuckle to yourself. “Now let’s segue straight into the whorehouse dancers.”

Your mouth drops open and you throw a hand over your mouth. Steve continues to bring more crazy and wild aspects into the special, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing audibly. The way Elvis’ manager frantically looks from screen to screen wracks your body with silent hisses.

Suddenly, the cast and crew start running frantically and screaming. Your laughing stops abruptly and your attention is pulled to a crew member as they dash into the room.

“Robert Kennedy’s been shot!!”

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

ASG - Part Four: All Shook Up

Character/Fandom: Elvis - ELVIS (2022)

Requested: yes! - anons

Prompt: When Gladys Presley invited Bird up to Graceland to work as a cook in the house, she had mixed feelings. But in order to support herself and her daddy, she moved up to Memphis anyway. Things have been awkward between her and Elvis, but strange things are happening every day and, not surprisingly, Elvis has her all shook up again. [ Fem!OC ]

TW: Angst, smut, cursing, a little physical aggressiveness + i think that's it!

Rating:  M, this is good stuff baby  ||     Word Count: 16,293 🥴

A/N: IT’S FINALLY HERE!! I have never worked harder on a fic tbh, and the dialogue in this one hits so hard. Yes, the one part is inspired by that scene in Dirty Dancing — you know the one. Sorry for taking FOREVER, but I really hope y'all enjoy it!

This is Part 4 of ASG. FInd the rest of the series here!

🦋 mila

This is a BIG boi + it’s special, so pls read these notes:

This is super long, so I put little PAGE BREAKS in places where you can pause reading. Please take advantage of them!

If you want the true experience, I've written in song suggestions to play while you read. This is obvi totally optional!!!

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“I jus don’t know what to do bout it,” Gladys says, running a hand over her face. “They’re makin fun of my baby all over town. And probably all over the country, too.”

“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Presley,” Bird responds, taking a bowl of something warm from her fingers. “I can always go back home if this is a bad time.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, honey,” she replies in her thick southern drawl. “We love havin you over. You don’t know how nice it is to have another woman in this damn house.”

Bird smiles painfully as she watches Gladys reach for a beer.

A lot has happened since Elvis had broken Bird's heart and left her sobbing on the floor of her house in Louisiana. It was almost five months later when she received a call from Gladys Presley. She had been shocked to hear a familiar voice on the other end of the line. She’d called to ask if Bird wanted to come up to Memphis and move in with the family. One of their cooks had quit and Gladys couldn’t find anyone who cooked southern-style food the way she liked it. Bird knows she'd taken quite a liking to her. Whenever Elvis had brought her home for dinner, just a handful of times, Bird was always willing to help.

Anyway, she did always have a knack for cooking, especially those delicious southern-style comfort dishes. She had originally refused, but when Gladys called twice more and offered to pay Bird handsomely, it wasn’t really a conversation anymore. She and daddy were struggling after he turned to alcohol for comfort and wasn't working as much as usual. Bird had picked up an extra job at the diner in town while still working at the hayride. She'd been working herself to death, but with the Presley’s money she can help support herself and her father without having to break her back.

Plus, she’d offered.

Bird is always incredibly nervous about seeing Elvis, especially after everything that has happened. But she didn't know what else to do. It was too good of a deal for her. So, she'd packed up some of her belongings and moved up to Memphis, leaving daddy at home by himself.

Mr. and Mrs. Peachtree, the Presley’s neighbors, welcomed her into a small guest house in their backyard. Gladys had offered for her to stay at Graceland, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Being so close to him and not being able to have him. It was all too painful, too regretful. And she knew Elvis wouldn’t want her there, anyway.

It really hasn’t been all that bad. The money is good, the amenities are nice, Mr. and Mrs. Peachtree are always warm and welcoming toward her. Gladys has been surprisingly like a surrogate mother in many ways. She’s been protective over her, frequently asking how Bird's getting on at the house and whether the Peachtrees are treating her right. She's even asked how bird's father is a time or two, even though Bird get the feeling Gladys doesn’t like him much. You can’t blame her. She’d even let Bird have a few sips of beer, despite the fact that she was still underage. That’s something her father would never allow her to do, even if you were of legal age.

“I just hope he’s doin aright,” Gladys continues. “That damn Colonel is always tellin him what to do.”

Bird keeps her mouth shut but raises her eyebrows in agreeance. Despite sympathizing with her, Bird doesn't feel like it’s her place to say anything about the family. Not to mention this entire conversation is still a sore spot since she's convinced that the Colonel is the reason for her breakup with Elvis.

“Oh lord they’re home! My poor baby!” Gladys shouts, glancing out the windows.

Speak of the devil, himself. Bird joins Gladys at the window, watching the familiar dark purple 1956 Cadillac Eldorado drive slowly up the path to the house. There has been a crowd outside for hours now, and the noise is driving her crazy.

The dinner isn’t even finished cooking yet, but Elvis and Mr. Presley would be bursting through the front door any minute now. They’re coming back from New York where Elvis had been on the Steve Allen show. Long story short, the performance was a disaster. He’d been put onstage in full-length tailcoats and forced to sing to a hound dog. An actual hound dog.

Bird watched at home with the Peachtrees, squeezing a pillow tightly. She'd felt especially awkward in recent days. She likes the Peachtrees very much, but they are made of old money and she knows they have mixed feelings about the Presleys. Mrs. Peachtree has been adamant that Elvis isn’t the type of boy young girls should be looking up to. And she used his “Hound Dog” performance as ammunition to prove her point. Bird bites her tongue whenever the Peachtrees begin to badmouth him. And she pretends not to know about all of the rude things the other neighbors whisper about the Presleys behind their backs.

Just as the car parks, Bird quietly dips back into the kitchen to help Alberta, the other cook, with the rest of the food. But mostly to avoid Elvis. She does that a lot nowadays, avoiding, and she doesn't even want to think about the first time he’d discovered her at the house. Apparently, Gladys had neglected to tell her son that his ex-sweetheart would be coming up to work in the house.

She winces just thinking about how all the blood drained from his face, how he’d dropped his guitar out of shock. How the force of its fall had broken the guitar's neck. She hadn’t meant for him to see her. Ever, actually. It's her preference, truthfully, to never be seen by him again. But he’d walked in the door as she was rushing to get the plates out for dinner on time. And then it just happened. They both saw each other and everything was over, the whole facade. And she'd only been there for three days.

After that first awkward encounter, things actually improved between them. They still can’t talk or look at each other, but they're able to be in the same room without feeling sick to their stomachs. That sounds like nothing to celebrate but it's kind of a big accomplishment for both of them. Gladys is a big reason why they've started to come around to each other again. She wants them both to be friends, at least. It’s also easier with Elvis touring more often now since he’s gone so much. In the last month, Bird's barely even seen him at all.

But something in her stomach drops as she hears the door open and some scuffling and low talking. She suddenly feels extremely embarrassed to be present in the house and is afraid to reveal herself, especially if he’s already in a bad mood. She busies herself doing something that doesn’t really need to be done. Anything to keep her from having to go out there and deal with family issues.

Alberta hands Bird some dishes. She would protest, but Alberta knows she isn't doing anything but avoiding Elvis. And the cook is actually busy, so Bird takes the plates. Gulping nervously, she raises her neck high to feign confidence and then goes out into the dining room. Gladys is shouting, still complaining about Elvis’ hound dog performance.

“...and I said maybe you shouldn’t speak like that. And she said…”

“I like what you did with the dog,” she hears Vernon say from the living room.

“It was the most embarrassin performance of my life, daddy,” she can barely hear Elvis’ gruff, mumbled reply.

She sheepishly glances up from her place in the dining room and can’t help but grin a little at Elvis’ childlike appearance. He’s laying on his side on the piano bench, looking like an exhausted toddler.

“...gettin a laugh outta putin a hillbilly in a tailcoat and singin to a dog,” Gladys continues.

Bird lets the secondhand embarrassment settle in her gut as she remembers how stiff and unnatural he looked during his performance on live television. She had hated the whole thing. It just wasn’t him. It isn’t him. Bird knows him well enough by now to know that the way he moves only enhances his performance. It’s the passion inside of him that moves him the way it does.

Bird turns away as Gladys continues to complain about the neighbors’ whispered gossip. She tries to pretend like she doesn't know that the Peachtrees are in that very group.

The Peachtrees were nice enough to not say it to her face, of course, but they were always saying rude things about Elvis behind Gladys’ back. And she doesn't have the heart or the place to tell the Presleys the nasty things and rumors that are whispered in the secret spaces of the neighborhood.

“Damn it, mama. It were either that or get cancelled,” Elvis says, flipping onto his back. “Then that’s it for television. The Colonel says that I’m runnin outta states I’m welcome in. And they don’t pay unless I can perform. Colonel says I play the charity concert tomorrow night as the new family style and ‘en everybody calms down and we get back on track.”

“Someone’s gotta think bout keepin a roof over our heads,” Vernon agrees, bringing his cigarette to his lips.

Bird keeps her mouth shut, even though thoughts are circling around her brain. She takes a stack of silverware from Alberta. She feels extremely awkward, like she should leave. This is family business, and here she is in the middle of it.

“Roof over our head?” Gladys asks, gesturing toward the roof of Graceland. “We’ve always managed to keep a roof over our head, Vernon.”

“Colonel says daddy’s business manager. It’s his job,” Elvis replies.

“We was doin jus fine before that man came along,” Gladys responds sharply.

“Colonel has got us all uh this,” Elvis says, gesturing to Graceland again.

“I don’t want all this!” Gladys shouts. “You’re not happy!”

“I’m not!” Elvis yells back, flexing his arms and curling his fingers into fists.

Bird, distracted by the strangely sexy temper Elvis had displayed, jumps when Gladys slams the dining room table. Her hands create a shockwave that clinks all the nice dishes and silverware up and down on the table. She holds a few plates to her chest and accidentally makes eye contact with Elvis. He stares back at her with eyes that are dark blue, clouded with anger and frustration. This is the first time they've both really looked at each other, like really looked, in so many months. Since they'd broken up, actually. And it kills every part of her.

“And what the hell is she even doin here?” Elvis asks, pointing at her. Bird feels a tinge of pain and bites the inside of her cheek, pressing the plates into her chest uncomfortably.

“I invited her! You leave her outta this. And that’s beside the point, Elvis. You’re losin yourself, bewbie,” Gladys yells sharply.

“Aw hell, mama, I…”

Gladys approaches her son slowly as he shakes his head. She places her hands on his shoulders and whispers into his ear.

“The way you sing and move, it’s god-given. So, there can’t be nothin wrong with it,” she says.

Bird glances up again from the table to see Elvis staring right at her. His eyes have softened, returning to their natural blue now. That gentle blue that she hasn't seen in so long.

As much as she hates to admit it, Bird's whole body is screaming with affection when he looks at her. She really needs the job, but if she's being honest with herself, so much of her also wants to be near him. She knows that what had happened between them had caused a rift so great that it might never be repaired. But she wants to try so badly. She hopes every day that maybe, just maybe, he’ll see her the way he once did and fall back in love with her all over again. This time, she thinks, I can say it back.

Suddenly, his cousin Billy and a bunch of teenage friends come barrelling into the house, causing a ruckus and tracking dirt everywhere. The commotion breaks the intense eye contact between them.

“Don’t track mud in the house, Billy!” Elvis yells. When Billy starts to protest, Elvis grabs him by the shirt and tosses him toward the open front door. “Get outta my house!” he shouts. “Get outta my goddamn house! Trackin mud in my house, doin my damn head in.”

He takes a few steps toward the door, rubbing a hand over his face and into his hair. He has her full attention, and everyone else’s in the room, even if he doesn’t realize it. Bird hates seeing him this way. The reckless energy he gives off in these moods makes her nervous that he’ll do something rash without meaning to.

“Mama, you ain’t never happy. No matter what I do, no matter how much I give ya, it ain’t never enough,” he shouts and Bird can hear Gladys quietly starting to cry. She takes a swig of the beer in her hand. Elvis turns to leave but then spins back around and points with an accusatory finger at his mother.

“And I wish you would not drink so goddamn much. It’s not good for ya!”

“Bewbie!” Gladys yells after him, as he spins on his heel and storms outside.

Reacting without thinking, Bird places the plates down on the table and takes off out of the house and through the door after him. He storms to his car and angrily throws the door open. When Bird steps outside into the warm Tennessee air, she's confronted with a group of people she doesn't even know. She frustratedly pushes her way through them and stalks toward the car. But by the time she reaches it, he’s already started it and peeled off into the grass, tires squealing.

The rubber tires singe the beautifully manicured lawn as Billy yells at him to turn around. Bird takes off running, cutting through the grass and hoping to catch him in time. As she approaches the gate through her shortcut, there’s a mass of people waiting, holding up signs, snapping photos, and cheering. She watches as Elvis flicks the radio on and winces at the sound of “Hound Dog” radiating from the car. Elvis angrily wipes his mouth and punches the tuner again to find a different station. “Hound Dog” again. He pokes it again, this time landing on the Beale Street station. His favorite.

[ -> "Let It All Hang Out" ]

His focus on changing the station means that he’s stopped the car and fans have gathered around it in a circle. He’s stuck for a moment, just long enough for Bird to push her way through the crowd and latch her fingers onto the side of the convertible. She can tell that her sudden movements have scared him — probably because of the screaming girls around them — when his head shoots up in her direction. She swings the door open and climbs in.

“What the hell you doin?” he shouts over the noise, clenching his jaw and looking at her sideways.

“You’re not goin nowhere by yourself,” Bird says forcefully and folds her arms over her chest. “Not when you're like this.”

His angry expression is back and scares her a little, but she also feels a subtle throbbing sensation deep in the pit of her stomach. A feeling she knows well and has felt before around Elvis.

He says nothing back but turns the wheel as he starts to drive again. Girls scream, shake their signs, and try to grab at the car. Bird catches quite a few dirty looks from some of them, which she returns without hesitation. As the car squeals out of the driveway, she glances back to see a black car taking off after them. Bird turns around on her knees to try and get a better look at it as it tails them.

“Someone's followin us,” she says, turning back around to slide into the leather seat.

“Let ‘em. I don’t give a shit,” Elvis says and she clamps her lips shut.

They both settle in for the drive, no sounds but the wind blowing through the car and the hits from Beale Street humming on the radio. Bird glances over at Elvis as he drives. His jaw is clenched and shoulders upright. Although his arm is draped lazily across the steering wheel, his fingers are constantly moving, curling and uncurling. His hair has fallen over his forehead in thick clumps and the wind is blowing the flaps of his pink lace shirt open and closed over his chest. Her eyes absentmindedly trace down the fabric and land on his chest. This is the first time the two of them have been alone since that day. The tension is too much for her body to sit still.

Bird turns over her shoulder, seeing the black car still following them. She feels like she should speak up and say something but isn't sure how to begin. Elvis turns onto Beale Street and her mouth drops slightly open as she looks around. There’s nothing particularly special about the area, but it’s busy. There’s an energy around that she can’t describe. It just feels…electric, alive. She turns around again on her knees to look around.

“So this is Beale Street, huh? Where you always run off to,” she mutterr to herself, but apparently loud enough for him to hear her.

She gulps hard after speaking, not realizing fully that this is the first time either of them has spoken to the other. Besides the occasional 'excuse me' or 'sorry' mutters while navigating the house.

“You ain’t never been down here?” he asks but continues before she gets a chance to respond. “No, why would ya, a girl like you?”

She ignores his rude comment and responds, “No, I haven’t. But I like it a whole lot.”

She's staring up at the bright flashing signs on the buildings and smiles when she hears music spilling out of one of the open windows. Club Handy, the sign out front says. Elvis pulls into a parking spot on the street.

“It’s a good place. People here are good people. It reminds me of home.”

She feels her heart ache at his words. He frantically grabs his jacket, looking like he’s about to blast out of the car. Her hands fly to the handle of the door, about to open it, when she notices him freeze. He closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and breathes deeply. His eyelashes are dark and long as they flutter closed. She wants nothing more than to feel them tickle her cheekbones as he kisses her lips. She considers reaching out to touch him but she can’t bring herself to. How dare she touch him after what she did…

“Are you okay?” she basically whispers it.

He shrugs aggressively, throwing the door open and exiting the car. He mumbles a 'fine' before she hops out of the car to follow his lead. She sticks to his side as a crowd of people begins to gather around the car. She glances up at him, sure that this isn’t what he wants right now, but powerless to stop the horde of people closing in on her.

“EP!”

Both of their heads shoot up in the direction of the shout. Elvis’ eyes light up as he waves to a man sticking his head out of a window.

“B.B.!”

Bird's eyes go wide. B.B…B.B. King?

Elvis has turned around to sign some autographs while making his way through the crowd. Bird's getting pushed back but she reaches out and grabs tightly onto Elvis’ lace shirt.

“Hey, what’re ya-”

His shocked expression quickly changes to one of irritation when he whips around to see her grasping onto him.

“Don’t rip my shirt,” is all he says and she nods.

She frantically follows him around the street but every time he tries to go into a building, the crowd of people assembles to stop him. Bird notices an open space and pulls on Elvis' shirt, trying to drag him in that direction.

“What is wrong with ya?” he says angrily.

“I’m tryin to help,” she responds, yanking him. “Go this way.”

But in the time she spends trying to convince him to follow her, another crowd has gathered. He pulls away from her to shrug his jacket on and she loses her grip on him. She stumbles back and gets lost in the crowd, surging forward. She can still see him but she's drowning in a sea of people she doesn't know, faces she doesn't recognize. She watches as a young woman presses a kiss onto Elvis' lips, and Bird's gut drops like a brick into the ocean. She awkwardly turns to try and get back to the car. She decides to just wait there, but someone grasps harshly onto her wrist. She whirls back around.

“C'mon,” Elvis says, his angry expression is back, making her heart lurch.

She doesn't necessarily enjoy his anger when it’s directed at her. But the fact that he’s grasping her wrist instead of anyone else’s is making her body feel hot. She suddenly realizes that everyone in the crowd is probably wondering who she is. Elvis drags her into the building and the doors slam behind them. He releases her wrist, and she peers around the dark hallway. Elvis hugs the man who let them into the building, the man who, now looking at him, Bird's pretty sure is B.B. King.

“It’s damn good to see ya, EP. What the hell you doin up here tonight?”

“Goddamn it, B.B. There’s so much happenin, with mama goin on bout the hound dog and the Colonel’s got me wearin tails and everybody wants somethin different, I-”

“Hey, listen,” B.B. says, grabbing his shoulders. “If you’re sad and you wanna be sad, you’re at the right place. If you’re happy and you wanna be happy? Guess what, you’re at the right place. So just do me a favor, let it all hang out. Let it all hang out, EP!”

“Let it all hang out,” Elvis agrees.

B.B.’s eyes flick behind Elvis and finally latch onto her, as she awkwardly stands still with her fingers intertwined in front of her.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” he asks, taking her hand to press a chaste kiss to it. She smiles bashfully.

“This is Birdie,” Elvis responds, avoiding her eyes, “my neighbor.”

“B.B. King, nice to meet you,” B.B. responds. Bird smiles.

“Oh, I know who y'are. Elvis talks about ya all the time.”

“Does he now? And did he drag you all the way up here with him just to meet me?”

“No, I did not drag her up here,” Elvis responds, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Bird gulps. Suddenly, two girls come crashing through the hallway, hanging onto each other and laughing.

“B.B.! How you doin baby?” one of them asks through a fit of giggles. “Oh, my, and the Elvis Presley. I thought you was too big to be comin up here anymore.”

“Never,” he replies and Bird despises the way Elvis smirks at her, looking the woman up and down. The other girl mindlessly stumbles away, leaving just the three of them in the hallway.

“Dolores, this is Birdie, Elvis’ friend,” B.B. says, gesturing toward her. Bird gives her a small smile and the woman returns a genuine one.

“This your first time down here on Beale Street?”

Bird nods, wondering what gives her away so easily.

“What’re ya here for? The music? I know Elvis is,” Dolores says, throwing a sexy smile in Elvis’ direction. Bird's heart thuds in her chest but she swallows the lump in her throat.

“I’m just here to absorb as much as I can. Maybe do some dancin? I’m ain't too sure.”

“Well you can dance and absorb all you want, hunny, but you ain’t wearin that inside,” Dolores says, gesturing at Bird's outfit.

She glances down at her checked skirt and yellow sweater, suddenly feeling like a massive prude.

“W-what’s wrong with it?”

Dolores gives her a disgusted face but shrugs.

“Well there ain’t nothin wrong with it, per se. But it just ain’t the kinda thing you wear to a club like Club Handy. We gotta get you into somethin else. Shopping time! Come on, baby, let’s get you set up.”

Dolores grabs her hand and starts to drag her along.

“We’ll be back, gentleman. Enjoy ya fellas time,” she says, waving as they head out.

Bird has never been around a woman with so much force before. Not force in a bad way, but in a way that makes her feel powerful and in control. That isn’t a feeling she's used to. Most of her friends at home are like little flowers, always doing what they’re told and never going out for any reason other than to attend Church or visit the library. Dolores pulls Bird out of the building and across the street. She notices that the crowd has dispersed completely now, although the streets are still busy. They approach a dress shop with low lighting.

“Uh…is it still open? It’s quite late,” Bird says, never having heard of a late-night dress shop.

“Of course it’s still open! What if somebody needed a dress late at night, just like we do right now?” Dolores asks.

They walk into the shop together and Bird's eyes bulge out of her head. The dresses are gorgeous but nothing like she's ever seen before. They are short, tight, and sparkly all over. She can’t help but let her mouth fall open as she glances around at the bold colors adorning the walls and mannequins. This store is teeming with potential, but for a girl like her?

“Mama Ray! Are you in here?” Dolores yells.

A middle-aged black woman comes out from the back, smiling sweetly.

“Dolores, baby, it’s good to see you again! Come in, come in! What d’ya need, girl?”

“We need a dress for this girl right here,” Dolores says smoothly. “Somethin worthy of a dance night at Club Handy. Somethin for a girl tryna get a man all hot and bothered, you know.”

“Ooh, girl! Come here, then, lemme see ya,” Mama Ray says and Bird steps toward her, feeling heat creep into her cheeks.

Mama Ray circles her like a hawk, looking up and down at Bird's angles and curves. She rubs a finger on her chin, grabbing a few samples of colors and holding them up to your cheeks.

“Aha, that’s the one,” she says finally, pulling a deep sparkly black hue. “I got one in the back in this fabric that you should try.”

She disappears around the corner and Dolores leans against the checkout counter, playing with her immaculate nails.

“So how long have you been in love with Elvis?” she asks without skipping a beat, even though her statement makes Bird's heart skip about a hundred beats.

“What?” she sputters.

“Oh come on, sugar. I’m not blind. Any damn body can tell by the way you look at him that you’ve got the hots for him.”

She looks over at Dolores, about to protest again, but the woman's kind eyes make Bird want to confide in her. Besides, even if she did tell her the truth, she didn’t think Dolores would actually believe one word she says. Bird sighs deeply and nods.

“A long time, Dolores,” she replies. “We were goin together back when he was stayin in Louisiana, but…”

Bird waves her hand dismissively.

“Well it don't much matter now.”

“What the hell do you mean it don't matter?”

“We broke up. It was messy. It’s over.”

“It don’t have to be,” she says. “You just gotta show him what he’s missin.”

Bird's head snaps to attention as Mama Ray comes out from the back with the long sparkling dress. She holds it out for Bird and she disappears behind the curtains of the dressing room. She drops her head into her hands for a moment, breathing deeply.

How did she get herself into this mess?

She undresses and gently tries to pull the black dress on. It takes her a minute to figure out exactly how it’s supposed to fit. She's never worn anything like it in her life. She shrugs, holding two pieces of fabric in front of her face.

She exits the dressing room, holding the straps like they’re fragile baby birds. Dolores laughs as soon as she sees her and beckons her over.

“You didn’t even look at yourself, did ya?” she asks, maneuvering Bird over to a mirror. “That ain’t how you wear it. Lemme help ya.”

Bird leans away from her for a moment, trying to resist, but Dolores is too willful. And before Bird knows it, she's standing in front of herself. Except the person looking at the mirror is not the same one peering back through the glass. Dolores’ fingers daintily and expertly maneuver the portions of the dress around until it looks much more natural. She steps back and Bird's mouth drops open for a moment at the sight of herself. The dress is skin-tight, hugging all of her curves in the right places.

The top is crossed at the neck, leaving a hole where her cleavage is clearly visible. Another strap winds around her throat like a choker and it has a gem that draws attention to her jawline. She feels regal and elegant. She can also see that it leaves the entire top half of her back uncovered. The way it hugs her hips and then falls into grand drapes makes her look taller and older. She touches a hand to her chest, shocked by the sight of herself.

“Ooh, hot mama!” Dolores shouts, clapping her hands. She takes a turn around her body, pinching and tucking parts of the dress to see how it fits her. “Damn that fits you good. He ain’t gonna be able to take his eyes off of you.”

“That dress was made for ya, honey,” Mama Ray agrees, nodding her head. “In fact…I’ll sell it to ya for half off cause it looks so good on ya.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I have plenty to-”

“I said what I said.”

Bird shuts her mouth, reaching into her purse to grab what little cash she has stuffed away in there.

“Try these on, too,” she says, sliding a pair of high-heeled black pumps across the counter. 

With Dolores’ help, she steps into them.

“How do ya feel?” Dolores asks.

“Uh…not like myself.”

“Nah, baby, that’s the point,” Dolores says, placing her hands on Bird's shoulders. “The real you is scared, too frightened to be bold and make a move on the man you want. This you, well she’s strong. She’s brave. Pretend like you’re someone else. Embrace this new version of you and make up a whole new name for yourself. Who do you wanna be?”

“Bird,” she says without skipping a beat. “Elvis always calls me 'Lil Birdie'. He even introduced me to you as Birdie but that's ain't my name. I ain't no little birdie, anymore."

[ -> "Tupelo Shuffle" ]

“No you ain’t, hunny. But one last thing before we go get you your man,” Dolores says, reaching up to untie the ribbon holding her hair up into a ponytail. Bird breathes deeply as the hair falls down and tickles her neck and ears. Dolores fluffs it up then turns her around to look at herself before speaking.

“He has no idea what’s comin.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Bird and Dolores run, giggling, across the street back to Club Handy. Bird is terrified to move in the tight dress for fear of breaking it, but the more she shifts the more comfortable she gets. By the time she's running up the stairs of the club she's moving like a regular pro, looking elegant and sexy while she does so. As she climbs the stairs, quite a few men whistle and compliment her. She smiles bashfully and fluffs her hair up. Dolores stops her right outside the door, grabbing her hands.

“Alright now,” she says. “Don’t forget who you are tonight, Bird. Be confident, be sexy, and most of all be a tease.”

She winks and she nods, instinctively pulling her into a hug. She chuckles and hugs her back.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Dolores swings the door open and music floods into the hallway. They both step in, feeling energized and buzzing with nerves. The music is fast-paced and loud, the room smells deeply of smoke and cologne. She takes a big whiff, feeling emboldened by the strength of the scent. She looks around for a moment, spotting Elvis talking to B.B. in a corner. He hasn’t noticed her yet since he’s bent over with a relaxed smile. It’s a smile she hasn't seen in quite a while and one she's desperately missed. She's jealous, wishing she had been the one to make him smile like that.

“I might need a little liquid courage,” Bird says and Dolores nods with a mischievous smile.

They walk together over to the bar and order two whiskeys. Bird starts to drink hers but sputters, spitting some out. She feels her face grow hot with embarrassment but, luckily, everyone’s attention is focused on the young man singing at the front of the room.

“Now that ain’t cool. Is Bird the type of woman who can’t hold her liquor?” Dolores asks, staring her down. She clears her throat and shakes her head stiffly.

“Hell no she’s ain't,” she responds, pouring the rest of her drink down her throat like she'd seen Mrs. Presley do a time or two before. It burns her esophagus and tears well up in her eyes but channeling Bird helps her blink them away.

Whether it’s just her being a lightweight and drinking for the first time or the strength of the whiskey or her brain making things up, she feels emboldened and maybe a little drunk already? She smiles confidently and hooks her arm over Dolores’ elbow. Both women saunter over to where Elvis and B.B. King are sitting.

“Well, hi there, boys!” Dolores says, her voice like velvet.

She points her chin up as much as she can, elongating her neck. Elvis starts to look up with a smile, but it fades quickly when he finally sees her. She stares back directly, refusing to back down. She's tired of running away and the courage from the liquor buzzing in her brain helps her do what she's wanted to do for the last few months.

His eyes slowly, agonizingly trace down her figure, around every inch of her body. She can see him taking in everything she's putting out, including the cleavage in the middle of her chest. She feels sexier than ever with his eyes landing on her like that and it makes her even more confident. When his eyes return to hers, they are black with lust. His lips are parted and she can see him practically panting for her. She relaxes her body, sticking her hip out to place her palm on it sassily. She's daring him to want her.

“Damn. Lil Birdie, I-”

“My name ain't Birdie, tonight,” she cuts him off. “Tonight I’m just Bird.”

She can see the confusion turn into recognition in his eyes as she speaks the words. His eyebrows furrow and she catches a glimmer of sadness in them.

“Well, Bird, how was your shopping trip?” B.B asks, a mischievous smile on his face.

“Oh I’d say it was very successful,” Dolores responds. “Wouldn’t you, B.B.? I mean just look at this dress Mama Ray pulled out for Bird.”

“Oh I’d say it was a success, alright,” B.B. agrees and Bird notices his eyes trailing up and down her figure as well. He pulls out the chair next to him. Bird glances at Dolores who raises her eyebrow and she understands.

She saunters in front of Dolores to sit down next to B.B. and leans forward in the chair. She rests her elbows on the table, feeling Elvis’ eyes track her every movement and loving every single second of it. She stares intently at B.B. with a little smile festering on her face.

“So, this is my first time on Beale Street,” she starts, tracing the top of a whiskey glass on the table with her finger. "It’s pretty different from where I live.”

“Yeah? Is different bad?”

“Oh no. Different is good. Really good. This place feels like everythin I been missing,” she responds. “The cars are fast, clothes are fine, and the men? Well…”

[ -> "Do You Love Me" ]

She lets her finger fall down from the whiskey glass onto B.B.'s fingers, lightly tracing across them. As they stare into each others' eyes, the music changes to something energetic but sensual. B.B. stands and offers her his hand.

“Would you like to dance, Bird?”

She smiles and stretches her arm out in response, dropping her fingers into his. He pulls her up and after him onto the dancefloor. As she walks by Elvis’ chair, she makes sure to ‘accidentally’ drag her fingers along his shoulders. She barely feels him shudder under her touch for a quick moment before B.B. has her on the dancefloor.

Bird's only ever danced a formal waltz and a little shimmy here and there, but nothing like the gyrating hips and quick feet she sees around her. She lets B.B. take the lead and he pulls her close as she strings her arms over his shoulders.

“Now I know you aren’t wearing that dress for me,” B.B. whispers in her ear as their hips sway together. “Or anybody else in this building except for one person.”

“I don’t know what ya mean, B.B.”

He just nods at Elvis, who’s still tracking her every move with his deep blue eyes. She glances around for Dolores and finds her giggling in the corner with a handsome man.

“It’s really that obvious?" she asks and then sighs deeply. This is the second time tonight someone has commented on her — apparently obvious — infatuation with Elvis. 

“Pretty obvious,” B.B. replies. “Maybe not to some people, but as a man I can tell when a woman is trying to turn someone on. Chicks don’t wear dresses like this for no reason. But I think I can help ya.”

“I welcome it. Elvis hates me,” she replies. “We had a messy breakup and things have never been the same.”

“Sometimes that's how things go, but it doesn’t mean they’ve gotta stay that way,” B.B. responds, gripping her hip firmly onto him.

Bird doesn’t feel any sexual attraction toward B.B., but if she did it would be over for her. He certainly knows how to hold a woman tenderly in all the right places.

“Arch your back just a little.”

She follows his directions, making sure to emphasize her ass and chest. As B.B. turns her around, she makes eye contact with Elvis. His finger is dragging along his bottom lip, pulling it out, and his eyes are focused on her totally, completely, unwavering. She holds his gaze and cuddles closer to B.B., turning her head to brush her lips gently against B.B.’s ear.

“You’re an evil genius,” B.B. laughs. “He’ll hate that.”

This time when B.B. swirls her around, she purposefully avoids Elvis’ eyes, knowing he’s looking for her. She's like a toddler on a carousel with an attentive parent watching her every turn around the circle. Just as she laughs at something B.B. says, the song ends and another, less dance-worthy tune heats up.

“I could use another drink. Buy me one?” she asks B.B. and he nods, taking her hand and leading her to the bar.

She orders another whiskey, downs it fast, and feels immediately blurred. But she loves it. It’s all according to her plan as she walks back to the table. B.B. pulls her chair out for her, placing her directly between him and Elvis. Bird smirks as she takes her seat and throws her head back to shake out her hair. She can feel Elvis' eyes burning holes through her clothes, but she turns away from him toward B.B. and gets back to chatting, making sure to laugh at all of B.B.’s jokes.

After a while, most of the people in the club have left, and there’s only a handful still milling around. The lights have been dimmed down and tables emptied as the last few guests crowd onto the dancefloor. She's on her third whiskey when she realizes that, at some point, Elvis and B.B. had gone out to the balcony to talk. So, it’s just her left at the table, with Dolores hanging about somewhere. She's started to lose track of time and everything moves in slow motion, blurred and relaxed.

[ -> "Fever" ]

When the song changes again, she finds herself stretching up from her seated place, drawn to the dancefloor. She makes sure to sway her hips even though Elvis is nowhere to be found. She positions herself near one of the windows, mostly hidden from others, where she can do her thing and only be noticed by a few people, most of all the one she wants to notice her.

She slowly reaches her arms up into the air and begins to sway her hips around in time with the music. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, letting the music flow through her veins and direct her body. She feels connected, at peace, and utterly in love with herself. She can feel that she's irresistible right now and everyone has their eyes on her.

With her eyes closed, she's completely disoriented. Suddenly, hands are on her waist, gripping the skin, and hot breath is ghosting over her neck. Her eyes fly open and she tilts her head. She would know the touch of those hands anywhere.

“Can I help you,” she mumbles.

Elvis chuckles breathily as one of his hands slides its way onto her abdomen, while the other sneaks down toward her heat. Her hand flies up to stop him, gripping his fingers and moving them back up to a respectable place.

“Uh, uh, uh,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t get dirty with men who don’t deserve it.”

She resists a shudder as his lips tickle her ear. He presses his body against her backside and she lets her arms drape back onto his shoulders. She sways her ass into him and feels his member twitch. She smirks as his grip on her stomach tightens, squeezing the breath from her body. Her eyes close again and she tilts her neck to the side. Her heart rate increases with every hot breath he blows on her neck. Just as his lips brush the tender skin there, the song ends abruptly.

It takes everything in her, but she won’t give him the satisfaction. She pushes away from his body, untangling herself despite his best efforts to hold on. Fixing her dress and hair, she returns to the table to finish her drink. She feels his eyes on her figure as she slinks away, sitting down and dumping the rest of her whiskey down her throat like a pro. She lets the unpleasant sensation ripple through her body, shivering, and turns with a drunken smile toward B.B. She opens her mouth to say something flirty, but-

“Get up,” Elvis’ voice is raspy and deep as he mutters into her ear.

She whips around, about to tell him to fuck off but when she sees his expression she falters. His eyes are angrier than she's ever seen them, almost black in the dim lights of the club. There’s something about his intense gaze that’s unhinged, animalistic. It scares her and also arouses her, so she smiles briefly at B.B. and gets up from her seat. As soon as she stands, Elvis grabs onto her bicep and ushers her into the hallway. He swings her outside and she roughly pulls back on his grasp.

“Hey, go easy, ya brute,” she spits, managing to rip herself away from him. She smoothes down her dress. “What the hell is thi-”

“What the fuck do ya think you’re doing?” he hisses, grabbing her arm again.

“Excuse me?” she hisses back. “I haven’t done nothin to you. Let go of me, ya asshole.”

She wiggles in his fingers but his arm slams loudly onto the wall by her head. It prevents her from going anywhere, pinning her between a wall and a hard place. She looks at him with widened eyes.

“Let me leave, Elvis,” she says, genuinely a little scared now. “I wanna go home.”

She ducks under his arm but it slips off the wall and wraps itself around her wrist. She flails her arms from side to side and even tries to thump his chest a few times but he only holds on tighter. As she struggles, he backs her up, slamming her against the wall. She shudders in a sense of alarm, which is quickly turning into delight. He presses himself up against her, clenching his jaw. Every part of his body touches her, except in the place where she needs him most. He stretches her arms up, pinning them above her head and bears down on her. She smirks, chuckling silently.

“What’s wrong, EP? Can’t take the heat?” she breathily whispers and flashes her teeth as she bites at the air like an untamed horse.

Who is this person and what are they saying? she thinks to herself.

Whatever she did works, though, because he audibly growls and presses her wrists harder into the wall.

“Why are ya doin this to me?” he demands, pressing into her.

She resists the urge to moan or groan, neglecting her body’s most primal needs. Her leg twitches, tingling to wrap itself against him, but she resists with every fiber of her being.

“Doin what?” she replies with a voice much stronger than she feels.

She leans into the air between them, challenging him to answer. They both breathe heavily, knowing what they want but refusing to give in. She watches as his eyes fall down to her breasts and then back up to her eyes. She feels him hard against her thigh but she clamps her teeth together.

“You know damn well what ya doin, Lil Birdie.”

“Just Bird. I’m ain't little anymore, Elvis. You’ll call me Bird.”

His eyes flash angrily for a moment and she gulps before the lusty glaze returns. He continues through clenched teeth. She decides to play coy, knowing it’ll drive him wild.

“And I have no idea what ya talkin about,” she says, strategically letting her leg slide up his body and hook onto his hips. She watches his eyes follow the movement. He says nothing, and she knows it’s because he can’t.

“Is it…things like this,” she angles her head toward his bare forearm, dragging her tongue across the skin, tasting the salt of his body. “Is that what I’m doin?”

He groans again and she can see his jaw clenching roughly. It’s taking everything in him not to pounce on her.

“Goddamn it. I swear to god, Lil Birdie, if you don’t stop this right now,” he growls through gritted teeth.

“What? What are ya gonna do about it, king?”

They stare at each other for a moment. There is almost no light in the hallway; the only shadows in the room come from the blinking lights of the street signs outside. She can smell the lingering scent of smoke on Elvis’ clothes. A creeping smirk is pasted on her face, and his chest rises and falls rapidly with labored breathing. Already tired of waiting, she flexes her leg on his hip, pushing his member against her.

His lips crash onto hers, pushing her head flush against the wall. She curls her fingers above her head, arching her back to press her body harder against his. His grip is firm on her wrists and it aches but she welcomes the pain. He’s kissing her frantically, desperately, hotly all over. There’s no chance for either of them to breathe. Every time he finishes a kiss, he goes straight back for another one. His hair is getting messy, falling into their faces and tickling her skin. She bites his bottom lip and he forces his tongue into her mouth.

As he assaults her lips, she squeezes him with her leg, and he responds immediately by pressing himself against her and pulling back before repeating. She moans quietly into his plump lips, and he groans in response. He starts to get into a rhythm and she feels herself growing warmer by the minute. Her stomach is twisting and turning, demanding more contact. His lips slip off hers and trail hot, wet kisses down her neck. He bites and sucks harshly on the skin, and she moans louder at the pleasure that shockwaves through her body. He manages to bite a sweet spot on her neck at the exact moment his hips thrust between their clothed bodies and she can’t help herself. His name flies out in a moan through her lips.

“No…” he growls.

Suddenly the air around her is devastatingly cold. Her leg falls to the ground with a thud and her arms follow. They hang limp at her sides as she struggles for breath. Elvis has pushed himself off of her and is standing at the opposite end of the hallway, breathless and disheveled. Bird looks at him from across the way, feeling tears start to well up in her eyes. She's frozen, this time with real fear. Not of his anger but of losing him again. Despite the fuzziness of the booze from earlier, she feels soberer than ever now. Elvis makes eye contact with her, biting his tongue with his teeth. He laughs, but something is off. It’s not a happy laugh or even a lusty one. It’s disturbed, sadistic almost, as if he couldn’t even believe he’d let himself be manipulated by little old Birdie. He glares back at her and even in the dim lights, she can see that his eyes are glassy. He shakes his head and then sprints down the stairs.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

It takes jer a second to gather her breath and to push the tears back into her eyes, even though her face won’t unscrew itself from the emotional pain. She wipes a straggling tear away as she bounds down the stairs after him. When she hits the bottom step, she pauses for a moment to quickly tear off her shoes to move faster. They are starting to hurt her feet, anyway. She runs outside to see him climbing into the car.

All of the lights along the street have either been turned off or dimmed, and there is almost no one left in the streets or buildings. The spotlights shine with hazy lights that reflect the moisture on the roads. In the distance, she hears the familiar sound of Elvis’ car starting — or trying to.  For some reason, the engine sputters and the car stalls. By the time it’s finished hissing, her fingers are clutching onto the side of the convertible again.

“Goddamnit!” he screams, slamming his palms against the steering wheel.

His forehead follows, banging onto the wheel. She doesn't get into the car, unsure of what to do. She wants to hold him, tell him everything will be alright, stroke his hair. But everything is so awkward between them. Something in the universe doesn’t want them to be together. Not without a struggle, at least.

“Get in,” he mutters dryly. “I’ll take ya home.”

She keeps quiet and climbs into the car. Elvis patiently starts it and the engine revs to life just fine. He whips out of the space and starts driving home. She can’t bring herself to say anything. Not even when she notices that he’s taken a wrong turn. Not even when she's been driving for twenty minutes even though Graceland is only ten minutes away. Not even when the houses and cars start to become fewer and far between. The way he expertly navigates each turn suggests to her that he already knows it isn’t the way home. She knows she should be scared since she has no idea where he’s taking her. He could be kidnapping her for all she knows.

But nothing in her could care that much. She is with him and, truthfully, that’s all she cares about. Once they reach a dark, nature-filled area, he pulls over into the grass.

She hasn't had much time to go exploring around Memphis since Gladys has kept her pretty busy working at the house, but she can tell that they're in some kind of park. It’s incredibly dark, but the headlights cast beams of yellow onto the scene. And the pale blue light of the moon adds an eerie but calming contrast as its glimmers reflect off the small body of water below you. You crane your neck to look up at the white wafer in the sky and Elvis stops the car.

The weather can not be better for being outside. The heavy, humid air is still warm but as the wind gently blows off the lake, it hits her skin, chilled, and balances out to the perfect temperature. She can hear crickets chirping and rustling leaves in the wind. Sitting here surrounded by the perfect weather and calming atmosphere of the park, she feels a sense of calmness like she's never experienced before.

“I don’t understand ya,” Elvis finally says in a monotone voice. No feeling in his tone, whatsoever.

She turns to him but says nothing, waiting for him to explain.

“I give you everythin and you reject it,” he continues. “Then outta nowhere, you want it all back. I-I don’t understand it.”

Bird still says nothing, feeling her forehead crease as it tries to prevent the tears from forming.

“Do ya have any idea what I’ve been goin through?” he asks, his voice rising. She finally looks him in the eyes with desperate fear.

“You destroyed me, Birdie. Wrecked me completely,” he says, his eyes glassy in the darkness. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. I woke up every single damn day and wondered what the goddamn point uh life was if you ain’t here with me. Nothin felt right. Everythin was empty, even my music. I felt so goddamn alone. Like nobody was there for me. Like nobody fuckin cared, I mean really cared, bout me.”

“Then why d'ya do it?” she interjects, whispering loudly. She shakes her head and leans toward him. “Why did you come to me that day? We coulda done this. Together.”

“I did what I had to do,” he replies. “I thought…I thought it was the right thing to do. What I had to do.”

“How could you possibly think it was right, when it felt so, so wrong?”

“I was jus lookin out for my career, aright,” he’s shouting now. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doin! Everybody wants something goddamn different, and I don’t know how I’m ‘posed to please everybody. Mama wants one thing, the Colonel wants another, and then there’s you and…I just don’t know what the fuck you want. I think ya love me and then you leave me out to dry.”

“I didn’t mean to, Elvis!” she shouts back. “I just…I was so angry with ya. For breakin my heart, for dumpin me like I was extra baggage!”

The tears start to spill out of her eyes and her voice shakes and cracks.

“And I could tell that it was hurtin you and that it wasn’t what you wanted. So, the fact that you continued to lie to me…Elvis, it was breakin me into pieces. I trusted ya, even though everybody I know told me not to. I did. I trusted ya and, in that moment, you lied to me for no good reason other than to hurt me. You proved all those people right, and I didn’t know what to believe.”

“Listen,” he snapped, holding up a finger. “I never, ever meant to hurt ya. But don’t act like the innocent party here. I gave ya a chance. I put everythin out there for ya and you threw it all in the garbage.”

“No! No, I didn’t mean to, I-”

“You know I didn’t have to fuckin say that to ya! Specially not when I’ve got girls throwin themselves at me left and right. I could have any damn woman I want. Temptation’s everywhere - and then here you fuckin go again in that goddamn dress tonight,” he cut himself off. “Puttin everything out there, gettin all up close with B.B. Everybody’s fuckin lookin at ya, wantin ya. Torturing me. Puttin me through hell and for what?! So you can win? So you can punish me? For what, Bird?!!”

“No!” she screams through clenched teeth.

“Fuck! You’re so damn infuriatin!” he yells, curling his fingers up like he’s squashing her head between them. “I told you that I fuckin loved ya, and you said nothing! Not a damn thing. You let me walk outta there thinkin that you didn’t give a damn bout me. Then you show up here workin with my mama, my fucking mother, behind my back. I wanted you outta my life and here you go again back in it. And now you just won't fuckin leave me alone! You won’t let me go down to Beale Street to cool myself off! You just always gotta be in the fuckin middle of it all!”

“I’m just tryna protect you! You were scarin me, Elvis! I thought maybe you were gonna hurt yourself or somethin, the way you tore outta there. I just want ya to be happy, damn it! And I can help! Why won’t you just let me in? I can help you!”

“Because I don’t want you to have to deal with all this! The colonel is the best chance I got. I gotta support my family, cause I ain’t gonna let 'em get into a situation like that ever again. I know I can be great and make a difference in this shit world. But I can’t do that on my own. I need help, and he’s gonna help me. He’s the only one who can, so I gotta trust him.”

“Fine!” she yells, throwing her hands up. “But why won’t you just admit that he told ya to break up with me?! I know he did. That’s all I wanted, Elvis! I just wanted to hear the truth from your lips. I didn’t wanna be lied to!”

“Yes! Alright, yes! He did advise me to break up with you! But his advice ain’t the only reason! I want you outta my life! I want you somewhere safe where you don’t gotta deal with none of this shit! All these people, th-these women, throwin themselves on me all the time! Hangin round my house! Callin my goddamn phone! All these cameras and photographers takin pictures of me every time I fuckin breathe. I didn’t wanna put ya through all that. It ain’t fair to ya!”

“Well,” she says weakly, her bottom lip starting to tremble. “Then I guess I’ll leave if ya want me to. The only reason I was here anyway is because ya mama asked me to come but I can go tomorrow. I’ll move back to Louisiana and live with Daddy.”

“No. See that’s the worst fucking thing bout it,” he continues. “I don’t want you to leave at all. Not even a little bit.”

They're both leaning into each other, their faces half angry and half sad. Both of their eyes are brimming with tears. Their faces are close without touching. Bird doesn’t know what to say to him, so her eyes desperately search his instead.

“I want you here all the damn time. I think about ya every second of every day,” he continues, reaching up to touch her cheek. “I want you every second of every day. Damn it, Lil Birdie, you have no fuckin idea how badly I wanted to rip this dress off ya body and have my way with ya right there. How badly I wanna touch ya, feel ya, make ya feel good, hear how ya scream my name.”

She closes her eyes, leaning into his hand and biting her lip.

“And it ain’t jus that. I love bein with ya, talkin to ya. Everything about you draws me in. It’s like a trap. But I can’t keep doin this with ya. It’s like one day you want me and when I come too close, you push me away. And I jus don’t think…that I can be around ya if you don’t love me back. Because…Lil Birdie, I ain’t ever loved anyone or anythin as much as I love you. With my entire being. Everythin that I am. And bein around you…it just hurts too damn much.”

His voice starts to crack at the end of the sentence and he drops his head. She hears him sniff and notices his shoulders lightly shaking. All of her uncomfortable tingles fall away, and she quickly moves closer to him to rest her palms on the sides of his face. She lifts it to see his eyes underneath the dark night sky. Tears are streaming down his cheeks but she hurriedly wipes them away.

“No, no, no, no. Oh, Elvis, I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want any of this. I never meant to hurt ya I just don’t trust the Colonel, that’s all. He’s a manipulator, just like my daddy can be. I know it cause I see the same things in him that I see in my own daddy. All he’ll do is hurt ya and ruin ya. And I can’t,” she gets choked up,” I can’t take that.”

“It doesn't matter none. Nunna this does if you don’t love me anyhow,” he quietly breathes out. She sniffs hard and looks up at the moon and stars, trying to will her emotions into subservience.

“I…I didn’t say it before cause I was afraid, okay?” she whispers. The tears fall silently down her face now, staining her skin. “The last person I said it to was my mama, right before she died. And I haven't said it to nobody else since then, cause…”

She loses her voice, both embarrassed and afraid of the secret words she has never voiced to anyone other than herself.

“Cause what?” he asks, looking up at her with glossy eyes.

“Nothin. It’s stupid,” she replies, pinching the bridge of her nose. He pries her fingers loose and tilts her chin toward him.

“There ain’t nothin you could ever say to me that’s stupid. Talk to me, baby.”

His sweet blue eyes always hold so much passion and when they're trained on her, it feels like she's the most expensive object in the world. The only one worth looking at. She takes a shaky breath.

“Well, the thing is, ya see, my mama was real sick. On her deathbed sick, and I went to visit her at the hospital and I…well I told her that I loved her. And she jus…” the tears start streaming again. “She jus died! Right there! Right after I’d said it…I can’t never say it again, Elvis. I’m terrified that it’s gonna…th-that I’m gonna…”

“Kill someone?”

She winces in pain as she tries to hold back her tears.

“I told ya it was stupid.”

“It ain’t stupid, baby,” he says, moving to cup her cheek. “No, it ain’t stupid. And I’m sorry if I pressured ya, I just didn’t know.”

“How could ya? I never told nobody. Not even daddy. This is the first time I’ve ever said it out loud, actually.”

He scoots as close to her as he can with the gear shift between them and strokes both of her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I know you care bout me. That much is obvious, specially since I know you didn’t come all the way up here to help my mama in the kitchen,” he says, smiling. She releases a sad laugh. “That’s more of a nightmare than a dream. And I can feel it in the way you look at me. I can tell. But if you ain’t ready to say it, I ain’t gonna make ya. I just…I would really like it if…can we try again?”

She looks at him in the moonlight. His hair is disheveled, pushed back onto his head and tangled. He looks so incredibly handsome in the pale moonlight as it casts soft, hazy shadows over his features.

“Please, Lil Birdie, can we try again?”

Bird nods. He offers a small smile, bringing her head to his lips to kiss her forehead gently. She closes her eyes and eagerly accepts it. When he pulls back, he releases her and turns back around in his seat. She stays put, gazing at him in the moonlight again as he leans his head back against the seat and heaves a big breath. He looks more relaxed, but his lips are pressed into a straight line.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Gathering what energy she has left, she climbs out of the car and walks around to his side. She holds out her hand, silently, nudging his finger with hers. He glances over at her with sad eyes and she speaks.

“Dance with me.”

She means to ask him but it comes out more like a command.

“We ain’t got no music,” he mumbles. She leans over him in the car, flicking on the radio and punching a few different stations until she lands on one with a slow song. “Cry to Me” by Solomon Burke.

[ -> Cry to Me ]

“Now what’s your excuse?” she asks.

He says nothing.

“Dance with me, Elvis.”

She wiggles her fingers and he glances up before reaching for her hand. She pops open the door to the car and he swings his legs out, standing up. After he straightens up, she has to glance up at him. She drags him in front of the car, the headlights casting shadows of their bodies onto the grass canvas behind them. Bird carefully moves her hands to his chest, stepping closer to him. His arms weakly wind around her waist and lay limp on her hips. When she looks up to see his chin pointed down, she slides a few fingers underneath it and raises his eyes up to yours. He looks soft, sweet, and subdued staring down at her. She begins to sway from side to side, gently and intimately.

She slides her hands up his chest and pulls him close to her, winding her arms up and around his neck. She slides your fingers onto the nape of his neck, gingerly yanking on the tuft of hair at the bottom of his head. His head slowly tilts back in acceptance of her touch. She feels his arms strengthen, pulling her closer, and he lowers his forehead to hers. She sways her hips against him to the rhythm of the music and slowly starts to lean her head back. His grip on her waist tightens as she bends the top half of her body all the way back, hinging at the waist like she'd watched a few women do at the club. When she comes back up to him, she runs your hands over the soft lace of his pink top, taking in all the texture you can. She nods her face up, brushing her lips softly against his. His eyes close and she hears his deep breaths as he grips onto what little fabric of her dress he can clutch.

“You made me a promise once,” Bird whispers against his lips.

“Nah, it ain’t right,” he responds, shaking his head. And She knows he remembers what he’d promised her on the lake.

“And breakin a promise is?” she asks, pulling back to look into his eyes.

She winds her whole arm around his shoulders, and he supports her back as he dips her in a circle. When he pulls her back up, his arms travel up her back, his hands clutching onto her shoulders. Somehow, he manages to pull her even further into him. Their bodies are pressed together again, just like they had been at the club. Bird's insides start to throb as he feels him grow against her leg. He needs her and she desperately wants to give him what he requires.

“Unless…you don’t want me,” she suggests, knowing she's wrong but giving him an easy out if he really doesn’t feel up to it. He shakes his head immediately and chuckles softly.

As their bodies sway together to the music, friction increases between their skin. She tilts her head to the side and he moves his head into the space she'd created for him. His breath is warm on her neck and his lips brush against her skin. Not kissing it, but almost. She feels one of his hands travel down the dress and onto her ass. As she leans her body backward again, he supports her entire frame with one arm, his eyes tracking her body as it moves fluidly. He watches the way her neck exposes itself to him with hunger. He pulls her up again to his eye level. His face is obscured by shadows in the moonlight but even in the darkness, she can see the desire, the dark lust, the need for her.

“Oh hell no, baby girl. I want ya somethin fierce,” he says. “I always do.”

And she can tell the difference between his expression now compared to the one from the club. This one isn’t just lust. It’s desire. He doesn’t just want her body. He wants all of her. Whatever she has to give.

Her head is still tilted and she closes her eyes as he drags his hot lips up the skin and onto her cheek. He presses his forehead against hers. She keeps her eyes shut, not wanting to see, only to feel his hands, his mouth on her. His presence.

“Then take me,” she whispers, bringing her fingers up to his face. She sensually drags them down his cheekbones and to his lips. He groans, quietly, in contentment and she smiles.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? I’m givin you everything ya need. I’m givin you permission, no I’m askin for it. I’m beggin for it. For ya to love me in every way that you can…because I love you.”

His eyes flash open in shock and his hand slides onto her face to stroke her cheekbone.

“I love you, Elvis,” she repeats and a smile breaks onto her face.

She releases a tense breath, feeling free from the cage she'd locked herself in. He returns the expression with the smile of someone so deeply in love. In the way his eyes search her and see her, she can feel his love. It swirls around her and pulls her into a warm embrace.

The next time she leans back to be dipped, he reaches through the slit in the side of the dress to grab onto her thigh. His fingers dig deep into the skin, supporting her without question. And he pulls her flush against him, expertly angling his hips into her heat. She gasps, letting her head fall back again. And she starts to move in rhythm against his hips. He slowly raises her up again to let her lips brush together once more and she feels his lips twitch up into a small smirk.

She hovers by his lips for a moment before letting her fingers drag across his chest. She takes in the feeling of the lace, the soft skin of his chest in between and watches as her fingers pull apart the open flaps. She circles around to his back, running her hands up his spine and feeling him shudder underneath her touch. As she circles back to the front, she lets her fingers fall uncomfortably low on his back, ghosting over his bum and then teasing the skin right above his belt loops. His eyes flutter closed for a second, his lips falling open. She raises herself onto tip-toes, whispering into his ear.

“Take me, Elvis.”

By the way his fingers turn her around, she can tell that he’s giving in. His hands slide effortlessly down her abdomen, creeping closer to her heat. She turns her head just for a moment but it’s enough time for his lips to return to her neck. He doesn’t kiss it, doesn’t bite it, just rests there, teasing the skin. He deftly unclips the top part of her dress fastened around her neck and the straps fall open, resting on her chest and exposing the tops of her breasts for him to access. She breathes heavily, feeling the mounds expand and contract. She throws her arm up and over his shoulder, grasping onto his neck as she gyrates her hips back into him. His hand moves to wind around her ribcage, just below her breasts. So close but so far. He whips her around to face him.

“I love this dress,” he says, smirking. “Let’s destroy it.”

He walks her back until her thighs hit the front hood of the car. She slides her hands down his chest, pulling up on the fabric of the lace top and untucking it from his pants. She lifts the shirt up over his head and tosses it somewhere on the grass. Her hands return to his shoulders, running down his smooth skin and feeling the hair on his chest. She bites her lip, nudging her nose against his. She feels him twitch against her and raise his lips up. She denies him a kiss, even as his hands slide underneath her legs and lift her up onto the hood of the car. Her pussy is throbbing now with him pressing against her to intensify the feeling. She spreads her legs, pulling him in between her thighs. He nestles his head into her neck again and this time, he gives her what she needs.

He kisses the skin hotly and then bites it playfully, pulling on the skin. She sighs with pleasure. His calloused hands push the fabric of the dress aside to run up her thighs. He leans on top of her, pulling her leg around his hip. She lets him lay her down on top of the hood, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him in. Her eyes are locked despite the movement. She can feel him even more now as he leans against her on top of the car. Her pussy screams for contact and she wiggles to try and get some. He's positioned his hand behind her head to protect it from the metal hood of the car, and his fingers splay onto her neck to support her.

Her hands fly to his face, gently stroking both of his cheeks with her thumbs. They look at each other for a minute, sharing a silent expression of love. Her head bobs forward without realizing, wanting his lips. But he's too far away, so all her action does is show him how badly she needs his lips. She's waited long enough. He caresses her so gently, tilting his face down and finally pressing his lips to hers. The perfect kind of kiss, sweet but still passionate. His plump lips wrap perfectly around hers, and as he kisses her, he applies more pressure. She pushes back, liking the little game they're playing.

He runs his tongue over her lower lip and she pushes him back to look at him. She can feel her eyes growing heavy with lust and she knows he probably finds her sexier than ever with how badly she clearly wants him. He leans down again and she opens her mouth for him to slip in. Their tongues dance together, swirling around each other. He gently thrusts against her. She whimpers quietly and lets her hands slide down the smooth skin of his chest again.

She pushes him back, leaning up to stay in contact with his lips, but staying far enough back that she can dance her fingers down to the skin above his belt. She feels his stomach suck in a breath as she grabs onto the metal belt hook and pulls him harshly against her. He grunts and she smirks into the kiss as she starts to unhook his belt. She angrily pulls it out of the loops and throws it onto the ground, wanting it out of the way. As she slides down off the hood, his hands fall to her waist and then onto her ass, squeezing it hard. She unbuttons and unzips his pants, wickedly running her fingers down into the pants and over his hard dick. He slides his hands around her waist, gripping her hard, and yanks himself away.

“Jump,” he commands, breathlessly.

She does as he directs and he pulls her effortlessly onto his hips. She wraps her legs around him, winding her arms around his shoulders and kissing him passionately, frantically, deeply.

He carries her around to the side of the car, pushing her legs down. She plops to the ground and he flips her around again to pull her body against him. His hands travel up her sides, under her armpits, pushing her arms above her head. She leaves them up, wiggling her fingers into the chilly air as his fingers tickle her upper back while he unzips the dress. She feels hot breath and wet kisses on her back as he pushes the fabric aside and kisses down her spine. She shudders and arches her back when he swipes his tongue over her lower back. He pushes the fabric down her body and pulls it off her hips, leaving her only in a strapless bra, panties, and the garter belt holding up her silk stockings.

She turns around and leans against the door to the backseat. He kneels underneath you, pulling her leg up and over his shoulder. He runs his hands down her thighs, tugging on the straps of the garter belt. She pants and bites her lip, watching his fingers dance across her skin. He unclips the belt and wraps his fingers around the tops of the stockings, slowly, agonizingly rolling them back off her legs. He kisses down her thighs, down her kneecaps, her shins, and onto the tops of her feet. He does her other leg and she wiggles in anticipation, feeling her desire start to leak through her panties and the swollen lips of her pussy.

Elvis’ hands claw their way back up to the belt, unfastening it from her waist and letting it fall to the ground. As he stands, his hands slide up her back, clutching onto her bra and pushing it open. He sways her back and forth to the music still coming from the radio, pressing himself flush against her. He opens the door to the backseat and she lets him lay her down as he flings the bra off to some unknown space in the grass. She giggles giddily, bending her knees to wrap around his hips as he lowers himself down onto her.

She kisses him eagerly, clutching onto the back of his neck and pushing her hips down into him. His hands slide up her stomach, massaging her breasts as he bites and pulls on her lips. As soon as his fingers latch onto her nipple, she moans into his lips.

“So sexy…” he mumbles as he pulls back roughly to latch his lips onto her nipple.

His tongue swirls around the sensitive skin and her fingers tangle themselves into his hair. The chilled wind means that Bird's nipples are standing to attention and she can tell that he likes it. He sucks on the sensitive skin around her breasts, nipping at her nipple and pulling it between his teeth. She moans breathlessly, grabbing painfully onto his hair. She feels him moan back into her skin, which only makes her wetter. He releases her skin and the cold wind freezes the moisture on her. She frantically pulls at his hair and face, wanting him back on her lips.

He crashes up onto her and her fingers desperately clutch lower on his body, pushing the fabric of his pants away. He pulls back, straightening and she jumps to help him toss his pants off. When they’re laying lifeless on the ground, she pushes him down onto the seat, climbing on top of his waist to straddle him. His hands fall to her ass as she pushes him all the way back onto the seats, leaning over him and letting her hair tickle his chest.

“Fuck…so sexy, lil mama,” he says, biting his lip. Bird smirks, feeling her pussy throb at his words.

His mouth falls open with labored breathing as he runs his tongue over his teeth at the sight of her on top of him. She starts to move her hips against him, pushing her ass into the air as she leans down to kiss his neck. His hands grip her ass harder, pushing her back and forth as she grinds on his dick. He growls as she bites hard onto his neck.

“Goddamn, lil mama, where the hell d’you learn to do that?” he asks, and she just giggles.

“Oh, I got a good teacher,” she responds, dragging a finger across his lips.

His wet lips open and she slides her finger in. She bites her lip at the feeling of his tongue swirling around her finger. Her breathing is ragged and she doesn't know how her pussy could get more swollen than it already is. She's so wet that she can barely even feel the juices she's sure are leaking out of her pussy. She mischievously leans close to him as if she's going to press a kiss on his lips. Just as he leans up to brush his lips against hers, she wickedly pulls back. He jerks forward and his eyes fly open at her sudden absence. He grips her hips as he sits up, and she starts to fall back until he catches her in his arm. She smirks, knowing she's teased him successfully.

“Bad girl,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Get on ya back.”

She nods enthusiastically, hopping off of him and switching places. He returns to her breasts, peppering them with kisses and sucking the skin. He drags his luscious lips all the way down her body and hooks his fingers into her underwear. He pulls them off and stretches her leg out, kissing down the skin. He gets to her inner thigh, and she physically peels her body off the cushion. Anything she has to do to get him to touch her throbbing folds. He bites and pulls on the skin of her inner thigh, as close as humanly possible to her heat and she whimpers and groans.

“Please…” she whispers, without meaning to. Elvis looks up at her from where he is, a wicked smile pasted on his face.

“What d’you say, baby girl?”

“Please,” she breathes louder and catches herself moaning, even though he’s not touching her.

He finally runs a finger up her folds and she can't help but notice how easily it slides through the liquid. She shivers and bites her lip hard, closing her eyes instinctively. Fuck, it feels so good. But his finger only lingers for a moment before it disappears. Her eyes shoot open, and she whimpers again, wiggling her hips.

“You’re so fuckin wet for me, Lil Birdie, goddamn,” he says in a deep, raspy voice. “You been this wet for me all night?”

“You been that hard for me all night,” she shoots sback, dragging a toe along his hard dick. He sucks in a breath and grabs her foot.

“Behave now, lil mama. You had ya time to be a tease. It's my turn, now.”

He runs a finger up her folds again and she convulses with a groan.

“You like that, don’t ya, princess? How I tease ya?”

“Y-yes,” she replies softly.

“Ya just so perfect, all wet and swollen for me. It’d be a shame to ruin it,” he says, running two fingers up her wetness.

She balls her fingers into fists and thrashes around on the leather seats. He looks up at her, his eyes dark with lust. He bites his lip and licks her folds, sucking on her clit. She moans loudly at the feeling of his coarse tongue drawing shapes on her sensitive nerves. She grasps at the side of the seat when he licks it again and then inserts a finger.

“Shit, so loose,” he mutters, pumping a finger in and out for only a few seconds before adding another finger and then another.

Three is as many as she can handle at the moment, the tightness becoming uncomfortable. He pumps his three fingers in and out of her a few more times, her juices sloshing from the movement of his fingers.

He pulls out and she watches with an open mouth as he licks his fingers clean, one at a time. His tongue swirls daintily around each finger, and she clutches, white-knuckled, onto the bench of the car. He gives her a quick kiss on her clit and she throws her head back with a sharp intake of breath. He picks up her legs, pulling him into his lap. She pants, feeling him twitch hard below her.

“You still a virgin, darlin?” he asks and she nods. His eyes light up. “Good. Now, I made ya a promise, and I intend to keep that promise. But I gotta ask ya. Is this what you want? Here in the back of the car? Not at home in a bed.”

“Here is fine,” she responds quickly, reaching to grasp him to her. He shakes his head, removing her hands from his neck and holding them to his chest.

“I’m serious, Lil Birdie. This what ya want? I ain’t about to ruin ya first time.”

“You couldn’t ruin it if you tried, Elvis,” she replies, running her hands down his face, his arms, his body. “Everything is perfect, baby. I just want you. All of ya. Everythin you can give me. I want it all.”

He smiles sweetly and presses a kiss to her forehead. He leans over the front seat and pops open the glove box to get out a condom.

“How long have those been in there?” she asks, laughing.

“Just a few hours,” he says sheepishly. “Got some from B.B. at the club.”

She giggles, falling back onto the leather seats, and watches as he rolls the strange thing over his hard dick. He pumps it a few times to make sure it’s secure and Bird gulps as he comes closer. He leans down to kiss her, resting his dick against her heat. She resists the urge to move, letting herself get familiar with him but also teasing her nerves in the process. She kisses him, sweetly and sensually. No biting, no licking, just lips meeting other lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are full of lust.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers, tucking a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear. “I get ya all to myself. You’re so pure, untouched. And here I getta ruin ya. Make ya feel things you ain’t never felt before.”

“Go slow,” she says, smiling, and he nods.

“Don’t worry, Lil Birdie, I’ll take my time. I want this to be good for ya. Perfect.”

He gently grabs his dick and runs it along her folds a few times. She breathes in quickly and bites her lip. He smirks and gently guides the tip in. She squeezes her eyes shut and digs her nails into his bicep as she feels his member stretching out her skin. It’s painful but not as bad as she has been expecting. He rests inside her for a moment, brushing hair out of her eyes and kissing her forehead softly.

“I love you," he whispers and she opens her eyes. He’s smiling down at her with a face so loving that it almost draws tears to her eyes.

“I love you,” she replies, stroking his cheek. “I’m ready.”

He nods, slowly starting to thrust in and out of her. She winds her arms around him, pulling him close to her. His head buries itself in her neck, biting and sucking on the skin as he slowly pushes in and out of her. It still hurts and Bird's eyes grow watery with tears. But as he wraps his arms underneath her, pulling her as close to him as possible, it starts to hurt less. Her moans increase as she gets more comfortable and they fall into rhythm with his movements. Her body starts to respond on its own, moving in time with his thrusts. Her hips rise up meet him and he speeds up after she shows him she can take it.

“You’re so fuckin tight, lil mama,” he whispers in her ear. She moans through a smile in response, tangling her hands into his hair. As she yanks harshly on the locks, he moans and grunts.

“Elvis…” she moans, and he growls.

“I love it when ya say my name, baby.”

She giggles.

“Elvis…” she repeats, dragging out the last ‘s’. He hisses out a breath.

“Hell, Bird, you’re so infuriatin. You got me fucked up bad,” he says, and she feels his muscles flexing underneath her fingers.

She digs her nails into his back, throwing her head back. He takes the opportunity to press his lips against her neck. He grips her lower back, pushing her up so that it arches. She moans frantically between breaths, raking her fingers down his smooth back.

“I’m go-I’m gonna…” she chokes out.

“Hold off jus a lil longer, sugar,” he says, grunting as he slams into her.

Bird's body is moving without her control, pushing him on and on, deeper and deeper into her. She bites her lip hard, probably drawing blood, and scratches his back, clenching her thighs. Whatever she has to do to hold off until she get spermission. His movements grow sloppier as he nears his own orgasm. He sweats, the droplets dripping off of his hair and onto her skin. In any other scenario, she'd be disgusted. But the thought of his scent marking her, claiming her, it’s everything.

“Elvis, baby, I can’t,” she whimpers, curling her toes.

“It’s okay, lil mama,”  he grunts. “Let go.”

One more thrust is all that she needs. She feels her stomach clench and waves of pleasure roll over her. Her body shudders and she screams as she reaches the top of the mountain. She slowly slides down the other side as Elvis pulls out of her, pumping himself a few times to finish off. Her legs are shaking, vibrating with the painful pleasure that spreads through her veins. She breathes raggedly, shakily.

Elvis is kneeling above her, his abs shuddering. His hair is pushed back, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. His mouth is dark red, hanging open in a satisfied half-smile. She rests her hands on her head and breathes out a laugh. Elvis takes a deep breath and rolls off of the seat onto the floor of the car. A few moments of silence pass, both of them trying to get ahold of their breathing.

“So…that’s sex, huh?” she asks, breathless.

[ -> "In the Still of the Night" ]

She lazily lets her fingers drop down to him, and he clamps onto them. He says nothing and when she rolls over to glance down at him, his eyes are closed, a dumb smile pasted onto his features. She chuckles, rolling onto her stomach so that she can peer at him. His eyes open and look up at her. His face looks so handsome, flushed with red cheeks from the heat of her sex. His hair is sticking to his forehead and up in the air at the same time, laying sexily all over him.

“How was it?” he asks. Her lips curve up into a huge smile and she shakes her head.

“Let’s just say I’d really, really like to do it again sometime. Preferably sometime soon."

He smiles handsomely, closing his eyes.

“You know, baby,” he continues. “I’ve been with a lotta women. But ain’t nobody ever got me all shook up like you. You got me hot all night, sweatin my ass off cause I needed ya so bad. You showin up in that dress and dancin around like some kinda mythical siren or somethin," he pauses to laugh. "I ain’t never been so aroused in my whole life. Not to mention the way you move. You got a god-given gift for this, girl. But I’m glad I could make it good for ya.”

She gently touches his face, dragging a finger along his swollen lips. He opens one eye and smiles mischievously, popping her finger into his mouth and running his tongue over the nerves. She playfully smacks him and laughs but her joy falters for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I shoulda told you about everythin. I shoulda said it the day ya left. That I loved you. That I love you. I’ve hated myself every day since then cause I let you walk away. And then when your mama called, I jus wanted to see you so badly. I thought maybe you would just fall in love with me all over again.”

“It’s okay, darlin,” he says, sitting up. He takes your fingers in his hands and kisses them gently. “I never shoulda put ya in that situation. It was wrong of me. I knew I loved you. Hell, I knew I loved you since that first day we took our first walk together back from the hayride. And I never fell outta love with you neither. You hurt me somethin bad, but I never stopped lovin you all those days. All that time.”

Bird squeezes his fingers, leaning down to kiss him.

“I ain’t gonna lie to ya,” he says. “It won’t be easy, bein with me through all this. But I wouldn’t want it any other way. I want you here, with me, forever. I’ll always love you, Lil Birdie.”

“I love ya more,” she responds. They at each other for a moment before the wind blows through the air and Bird shivers.

“You’re freezin,” he says. He hops out of the car to go searching for something. She folds your arms over your chest to try and stay warm.

“What’re ya lookin for?”

“My goddamn jacket! Where the hell is it?” he yells and she laughs at the sight of him, completely and totally naked, stalking around like bigfoot trying to find his clothes in the dark. He laughs and she buries her head into your hands.

“Aha!” he shouts and she laughs harder, feeling tears well in her eyes. Happy tears, for the first time in a long time.

He comes back with the biggest, most proud smile on his face. He drops it over your body and, surprisingly, it’s much warmer than you’re expecting.

“That’s better. Let’s get ya home before you freeze to death,” he says. She climbs out of the car and leans down to pick up your crumpled dress, not realizing the show you’re giving Elvis.

“Or before I lose control of myself and ravish you again." 

She whirls around to smack him but he grabs her arms and pulls her into him. She laughs and he places a soft kiss on her lips. She quickly gathers up the rest of the clothes and hops back into the car. She listens to the radio on low, holding his hand and leaning her head back with closed eyes. The wind feels soothing and refreshing, even though it’s a bit cold. They don't say anything to each other on the way back, just sit in comfortable, content silence. Every so often, Elvis raises Bird's fingers to his lips to kiss them…

“Birdie, baby girl, wake up,” she stirs to Elvis’ soft, raspy voice. They're back in the driveway at Graceland. “You fell asleep, baby. C’mon, Imma take you inside.”

“But I don’t have a bed 'ere,” Birdy mumbles, as he lifts her out of the car, bridal style. She rubs your eyes and then holds onto his neck.

“Oh no,” he says in a sing-songy voice and smirks. “I guess we’ll have to share.”

She smiles and giggles, burying her head in his neck. He carries her inside, quietly, and sneaks her up the stairs and into his room. She borrows one of his extra shirts to sleep in and crawls into the bed. They probably smell like sex but Bird doesn't care. Once he wraps his warm, strong arms around her, she's the happiest she's ever been.

“You’re my girl, Birdie baby,” Elvis whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Forever,” she whispers before falling into a deep sleep.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

ASG - Part Two: Burnin' Love

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yeah, by me 💀

Prompt: Elvis sweeps Bird outside to the lake to cool down on a hot day. Spoiler, she doesn't cool off, but it’s not the temperature that has her sweating. [ Fem!OC ]

TW: Nothing tbh? this is vanilla af

Rating: M     ||     Word Count: 4442

A/N: this might be my favorite smut that i've ever written...

This is Part 2 of ASG. Find the rest of the series here!

🦋 mila

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She happens to be passing through the living room when a knock on the door comes. She's suddenly very pleased to be the one who opens it since Elvis is standing on the other side. It's been a week or so since their little walk and they've managed to see each other a couple of times. Mostly, he would walk her home after work. Paranoid that someone would see her and tell her father, Bird hasn't let anything happen that would have been too scandalous. Elvis respects her wishes and she appreciates it.

“Elvis?”

“Hi baby, how ya doin’?” he asks, smiling and stepping inside the house.

She curls her fingers into her palms and then grabs him by the shirt sleeve.

“This a nice house ya got he-”

He cuts off when she harshly drags him into a corner of the room, behind a bookcase.

“Thank you, but I’d appreciate it if ya didn’t alert my daddy your presence,” she responds, glancing out from behind a stack of books to see if her father is anywhere near. When she swivels back around, she jumps back at how close Elvis is to her face.

“Why not, baby girl?”

His arms wind around her waist and start to pull her toward him. She sucks in a breath and clenches her jaw, trying to keep his hands off her.

“Because he’ll probably kill ya,” she responds, glancing around again. “He don't like greasers or singers. Or anyone who ain't a devout Christian.”

“Well good news for ya daddy, I am a devout Christian.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Not nearly devout enough for my daddy. ”

“Well if we ain’t gonna have any fun in this house, let’s get outta here then,” he says, nuzzling his face into her neck. She stifles a giggle.

“Stop that! What would we even do?” she asks.

“We could go for a walk,” he says, kissing her jaw, “or look at the record store,” he kisses her neck, “I don’t care where we go as long as I’m with you.”

She finally manages to release him from her neck and smile.

“It’s too damn hot for all that,” she replies, feeling a streak of bold lust. “We could go down to the lake? That oughta cool us off.”

“Ain’t nothing in the world that could cool you off, mama.”

“Just go,” she says, flushing. She pushes him toward the door. “Before daddy sees you. Or worse, sees me with you.”

He holds up his hands defensively and walks toward the door. She pauses with her hand on the knob and inhales a sharp breath.

“I’m goin to Bible study with the girls, daddy!” she shouts. “I’ll be back round dinner time.”

And she shuts the door as quickly as she dares. She grabs Elvis’ hand and pulls him along.

“What are we runnin for?” he asks and she can't help but laugh.

“Cause I shouldn’t be doin this!” she shouts back.

The heat is suffocating. Even though it's a short walk, she's sweating profusely by the time they get to the lake. Coming up the hill, she strains to get a glimpse of the chilled water. She knows that even seeing it will make her feel cooler.

“Oh god bless,” she shouts as she finally reaches the top of the hill, where she can overlook the water. Her mouth is practically salivating at the beauty of the cold water blowing in the wind.

“This is gonna feel nicer 'en heaven,” Elvis says, quickly pulling his shirt off.

As he lifts it off his head, she sneakily eyes his torso, taking in its beautiful curves and muscles. Her eyes flick back to the water quickly when his face reappears. She's never seen a man’s torso before. Every man in her life has always been buttoned up to the jaw, or her daddy would have killed them the moment she brought them home. She gasps, throwing her open palm against her forehead.

“Somethin wrong?” Elvis yells from halfway down the hill.

“Elvis, I don’t have a swimsuit,” she shouts back. He laughs and waves his hand dismissively.

“Well, why didn’t ya bring one?”

She pauses for a moment, overcome by what she's done and the situation she's gotten herself into.

“I forgot,” she finally responds.

“Well you’re in luck, baby. You don’t need it. Just get down to ya underwear,” he smirk.

She scoffs, shaking her head, and placing her hands on her hips. She gnaws on her lip nervously as she looks out over the water. The heat is causing her to sweat in places she didn't even know existed. She's been too distracted to notice that Elvis has walked all the way back up to her.

“Lil Birdie, earth’s calling. She wants you back on the planet. And so do I,” Elvis’ voice next to your ear snaps your attention to him. 

She smiles at the use of a nickname. She likes it.

“I’m 'ere. Just tryin to decide what to do.”

“I already told ya. Underwear!”

His fingers dance along the hem of your top and you slap his fingers away.

“Elvis Presley, I am not strippin down to my underthings. Especially not in the middle of the woods with you,” she replies, poking his chest with a finger.

“Aw, come on, Lil Birdie. What’s the difference?”

She says nothing, so he starts to stretch his arms out over his head. Her eyes nervously glance between the lake in front of her and his naked skin. She can see the sweat shining on every curve of his body.

“Man is it hot out 'ere,” he says. "Bet that water would feel nice on our bare, hot skin."

He runs his fingers through his hair and lets a few strands fall into his face. His biceps flex when he intertwines his hands behind his head.

She feels frozen. The heat mixes with lust in the air, and she can't breathe. Her heaving chest is the only part of her body she can access at the moment. She doesn't even know what to do with herself. Sure, she's dated boys before, but she's never felt like this. She doesn't even know what these feelings are.

“Aright, fine,” she finally chokes out in a voice much weaker than she anticipates.

She nervously starts to undo the buttons of her white blouse. She feels his eyes on her, watching her fumble with each tiny circle. She finally has them all unbuttoned and gulps before shrugging the blouse off her shoulders and letting it drop into the grass below her. She glances up at him to see Elvis staring at her intently, his eyes dark. She feels like she's about to faint, but she somehow manages to untie the string to her skirt and let it fall alongside her top. She immediately reaches to cover her body with her arms, but he's already walking toward her.

He smiles softly and tilts his head. She knows he's coming in for a kiss, but she's scared. Everything in her body tells her to let him touch her, kiss her, do whatever he wants to her. But her mind is screaming to get out, run away. Escape. Her brain and heart are in an impossible tug-of-war until he reaches out for her cheek. Panic sets in, and she turns and runs for the edge of the cliff.

“Lil Birdie, what the hell you do-”

She misses what he says after that because she's jumped over into the water. As she resurfaces, reveling in the feeling of cold water on her suffering skin, she's mortified. What just happened?

“What in the Sam Hill…” she hears him murmur from above the cliff.

The lake is more of a pond really, not too deep that she can't stand. She pushes herself back against the rocks in the shadows, where he can't see her. She's both embarrassed and angry with herself. She knows she overreacted but she isn't sure how to handle these situations. Her daddy’s face just keeps popping into her mind. She hears a holler and freezes in the shadows before a giant wave of water splashes onto her.

When Elvis' head pops up above the water, he's laughing. She freezes again, wishing she was dead. He swims over to her and props himself up on a rock.

“You’re fuckin crazy, girl. You know that?” he says, breathless.

It's too much for her. The way he looks, how he speaks, his body, it's all too much. The way he said it with such a deep, raspy, labored voice and the fact that he used that word. That swear word she's never heard anyone say in real life, not even her own father.

He sits, staring at her with water droplets gracefully rolling off his skin. The sun on the water reflects in his blue eyes and makes them seem even bluer than possible. His hair is pushed all the way back, curling around his ears. His muscles are taught, holding his weight against the rocks. All of that is distracting, sure, but her eyes can't - for all the money in the world - tear themselves away from his lips. Wet with the water, they are parted and pouted out, waiting for her to say something. Waiting for her to do something.

“Birdie, you aright?” he asks, reaching out for her arm.

She must look quite the picture, sitting there heaving like a caveman with her mouth hanging open. She doesn't respond, the embarrassment increasing. He plops down into the water and grabs her shoulders gently.

“Hey, Bird, are you okay?” he asks, pronouncing every word slowly.

Her gaze has fallen to the water, but he hooks a finger underneath her chin and tilts her face up. Concern is written all over his features. She finally finds her voice, what little she can squeeze out.

“Y-yes, I’m jus fine,” she replies and watches as his shoulders visibly relax.

“Gave me a scare there, Lil Birdie,” he says, letting a smile break.

“Sorry, I…” she trails off, not knowing what to say.

“Damn this water feels good don’t it,” he says, flipping onto his back and floating for a moment. She's still trying to recover from her own lustful panic when he opens an eye and throws her a mischievous smirk.

“What are you thinkin?” she asks, a smile finally spreading across her face.

He looks her up and down for a quick moment and then splashes her with a ton of water. She wipes her eyes down with her mouth open in shock. When she can see him again, holding his stomach with laughter, she laughs herself.

“How dare you!” she yells and splashes him back.

He splashes her again and then grabs her ankle, pulling her toward him. She yelps and screams, fighting him and laughing. He grabs her all over to bring her to him - her hips, her waist, and finally both of her wrists. They both stop to laugh, and when the laughing fades, there they still are. She's helpless in his grasp. He holds firmly, not painfully, just firmly onto her wrists. And he holds them close to his chest. Their bodies are touching, from her hips all the way down to her toes. There's a moment of tense silence, both of them eyeing each other's lips. Something in her face must have changed.

“Y'afraid of me...” he says.

He means it as a question, but it comes out more like a statement. She gulps, searching his eyes, and then shakes her head.

“Good. Cause I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I ain’t even gonna touch ya if you don’t want it,” he says, starting to release her wrists.

Panic sets in again, and she catches one of his retreating hands by the finger. His eyes immediately follow it and he just barely grins. He gently turns her around and folds her arms into his own. She's facing the tiny waterfall draining a thin stream of clear water into the lake. It's incredibly relaxing. Elvis’ soothing embrace also puts her at ease. His thumb rubs her palm sweetly, and she closes her eyes feeling her strength slowly come back.

“Elvis Presley, you are somethin else entirely.”

His head rests on her shoulder, and she can feel his breath on her neck. It tickles, and she only tenses for a moment. But that's long enough. As her muscles flex, so do his. Their bodies press together. And something she's only heard about, never seen, presses itself against her backside. She can't stop her mouth from falling open with a distressed gasp slipping out. All the feelings that are just beginning to fade suddenly return with fire. She feels his fingers brush the hair off her shoulder and he presses a surprisingly chaste kiss to the skin. Her eyes close and her head leans back.

“How you doin, lil mama?” he says in an impossibly low voice and she sucks in another breath. “Is this aright?”

She says nothing but breathes out a quiet moan and grasps his hand tighter. He continues to press soft kisses to her shoulder, neck, and ear. And she continues to wriggle in his strong grasp. He stops by her ear, his cheek pressed against her temple.

“Tell me what ya want,” he mumbles and his voice seems somehow even deeper.

It takes everything in her not to moan out her answer. She knows that if she opens her mouth, all her sins will be released. So she keeps it shut, saying nothing.

“Tell me, mama. I wanna hear you say it to me,” he says again, but she presses her lips closed even tighter. 

He laughs breathily in her ear, and his fingers grip her waist, pulling her deeper into his body. When she still doesn't say anything, his hand starts to press lower down her body. She starts to convulse with all the energy trying to keep herself in. The minute his fingers pull on the inside of her thigh, she's done. She loses all control of her body and moans. Loudly. Everything about him is immoral, illegal, sinful. And she wants more than anything to become a criminal, a sinner.

“I want you,” she breathes out and twists around in his arms. “I want all of you right now.”

That's all he needs. He grabs onto her face with both hands, holding her lips to his until she almost can't breathe. His lips move hungrily, lustily, without control all over her. Her fingers get lost in his skin, grasping onto his chest, his back, his hair. Anywhere they can touch each other, they do. He grabs her jaw and moves her head to the side, biting and sucking on her neck. She yelps and moans again, digging her nails into him. He holds out one of his hands and starts to walk her back toward the rocks. She moves wherever he directs her, letting every breath go with a moan attached to it. He gently presses his body against hers on the rocks. It isn't the most comfortable place, but the gentleness with which he guides her and the way he curls his arm around her to protect her from the sharpness of the rocks only makes her want to stay there forever.

He releases her neck and she knows she's marked. But she banishes the thought and grabs his face to kiss him again. His hands slide under her thighs and hoist her up onto his hips. Wrapping her legs around him, she squeezes him and moans at the feeling of him against her. He traces her top lip with his tongue, and she opens wide for him. She doesn't know what she's doing, but it doesn't take long for him to show her what to do. Her jaw starts to ache and she puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back.

“Y'okay, baby girl? Is it too much?”

She laughs and bites her lip.

“No, no, it’s good. I just can’t breathe.”

“Let’s slow down a lil bit. How’s that sound?”

She nods and takes a deep breath. He smiles and slides his hands behind her back to effortlessly unclip her bra. After he's gently pulled the straps from her shoulders, he kisses the naked skin. He leaves her bra on a flat rock near them and looks up at her. He gently cups her breast and glances into her eyes. She nods and runs a hand through his hair. He smirks and goes to work on her but much softer this time around. He gently massages her breasts and peppers them with hot, sticky kisses. He nips at her nipple and she gasps. She doesn't even know they have feeling until then. He can tell that she likes it and buries his face in her chest, licking, biting, and sucking every part of the skin that's there. She leans her head back against the rocks and closes her eyes.

“Oh, Elvis…” she breathes out, and he moans into her nipple.

As he keeps working her breasts, she feels his thumbs fall down to her hips and hook into her underwear. He pauses, waiting for permission and she pushes his hands down, taking her underwear with them. She lifts her foot up to help him, but the panties get tangled in the holes and she stumbles forward. He releases her breast with a chuckle and she smoothes her hair back and laughs. He tries again and manages to get her underwear off, without issue this time, and piles it onto the bra.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable. I don’t wanna knock ya head on no rocks over here,” he says and she nods.

He takes her hand and pulls her across the water to the other side, where there's a small sandbank. He pushes her up onto the bank and climbs on top of her, brushing her hair out of her face. The shallow tide covers her legs like a blanket. She's about to lean up for a kiss when she catches him looking at her intensely. His eyes travel up and down her figure, and he smiles.

“Goddamn,” he says, biting his lip. “I ain’t never seen a body like this before. Why you keepin all this covered up, girl?”

She laughs and thinks of a quick-witted response.

“If I didn’t, boys would be all over me all the time. You don’t want that do you?”

He runs a hand down her naked body and she shudders.

“Hell no, I don’t want that.”

He starts to kiss her neck again and then trails kisses down her stomach. He grabs her back to lift her hips up toward his lips and nips at the bone. She bites her lip and squirms. He props up one of her legs and kisses the inside of it, starting with the knee and trailing down her thigh. Her body takes over, and she reaches down to tangle her hand in his hair. As he gets closer and closer to where she needs him most, she starts to convulse under his touch. He looks up at her through his eyelashes, smirking.

“Do it,” she says without hesitation. “Right now.”

She can tell her commands surprise him, but he wastes no time sliding his tongue into her folds. Her hands fall beside her ears and grasp at the sand she lies on. He makes every shape imaginable around her pussy and she curls her toes to keep from moving too much. Her moans are so loud that anyone within a five-mile radius could hear her but nothing in her cares enough to silence it. Her moans get faster and quieter and her back arches further and further into the air.

Suddenly, nothing. She's throbbing, but there is no stimulation. She's literally writhing around the sand and opens her eyes to see Elvis standing above her, hastily removing his underwear with labored breathing. She pushes herself further up onto the sand, and he kneels between her legs, giving her sloppy kisses all up her stomach and chest. When he returns to her lips, she can taste herself on him. His mouth is warm and wet with her juices, and she wraps her arms around his neck to bring him closer. He snakes an arm under her and repositions his legs so he's gently laying on top of her. His hand slides down her side and presses gently on her stomach, squeezing out another moan. She doesn't know what's happening until his finger is sliding into her. She grasps and grabs onto his shoulder.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, freezing, eyes going wide.

“No, no,” she smiles. “I jus never know what to expect with you.”

He returns the smile.

“I’ll go slow and give you time,” he says. “You jus tell me when you’re ready for more, Lil Birdie.”

He returns to kissing her and leaves his finger inside her pussy for a few minutes so she can adjust. It doesn't take long, since she's already so hungry for him. She gently bucks her hips and he responds by slowly and steadily pumping in and out of her folds. Her toes curl again, and she grasps onto his hair. Her hips fall into a rhythm with his finger and just when she's starting to feel too much he pulls it out.

“W-what are ya doin??” she asks, and he gives her a grim look.

“Listen, I just wanna explain somethin to ya,” he says, brushing some hair behind her ear. “This is usually the part where…”

“Where what?” she asks, sitting up. “I’m not afraid no more, Elvis. You can tell me.”

He nods and then laughs.

“Well, this is usually the part where I fuck ya brains out,” he says, and she flushes furiously. “But there’s this thing called a condom…”

“Elvis, I know what a condom is,” she says nodding. Her father has refused to give her sex education, but knowing she would be safer with basic knowledge, he has told her a few things.

“Well god forbid you should have sex with anybody but me,” he continues and she giggles nervously, “but you should always use one. It stops the babies from comin. Now I’m not sayin I don’t want a baby with you, cause maybe I will one day. But I don’t wanna ruin our lives right now.”

She nods.

“So Imma finish makin you feel good, and I don’t want you to worry about me, aright? You’re doin plenty for me by bein so goddamn sexy.”

She bites her lip and pulls him down to kiss her. He slides his finger back into her pussy, and she releases a contented breath. She's ready quicker this time and bucks her hips to get him going. After a few minutes of pumping in and out, he adds another finger and then one more. Her moans are back, and they're filling the air, one after the other. Relentless. She can sense her stomach churning, and it feels like she's climbing a mountain of ecstasy. Every step forward is like a wave coming to its peak only to raise even higher above the sea.

“Goddamn, you’re so loose, baby,” he mutters. She doesn't really know what he means but she likes the way he says it, the approval in his voice. His thumb goes to her clit and starts to rub circles on it. She hasn't realized it could get any better and arches her back even more.

“You like that, mama?” she moans louder and he speeds up. “Yeah, I know you like that.”

The next few moments feel like a whirlwind, and she loses track of everything. Her body starts moving in ways she isn't in control of. His hand is upright above her head and she reaches up to grab it. He intertwines his fingers with hers and pins her hand there, stretching her arm out. He kisses her neck again and her eyes flash open. She cries out and convulses, gripping hard into his fingers. She's reached the top of the mountain, and it's more beautiful than anything in the world.

As her orgasm starts to wind down, Elvis removes his fingers and presses his palm against her folds. When she's finally back to normal, her arms go limp and she lies perfectly still like a vegetable. There isn't a word spoken and the air is filled only with her mixing breaths, the sound of the waterfall, and the birds.

“You doin okay, baby?” Elvis asks, reaching for her hand.

He holds it so gently now that she can't have imagined he's capable of grasping it as tightly as he was just a moment ago. She nods, the feeling coming back into her body. A euphoric smile spreads across her face, and she feels more beautiful than ever. If this is what sin feels like, she wants more of it. He brushes some of the sweat-stuck hair from her forehead. After a moment, she speaks up.

“You know my daddy says condoms are the devil at work,” she says, unable to stop the thought from popping out. After a moment of silence, Elvis laughs and laughs. She smiles, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“You know what, Lil Birdie,” he says, leaning over to kiss her forehead, “sometimes I think maybe ya daddy’s the devil.”

“Well that’s cause he is,” she responds and Elvis’ smile grows bigger. “I didn’t know any uh that was possible. It was…”

“Good, I hope?”

“Elvis,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows. “I have never felt like that in my life. I feel like a different person. I ain't afraid. Of nothing, I don’t think. I suddenly wanna try new things, run through the grass with my shoes off, do somethin crazy.”

He laughs, flopping back onto the sand and rubbing her back.

“Don’t worry, Lil Birdie, I’ll show you what real sex is like a different time,” he replies, laying back on the sand.

She leans over to kiss him. He pulls her on top of him and wraps his arms around her back. These kisses are gentle, warm, and maybe even a little bit loving. When she pulls back, they just stare at each other for a minute.

“It’s a date,” she finally agrees, kissing his forehead. “Now, I may feel bolder but I ain't going home without no underwear on. Go fetch my underthings, Presley.”

“I’d worry less about the underwear and more about those marks all over your neck,” he says and her mouth falls open.

“Fuck."

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

Room 214

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes - anon

Prompt: You and Elvis stop at a motel for the night. Only problem is, they have one room left, and there’s only one bed.

TW: None!

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 1828

A/N: this is not my fav so i am sorry about that, but whenever i can make elvis say soft things, i do.

Read part two here + part three here!

🦋 mila

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You curl your fingers into fists on top of your pants. If you have to listen to one more minute of that stupid southern drawl, you're going to commit a murder. Somehow you've wound up in the passenger seat of a car with Elvis Presley as the whole performing show moves up from one state to another. You would normally have driven in the car with the rest of the set managers, artists, and costume designers. But the bus had run into an engine problem outside of the nearest town and probably won't be set to run again until tomorrow morning. Elvis has to be on stage by lunchtime the next morning, so the Colonel has sent him ahead. As the assistant stage manager, you've been assigned the great duty of tagging along to help Elvis get ready for his show.

“You still there?” he asks, and you pointedly ignore him.

It’s not that you don't like him. In reality, you like him very much. It’s just that you hate how sucessful he's become so quickly. You once had dreams of being an artist or a singer or even an actress someday. But no one has ever gone out of their way to help you get big like the Colonel has with Elvis. And you know the only reason girls like him so much is because of his sex appeal, raw and given freely.

Not that you don't understand where they were coming from. Come on, you have eyes, don't you? It just isn't fair.

He pulls into the driveway of the motel you’d circled on the map. You hardly wait for the car to stop rolling before you swing the door open and march inside. You approach the front desk and smile at the woman behind it. She has curly hair, twisting this way and that, and terribly outdated makeup. Her eyebrows are so thin that it takes you a moment to even realize they're there.

“Hi, we need a room, please. Just for tonight,” you say, and the attendant starts flipping through a notepad.

“Alright, 214 will be your room number. It’s got one bed and a-”

“Oh,” you stop her, holding a hand up. “No we need two beds, please.”

She peers over your shoulder at Elvis, standing with his hands in his pockets next to the few bits of luggage you’ve brought.

“You and your husband really sleep in separate beds, do ya?” she asks, and you feel your face grow hot.

“No, no he’s not my husband. We’re not together in any way, shape, or form, actually. That’s why we need the two bedrooms, you see.”

The woman sighs and drops her head lazily down to the book. She flips through a few pages and then lazily swivels her head back to face you.

“Well, we’re out of two bedrooms.”

“What about two separate rooms?”

She flips through again and shakes her head.

“Nope. We’re booked up. One room is all that’s left.”

You lean over the counter and whisper to the woman.

“There’s really nothing at all that you can do?” you ask, placing emphasis on the ‘nothing’.

“There’s really nothing I can do. We’re all booked,” she replies dryly. “So you’ll be in room 214 just down the hall. The bed should already be made, but if not we have sheets up here at the desk. The pool is closed, so-”

You snatch the keys off the desk, cutting her off.

“Thanks for your help,” you say.

You roll your eyes and turn back to Elvis, who's glancing out of the window into the parking lot.

“Come on,” you say as you pass, dragging your suitcase begrudgingly.

He grabs his own luggage and follows you down the hall. You unlock the door to the room and sigh as you walk in. There is, in fact, only one bed.

“Only one bed? Darlin if you wanted to get in bed with me, you coulda just asked,” Elvis says, shutting the door with his foot.

“They were out of two bedrooms, Elvis,” you replies. “Beleive me I tried my best.”

You start to sort through one of the suitcases to find his outfit for the show.

“So…how you wanna do this?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor and you certainly won’t be ready to perform tomorrow if you sleep on the ground, so I guess we have to share,” you respond, brushing out the pants of his pink suit.

“Fine by me,” he responds, stretching his legs out and leaning back on the bed with his hands behind his head. You turn around and hold your hand up.

“Listen, Presley. We’re gonna lay some ground rules right now. Number one, you will not touch me at any point during the night. Number two, you will sleep with clothes on. Pants and a shirt. Number three, we will sleep with our backs toward each other. I don’t want to wake up next to your face. Got it?”

“Jesus, baby, you got a lotta rules,” he replies. “But fine. Hey, you need the bathroom? Imma take a shower.”

You shake your head, trying NOT to imagine his naked body covered in steaming, running water.

“Feel free to join me, if ya like.”

You whirl around, about to scold him, but he's already shut the door to the bathroom. You place your hands on your face and rake your fingers down your cheeks. Why does he have to flaunt himself so much? He's sexy, and he knows it. You hate him.

You hear the shower water running and relax a little. At least you can be alone for a minute to gather yourself. You take some deep breaths and then quickly change into your pajamas while he's preocupied. After that, you grab the novel you've been reading out of your bag. You curl up in the chair in the corner of the room and start reading. You get caught up in the plot of the book until the shower turns off and the door clicks open.

“Water’s freezin if you’re plannin to take a shower,” he says, walking out of the bathroom. You glance up to see him wrapped in a towel. You nearly drop the book you're reading. He's still wet from the water, and the colors from the blinking motel light outside the window are illuminating his every muscle. The towel is hung so low on his waist that it's almost falling off. You retrain your eyes on the book, knowing you aren't taking in a single word of what you're reading.

“On second thought, I’ll just sleep right here,” you say. “I’m already settled and really tired, so just turn the light off when you’re ready to go to bed.”

You flip the book closed and fold your arms over your chest, closing your eyes. Your ears are perked to attention, listening to everything he's doing. You hear him rummaging through his suitcase and then climbing into the bed.

“You sure you don’t want in here? It’s nice and warm under these sheets,” he says. You say nothing, hoping he'll think you’ve fallen asleep already.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters and flicks the light off.

There's silence for a few minutes as you try to get comfortable. The chair is old and smells kind of funky. It's hard and not at all comfortable. Not to mention that the window doesn't shut all the way and a cold breeze is flowing through right onto your knees. You're shivering a little, but refuse to move in case Elvis hears you. You hear him heave a big sigh.

“Y/N,” he mumbles in the darkness, “I know you ain’t asleep. Please come get in the bed.”

You stay silent. You're too proud to admit he's right.

“Do not make me come getcha,” he says, and you shut your eyes tighter. After a few seconds, he sighs deeply again and you hear the bed creak as he gets up. You keep your eyes closed and ignore him as much as you can. But you can't feign sleep when his strong arms wrap around your figure.

“Hey!” you shout, swatting his hands from you.

“Get in the bed,” he commands, and you push him back.

“Fine. But if you touch me or even look at me in any way, I’m going back to the chair.”

You begrudgingly walk to the bed and crawl in, curling up into the smallest ball you possibly can, with your back facing his side of the bed. The mattress shifts with his weight as he slides in next to you. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to fall asleep as fast as possible.

“Do ya really hate me that much?” his voice is quiet. “I always could tell ya didn’t like me, but I didn’t realize…”

There's a strange quality to his voice, almost a sad tone. You roll your eyes but answer, feeling intense guilt.

“I don’t hate you, Elvis. I just…”

“What?” he edges you on.

“I just don’t want to be another girl in the mass of fans,” you whisper, half-hoping he won't hear you and half-hoping he will. There's a moment of silence and in that time, you've started to shiver. With the combination of the freezing cold room and the fact that you've finally put yourself out there, you are unstable and scared.

“You’re shiverin, baby,” he says, rolling over. He pulls the blankets up to your chin and rubbs your arms over the covers.

“It’s freezing in here,” you whisper, clutching the blankets.

“I don’t wanna break ya rules or none, but it might help if you’d let me hold ya,” he says, waiting for you to give him confirmation.

“Okay,” you barely say. You shift so he can thread his arm underneath your head. His other arm winds around your waist and holds you close to him. You can't help but chuckle. “I guess I’ll throw the rule book out, since you’ve already broken them all.”

“I’m not complainin,” he whispers into your hair. “And you stopped shiverin already.”

You haven't even noticed, but he's right. He's very warm, and you feel safe and secure with his arms around you. He’s also crawled into bed without a shirt on, even though you’d told him to cover himself up. You're secretly glad he’d disobeyed. His breath is warm on your neck, and you absentmindedly nestle further into him.

“You’re not just another girl in the crowd, ya know,” he say. “You’re special, and I actually really like ya.”

You can't help but smile.

“I kinda like you back,” you whisper, and you know he hears you thanks to his breathy chuckle that blows hot air on your ear.

He gently leans over to kiss your temple and stroke your cheek.

“Go to sleep, baby. I’ll keep ya warm,” he mumbles, and you smile, falling asleep faster than ever.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Reblogs, likes, comments + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

At the Carnival

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes - anon

Prompt: You meet a mysterious, sexy man at your hometown carnival. A ride on the ferris wheel, winning a stuffed animal, and making out in the hall of mirrors. What could be better? [Fem!Reader ]

TW: None!

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 1616

A/N: austin!elvis at the carnival is literally my sexuality. god he's so sexy i can't stand it

🦋 mila

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You're walking along and laughing with your friends when you see him. The most beautiful man you've ever laid eyes on. He's tall and thin with deep black hair and sparkling blue eyes. He's leaning against the doorframe by the carousel, one arm outstretched. You stop in your tracks when his eyes rise to meet yours. His shirt is black and made completely of lace, tucked into his white pants. It rests on his frame with an elegance most men could never dream of pulling off. You've never seen anyone like him before.

He pushes himself away from the door and starts to walk over to you.

“Y/N! Come on!” your friend yells. You wave your hand at her dismissively, refusing to break eye contact with the mysterious man coming your way.

“Don’t worry bout me. I’ll catch y’all later,” you say with a smile and wait with bated breath for him to reach you.

“Hi baby,” he says in a voice like velvet. “You here all by ya lonesome?”

“I am now. Who’s askin?” you respond, holding your hand out.

He takes it and raises it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your palm. His lips are warm and soft, and they linger on your skin for a moment long enough that he can glance up at you through his eyelashes. You smirk.

“Name’s Elvis Presley. What’s yours, darlin?”

You shrug and turn your back, starting to waltz away.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Presley.”

You glance over your shoulder to see him looking at you with his chin tilted up and lips parted. He brings a hand up to his face and rubs his finger across his bottom lip, drawing it out, as he looks you up and down.

“Why don’t you buy me a drink, and we’ll see if you can guess it,” you finally say, brushing some hair over your shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies and holds his hand out for yours.

You latch onto his fingers, and he leads you to the nearest food stand where he buys you a Coca-Cola. You gaze at him through your eyelashes and let him watch while your lips close around the top of the straw. His eyes are trained on your mouth, but he doesn't say anything, just stares. You glance up at the cars on the Ferris Wheel next to you going around and around. You point at it.

“You ever been in one of these things?” you ask, watching it spin.

“Yeah, I been up there,” he responds. “You wanna go for a spin?”

“If you insist,” you reply, taking his outstretched hand.

He gets into the car first. The attendant gestures for you to enter the bench opposite him, but you slide in next to Elvis instead. The attendant just shrugs and closes the door, locking you both in. Elvis smirks down at you and throws his arm around your shoulders. You settle into the crook of his armpit, staring out over all the flashing lights of the carnival.

“It’s nice up here,” you say. “I like it. I can’t describe it, but It almost feels like…like…”

“Like ya flyin,” Elvis completes your thought. “Or close to it anyway.”

You turn to look at him.

“Yeah, exactly. Like you’re flyin,” you agree, smiling up at him. “Hey, would you ever wanna fly, Elvis?”

“Yes,” he responds without a pause. “I always wanted to fly.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Ya know, my mama don’t like me to fly. But for me, I’ve always wanted to fly. Fast. Faster than the speed of light…to the rock of eternity.”

You almost choke on air and turn to him.

“Captain Marvel Junior??” you ask, bracing yourself on the sides of the car.

He sits up straight with wide eyes. “Yes,” he says and a smile spreads across his handsome features. “Yes! How did you know that?”

“I love Captain Marvel Junior! It’s one of my favorite comics!”

You're both facing each other with huge smiles now, almost to the top of the Ferris Wheel’s giant circle. You feel a jerk as the wheel stops. You accidentally slide forward on the smooth metal seat, perfectly landing on Elvis’ chest. Your hands rest on his shoulders, and you're staring up at him. He smirks down at you and moves to kiss you. Your head tilts up to meet his lips in a gentle, soft kiss.

You pull back just far enough to gaze into his eyes before going in for another one. You slide further down into his chest as his arms wrap around you. Your fingers tangle themselves into his hair, and he grips your hip, pulling you taut against his leg. He gently bites your bottom lip and tugs on it. You smile and trace his top lip with your tongue. He lets you in, and your tongues twist around one another. You yank back on his hair, and he grunts softly. Your hand starts to slide down his chest, pushing aside the fabric that's barely there anyway.

The wheel jerks to life again and rocks you forward. You bump heads and both recoil.

“Owww,” you whine, rubbing your forehead. Elvis takes your hands in his and kisses the place you’d bonked heads.

He keeps hold of your hands for the rest of the ride down, and you chat about Captain Marvel Junior. You smile smiles that hurt your cheeks and laugh every time he tells a joke. When the Ferris Wheel car slowly tips down to the ground again, you climb out and immediately take off running with his hand in your own. You drag him around to the different carinval stops. You share some popcorn and feed each other cotton candy. You're passing by some of the games when you gasp.

“Ah, Elvis, look at that,” you point at a tiny stuffed bear. It's one of the prizes for the milk bottle toss game. “Ain’t that the cutest little thing.”

He's already ahead of you, pulling out money from his wallet to pay the vendor for a few baseballs.

“You’d better stand baby, sugar. I don’t wanna hurt ya,” he says with a smug look on his face. You bite your lip and back up.

He bends over and holds the ball behind his back, looking intently toward the milk bottles. He shakes his head, as if he's shaking off pitch calls from the catcher. You laugh out loud. He finally nods and brings the ball into his chest. He glances over his shoulder at you for a hot second, a mischievous smile on his face. He winds up and throws. To your surprise, he somehow manages to knock down all three bottles. You smile as he grabs the bear from the vendor and returns to deliver it to you. He gets down on one knee and held it up like it's a ring.

“M’lady, I bring you this gift of my affections,” he says.

You laugh and pretened like you were considering it.

“Yes, well I suppose it’ll do. How might I ever repay you, my prince charmin?”

You take the bear from him and cuddle it close to your chest. As you are trying to admire it, Elvis’ hand slips onto your bum and roughly pulls you into his body. You squeak and look up at him.

“I take payment in kisses,” he says with a smirk.

You smile and throw your arms around his neck, bringing him into a passionate kiss. The next thing you know, you're dragging him into the house of mirrors. You stumblr into the first room. You're facing backward and he's straggling in front of you. He looks like a wild animal hunting its prey, his eyes tracking your every movement as you stepped back around the mirrored maze. You both circle each other with lusty eyes and arrogant smiles. You pause for a moment, and that's when he pounces.

He grabs your waist and pulls you into his body, attacking you with hot, sloppy kisses. He starts to walk you backwards. You slam against the mirror with a moan. His hand slides up your thigh and lodges itself under your bum, hiking your leg up and over his hip. You curl it around him and pull him closer with your knee. His other hand has taken ahold of your wrist and pinned your arm above your head on the mirror. You slide your free hand down his chest, feeling the lace on his skin. And you keep sliding it down until your finger hooks into his belt. You pull it, encouraging him to get even closer if possible. He growls, and you giggle breathily. His fingers dig into your bum.

The sound of running feet and giggling distracts you. Elvis lets go of your leg and backs up, hurriedly brushing his hair back. You fix your own hair and clothes.

“Y/N! There ya are!”

You whip around to see one of your friends. The rest of the group is behind or…or in front of her? You don't really know for sure. It's hard to tell where anything actually is with all the mirrors.

“We’re gonna leave soon. Didya wanna come with us? Or…” she peers around one of the mirrors at Elvis.

“Nah, I think I’ll let Mr. Presley take me home a lil later.”

Your friends all chuckle as they run out of the hall of mirrors. You're still pressed up against the mirror, but Elvis is standing in the middle of the room, smoothing his hair out. You clear your throat and beckon him over with a finger.

“Get back over here,” you say. “I’m not finished with you.”

“On my way, baby.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

The Leather Jumpsuit

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes! - anon

Prompt: As a fashion designer, you work with Steve and Bones when they decide to take on Elvis’ comeback show. Sparks fly between you and Elviswhile they plan the show.

TW: None!

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 3899

A/N: Idk how to write short fics anymore apparently...send help...or more requests 💕

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

You're sitting in the dressing room, sketching the flare on a pair of leather pants when you hear voices down the hall.

“Alright now, Elvis, we’re hoping that you can channel your old self through the costumes you wear for the special…”

You recognize the voice immediately as Steve Binder’s. It gets louder as he approaches and comes into the dressing room. You nervously stand up when he enters with Bones Howe and the Elvis Presley. You intertwine your fingers behind your back to calm yourself. You’d never let anyone know it, but you are a massive Elvis fan. You’ve followed along on his journey since he was back singing in Memphis clubs. You hold out a hand.

“Hi, nice to meet you, Mr. Presley. I’m Y/N, and I’ll be handling your costumes for the special,” you say, gesturing him into the dressing room.

“Elvis, you won’t find a better, more meticulous designer anywhere in the world. Y/N is the best,” Steve say, and you thank him quietly. You refuse to flush, even though his compliment draws far too much attention to you.

“Very nice to meet ya,” Elvis responds, and you work hard to hide your shock at his deep voice. Of course you've heard it on the radio, but you are totally unprepared for how deep it really is. You say thank you to Steve and Bones and get straight to work as soon as they’d left.

“So, Mr. Presley-”

“Elvis, please,” he interrupts.

“I don’t refer to any clients by their first name-”

“Even if they ask you to?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Especially not if they ask me to. Now, Mr. Presley, Steve and Bones tell me that you’re trying to reconnect with who you really are?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the goal.”

“Big goal. It won’t be easy, but I think I can help you. It may not seem like it, but clothes are a huge part of who we are. They help us express what’s inside of us to other people,” you say. “We can also work backward to figure out what is inside of us that we’re reflecting on the outside through our clothes. So, I’ve pulled some of your looks from previous concerts, performances, shows, etcetera, and I figured we could use that to dig deep into what you actually want the final product to look like.”

“You really got this all figured out, don’t ya?”

“I come prepared to my meetings, Mr. Presley.”

“I like a girl who’s well-prepared,” he responds and you bury a creeping smile.

“But before we deal with style, let’s focus on the fabric. That will help us narrow some things down. So, what are you looking for? What kinds of fabrics do you like? What kinds do you hate?”

He doesn't say anything right away but rubs his fingers over his chin. The way his eyebrows furrow tell you he's deep in thought. After a few moments, you speak up.

“So…” you prompt him. “What do you want to wear? You can give me anything to start with.”

He glances up at the colored drawings you have taped up on the wall, but says nothing.

“Well, we know you’re not wearing a Christmas sweater, that’s for damn sure,” you say, shaking your head. “I think you should wear what you want to wear, but until you can decide what you really want we can’t make any decisions. So, if you’re still unsure, maybe we should jus-”

“I’m thinkin somethin unforgiving, badass, almost like…armor,” he cuts you off, that pensive look still creasing his features. You nod.

“If you want unforgiving, Mr. Presley, then you want leather,” you respond, starting to dig through your fabric samples.

“Leather? Why’s that?”

“Well,” you say, smiling when you find that scrap of Italian leather that you’ve been keeping for something special,” it’s unbearably hot, almost impossible to move in, and puts all your worst angles on display for everyone to judge.”

You hold the black strip of fabric up next to his face and nod.

“It’s about as unforgiving as you’re going to get in terms of fashion. And I do have to say, this Italian black leather looks magnificent on your skin tone.”

“Is this the kinda leather that would upset fine, upstandin white gentleman?” he asks, examining the sample. You laugh.

“Oh yes, sir. This is the kind of leather that would upset your own mother if she saw you wearing it,” you say.

“Steve and Bones were sayin somethin about a leather jacket…”

“Hm…” you glance back at some of the drawings of his previous looks and a thought occurred to you. “Just a jacket?”

“What are you thinkin in that genius brain of yours?” he asks.

You smile, imagining the entire look in your head and then on Elvis’ body. You have become obsessed with drawing him. Something about his body draws you to it, and you want to explore all its shapes and lines. You feel like you know him somehow through your drawings. And the way he dresses is so fashion-forward that it inspires the designer in you. You literally have mountains of ideas of how to dress him. You would be mortified if anyone found it, but somewhere in the room, there's a binder stuffed full of papers and scraps of parchment with drawings and sketches of potential outfits on them.

You know that you can pull one of these out and it will work for the special, but once Steve and Bones told you how much Elvis needs this concert, you had decided none of your previous designs are quite right. No, this performance needs something entirely unique, different, and attention-grabbing. It needs to invite people in, demand their attention, and make a statement that can't be ignored. You have the perfect solution.

“I’m thinking full leather. Everything leather. A whole jumpsuit, with a jacket and pants,” you say, searching for your drawing pad. Snatching it up and flipping to a new page, you scribble furiously. In just a few moments, you have a fully rendered design with startling accuracy.

“Yes!” you shout. “What do you think, Mr. Presley? I think this could be perfect. It is badass and strong. It commands attention and sustains it. It makes people look at you and accept you for who you are. It’s something you can’t ignore.”

He's looking intently at the drawing as you pace around the room with your excited arms flailing wildly. He looks up at you with a smile.

“How did you do that so fast?” he asks.

“You like it?”

“It’s perfect. This is exactly what I need to get my message across.”

“Excellent. Well If I can get started on it tonight then I should be able to finish it in two…maybe three weeks? That should give us enough time for a fitting and then alterations,” you are mumbling to yourself and jotting down notes on a different notepad.

“These are amazin, Y/N…” he mutters, and you turn to see him examining the drawings you have pinned up on the cork board. “The detail, the shading…me. Everything’s so realistic.”

“Thank you,” you say dryly, hoping to throw him off your tail. You will be mortified if he knows how obsessed with him you were, and you nervously glance toward the binder that is tucked away in a stack of shelves.

“How would you feel about bein my permanent designer?” he asks, and you nearly drop everything you're holding.

“What?”

“My permanent personal designer. These are all exactly what I’m lookin for.”

“Oh, I don’t know. What if you decided to go in a different aesthetic direction? Then I’d be no good to you,” you respond, banishing the thought of being so close to him every day. You can't take an opportunity like that without something going wrong. It's too good to be true.

“We could adapt, you and I,” he says, pulling down another design to examine it. You glance at him and shake your head.

“No…no I couldn’t.”

“Elvis, you’re needed for the ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ rehearsal,” one of the stage managers shouts into the room.

Elvis sighs and groans, stacking up the designs and gently placing them on a table near you.

He grabs your arms and turn you to face him.

“Please think about it, wontcha? For me?” he asks, and you look into his eyes for the first time. He is truly gorgeous, and you feel totally overwhelmed.

“Alright. I’ll consider it.”

He smiles.

“Good. Cause I really, really want you around,” he says, and his eyes flick to your lips.

You can't bring yourself to say anything and before you regain consciousness, he's out the door. You sat down. What did he mean by that? You were sure it was just your fangirl heart exaggerating scenarios in your head, but what if he genuinely liked you? He said he wanted you around…no he really, really wanted you around. Whatever the outcome, you knew that this jumpsuit was about to be the most beautiful piece of fashion that ever existed.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

The next two weeks pass fairly uneventfully. Well, for you, at least. The Colonel has everyone going crazy trying to prepare for the Christmas special, and you are caught up in sewing sweaters and elf costumes all day. In your free time, which is rare, you're able to work on the leather jumpsuit. But most days, you find yourself huddled over the difficult fabric with a desk lamp, well after everyone else has left the building.

After the idea session, you'd seen Elvis every day. You collaborated, traded ideas, and made changes. Your passions combined and animated you both. He constantly complimented you and always left you with a smile.

But toward the end of the two weeks, he's started to disappear and you barely see him at all. Each day that goes by without seeing his face makes you more depressed and less sure that he's actually interested in you at all.

Nevertheless, you're pouring your heart and soul into the jumpsuit. All the love and admiration you feel for Elvis will be visible on this garment, whether you mean it or not.

One night you're working incredibly late, and your eyes are starting to stick together with sleep. You are, as you have been so many nights recently, hovering over the leather jacket, tediously hand-stitching a difficult and unique pattern that you had learned from your mother a long time ago. You could have used the sewing machine, but hand-stitched always looks better. And you know that no other garment in the world will have the same stitches that this one does. Your back ache and fingers are sore, but you keep sewing. You’ve made a deal with yourself to have at least the jacket finished tonight, and you are getting so close. It's some time past midnight, you’ve lost track, when a voice startles you.

“What the hell are you still doin here?”

You jump, accidentally stabbing your finger with the needle. When you jerk to face the door, your ankle hits something heavy and whatever it is falls to the ground with a bang. Your hand flies to your chest, and you release a breath when you see Elvis standing in the doorway.

“Ouch,” you mutter. “Mr. Presley, you scared me.”

You put the back of your hand up to your head.

“Woah, what happened?” he asks, coming closer to you. You stare at him, confused for a moment before he takes your hand and you realize what he's seen.

“Oh it’s nothing. I just stabbed myself by accident. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before,” you reply. But when you try to pull your hand away from him, he won't let you. He grabs a piece of red cloth from the table nearby.

“Is this expensive?” he asks. You shake your head with a smile.

“No. It’s cheap cotton, about $1.50 per yard,” you respond, and he dabs it onto your finger. For whatever reason, your finger continues to bleed - not a lot but enough that the crap cotton isn't cutting it.

“Damn, this is cheap,” he says, and you chuckle. He throws the cotton onto the floor and raises your finger to his mouth. You grip onto the seat to keep yourself from falling out as he pops it into his mouth. You allow that much but when his tongue touches your finger, you pull it back and wipe it off on your clothes.

“Thanks, Mr. Presley,” you say and gulp.

“Please call me Elvis,” he says. “I think we’ve spent enough time together for that.”

“Well thank you, Elvis.”

Silence settles and as you're gathering yourself back together, he leans down to pick something up. It's a small square scrap of paper. As soon as he holds it up into the light, you know exactly what it is: you'd drawn a close-up of his face, but it isn't just any drawing. It's like a photograph. The colors, the shapes, everything is exactly where it's supposed to be and exactly the right size and shade. It's a drawing that only someone deeply in love — enough to notice the smallest of details — could have made. You think about ripping it back. But it's too late, he’s already seen it.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” you say nervously. “Sometimes to get to know my subjects better I do more in-depth drawings of what they look like. It helps me envision the outfits on them.”

He sits down across from you and nods slowly. His expression is a mixture of confusion and at least five other emotions that you can't place. You close your eyes, waiting for him to yell at you, fire you, or otherwise destroy your life. But you don't hear any harsh words. Or any words at all. Instead, you hear him pick up the binder and start to flip through it. You keep your eyes closed, not brave enough to confront the damage your clumsiness has done.

“You sure do have a lot of me…” he mumbles, and your eyes fly open. “And they’re all…”

You brace yourself.

“Incredible. Just amazing,” he whispers, and you release the breath you’ve been holding. “I’ve never seen anythin like it. I mean it’s a dead ringer for me.”

He holds up one of your drawings next to his face, and you laugh nervously. He puts the binder down and peers over at the jacket.

“And this,” he says, reaching for it. He pauses and looks to you, “Can I pick it up?”

“Yes, Elvis.”

He lifts it and holds it up to his chest, looking into the mirror. He doesn't finish his sentence and just shakes his head in disbelief.

“Do you wanna try it on?” you ask sheepishly. He whirls around.

“Can I?”

You laugh, nodding.

“I’ll get the pants. I’ve had to keep hiding them so nobody tattled on us, but I’ll carefully iron it before the actual show so it-”

You stop short when you turn around. He's shirtless already and is unzipping his pants.

“Will look brand new,” you quickly finish your sentence. You bring him the pants and then turn your back to cover your eyes.

“What are ya doin?” he asks.

“Well, you’re changing…”

“I’m not embarrassed. You can look,” he says, and you don't know what to do. If you had any self respect, you wouldn't have turned. But, the shameless side gets the best of you. When will you ever have this opportunity again?

You slowly turn and raise your eyes. He's mostly dressed; the pants are on, although unbuttoned, and he's pulling the leather jacket over his shoulders. He seems to be struggling, so you approach and help him pull the jacket all the way on. Your fingers accidentally brush his hairy chest, and you apologize.

“Don’t apologize, baby. I don’t mind,” he says, and you take a deep breath.

“Well, that’s probably good, because the pants definitely need some work,” you reply, trying to shrug off your butterflies.

He gets up onto the pedestal in the middle of the room and turns from side to side in the mirror.

“How does it feel?” you ask.

“Like home,” he responds. “Like me.”

“It looks damn good on you, Elvis,” you add. “I think it’ll be a real hit. But we’ll have to take the hem in a little here…”

You trail off and get lost in your thoughts. Before you know it, you're squeezing parts of his legs and feeling him up. When you realize what you're doing, you jump back and mutter an excuse me.

“Honey, you can keep doin that as long as you want,” he says with a smirk, and this time you can't contain your embarrassment.

“Oh believe me, it would be my pleasure,” you say in a joking tone.

You look up at him with a smile, which fades quickly when you see how he's looking at you. He's bent over, inches away from your face, staring directly at your lips. You clear your throat and tilt your head all the way up so that you're even closer to him. His finger finds its way to your chin, and he pulls you up for a kiss. You accept his lips timidly, and the kiss is only a short, sweet peck. When you part, he disappears from you. You open your eyes, and he's already putting his street clothes back on.

“It’s late,” he says, “I’ll drive ya home.”

Neither of you say anything to each other for the rest of the night. You pack up quietly and he drives you in silence to your house. When you get there, you mutter a quiet thanks and get out. He waves and then drives off, leaving you standing in the driveway.

When you go inside for bed, you throw yourself under the covers and try not to cry. You’ve screwed up. Something you did was wrong. You had an opportunity and you messed it up. You keep most of your tears at bay, although a few do fall before you fall asleep.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

The next week is even busier than the previous two. You get to work on the alterations for the jumpsuit and still keep up the Santa Claus act on the side. You don't spend any more late nights at the studio. Whether it's because you're embarrassed or afraid to confront him, you aren't sure. But you take the jumpsuit home with you and work on it in the garage.

The day before the show, you finish the last stitch. You really want Elvis to try it on again to make sure everything will fit perfectly, but you can't ever find him and everyone in the building always needs him for this or that. You give up after an hour of timid searching.

You stay around a little after hours to see if he’d be around, but when the lighting director tells you Elvis had left hours ago, you angrily throw your things together and head out.

How dare he, you think. How dare he treat me like this and then ignore me for a week. Well, he can’t avoid me tomorrow. He has to put the suit on, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle it.

You sleep horribly that night and wake up with a headache in the morning. Still, you wear your most attractive outfit and show up to work fifteen minutes early. You're ironing the pants when the King himself walks in.

“I’m here for my fittin,” he says dryly.

“Right this way, Mr. Presley,” you spit out the words without turning to look at him.

He steps on the pedestal and you finish the last bit of ironing. You bring the pants over first, even though they're still warm. You hand them over, and he shakes his hand.

“Ah, damn it’s hot,” he says.

“Oops,” you reply, feigning absentmindedness.

Once he has the pants on, you help him pull the jacket on and zip it up. You want to be forceful and angry with every movement, but this jumpsuit is your pride and joy. You aren't about to ruin that. You avoid his eyes the entire time. When you're finished dressing him, you turn away without a single word, but he catches your arm.

“Where do you get off not talkin to me?” he asks. “And callin me Mr. Presley. I thought we moved past that.”

You yank your wrist away.

“And I thought we’d moved past being children a long time ago,” you respond, still refusing to look at him.

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You stay silent, wanting to make him suffer for a minute. He stomps off the platform and grabs your arm again.

“What the hell does that mean?” he repeats, and you shake him off again.

“Ignoring me? After you stood here and flirted with me, and kissed me, and sucked on my goddamn finger? How dare you,” you hiss back.

“I haven’t been-! Ugh!” he sbouts and then take a deep breath. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was leavin you alone cause I thought you weren't interested.”

“Not interested?!” you yell. “How the hell could you think I wasn’t interested? I draw you nonstop. I think about you all the time. I’ve devoted every goddamn waking moment of the last month that I possibly could to make your stupid jumpsuit. I’ve put real blood, sweat, and tears into this. And when you kissed me I was the happiest I’ve ever been! But you had to ruin it, didn’t you?!”

You whirl around to hide the fact that tears are falling down your face. A few moments of silence pass before you feel his hand gently pulling your shoulder. You try to resist, but he's too strong. You won't meet his eyes and are too proud to wipe your own tears. His calloused fingers gently swipe the falling drops from your cheekbones and you huff.

“I’ve been so stupid,” he says quietly. “You’re right…I can’t believe I didn’t see it. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Y/N. I just didn’t think you wanted me cause when we kissed you…well you gave me nothin.”

“I was too shocked to move,” you whisper. “I didn’t ever expect in my life that Elvis Presley would want to kiss me. Little old me.”

A moment of silence passes.

“Well, Elvis Presley would like to kiss you again now, if that’s aright?”

You turn to face him and see the sincerity in his eyes. You nod slowly. He gently guides your face and lips to his and gives you a tender, long kiss. You make sure to kiss him back this time, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. This time when you pull back, you both smile.

“Elvis, the show starts in a few minutes,” one of the stage managers interrupts. “The Colonel wants you to get out there now.”

“I gotta go. One more kiss for good luck?” he asks. You shake your head but kiss him anyway. You pull back faster than he's ready for.

“You can get the rest of it when you come back. Now go out there and make my leather suit your bitch,” you say. He laughs, kisses your cheek, and runs out to the stage.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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**If you notice any triggers or grammatical errors that I missed, please let me know! :)

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

My Bestest Girl

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: No

Prompt: You have a nightmare but your husband is always there to comfort you when you need him. Feat. a spicy ending. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: mentions of sex

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 1030

A/N: I swear this morphed into like 3 different things as I was writing it. Part 2...maybe? Smut is coming cause i can't control myself, i just don't know when 😂

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

You’re running like you’ve never run before. One foot replaces the other faster than you can even think and you feel a pain from somewhere, but you can’t place it exactly. Your chest heaves and you feel panic spreading throughout your body. The darkness around you starts to cave in. There are no walls, but you feel them crushing down on you anyway. Although you try to push them back, they only come faster. The horrific, distorted face of someone you don’t recognize appears floating in the darkness, and your heart lurches as-

Suddenly, you’re awake, sweating and shaking a little in the bed. It takes a moment for you to return to reality and remember where you are and that you’re safe.

“Baby?” Elvis’ deep, smooth voice comes out raspier than usual. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You curl your arms around your knees, and your husband leans up. The bed shifts under his weight as he scoots toward you and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

“What’s the matter, baby girl?” he asks again, rubbing your shoulder and tucking some loose hair behind your ear.

You look at him in the dark. His blue eyes peer tenderly back, his eyebrows knitted in concern. Although his hair is disheveled, he still looks as handsome as the day you married him. Something in the way he’s gazing so intently at you draws your tears out. You fall back into his arms and start to sob. The cold air in the bedroom freezes your tears as they trickle down your cheeks. His grip loosens and then retightens to bring you all the way into his lap, and you bury your face into his shoulder. His skin is warm and smooth, and you feel terribly guilty for wetting his beautiful chest with your ugly tears.

“Come ‘ere,” he whispers, rubbing your back. “Come ‘ere and let me hold ya. Everything’s gonna be aright. Shhh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

You let your body go limp in his strong embrace, and you feel completely supported. The way he rubs your back and squeezes you just a little too tightly makes you feel like nothing in the world would dare try to hurt you. He presses a few kisses to your sweaty forehead. As you heave to a normal breath, Elvis leans back and moves your hair out of your face so he can see your eyes.

“You’re my bestest girl, you know that?”

“I thought your mama was your bestest girl,” you sniffle with a small smile.

Elvis smiles back, wipes a stray tear from your cheek, and then shakes his head.

“She’ll always be my first girl, but you became my bestest girl the day I married ya,” he says, and you smile so hard it hurts. “Now, tell me what’s goin on. D’ya have a nightmare?”

You nod.

“What about, baby girl?”

“I was trying to run away from something and it wasn’t working,” you say, feeling tears well up again. “I couldn’t see exactly what it was but I just know I was terrified of it. As I was running, the hallways started to get smaller and smaller like they were squeezing me to death.”

“Well that don’t sound like fun, baby. But hey, look,” he responds, taking your hand in his. He flips your palm so that it’s facing the ceiling and curls his own fingers over yours. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for ya. Ain’t nothing gonna hurt you while I’m here.”

He squeezes your fingers and smiles down at you. You glance up at him in the moonlight and gently touch his cheek. He leans into your hand, and you brush the lines around his smiling mouth with your thumb. You pull him toward you and press your lips to his. As you kiss him, his arm snakes around your back and pulls you against his chest. You wind your hands around his neck and back, spreading your fingers to absorb as much of his warmth as possible.

He pulls back for a moment to gaze into your eyes before kissing your cheek and your neck. He brings you into a big bear hug. Your legs reposition to hug his waist, and you throw your arms over his shoulders. As you squeeze out your stress, he peppers kisses all over your neck and shoulders.

You feel him kiss the top of the strap of your nightgown and then pause. You turn to look at him. He stares at the strap with an angry expression for a moment before quickly moving it out of the way, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder, and putting it back. He nods as if he’s pleased with the job he’s done. You throw your head back to laugh, but he takes the opportunity to assault your undefended neck with kisses. His breath tickles your skin, and you giggle, playfully trying to push him away. After a few moments, he stops, kisses your jaw sweetly, and meets your eyes.

“You feelin any better?” he asks, and you nod enthusiastically.

“Much. Thank you. I love you,” you respond in a whisper.

“And I love you,” he replies. “I will always love you. Except that you did wake me up while I was havin a nice dream.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask as he pulls the covers back and helps tuck you underneath them. You wriggle onto your back and underneath the warm sheets. He drops down to his elbow and leans over to kiss your forehead.

“Yeah, I was.”

“Well what was it about?”

“You,” he smirks.

“Yeah? What was I doing?”

He says nothing, only glances down your body and bites his lip.

“Everything. Anything I wanted,” he finally replies, and you flush.

“You could have just asked.”

“I don’t know if you can live up to that,” he jokes, looking up at the ceiling and away from you.

You pop up to your elbows.

“Are you saying that dream me is better at sex than real me?”

“Not necessarily…maybe we should find out?”

He bites his lip again and raises his eyebrows. You playfully slap him and reach to unbutton his shirt.

“Strip, Presley.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

Uncle Eldis

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes! - anon

Prompt: When your friends ask you and Elvis to watch the kids during their date night, you’re not sure Elvis will be on board. But, things turn out much differently than you expected. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: k i d s lmao just kidding none!

Rating: Pg (SO. SOFT.)     ||     Word Count: 1943

A/N: I straight thought this was gonna be so short but it became ADORABLE SO QUICK. domestic themes usually aren't my thing...but i FW this so hard. elvis just needs to be domestic i don't make the rules ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Read part two here!

🦋 mila

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If you're being honest with yourself, you know that Elvis has never been the best with kids. You love him very much, but he isn't necessarily domestically inclined. Especially not recently with all the shows he's been playing. He isn't the type to settle down with a family and children. The mere fact that he had married you is shocking to a large portion of the world — and devastating to his fans.

You, on the other hand, have always been great with kids. You don't know exactly what it is about you that draws them in, but they just gravitate toward you. You’ve never had a problem talking to a toddler about anything.

When your friends asked you and Elvis to watch their kids while they went out for date night, you knew it would be an interesting conversation. At first, Elvis had protested profusely.

“I don’t want no goddamn kids runnin around my house! Knockin things over, destroyin things! No,” he’d shouted.

It had taken some convincing and a lot of badgering. But eventually, after you'd reminded him that he used to let his younger cousin Billy run wild through the house all the time just a few years ago, he agreed to go along with it.

“It’ll only be for a few hours, babe,” you’d said, and he’d waved his hand dismissively as he sat down at the piano to write a song.

The hour had finally come and the doorbell rings while you're reading on the couch. Elvis is watching television next to you. You snap your book closed and jump to attention, going to answer the door. When you swing it open to see the faces of your friends and their two little toddlers, you smile.

“Well hi there!” you say enthusiastically and wave at the kids.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” your friend, Angie, says.

“You have no idea how much this helps us out,” agrees her husband, John, with a chuckle.

“Of course. It’s not a problem. Is it honey?” you ask as Elvis comes to stand next to you. He smiles, tight-lipped, and shakes John’s hand firmly.

“Well we’d better get going or we’ll be late!” Angie says, and you can see the enthusiasm on her face. Her energy os practically tangible. You know it has been years since she and John had a moment alone together.

“Have fun! Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll take good care of them,” you shout as they leave. Closing the door, you turn to the kids. There is a girl, named Jessie, and a boy, Pete. You kneel down to get on their level and smile.

“Are you guys hungry? How about a special treat for dinner?”

They both nod vigorously, and you grab their hands, taking them into the kitchen. Elvis trots along nervously, hanging in the background. You help both kids up onto the barstools at the kitchen counter and lean over it to get their ideas for dinner.

“Alright, kids, what’s your favorite foods? You like mac’n’cheese? Or we could do peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

“I don’t like jelly!” shouts Jessie, folding her arms over her chest. “I like pizza.”

“I don’t want it!” shout Pete, slamming his little fists onto the table. “Pizza!”

You smile up at Elvis and turn to open the freezer.

“Sorry, guys, I don’t think we have pizza…” you say, peering around the boxes stuffed high in the tiny square. “What about…umm…”

“You could make 'em my sandwich,” you turn when you hear Elvis speak up. He's in the very back of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. You smile.

“What’s a yoursam-san-sa…” Pete tries to ask, not sure what exactly he's trying to say.

“Your Uncle Elvis has a special sandwich. It’s a peanut butter sandwich with bananas and bacon on it,” you explain, leaning close to them. "Also known as heartburn on bread."

You mutter the last part under your breath, glancing up at your husband. Both of the kids' faces light up and they clap their hands.

“Eldis sammich!” cries Pete and Jessie giggles, holding her fingers up to her mouth.

You smile and beck Elvis over.

“Alright, well Uncle Eldis,” you say, trying not to laugh, “is gonna have to help me make it the right way.”

He sighs but trods over to you anyway, starting to grab things out of the fridge. You trade off tasks; you cook the bacon and slice bananas while Elvis toasts bread and slathers peanut butter on it.

“Hey, kids, do y’all wanna hear a song?” you ask, nudging Elvis with your hip. He shakes his head, but the hint of a smile rests on his face.

“Moo-sic moo-sic!” Pete shrieks with joy.

“I like songs! Song, song!” Jessie joins, clapping her fat, stubby little fingers together.

“You heard them, Uncle Eldis,” you say, chuckling. “This is the show of your life. Toughest audience you’ll ever perform in front of.”

He shakes his head, but you can see the toothy grin on his face just by glancing at him. He starts to sing, his voice ringing out deep and clear in the kitchen. He goes with Hound Dog, and the kids love it. They shriek and clap through the entire song. By the time he sings the last note, he's holding a spatula like a microphone and fully facing the kids to give them a real performance. You giggle and slide the two plates in front of the children.

While they eat, you and Elvis get your own dinners and play a game of I Spy with the kids. After dinner, you neglect to clean up, too excited to play the games from your childhood. You leave the dishes dirty in the sink and decide to play freeze tag in the backyard before the sun goes down.

At first, Elvis is really not into it. He jogs half-heartedly around the backyard until you're up to be the tagger. You get Jessie first and then Pete. You make eye contact with Elvis from across the yard, and you can see the fear in his eyes. You chase him around, laughing and trying not to hurt yourself or the kids as you zip around in figure-eights and circles. He starts to sprint, actually playing the game now. But he, too, is laughing and you eventually catch up to him, tackling him to the ground in a fit of breathless chuckles. The next thing you know, both kids have piled on and you're all rolling around on the ground together.

You need a rest after that and decide to play hide and seek inside. You let Jessie be the seeker while Pete, Elvis, and you all hide. At first, you and Elvis go for the same hiding spot, but you just beat him there.

“Sorry, finder’s keepers!” you say in an arrogant tone, sticking your tongue out playfully. You pull the curtains to the closet in front of your face.

“I’ll getcha back for that, sugar,” he says, sprinting away to find somewhere else to hide.

You wait for what feels like forever before finally coming out of your spot. You quietly sneak down the stairs to find Pete and Jessie both holding each of Elvis’ hands, dragging him around the house to search for you. You laugh out loud and shrug.

“Does this mean I win?”

Elvis’ head whrils toward you, and he looks relieved to see you. You come down the stairs and fake a yawn.

“Oh my,” you say, winking at Elvis, “I’m just so tired. Are you kids feeling tired?”

Jessie shakes her head with a big grin, but Pete copies your yawn.

“How about we watch a film on the television?” you ask, and both kids nod happily.

You flick on the tv and find one of Elvis’ old movies playing. You sit first and just as Elvis is about to sit down, Jessie slides in next to you and cuddles up to your arm. You glance up at Elvis and shrug. He scoots over and sits next to Pete, who curls up underneath his armpit. You all start watching the film together.

Jessie makes it slightly longer than Pete, but both kids are asleep by about an hour into the movie. You glance over quickly to see Pete, fast asleep, nestled next to Elvis. Elvis’ arm is stretched out on the couch, just gently brushing your shoulder with his fingertips. Your eyes blink back to the tv, but you can feel him looking at you.

Elvis can’t believe how beautiful you look. His eyes flick down to the small little girl, fast asleep on your arm, and images of you as a loving parent flipped through his brain. Everything in that moment is so domestic. So in contrast to everything he thought his life could be up to that point. Suddenly, it all seems possible. Having a family, having children, being a real family. A healthy family. It might possible, after all.

He reaches up, careful not to disturb the kids, and gently touches your arm. You lazily glance back at him and smile warmly. He returns your expression and leans forward to slide his palm onto your face. You lean into it, closing your eyes and sighing contentedly. He strokes your cheek for a moment before the doorbell jump you both back into reality.

You wake the kids up as Elvis goes to open the door.

“How was it?” Angie asks as the kids both run to their mother, laughing. She glances up at you with a pained expression. “Were they alright?”

“They were angels. Truly,” you reply, coming to stand next to Elvis. You wind your arm around his waist, and his threads through your elbow to do the same.

“Again, we can’t thank you enough for doing this. Thank you so much. Alright, kids, say goodbye to Uncle Elvis and Aunt Y/N.”

The kids run to hug you, but only for a moment. When they hug Elvis, on the other hand, they refuse to let go. Angie laughs and pries them off. Elvis looks extremely uncomfortable and laughs nervously. You giggle.

“I’m sorry. I guess you really made an impression on them,” John says through laughs.

Elvis just nods.

“Thank you again!” Angie says, as they usher the kids out of the house.

“Not a problem. Drive safe.” Elvis responds, closing the door as they left. When he turns, you throw your arms around his shoulders and give him a knowing look.

“See, that wasn’t so bad after all, was it, Uncle Eldis?” you ask with a giggle.

“Hear that?” he says and points up. You look up and then shoot him a confused face. “Silence. Heavenly silence.”

You laugh, playfully slapping his chest. You gaze warmly at him for a few moments before he speaks again.

“No, it wasn’t that bad. It was actually…sorta nice,” he responds, and your eyebrows shot up.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replies softly, a reminiscent smile settling gently. “Seeing how good you were with ‘em. How lovin you are. You looked jus like a lil mama. I forgot, actually, for a second, that those weren’t our babies. It sorta made me think about…what life could be like if we had our own lil spoiled brats runnin around the place.”

“Oh, Elvis Presley, are you saying you want my babies?”

He smirks, looking up and down your figure. He bites his lip.

“Oh yeah, I want your babies.”

“Well, what are you waiting for, daddy?”

He pounces, and you scream with laughter as he chases you up the stairs to the bedroom.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

ASG - Part One: A Southern Gentleman

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: No, but it is deserved

Prompt: Bird's old friend, Elvis, looks a lot different than she remembers - a lot hotter, that is. Can she control herself as he walks her home like a good southern gentleman? [ Fem!OC ]

TW: None!

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 1484

A/N: He's obviously not dating Dixie in this version. Damn...I really don't know what to do with myself. I used to have a crush on Austin a long time ago, but it's been rekindled like 2 million times stronger. Austin w/ dark hair just hits different 😩

This is Part 1 of ASG. Find the rest of the series here!

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

She’s folding an extra towel in the wings of the stage when a flash of pink silk catches her attention. She glances up just long enough to see a guitar and a pair of fancy black and white shoes. She shrugs, going back to finish her work and thinking nothing of it for the time being.

“He’s a young singer from Memphis, Tennessee,” the announcer’s voice booms around the building. “Give a warm hayride welcome to a Mr. Elvis Presley.”

Her head snaps up when she hears the name. Elvis?? She had gone to elementary school down in Mississippi with a boy named Elvis. It couldn’t possibly be the same boy…could it? She hurriedly finishes folding up the towels she’s working on and quietly sneaks behind the edge of the stage curtains. As she peers out at the tall young man standing at the microphone, she’s sure it can’t be him. The little boy she had known was blonde, skinny, and bony.

“It goes something like this…” the singer mumbles into the microphone. He continues to mutter a little bit of a song.

“Get a haircut, buttercup!” yells a man from the crowd.

Before she gets a chance to think again, he begins to sing. Like…really sing. His voice is strong and forceful, like nothing she’s ever heard before. She watches from the wings and can’t help but smile as he wiggles, dances, and moves around on the stage. His voice is incredible, deep and smooth. But the way his body moves, she has never seen anything like it before. Some girls in the crowd begin to holler, scream, and yelp. she bites her own lip and holds back a smile as she watches the silky pink fabric dance along his body.

Not before long, the entire crowd of women is leaning toward the stage and shrieking. As he reaches back into the crowd, some of the girls even pull at his clothes and the pink suit jacket lifts off his frame. As he stumbles back behind the curtains, a woman yells from the crowd. Bird peers around the curtain and catches a second’s glimpse of her: an older lady with dark hair. She knows this woman. She’s seen her before...

The sound of laughter near her catches Bird’s attention and her eyes land on the back of the singer’s frame as he walks away. Before she can stop herself, she speaks up.

“Elvis??” she asks, gripping the curtain tightly.

The tall figure pauses for a moment before a handsome face emerges from the shadows. She can’t help but smile. The moment she meets his sea blue eyes, the recognition spreads across his face. He lets out a breathy chuckle and smiles sweetly.

“It really is you…” she mumbles.

“Bird?? It can’t be…” he asks in a voice deeper than she expects. She releases her death grip on the curtain and reaches down to smooth her skirt.

He hands his guitar off to a bandmate and walks toward her. As he comes closer, she can smell him – a mix of sweat, musk, and something sweet like cinnamon. It’s almost intoxicating. She reaches out to steady herself on a table.

“What the hell are you doin’ up here?” he asks.

“Daddy got transferred up ‘ere, so we moved. I work 'ere,” she responds. “What are you doin up here? I almost didn’t recognize ya. You were blonde last I saw.”

“Yeah,” he replies, dropping his head to rub the back of his neck. A few strands of dark black hair fall over his forehead, and she has the urge to brush them away but she resists. “Well, how bout you, I mean, you’re all grown up now. Look at ya…”

She flushes as he gestures at her body. He leans on the wall near her, positioning his body diagonally. She takes a deep breath, quickly glancing at his flexing bicep. He tilts his head to look at her, and she catches his eyes tracing her figure up and down.

“You’d better get going, Bird,” one of her coworkers says as they pass by. “Your daddy won’t be happy if you get home late again.

“Oh damn,” she mutters, glaring through the cracked glass of her old wristwatch. “Well…I’d better start back. You 'member how daddy is.”

As she turns to reach for her sweater, his hand catches her wrist.

“Could I walk ya home?”

“Oh, yes. I’d like that very much,” she responds.

He swipes the sweater off the table and holds it out for her to shimmy into. As she steps back to stick her arms through the holes, she accidentally brushes against his chest. Her breath hitches in her throat.

They walk out together, a few feet between them. She is grateful for his presence since the shortest way to her house takes them through the forest area behind the building. The wind is chilling as it blows through the trees, and she wraps her sweater closer around her shoulders.

They get to talking and start remembering old times in Mississippi when they used to play together in the schoolyard and when Elvis played pranks on the teachers. They talk and talk and talk, laugh and laugh and laugh. Silence eventually settles for a few moments as they both try to figure out what to say. Finally, he clears his throat.

“You really have grown up,” he says, glancing at her. “I always knew you’d be pretty, but I didn’t know you’d turn out to be so…well, gorgeous.”

She bites her lip. She likes the way his southern drawl hangs on each word and each compliment he gives her.

“I’m gorgeous? Give yaself some credit. Those girls were practically rippin your clothes off tonight.”

He chuckles, drops his head down, and rubs his neck again.

“I guess they liked it, huh? I ain’t doin nothin on purpose. It’s jus the way the music moves me, you know what I’m sayin? I guess they liked the way I move.”

“I like the way you move,” she says without thinking. Immediately after she’s said it, her smile flattens and they both stop in their tracks.

“You what?”

“I, uh…I,” she feels her cheeks flush and stutter. He starts to walk closer to her and she instinctively backs up. “I jus think…well, I-“

She stops speaking when her back hits the trunk of a tree. He stands over her and places his hand above her head, leaning against the tree like he’d leaned against the wall earlier. It suddenly occurs to her how alone they both are, among the trees with no one else around. Secluded. she gulps as his face twists into a handsome smirk.

“Now what did you say, darlin?“

“I jus think…well I said that I liked…”

“The way I move. Is that what you said?”

She opens her mouth to respond but doesn’t know what to say. She melts into the trunk of the tree as heat floods into her face and ears again. When she glances up at Elvis through her eyelashes, he starts to lean forward. At first, she presses further back into the tree but when he steps closer, she finds that her body can’t move. As soon as she feels his breath on her face, her chest moves her forward to meet his lips. The kiss is soft and gentle, and his lips are warm against hers.

When he pulls away, she feels her body inadvertently move forward, begging him to come back. She opens her eyes to see him smirking down at her with an arrogance that only makes him more handsome. His finger tilts her chin upwards, and he presses his lips to hers again. Her hands instinctively find their way to his silky black hair. His fingers trace down her jaw to her neck, her shoulder, and all the way to her waist. As he grips her hips to draw her body closer to him, she accidentally lets out a squeak.

Her eyes fly open, and Elvis pulls back with a breathless smile. His hair is disheveled and hanging over his face again. Her skirt is pulled up her thigh and her sweater is falling off. For a brief moment, she thinks about how dead she would be if her daddy could see her now. She bites her lip again and brushes the locks of hair out of his eyes. He smiles down at her tenderly.

“You really are beautiful,” he says, tucking a strand of misplaced hair behind her ear. “And I like the way you move, too.”

She playfully punches his shoulder and buries her head in her hands. He pulls her into a warm embrace, rubbing her back soothingly.

“Aright now, let’s get you home to your daddy,” he says, adjusting her sweater.

“What a good southern gentleman, ya are.”

“I can be when I try,” he smirks, and she laughs.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

You're Trouble

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes - anon (i luv u, truly)

Prompt: You’re the girl during the Trouble performance who gets her face smushed by Elivs. When you run into each other at the police station after the fight breaks out, you give him your info. He shows up later looking worse for wear, and it’s your job to fix him up. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Blood (just a little, nothing too graphic), cops, I don't think anything else but lmk if you see something!

Rating: Pg-13    ||     Word Count: 3941

A/N: oh man...i love this i have to say. getting to rewatch this scene in slow motion??? yes pls. also the second gif @ the bottom is from the shannara chronicles (thanks efc for the link lol) + that's is how you should imagine him during the one scene. you'll see what i mean ;)

🦋 mila

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“Turn that racket down!” your mom yells from downstairs. “And you’d better hurry up or you’ll be late!”

“We’re comin, ma!” you yell back, reaching to turn the volume down on your record player.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doin this!” says your best friend, Jocelyn. She’s pulling a sweater down over the top of her dress while trying not to ruin her freshly applied makeup.

“I know! I’m so excited I could scream!” you say back, and grab the album cover for the record. You hold it up in the light and sigh. “Oh look at ‘im, Jocelyn. He’s just perfect.”

Jocelyn folds her hands on your shoulder, resting her chin on it and sighing.

“Oh Elvis…”

“Girls! If I have to-”

“We’re comin, ma!” you yell back, slightly more angry this time around. “I can’t take her screamin at us one more time. You go on down. I’m just gonna tidy up a bit.”

Jocelyn nods and leaves to go downstairs while you stop the record player and place the vinyl carefully back into the cover. You hold it out one more time and press a small peck to the image. When you pull back, you see that you’ve left a big red kiss mark on his cheek and you chuckle. As you put it back, your eyes track a small piece of paper resting on your dresser. On it you’d written your full name, address, and phone number. It’s a stupid idea, but you think maybe…just maybe if you could somehow slip it into his pocket…

You shake your head and put the note down, glancing in the mirror one last time before leaving, just to make sure that your parents won’t be able to see what you’ve got on underneath. Your eyes flick down to the piece of paper one last time and you snatch it up, stuffing it in your pocket and wincing with embarrassment. Then, you hop down the stairs two at a time.

After a few minutes of yelling from your mother and backtalking from you, your older brother, Johnny, finally gets you out the door and into the car. You ride mostly in silence, other than the sounds of you and Jocelyn squealing with excitement every few minutes. You can hear the crowd before you can even see it. As Johnny pulls up to Russwood Park, you and Jocelyn press your faces agains the glass of the windows. Jocelyn is practically bouncing out of her seat, and you aren’t far behind her. Johnny pulls to a stop.

“Be careful tonight, girls. I’ve heard bout some pretty crazy things happenin at these Elvin concerts,” he said.

“Elvis, James,” you say dryly.

“Well he’s a troublemaker, whatever his name is. Be careful, and be ready to go home by ten o’clock. Deal?”

You both nod, your smiles ready to burst off your faces.

“Aright, have fun.”

You lean over the seat to hug him.

“Thanks, Johnny. Love ya!”

As soon as you and Jocelyn have hopped out of the car, you both jump up and down, squealing and shrieking. The crowd gathered is already much larger than you expected, and they’re loud, too. Once you’re sure Johnny is out of sight, you both rip your sweaters off to reveal tops that your parents were never approve of. Your skirt is a deep red which perfectly compliments the black sweetheart neck top you’d bought. The whole top half is sheer and puts your shoulders and neck proudly on display. Your parents would probably combust if they could see you.

“Oh no,” Jocelyn whines. “Look at the size of that crowd! We’ll never see him from way back here.”

You grab hold of her hand, interlocking your fingers, and look at her determined.

“Oh yes we will,” you respond. “Cause we’re gonna make it to the front of that crowd.”

You start dragging Jocelyn behind you, elbowing and sneaking your way through the crowd and around all the standing bodies. As you near the front of the group it gets hard to navigate through the people, who really don’t want to give up their places.

“Move over, ya prude!” you shout to a young girl in a red and white striped dress.

You barely hear her protest as you weave through the crowd. Finally, you slap your hand on top of the makeshift stage with a satisfied smile. You yank Jocelyn up next to you and shrug.

“Told ya!” you have to shout now, with the crowd screaming and a line of American-themed women dancing.

As you peer over some of the fans’ heads, you notice a merchandise table with Elvis’ name and face on everything you could think of. You also see tons of police officers lining the sides of the crowd. You point and laugh with Jocelyn. Suddenly, screams erupt from behind you. You jump to try and see above the heads, but it’s no use.

“What’s happenin??” you ask, and Jocelyn shrugs.

“He’s here!!” someone shouts. You turn and grab Jocelyn’s hands, smiling so hard your face aches.

They must be right because the female dancers scurry off the stage and a man in a white suit jacket takes hold of the microphone. He starts yelling, trying to get the crowd hyped up, but you can’t hear what he’s saying. You’re far too busy trying to get one glance of the King himself. The heads in the crowd bob up and down and shift like a thousand fish in the sea, but you just need to catch one tiny fish. You are peering through a small hole in the group when someone shifts. Your mouth drops open. There he is.

“Elvis Presley!!” the announcer yells, and screams erupt all around you.

You clamp a hand over your mouth as he walks onto the stage. He makes his way toward the center, and you bite onto your fingers. He is so much more handsome in person. And the way he walks. It’s like he owns the world. His black hair lays floppy in his eyes, and he peers out into the crowd with dark eyes. Suddenly, he’s looking right at you, and your hand falls from your face, leaving you gawking with an open mouth. He smirks and winks. You grab onto Jocelyn’s hand, but neither of you can move.

“Did you see that?” you shout, and Jocelyn clenches her teeth together with a vigorous nod.

“He looked right at ya!” she says.

As he centers himself to the mic, the crowd starts to grow quiet.

“There’s been a lotta talk bout the new Elvis,” he starts, and the crowd erupts into a chorus of boos. “Course, there’s that other guy.”

He lifts his hand into the air and wiggles his pinky finger. You aren’t sure what it means, but the way he flaunts it makes you think maybe he isn’t supposed to be doing it.

“You ain’t nothin but a hound dog, cryin all the time,” he sings, and you feel your heart skip about a million beats. The crowd cheers around you. You can’t tear your eyes away as he grips onto the microphone and glances around, as if he’s thinking about something important. You and Jocelyn clutch each others fingers hard.

“There’s a lotta people sayin a lotta things,” he continues. “Course you gotta listen to the people that ya love. But in the end you gotta listen to yourself.”

The crowd erupts into cheers again, and you squeeze Jocelyn’s hand.

“And I want you to know those New York people ain’t gonna change me none,” he shouts.

You bite your lip, practically buzzing from excitement. He rips the guitar off and hands it to a bandmate. When he returns to center stage, it’s like someone’s lit a fire in his eyes.

“I’m gonna show you what the real Elvis is like tonight!” he shouts, holding up his arm.

The band starts to play, and he belts out his song. Your favorite of his songs.

“If you’re lookin for trouble, you came to the right place. If you’re looking for trouble, then look right in my face,” he sang in that deep southern voice that you’d learned every variation of. “I was born standin up, and talkin back. My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack.”

Your heart literally thumps against your chest as he sings raspily. It sounds so much more intense in person than it does on your radio at home. Jocelyn starts to scream, bouncing up and down. You throw your hand over your mouth again, trying to breathe in and out slowly as he tosses his head around like a ragdoll. You can’t help but shriek when he seductively twists the microphone stand with one hand.

He wanders over to where you and Jocelyn are standing and gazes into the crowd. You’re gripping each other so tightly you aren’t sure you’ll ever use your fingers again. One of the girls near you is literally crawling onto the stage, and Elvis is standing so close that she probably could touch him if she tries. The way he holds the microphone as if it’s a dance partner makes your chest heave. Your eyes hungrily trail down his body and latch onto his fingers on the top of the microphone. He starts to wiggle his body like you’ve watched him do so many times on television, and you join Jocelyn in jumping.

Suddenly, he throws his body up and crashes down onto his knees. Right in front of your face. Jocelyn rips her hand free from yours to cup it around her mouth and scream. Your fingernails latch onto your hair and pull at it, as he pushes his pelvis up directly toward you. His eyes turn upward, dark and dangerous, and he looks right at you. Smirking a little, he leans down and curls his fingers around your jaw, forcing you to face him and only him. His fingers dig into your skin, and your hands grasp at his sleeves. He sings right to you, and you can feel all the blood being drained from your body. You don’t even have the self control to scream. He winks before dragging his fingers along your jawline and releasing your face. He smiles smugly and walks backward to center stage. Your chest is heaving, and you can barely move enough to blink.

He drops the mic stand from one hand and smoothly catches it with the other, leaning over it to sing as if it he was dipping a dancing partner. You are still heaving with deep breaths as Jocelyn grabs hold of your shoulders.

“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!” she shouts over and over and over again.

You can’t take your eyes off of him as he dances and moves around on stage. He falls onto the ground, bent over and screaming into the mic. When he rolls onto his back, the feeling in your body starts to come back to you, and you laugh loudly. He is wild, out of control, illegal. And you can’t get enough. Everything starts to move too quickly. At some point you think you see him laying in the middle of the crowd and then crawling back onto the stage, screaming.

The next think you know, Elvis is being hauled offstage by some police officers and people are screaming and running. As they drag him away, the crowd starts pushing and everyone sprints frantically in different directions, not knowing what to do. You grab for Jocelyn’s hand but she slips from your sweaty grasp. As you stumble around, someone grabs hold of your arm. You wriggle free of his grasp, turn, and slug him square in the face.

“You don’t touch me!” you shout. You turn and push people away as they try to run around or straight into you. “Jocelyn!!! Jocelyn!!”

Someone else grabs your hand, and you turn to punch them. This time, it’s a police officer and he snags your wrist with a handcuff.

“What the hell’s your problem?!” you scream, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “Let me go! I didn’t do nothin!”

“Y/N!” you hear Jocelyn’s voice, but you can’t move around to find her. The officer lifts you up and practically drags you into the police car, even though you kick and beat on his back the whole way there.

Once you’re in the cop car, you run your fingers through your hair and try to bring your breathing down to normal. As soon as you come to terms with the fact that you’ve been arrested, you start panicking about what your parents will think. And how you’ll get out of jail without them finding out. Then, you worry about Jocelyn and whether she’s alright. By the time you get to the police station, you’re hands are shaking ever so slightly and you’re exhausted.

The officers guide you out of the car and into the police station, sitting you down in a room while they process your papers. You pick at your nails but hold your head high. You hadn’t done anything wrong, and you’d swear to it in court. You sit for what feels like hours before someone comes into the room. It’s your brother, Johnny, who enters with a solemn face.

“Johnny!”

You try to stand up, but the handcuffs prevent you from moving. You crash back down into the seat and stare at your brother.

“What in the Sam Hill is goin on here?”

You shake your head.

“Johnny, I didn’t do nothin wrong! A fight broke out and some man grabbed me! I mean, I guess I punched him in the face pretty good, but he deserved it! He was tryin to hurt me! I-”

Johnny holds up a hand and just shakes his head.

“Get in the car,” he says.

“Well wait, where’s Jocelyn?” you ask, feeling guilty for forgetting about your friend.

“She’s already home. She said she ran as soon as it got violent. She’s the one who called me. Get in the car. We’re going home. And Mom is not to hear about this, you understand?”

You are speechless, so all you do is nod and stand still for the officer to unlock your handcuffs. You feel so reassured to know that Jocelyn is safe. You rub your wrists as you follow your brother out into the waiting room, a tiny smile of relief plastered on your face. 

When you enter the lobby, you happen to glance over at the waiting area to see none other than Elvis Presley himself sitting there. He’s slouched back in the chair, his legs spread wide and his head tilted all the way back. He looks very inviting. While Johnny deals with some paperwork at the front desk, you nervously pad in Elvis’ direction.

“Y’alright?” you ask quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself. His eyes open and head tilts down ever so slightly. A small smile graces his lips.

“Yeah, baby, I’m just fine,” he responds, his voice hoarse.

You can hear Johnny wrapping up and suddenly remember the piece of paper in your pocket. You shove your hand down to see if it’s still there and feel it crumpled up. You finger it for a few seconds trying to decide whether to mortify yourself or not. Realizing that you may never get the chance again, you clutch onto it and frantically step forward to hand it to him. He slowly reaches up and takes it from you.

“In case y’ever need anything,” you whisper. Just as he’s about to respond, Johnny harshly yells your name.

You turn immediately and follow him outside and into the car. Your car ride home is silent, and you can tell that your brother is disappointed. Not upset or angry, thank god, just disappointed. Disappointment you can deal with. You’ve dealt with it before, thanks to your rebellious streak.

When you get home, it’s very late. Definitely later than your curfew of ten o’clock. You quietly go upstairs and immediately climb into bed, pulling the covers over your face. Tossing and turning, you swear you’ll never go to bed. You can’t stop smiling. Now that you are safe and sound, images of the wild night start to resurface in your mind. You see Elvis, a smirk on that beautiful face of his. You feel his fingers around your jaw. You hear the roar of the crowd and his raspy voice echoing all around you…

You jolt awake. Something is tapping on your window. You sit up, rubbing your eyes and trying to see better, as if seeing would help you hear better. The tapping continues. It sounds like someone is trying to unlock the door to your tiny balcony. With wide eyes, you carefully swing your toes out of bed and frantically look around for something to protect yourself with. You sigh, frustrated, and grab a pair of scissors.

Your feet move slower than death as you approach the door. You gently grab ahold of the curtains and take a deep breath before flinging them open and holding the scissors out defensively. Once you realize who it is, you quickly put the scissors down and unlock the door.

“...Elvis?” you ask in a whisper. He stumbles into your room with a breathless smile.

“Hey baby doll,” he says, and your heart thuds.

“What are you doin here?”

“You said if I ever needed help,” he replies, holding out the scrap of paper.

You take it from him to ensure it’s the paper you’d given him at the police station. Your eyes widen when you realize it is the very same.

You’re about to respond when you notice a little bit of blood dripping from his side. Your breath falls flat and you reach out to put your arms underneath him and support him.

“Oh my god!” you hiss. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Police roughed me up real good,” he responds with a chuckle that quickly turns into a groan.

He leans on you and groans as you drag him to your bed. You pull the blanket taut and lay him on top of it. Yanking the curtains open for more light, you run to the bathroom for some water and a towel. When you return, he’s holding a photo from the bedside table. You examine his wound in the moonlight. It looks like a small cut on his stomach. You thank the stars for the darkness to hide your embarrassment as you speak.

“You’re gonna hafta take your shirt off,” you say.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds, sitting up. He tries to lift it off himself but winces at the pain. You quickly move to help, grasping the fabric to gently lift it off his frame. You avoid staring at his naked torso as you pour water from a cup onto the towel. You gently press the towel to his wound.

“Ouch, fuck,” he says, and your hand imemdiately covers his mouth.

Your eyes nervously fly to the door, but you don’t see any light shining underneath. You could feel him chuckling underneath your fingers. You remove your hand.

“Be quiet!”

“Why? Am I not supposed to be here or somethin?”

“Well I ain’t supposed to have no boys up here in my bedroom. Plus, it’s the middle of the night, and we’re we’re up here…alone…”

He says nothing, smirking and glancing down at his crotch. You once again thank the stars that it’s too dark for him to notice your embarrassment.

You shake your head and press the towel deeper into the cut. He hisses and grabs onto your arm with his hand. Your eyes immediately move to his fingers digging into your bare skin. You release a shaky breath and carefully pour more water on the towel.

“I like what you’re wearin,” he says, breathless. You ignore him even though your entire body is screaming.

“Thanks, I wore it just for you,” you respond without skipping a beat. You aren’t looking at him but still catch his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. You lean to get a better angle on his wound, not realizing how close to him you are.

“I don’t think I have anything to co-”

You stop in your tracks when you look up and make direct eye contact with his lips, pink and swollen. He has a small cut on the bottom one with a little dried blood. But they still look like the most kissable things in the world. You steady yourself and gently raise the towel to his lips. He catches your wrist.

“What are ya doin?”

“You have some blood there,” you respond, unable to tear your eyes away from his lips. He releases your hand, and you gently dab the towel against his mouth. You reach up to hold his face still, placing your hand on the side of his jaw. You slowly pull back the towel and look at the cut, all cleaned up. For a few seconds, you just stare at each other, both of your eyes travleing everywhere. You start to drop your head but he catches your face with his hand. His fingers curl around your jaw like they had at the concert, and you audibly gasp. He smirks.

“I knew I recognized you,” he mumbles. “You were at my concert tonight, weren’t ya?”

You nod, frozen in his grasp.

“Yeah…,” his eyes trace around your face and body. “I saw you punch the shit outta some asshole, too. Is that why you were in jail?”

You nod sheepishly. He smirks.

“I picked you on purpose, you know. Outta all those girls,” he says, his eyes tracing around your face again. “You wanna know why?”

“Why?” you breathe out.

He strokes your cheek with his thumb and then drags it across your bottom lip.

“I could see the fire in your eyes,” he replies, his eyes glancing between your eyes and lips. “I could tell you were trouble.”

You smirk and lean over, closing your eyes. He pulls your face to him and just barely ghosts his lips over yours. You shudder, clutching onto the towel in your fingers. He brushes his lips against yours again, and you gasp. You feel his mouth curl up into a sinister smile.

“What are you waitin for?” you whisper against his lips.

“For you to tell me what you want.”

“Kiss me.”

He obeys immediately, capturing your upper lip between his. He kisses you hard, gripping your jawbone. Your hand meanders up to his chest, resting on the smooth skin near his heart. He pulls back slowly, painfully slowly. You flutter your eyes open and gaze up into his blue ones. He’s still holding onto your jaw, but more gently now. You lean forward again, pressing your lips to his. You gently push him down onto the bed with the hand you laid on his chest. His fingers leave your jaw to wind around the back of your neck and thread themselves through your hair. His other hand sneaks onto your waist, gripping you and pulling you on top of him. As soon as you start to put pressure on his body, he groans and accidentally bites your bottom lip. You pull back with a finger flying up to the skin.

“Ah,” he winces. “Sorry, lil mama. I didn’t mean to bite ya. Not yet, anyway.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” you reply, giggling. You touch your lip and seductively drag your fingers across your lips and down your neck. His grin spreads into a smile, and he strokes your cheek.

“You are trouble.”

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

Give it All to 'Em

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes - anon

Prompt: You’re one of the best singers and when you meet Elvis, sparks fly. He denies your relationship in front of the press and it breaks you. But don’t worry, Elvis has a way to make it up to you. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: None!

Rating: Pg, this is soft    ||     Word Count: 2527

A/N: Ok the ending of this is my favorite and also my new dream. Also I try to pick gifs from the time period I imagine him in while i'm writing but its SLIM pickins yall.

🦋 mila

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“So, I’m thinking soft waves with a barrette here,” says your hairstylist Loretta. She bunches up your hair and holds her finger in the place where the barrette will go so you could visualize it.

“Perfect, I love it,” you respond.

“Oh, you’re gonna look so beautiful tonight! It must be exciting to go to all of these movie premiers!” Loretta says.

“I love doing them,” you concede. “And the only reason I’ll look so good tonight is because of the amazing job you’re doing on my hair, Loretta.”

Before she can respond, forty more people start crowding around you to finish your makeup, nails, and put the finishing touches on your accessories. By the time Loretta is finished with your hair, you're all ready to go, aside from slipping into your dress. It's a magnificent garment, and everyone knows it. Simple but elegant, the shining fabric hugs your hips and waist perfectly and drapes along your body like molten gold. You know you look incredible.

You all cram into a limousine and take off, speeding for the premier. Your makeup artist finishes the last touch, a pair of bright red lips, right before you're set to walk out onto the carpet. You take a deep breath before climbing out of the car and into the flashing lights. It's blinding at first, but you know the drill. You wave to the paparazzi as you pass and they shout your name. You're about to step up a small flight of stairs when a man’s voice interrupts your thoughts. It's deep and tender, and you glance up to see him offering a hand.

“Can I help you up those stairs, miss?”

And you couldn't mistake him for anyone else.

“Mr. Elvis Presley,” you say, a little in awe. You take his hand. “I’d like that.”

He leads you up the stairs and takes you all the way to the red carpet. You talk as you slowly make your way there.

“I’m a big fan of your music, Mr. Presley,” you say as the cameras flash around you.

“I’m a big fan of yours as well. You got one helluva voice there,” he replies, flashing a handsome grin. “Maybe we could work out a duet sometime? Blow the charts outta the water?”

You’ve seen him on television and heard him on the radio, of course, but he's so much more handsome in person. You find yourself quite taken with the southern gentleman standing before you. You smile, flashing your white teeth in that way you know men like.

“I’d like that very much, Elvis,” you reply in your smoothest voice.

“Elvis! Y/N! Pose for a photograph?” one of the paparazzi yells.

“Give the people what they want?” you ask, leaning in close to him. He glances down at your figure, which you know looks incredible under the folds of the dress and the bright lighting on the carpet.

“Give it all to 'em,” he agrees and steps close to you.

His arm snakes around your back and hooks onto your hip. You hang your bent elbow on his shoulder and pop your hip out sassily. Your other hand travels across to rest on his chest, and you throw your head back to flash your most charming smile. This is your signature pose and it accentuates all the right parts. You notice Elvis’ eyes wandering around your body as the cameras flashed. You make eye contact with each other and smile for a few photos. Feeling bold, you gently touch his jaw and brought his cheek to your lips, pressing a chaste kiss on the smooth skin. When you pull back, Elvis just smiled and chuckled. You've left a bright red mark with your lips.

“You are somethin else, ya know that,” he says.

The paparazzi start calling your name again, and you shoo Elvis off with your hands.

“Outta my photos, Elvis. You may be the King, but the Queen has arrived,” you say, turning to pose for more photos.

The rest of the night is uneventful, but when you exhaustedly climb into the limo to return home, your manager hands you a napkin. You unfold it and read. It has a phone number and is signed E.P. You smile to yourself and bite your lip.

The next day, you call, and Elvis picks up almost immediately. You get to talking, spending hours and hours on the phone chatting about everything you can think of. When you can't think of anything else to say, you start to see each other in person. You go to museums, for drives, or to the beach. Then, you start to go grocery shopping or help him with laundry. And eventually, you find yourself staying the night at Graceland.

That day, you'd gone for a long drive into the country and popped a tire and it had started to rain. You waited a few hours for help and eventually got back to Graceland safely, but totally drenched. And by the time you're trudging into the door, it's late. Too late for you to get a cab back to your apartment safely. Elvis insists you stay, even though you protest. Finally, he breaks you down and you agree.

“What am I supposed to do about my clothes, EP?” you ask, holding out your sweater. “Everything is soaked through.”

“You can borrow some of my clothes,” he responds, gesturing for you to follow him.

You get to check something off of your bucket list tonight, when you walk into Elvis Presley’s personal closet. You're expecting to see a lot more outrageous garments than you do. But you wind up in one of his simplistic white button-downs. He leaves you to get dressed by yourself. As you slides your arms through the holes, you breathe in his scent. He smells so homey, so warm.

You’ve caught feelings badly these last few weeks. You’ve gotten to know the Elvis Presley no one else does. He's sweet, funny, and charming. But most of all, he feels like home.

There are moments when you think maybe he likes you too, but they're fleeting and far between. You can't be sure. It could never work, anyway, with your schedules. You're widely recognized as two of the best singers around. It would be impossible to make time for each other.

You spend the night sleeping in the guest bedroom. Elvis makes you his famous peanut butter and banana sandwich for breakfast. Somehow, your sweater is still damp in the morning. So you put your trousers back on and just wear his button-down instead. As you're stepping off the doorstep to leave, he grabs your hand.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

“Would you wanna come to the premiere of ‘Jailhouse Rock’? I’d really like it if you were there. You know I hate all that posing and shit.”

You nod with a smile

“Of course I’ll be there. What are friends for?”

It hurts you to say it, but you swallow the bullet for both of your sakes. You squeeze his hand and run off to catch your ride home.

The next morning, you're jolted awake.

“What is this?”

You whirl around to see your manager at the foot of your bed. She has tossed the day’s newspaper onto the bed. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, and quickly skim the paper. There it is, on the front page: a photo of you leaving Graceland yesterday morning...in Elvis’ shirt…holding his hand and staring at him intensely. Even the black and white fuzz of the paper can show that.

“Uh…” you don't know what to say.

“Well, are you together or not?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“Not really…I mean…no.”

Just because you wish you were together doesn't mean that you are. And it certainly doesn't mean that he wishes the same.

“Well, in that case, you’d better stay low for the next few days. We don’t want people to think you’re too loose,” she says and the words make you shiver.

You just nod. You're tired anyway, to be honest. Being around Elvis so much is like being around water in a drought. But it also means that you're pining all the time, and it surprisingly takes a lot of your energy.

The next day, you stay in. You do a little songwriting, a little reading, and a lot of avoiding Elvis. In the evening, you're relaxing in bed and watching the television when Elvis pops onto your screen. You sit up and smile at his black and white face. It's a press conference for his newest film. You turn the volume up as one of the reporters starts a question.

“Hi, Mr. Presley. I think a lot of us are wondering about that photo in the papers yesterday - the one with you and Miss Y/N. Is she your new girl?”

“Yeah,” he says in that low southern drawl that ties your stomach in knots. “Uh, we’re not really together. We had some car problems, and she stayed the night for safety reasons. But we’re not an official item, no.”

Your heart drops a little. It isn't as if he’d lied. Everything that he’d said is true. You aren't together. But it doesn't lessen the pain you feel at being rejected in front of the public. You click the tv off and sink into bed for a night of restless sleep and maybe a few tears.

When you wake up the next morning, you feel full of dread. You tell your manager to let all your callers know that you're sick. You aren't really, of course, but you feel it. And in a lot of ways, you look it. You assume you’d be better the day after that, but still feel like crap. Almost a week passes before you get the energy to get dressed in the morning.

One afternoon, you're rolling around in bed still refusing to get up for the day when the doorbell rings. You wish desperately that you’d stayed in bed when you open the door to see Elvis standing there. He's holding a gift basket, with a stuffed bear and some chocolate.

“Surprise!” he says and smiles.

You stare at him for a minute, feeling a thousand different emotions at once. Even though anger is at the top of the charts, you push it down. It isn't his fault. You feign a smile and let him in.

“Oh, you know how much I love chocolate,” you say, digging into the basket.

“You feelin any better, darlin?” he asks, rubbing your back gently. Your fingers curl around the bear as if you're choking him.

What was he playing at?

“A little,” you say honestly. “Still…hurting a bit.”

“Well, that’s no good. I thought maybe I’d cheer ya up. So, I brought the basket, and I also thought if you were up to it, I’d make you dinner tonight.”

“You can’t cook, EP.”

“No, I learned one meal that I think I can make aright,” he replies with a chuckle. You don't have the energy to fight him - or an appetite, really - so you agree and go back upstairs to bed. To your surprise, you fall asleep and when you awake again, Elvis is gently rocking your shoulders and whispering your name.

“Dinner’s ready, baby,” he says. You roll over to tell him you’ve changed your mind and aren't feeling up to it, but when you see his face you can't do it. He's clearly so proud of what he's done.

“Alright. I’ll be down in a minute," you mumble.

"Why don't you wear ya favorite?" he suggests, pointing to your closet. "It might help ya feel better."

"I guess I can do that..." you mutter, still trying to wake up.

“Okay, but don’t be too long. I don’t want it to get cold.”

Once he’d left, you roll out of bed and rub your eyes. You decide right then that you're going to confront him and tell him the truth. You had always been confident, and that was one of your great strengths. But you want to look your best, whether you get rejected or not. So, you listen to his suggestion and put on your most flattering outfit before fixing your hair and going down.

When you walk out of your room, everything is pitch black. You carefully make your way down the stairs and around into the dining room.

“Elvis, why is everything so dark down he-”

You stop in your tracks when you enter the dining room. He's standing, in a full suit, holding a chair out for you. The room is illuminated with the soft light of a hundred candles, and a record is playing in the corner. He has a massive smile on his face, and the food is steaming on the table. Holding a hand to your heart, you elegantly sit in the chair he's holding out for you. You glance down at the food.

You can't help it. You just break and start to cry.

“Oh, no, darlin what’s wrong? Is it the food?” Elvis asks, scooting closer to you. “Did I do somethin wrong? I followed the directions, I-”

“I don’t understand you,” you say through tears.

“You what?”

“I don’t understand you!” you yell. “You call me all the time, you flirt with me, you take me out, you go through all this trouble. But you don’t want to be official with me. You don’t want to be 'together.'”

You bury your face in your hands and cry silently.

“Oh baby, oh baby,” he says, kneeling and curling his fingers around your hands. You let him have access to your face, and he wipes your tears. “Hey, stop that cryin. Baby, I just said that because I didn’t want ya gettin in any trouble. I didn’t know you wanted people to know we were together, darlin.”

Your sniffles stop.

“What?”

“I just told the press that cause I didn’t think you were ready for everybody to know,” he replies, wiping your tears.

“Y-y-you…already thought we were t-together?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, chuckling.

Your tears are all gone, now, replaced with anger. You smack him on the arm, and he immediately grabs it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you hiss. “I’ve been laying in bed for three days because of you!”

“I thought ya were sick?”

“Yeah, I was sick with LOVE,” you shout the last word. “Because I thought you didn’t love me back, you idiot. And what do you mean, ‘well yeah’?”

You repeat his own words through a terrible impersonation of his voice.

“I just thought…well I thought we both knew and that we didn’t need to say nothin. But I didn’t know if you were comfortable enough to tell everybody, so I lied!”

You just stare at him in silence. After a minute, you grab his face with your hands.

“Elvis Presley, I love you,” he smiles when you say the words. “And I do want everyone to know. I want everyone to know.”

“So let’s tell em, baby.”

"Give the people what they want?" you ask with a smile.

"Give it all to 'em."

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Reblogs, likes, comments + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

**If you notice any triggers or grammatical errors that I missed, please let me know! :)

#elvis #elvis 2022 #austin butler #milasfics #milaselvisfics #milasthings #milaselviscontent #elvis imagine #elvis fic

[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

ASG - Part Three: You Did This

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes! - anon(s)

Prompt: Bird is expecting Elvis over for a date, but his plans are different. He wants to break up, but not because he doesn’t like her. Because he loves her too much. [ Fem!OC ]

TW: Cursing, a really minor moment of assault, self-hate, ANGST

Rating: Pg-13    ||     Word Count: 3111

A/N: this was physically painful to write. i'm so sad now, but i'm not that evil. there will be a part 4, and i got so excited for birdie + elvis to get back together i literally already started writing it OOP

This is Part 3 of ASG. Find the rest of the series here!

🦋 mila

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She smiles to herself as she steps back to look at the positioning of the pillows. She's cleaning up around the house before Elvis arrives. They've been hanging out a lot recently and officially started dating about a month ago. Since he's opened her eyes to the possibilities in life, Bird has felt so much happier to be alive. Although, she still isn't ready to tell her father about her relationship yet, knowing that he'll probably murder her. She figures, worst case scenario, she can marry Elvis and then tell her daddy. What'll he do at that point?

As a result, she's been scheduling their dates and time together whenever she could do it secretly, usually in private places or at times when her father isn't at home. Like right now. She knows that her father will be at the Church for a few hours on Saturday night, so she's told Elvis to meet her at her house.

She's been in the living room, rearranging the furniture for the last twenty minutes. He wants everything to be perfect, even though Elvis has already been to her house more than once. Just as she reaches to move the pillow again, there's a knock on the door. She hops over to answer it and greets Elvis on the other side.

“Hi, handsome. I was wonderin when you’d get 'ere,” she says, smiling sweetly.

Her happy expression fades quickly when she realizes that Elvis isn’t sharing it. His face is stern and expressionless. He stands in the doorway, not moving, completely stationary. He looks especially handsome in a blue short-sleeve top with the buttons half undone and the sleeves rolled up onto his biceps.

“Can I come in?” he asks dryly. She nods, feeling the anxiety starting to rise in her chest.

“Is…somethin wrong, Elvis?” she asks, starting to ring out her fingers.

He says nothing, so she sits down next to him on the couch. His elbows are splayed on top of his knees and his eyes are trained on the ground as if they’re stuck in a trance. He looks pale, almost like a statue in a museum. She feels guilty and somehow wrong when she reaches out to touch his back.

“You know ya can tell me anythin, right? If somethin is wrong?” she says, gently rubbing small circles on his back.

He drags his hand over his face, tugging at the skin with his fingers. The less he speaks, the more anxious she grows.

“We…well, I…I…”

“Please spit it out, Elvis. You’re scarin me,” she says quietly.

“Lil Birdie...I don’t think we should be…together no more.”

She had a sneaking suspicion something like this was coming when he walked in the door with his fallen face. Even though she might have been aware of the possibility, nothing could have prepared her for the pain that comes with his words. She releases a breath and slowly removes her hand from his back.

“What do ya mean, exactly?” she asks, giving him the chance to change his mind.

She feels like her entire body is functioning in slow motion, unable to catch up with the meaning of his words. The panic and desperation she might be feeling are currently buried under a thick layer of doomed hope and disbelief.

“I mean we should break up.”

“Should,” she clocks the word immediately, still lingering in that state of disbelief but teetering dangerously on the edge of panic. “How bout you explain to me why exactly we should break up, Elvis?”

“I jus think that we…well, I-”

“Maybe you should actually come up with a reason or two before ya break off a relationship with another adult,” she says sharply. “Now, what I’m hearin is that you don’t actually want to break up with me but feel like you should.”

He says nothing, but his silence only confirms her theory. A moment of tense quiet passes as she tries to stay calm and figure out why he might be saying these things. Her brain starts to run through all of the things that have changed since they began seeing each other. No matter how hard she tries to think of something else, only one singular image comes to her mind: a fat, balding man with an unplaceable accent.

“Did Colonel Parker put ya up to this?” she asks, although she already knows the answer.

“No, no, no,” Elvis responds, too quickly and too passionately for her liking. “No, he didn’t have nothin to do with this. I-”

“Okay, then,” she interrupts him again, feeling angry now. “Gimme a reason.”

“What?!” he asks incredulously, throwing his hands up

“Gimme a reason,” she says in a voice that is aggressive, hard, and sharp. It's a tone that demands answers and it's gonna get them. “Gimme one real reason why we should break up.”

A few seconds of silence pass, and she can see his eyes frantically moving back and forth as he tries to come up with an answer that she'll buy. She can tell that he doesn’t have one.

“Our interests are different.”

“Lie. Next,” she cuts him off before he can even say anything else. He knows that isn’t the truth. Her anger continues to grow and her patience continues to thin.

“I’m gonna be very busy wi-”

“Not good enough. Next.”

“God dang it, Bird!” he shouts, standing up. He towers over her now, finally looking at her. She suddenly feels very small, but no less powerful with the anger coursing through her veins.

“We’re breakin up because I said so,” he says loudly.

“You ain't the boss of me. You don’t tell me what to do,” she retorts impishly, folding her arms over her chest and flopping back into the couch. She is taking a chance, her anger and desperation for the truth controlling her. They are stronger than any fear she might feel when looking at Elvis.

He clenches his jaw, scratching his fingers up through the roots of his hair and pulling on it. She blinks hard as images flash in her mind of the time they spent together at the lake when she had been the one pulling on those gorgeous black curls. She sees him hovering above her, sweating and moaning her name. But she banishes the images from her mind, trying not to let them draw her out of her anger.

“You’re startin to piss me off, Lil Birdie,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Why can’t you just accept this and move on?”

“Because I want ya to be happy!” she finally shouts. “And I like to think that I make ya happy. And because I don’t want ya to do nothin you don’t wanna to do. If you're gonna break up with me, it better be cause you want to, not cause ya think you should or because somebody else told you to.”

“What the hell difference does it make?”

“It makes all the damn difference in the world, Elvis! Don’t even gimme that!” she's yelling at the top of her lungs now. She's also used a curse word and cursing isn't something Bird does often. “Why won’t you just admit that the Colonel is the one who wants this?”

“Because he ain’t telling me what to do! This is my career, my life, my decision. But I can’t do everythin on my own. I gotta have help, and the Colonel is the only damn person on the planet who cares nuff about me to help me.”

She buries the quick pang of pain in her chest as his words hit her ears. As silence falls, she considers not hitting back, but the anger in her chest turns to wrath and she can’t stop it.

“How dare you!” she yells. “How dare you act like you’re alone! Like nobody cares bout you, when you know damn well just how many people do. Let’s forget about how much you jus insulted me, but what about everyone else in your life, Elvis. Your friends? People who continue to support you. Your bandmates? Who’ve given up their own chances at fame to sit behind ya as you get big. Your parents? Who have literally sacrificed everythin for you. Your own mother, Elvis! Who has devoted every second of her wakin bein to give you a better life. How dare you disrespect all uh those people!”

A second of silence passes, and she can see him straining to control his anger. His fingers curl back into fists, and his nostrils flare as he heaves out angry breaths. She's only a few inches from his face, her fists now clenched, too. She should stop speaking, but the words that have been floating around in her head for the past two months are coming out, whether she wants them to or not.

“Ya know I was keepin my mouth shut, but I can’t do it no more. The Colonel is bad news. He’s a con man and a manipulator. And all he’ll do is ruin ya!”

Not a second passes before his hands fly up to wrap around her wrists. She struggles for a moment, but it’s no use. He pulls her against him, his fingers digging painfully into the skin around her bones.

“Listen here, lil one,” he growls, his accent thicker than normal,“the Colonel’s supported me so far and done nothin but help me navigate this crazy business. He’s like a second father to me. And he ain’t fuckin tellin me what to do. I’m breakin up with ya cause I want to. Cause I want to.”

She looks into his eyes. Even though his tone and mannerisms are fueled by anger, it hasn’t reached his eyes yet. They are still soft, a bright beautiful blue. He softens for a moment, his grip becoming more comfortable on her wrists.

“I’m tryin to do what’s best for my career, here, Birdie,” he continued. “You can understand that, can’t ya?”

“I understand. But I still don’t see why I can’t be a part of it. I can help ya, Elvis. I know people. I’m organized. I-”

“You just don’t fuckin get it, do ya? I am breakin up with you! It’s over!”

“Why?” she yells back immediately, angrier than ever. She hopes that her quick response will catch him off guard and make him answer honestly.

“Cause I love you, goddamnit!”

As he shouts, his grip returns stronger than ever, and she winces at the sudden discomfort. She goes silent and pale. She doesn’t know what to say or do. She'd been right. He’s answered honestly, but it isn’t the answer she has been expecting. At first, her stomach lurches with butterflies, but a horrible and overwhelming sense of dread follows it. She's suddenly very attuned to every morsel of pain coursing through her body. The one that burns her heart and the one that stings her wrists.

“People don’t break the hearts uh the ones they love,” she says softly, tears gathering in her eyes. They burn, but she refuses to let them fall. “And they don’t hurt em, neither.”

Her eyes briefly look at his white-knuckled grip on her wrists with wide eyes. His gaze follows hers and he immediately softens, the angry expression gone from his face as his fingers carefully release her wrists. She pulls them back into herself, running her fingers over the sore muscles. She also takes a step away from him, partly because of fear but mostly to make him feel guilty for hurting her. He sinks onto the couch and drops his head into his hands. A few moments of awkward silence pass, neither of them knowing how to continue.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers so quietly she barely even hears him. When you don’t move, he looks up at you. “I’m so sorry, Lil Birdie.”

She approaches, sitting down next to him on the couch. Her fingers gingerly take his hands in hers, and she brushes some hair off his forehead. He looks up at her, and his eyes are glistening with tears. The blue irises are more gray than usual. He gulps.

“I can’t put ya through this.”

“Through what, baby? Talk to me.”

“Through who I’m about to become. What, I’m about to become.”

“Elvis, honey, I don’t care bout that none,” she says, turning to place her hands on the sides of his face. “I wanna be with ya no matter who you are. Cause at the end of the day, in your heart, you will always be my Elvis.”

He shakes his head.

“Ya too naive, Lil Birdie. I know myself and I won’t be able to stop. I’ll be on stage every day, all day. As often and as much as I can. There’ll be women, so many women. And I don’t know…I can’t promise ya that I’ll always be able to…”

“Resist,” she finishes his sentence in a whisper. She retracts her hands back into her lap. Silence settles again.

“You never said it back,” he says quietly.

“What?” she asks dumbly.

“I said I loved ya and you didn’t say nothin back,” you watch his body straighten as he prepares to ask the question. “Do you…love me, at all?”

The desperation in his voice breaks her. She can’t meet his eyes and feel tears welling up in her chest again. She wants to answer, but…

Suddenly, everything everyone had told her about Elvis floods her head. She hears her father’s disciplined, harsh voice telling her — no ordering her —to find a good Christian boy and to stay away from men like Elvis. She sees all of her Church friends, laughing and using words like ‘dangerous, player, greaser’ when she tells them about Elvis. She sees her mother’s face, pale and sweat-sheened, telling her to go easy on her father. It’s just the two of you now…

By the time her crisis has passed, Elvis is standing. He's avoiding her eyes but she can still see him wipe a tear away. Everything in her body is screaming to move. To jump up, grab him, pull him to her, hug him tight, hang onto him, say something. Anything as long as it will prevent him from leaving her.

But for some inexplicable reason, she can’t bring herself to move. She's frozen.

“Well,” he says gruffly, in the same tone that her father always used to express his disappointment in her. “I guess that solves that problem. It was a pleasure knowin ya, Bird. I’m sorry for everythin.”

He starts to leave and her body finally jumpstarts. She desperately grabs onto his arm, tearing on his sleeve.

“Wait, I…” she's decided to say it, until he turns around.

When his eyes lock onto hers, and she can see the need in them, her words grow dry and evaporate. He pulls her close slowly and wraps his arms around her. One of his hands gently strokes the hair on the top of her head while the other holds firmly onto her waist. She inhales his smell, and it makes her dizzy. She shuts her eyes tightly, squeezing the tears out.

“I’ll miss you, Lil Birdie,” he whispers into her hair before he presses a kiss to her head. “So much.”

He gives her one last squeeze and then pulls away. She holds on, suddenly panicked at the thought of losing him. He grasps onto his clothes, trying to pull him back to her, but he’s too strong. He leans away from her.

“No! No, no, no, no wait!”

“I gotta leave baby,” he responds. His eyes are glistening again with tears, and his voice is cracking through the sadness. “I can’t stay.”

He gives himself one last yank and the force pulls her onto the ground. He glances back at her one last time and she sees him wince from the emotional pain before slamming the door.

The sound of the door slamming echoes throughout the house. Her eyes fall to the ground below her, tracing every thread in the carpet. She's on her hands and knees, her breath uneven and shaky. Her whole body begins to shake. Her breath quickens and she feels the pain of tears rising in her chest again. Curling her fingers into the carpet slows them but nothing is powerful enough to stop the flood that breaks through the dams of her eyes.

She makes no sound at first, the sobs wracking her body back and forth. She shakes silently on the floor, and the tears burn her dry eyes. Finally, her shaking builds up to be too much and a pained whine escapes her lips.

Again, her mind starts to flash through images. This time of Elvis. She sees him shaking and wiggling around on stage, giving her butterflies and making her laugh. Then, she sees his face light up with a smile when he realizes who she is. She sees the dark lust and the insatiable passion shining in his eyes at the lake. She sees his beautiful smile and hears his laugh. The peaceful and happy expression on his face whenever he sings. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s really, genuinely happy.

All the small things that only someone in love could notice. Each new image is like another blow to her gut. And each brings on a more violent and painful wave of sobs as she replays the last moments over and over again in her head. Somehow, she manages to get herself up the stairs and into her bedroom. Closing the door to deter her father, she climbs into bed. She doesn't bother to change her clothes and pulls the covers over her face. She's hot and her clothes are too tight and uncomfortable for sleeping in. Snot is dripping down her nose, making her lips slimy. But she doesn't do anything to stop it or clean herself up. She doesn't fight it.

She deserves it. All of the pain, the hideousness, the discomfort. She deserves to be uncomfortable, to be blubbering her eyes out. The whole ordeal is her fault. Elvis may have suggested the idea, but she had plenty of chances to change the outcome. He gave her a chance to tell him the truth and get him back. The chance to show him, to tell him that she wants him. That she loves him.

But she didn’t. She just sat there like a stupid idiot, incapable of functioning like a human person. She grips her shoulders in anger at herself and screams into her pillow. She's the only reason she's lost him.

It is your fault, she says to herself. You did this.

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

My Personal Bodyguard

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: No

Prompt: You're a server at the International Hotel when Elvis arrives as the big entertainment act. While serving his manager, you notice something fishy going on. Can you change things for Elvis? Or will you run out of time?

TW: Swearing (a ton lmao), mention of drugs + violence

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 5793

A/N: Fix-it fic #1 is complete. this was therapeutic for me to have the reader absolutely wreck the colonel lol

🦋 mila

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“Bet you didn’t think we’d be this busy when you took this job did you?” Nathan, your coworker asks, and you shake your head with a breathless laugh.

“Absolutely not,” you reply. “I’ve worked at hotel restaurants my whole life, and I figured this would just be like everything else, but I guess not. People really go nuts over that Elvis guy, don’t they.”

“I guess so, yeah,” Nathan replies. “My sister won’t shut up about him, and I’m pretty sure my mother would divorce my entire family if Elvis asked her to.”

You’ve taken a job at the new International Hotel, which just opened about a week ago in Las Vegas. It’s one of those old sorts of hotels, with a casino and a stage for shows to entertain the guests. Or to keep them inside the building longer, whichever happens to come first. Anyway, you and Nathan have both been in charge of setting the tables for the first show this evening. The famous Elvis Presley is going to perform for the first time, and as far as you understand, he’ll be performing twice a night every night for the next six weeks.

You’ve heard his songs on the radio, of course, and you like them. But you don’t really know anything about him. You’re busy and don’t have a lot of time to freak out over men ten years your senior. Anyway you’re just a server at the hotel. It’s not like you have any business interacting with Elvis anyway.

“We’d better pick it up,” Nathan says, unfolding the last tablecloth and throwing it across the bare table toward you. You catch it, helping him fluff it out to drop onto the table. “We only have about five minutes to finish this before the King of rock’n’roll will be here to warm up. Can you grab some more silverware, I think we’re short a few.”

You nod, jogging over to the cart parked by the side of the stage. You dig around for a few seconds, not finding anything. Hearing a familiar voice in the distance, you hop up onto the stage and sneak into the back to find your manager. Wading through a sea of people running here and there, you finally see her and tap her shoulder.

“Hey, Katie, we can’t find the-”

Your voice stops abruptly when you see him. Elvis Presley in the flesh. He’s strutting in your direction in the most outlandishly beautiful costume you’ve ever seen. It’s a white jumpsuit, half unfastened to show off his chest, with a popped collar and studs all around. Your eyes can’t help but fall to his open chest before they flick back up to his face. He’s incredibly handsome, so much so that you actually feel your mouth pop open. His hair is incredibly dark and long, laying softly on his forehead. Everything about him screams sex, and you start to maybe understand why everyone is obsessed with him.

You and Katie step out of the way as he and his posse pass, and you feel totally worthless. Like a peasant in the street as the king passes along. Just when you think you’re in the clear, you accidentally look him straight in the eye. He winks and smiles at you without missing a beat, and you nervously smile back, dropping your eyes to the ground.

“Hello?”

You snap out of your daze with the literal snapping of Katie’s fingers in your face.

“We can’t find the…” she gestures for you to continue.

“Silverware. We’re short a few,” you respond. She nods, helping you find them.

By the time you’re running down the steps of the stage to place the silverware in the correct spots, people are starting to file in. Hundreds of them, all around, of all ages, genders, and social classes. You quickly make your exit toward the kitchen to alert them that everyone is starting to file in. You hide there for a while, chatting with the cooks and staff before your manager rounds all of the servers up to assign tables. She pulls you aside for a minute.

“Y/N, you have more experience than our entire waitstaff combined. You get the special task of serving the hotel owner, Mr. Kohn. And Mr. Presley’s manager, Colonel Tom Parker, will also be at your table. Prompt and attentive service, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you respond with a smile. It isn’t a question, but you want to reassure her that everything will be fine.

You grab onto three menus from the stand next to you and take a deep breath before heading out into the crowd. In the fifteen or twenty minutes you’d spent getting ready in the kitchen, the entire place has packed in. It’s a full house without a doubt.

“Hi gentleman, good evening and welcome to the International Hotel, Mr. Kohn and Colonel Parker,” you say with a grin, passing the menus out and hoping you’ve remembered their names correctly. “Can I get you gentleman started with any beverages this evening?”

“Red wine. Whatever you have that’s the best,” Mr. Kohn responds.

“I’ll have the same,” Colonel Parker adds.

You have to sustain your grin even though it falters when you look at the tubby man sitting in front of you. Something about his energy is off. You can’t explain it, but you don’t trust him for some reason. His accent is impossible to place and the way he leans on his cane is too comfortable. Too in control, or something. Nevertheless, you push the thoughts away, reserving to do your job and nothing else.

As you start to walk back toward the kitchen, the band starts up an upbeat tune. Your head snaps to the side, and you figure you can stay for a quick moment to see what all the fuss is about. You step down and back into the shadows below your table. You’ve heard Elvis practicing a time or two in passing as you go from one wing of the hotel to the other, but you’ve never stopped to listen. You don’t have that kind of time.

The lights shine bluish purple on the stage, and you hide in the shadows, crossing your arms over your chest. He emerges in that glorious white outfit, waltzing onto the stage. He takes his guitar from a bandmate and approaches the microphone. The voice that comes out is even more amazing than on the radio. Your eyebrows actually shoot up in surprise at how lovely it is; low, smooth, and velvety. It’s like a blessing to your ears.

You can’t help but smile when he uses his hands to enthusiastically direct the backup singers behind him and his right leg bounces frantically up and down as he strums his guitar furiously. He’s incredibly engaging, just the perfect mixture of wild and charming. Enough to make the audience feel like they’re getting value for what they paid for.

“Ain’t nobody gonna be a better show than that!” you hear that familiar unplaceable accent from above you. “I’ll tell ya, if I was you, I would book for him for a hundred years.”

“Well, no better time than the present, but I hear Schilling has him doing a world tour,” Mr. Kohn responded.

“I think that Mr. Presley could be persuaded to make the international his home, provided he was paid pretty well.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Elvis’ strong voice interrupts your eavesdropping, and you realize that you should get the mens’ drinks before they get upst. The last thing you need is to be fired from your job by the owner of the hotel. You run into the back kitchen and pop out the red wine, grabbing a few glasses as well. You shove everything onto a tray and, by the time you’re walking out of the kitchen toward the table, the band has started another song. One that you haven’t heard before.

“Your drinks, gentleman,” you say, noticing the sly movements both men take to cover up writing on the lace tablecloth. You set the drinks down and get out your notepad. “Can I get you any appetizers or food? Or would you like me to come back?”

“We’re fine for now, honey, thanks,” Mr. Kohn says roughly, shooing you away.

You smile tight-lipped and leave the table, but press yourself back into the shadows below. You’re hoping to overhear something, but with the music blaring it’s difficult. You’re dying of curiosity to know what they’re guarding so secretly.

“What are you going to pay me?” the Colonel asks with a laugh.

You walk up the stairs to the upper level with your tray to start loading empty dishes and cups onto it from the tables above. It isn’t your job, but you need to know. As you pass by your table, you shift the heavy tray to the other side of your body, making sure to use the momentum of the shift to glance down at the tablecloth. Luckily, just as you peer over their shoulders, Elvis’ performance heats up, dragging everyone’s attention to it. You watch as Elvis drops down to his knees on stage, belting out a beautiful note. You take the opportunity to glance down at the tablecloth. Although you can’t see very well, you manage to catch the words “5 million” and “International Hotel” before you have to sneak back to the kitchen.

Even as you put the dishes into the sink, something feels wrong to you. You lean over the sink taking a deep breath and trying to put things together.

5 million…international hotel…better show…book for a hundred years?

You don’t understand completely, but the whole conversation feels wrong. As you think for a moment, you reach up for the wine and trot back out to the table. You’d sworn to yourself not to do this, but you can’t stop yourself from meddling. On your way back to the table, you get momentarily distracted by Elvis’ lewd movements in stage, watching as he drops into a half-squat. He’s giving his absolute everything to the performance, and it’s paying off without a doubt. Something about the words of the song almost feel hollow to you, as if it’s speaking to something other than the performance itself.

You take a deep breath and approach the table with the wine bottle, watching as Mr. Kohn scribbles on a napkin with a hotel pen. Just as the Colonel’s grimy fat fingers reach for the napkin, you ‘accidentally’ nudge his elbow into a nearby glass of wine, spelling the red liquid everywhere. As it began to drip slowly off the sides of the table and seep into the white fabric, you throw a hand over your mouth.

“I am so sorry!” you yell, reaching into the pocket of your apron to grab napkins. You expertly swirl them around the one with the writing on it and then shove it into your pocket.

“That was completely my fault! I will absolutely rectify this situation,” you say, as a brief moment of panic settles in when you realize the man sitting in front of you can literally fire you at any second. To your surprise, he’s fairly calm.

“Not your fault, dear,” Mr. Kohn replies. “The Colonel needs to learn some etiquette, apparently.”

You smile, feeling heat flood into your face with embarrassment and fear. You quickly retreat back into the shadows, clutching at your chest.

“You do whatever you want, Colonel. As long as that boy stays on that stage,” Mr. Kohn says in a low tone.

You’re about to rush back into the safety of the kitchen, when you see large white figure coming toward you out of the corner of your eye. Elvis has left the stage and waded into the crowd and he’s…he’s kissing a bunch of the audience members? You watch from the shadows as the crowd grows around you, and you can’t help but widen your eyes as you watch his plump lips close passionately around a woman’s. He’s sweating in a way that makes everything he does that much more attractive. He smiles handsomely as he gets taken away by the crowd. You’re literally turning to go back to the kitchen when you feel a hand on your wrist. You whirl around in shock to see Elvis standing right in front of you.

“Come on, lil darlin, I need a favor from ya,” he shouts over the crowd.

Fans start pressing into you. Even though you murmur some no’s and try to pull away from him, his strong grip persists and drags you up onto the stage with him. You awkwardly clench your fingers, turning to stare like a deer in the headlights at the crowd before you.

“Sorry, I couldn’t make it up there, man,” Elvis says, gesturing to the upper seating sections.

He releases your wrist, and you bring it over to cover up a wine stain on your white employee t-shirt that you’ve just noticed.

“Now, I just wanna take a quick second here to say thank ya and acknowledge all the people behind the scenes that make this thing go round,” he says, smiling at you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you look at him for the first time. He’s incredibly handsome, so much so that it almost physically hurts to be near him.

“What’s your name, darlin?”

“Y/N,” you lean awkwardly in to say it over the microphone.

“And what do ya do here, Y/N?”

Hearing your name come out of his lips in that deep southern drawl makes your heart flutter.

“I’m a server,” you respond. “I serve tables.”

 “A server, perfect. It’s the people like Y/N over ‘ere who keep things runnin round here, and they’re gonna make sure yall’s nights are as special as possible. So don’t worry bout nothin but enjoyin the show,” he says, winking at you.

He reaches out to grab your hand, pulling you closer to him. You allow it, but avoid eye contact with him and the crowd. The napkin feels like it’s burning a hole through your pocket, and you momentarily think about shoving it into his pocket. You’re close enough to him. So close, in fact, that you can smell the scent of his cologne and sweat mixing under the bright hot white stage lights. But with his jerky movements and everyone watching, it feels too dangerous to try.

“Well, Y/N, I know I can never really pay ya back, but I wanna do a lil song for ya. For all the lovely people up in this place who take care of us,” he continues and then begins to sing.

You recognize the song, and your stomach does flips as he sings it looking directly at you. He releases you to do a big finale for the crowd, but not before he grabs your face by the jaw, pressing a hot wet kiss straight to your lips. You freeze as the curtain begin the drop, not sure how to act. He releases you, laughs, and faces the crowd again to say his thanks before the golden curtains begin to drop and separate you from the eyes of the wild crowd.

You stand, still frozen, even when it’s just you and him. You think quickly about kneeling down to give him the napkin, but before you have a chance to do so, you remember the tablecloth. You need to get it before they dispose of it.

Before he can even say anything, you dash out the side door and back down the stairs toward the table. A few people wave to you, acting like they know you now that they’ve seen you onstage. You nervously smile back and can’t believe your luck when you get to the table and see it empty. They’d left but the tablecloth is still there. You quickly remove the dishes, placing them out of the way to yank the tablecloth off. You can barely read it in the dark and parts of it are stained a deep wine red, but some of the puzzle pieces start to come together as you read the scratched words.

…previous debts cancelled….line of credit…

Your eyes widen with the realization of what’s going on. They’re forcing him to stay there. To play there…until his dies probably. You run back to the kitchen with the tablecloth in tow. You spread out in the back corner behind a rack of drying dishes and pull the napkin from your pocket. Reading them together, you shake your head, feeling anger crash over you like a wave.

They’re forcing Elvis to stay at the International so his manager can pay for gambling debts. It’s pretty clear from the writing what’s going on, and it infuriates you. You fold the napkin carefully and stuff it back into your pocket before folding the tablecloth over your arms. You have to get back to Elvis before his manager does. You’re a second too late. When you return to the stage, you see Elvis tightly hugging his manager. You peer out from the shadows to watch as the Colonel begins to dig around in his pockets, clearly looking for something. His face screws up in frantic conern, and you clutch the napkin in your pocket with white knuckles.

“I, eh, I must go back to the table,” the Colonel says in a panicked tone. “I…I believe I have fohgotten something theh…”

 He stumbles off through the side door, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Do ya need help, Colonel?” Elvis shouts after him, but the old man hurriedly waves him off.

Your eyebrow quirks knowingly. When Elvis turns back to start upstairs, you step out of the shadows.

“Mr. Presley, could I…talk to you for a minute?” you ask in a timid voice.

“Sure thing,” he says, squinting to see you in the shadows. “Ah, you’re that lil server I pulled up on stage ain’t ya? Listen, I didn’t mean to embarrass ya none or anythin like that. If you want an autograph, I can-”

“No, thank you,” you reply shaking your head. “I mean…it’s not that I don’t want an autograph, that’s just not why I wanted to talk to you. I actually, well…”

“What’s wrong, honey? Y’aright?” he asks, concern crossing over his features as he steps closer. Your yes flutter for a moment as you breathe in his utterly manly smell.

“Yes…I’m just not sure that you’ll be,” you say, pulling out the napkin from your pocket to hand it to him. “I was Colonel Parker, your manager’s, server tonight. And well…I found this.”

You watch as his face contorts while he reads the scribbled writing and tries to understand its meaning. His expression cycles through several different emotions and finally settles on a look with furrowed eyebrows. You feel guilty, being attracted to him in that moment considering what he’s probably going through. But you can’t help it. Raw sexuality oozes from every inch of his body.

“There’s also this,” you suddenly speak, remembering the tablecloth.

You unfold it to show it to him. He runs a hand over his face and turns to see the writing on the tablecloth. He stands, motionless, before slowly dropping into a crouched position. The corner of his mouth turns up in to a wicked smile. He laughs, deep and throaty, before nodding and clenching his jaw.

“Mm…mhm,” he hums to himself. “Well, thank ya for bringin this to my attention, darlin.”

He glances up at you with pained eyes.

“Goddamn bloodsucker…fuckin jackass,” he murmurs to himself, and you start to back away before you hear him sniff hard. You peer closer to his face to see him angrily pushing a few tears from his cheeks.

“Are you alright, Mr. Presley?”

He doesn’t respond, massaging his temples with his fingers. You hesitantly drop to your knees, placing a hand onto his back and gently rubbing circles on the white jumpsuit. He glances up at you, and you suddenly understand. Your mother is always going on about how it feels like you’re the only person in the world who matters when Elvis Presley looks at you. You’ve always thought she was full of it, but now that you’re here, everything makes sense.

“Everything’s gonna be alright, Mr. Presley,” you say softly.

“Just Elvis,” he says, reaching out to touch your face. “Please.”

He sniffs with a small nod and his blue eyes shine brightly even in the dim lights behind the stage. You feel your chest heaving, and you gulp. You shouldn’t allow a married man to touch you so tenderly, but you can’t stop yourself.

Suddenly, his lips are crashing onto yours, and his fingers are on either side of your face, pulling your lips taut against him. You don’t kiss him back at first, too shocked to move. But when his lips curl around yours again, you can’t help yourself. You give in. After a minute or two, he pulls back abruptly and immediately apologizes.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” he says, avoiding your eyes. You shake your head and gulp.

“That’s alright,” you say quietly. “I just hate to see you suffer.”

“Thank you, Y/N, right?”

You nod with a tiny smile and he stands before holding out his hand to help you to your feet. Once you’re standing, he presses a chaste kiss to your palm.

“Thank you,” he repeats. “I’ll see ya round, baby.”

He turns to leave, and his face has an unplaceable emotion. He almost looks as if he’s just floating through the world. You stand there for a moment in the stark silence on stage by yourself, not knowing what to do with yourself

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Yousaw Elvis every so often over the next few years. Sometimes he invited you up to his room after the shows, and most of the time you just talked and listened to music. Your presence seemed to relax him, although you couldn’t explain why. Your relationship was purely friendly, until one day you were listening to a particularly intimate song. It had been late at night, and you were both so lonely. It was an accident, you both knew it, and it cast a shadow over your relationship.

After that, Elvis began to tour around the U.S. You barely saw him. You sometimes wonder if your efforts to help him have made any difference because it sure doesn't seem like it. You still work in the kitchen, but you're manager now. You direct more than you serve tables. You're also a few years older and wiser. You never stick your nose into other people’s business again, and you wonder if you ever should have in the first place. You know he never thinks about you, even though you think about him almost every day. You’ve almost convinced yourself that he doesn’t even remember you.

Until that day.

You’re on serving duty today, with one of your servers out for personal reasons. As you walk to the front of the room by the stage to replace the drinks for your table, you glance up at Elvis on stage. He’s sweaty, as usual, but the way he moves around is off.

“I’d like to turn the house lights up, ladies and gentleman,” Elvis slurs onstage. “Cause now that you’ve seen me, I’d like to take a look at you. Oh ya beautiful, thank ya! Ohh, we got some high rollers in ‘ere tonight. Mr. International Hotel himself. And right next to ‘im is my so-called manager, Colonel Tom Parker. But I hear rumors that Colonel is an alien.”

The crowd laughs, but your heart sinks uneasily as you watch Elvis pick up a martini glass from the table closest, getting ready to down it. You move quickly, reaching up to lift it out of his fingers.

“Mr. Presley, please don’t do that” you hiss. You’ve never seen him act like this before. You’ve known about his addiction to drugs, but you’ve always thought he could handle it. Perhaps you don’t realize how dire his siutation is.

“Somebody call the FBI and tell ‘em that he has abducted me,” Elvis continues. “That he has locked me in this golden cage to keep me here forever with you, ladies and gentlemen.”

He starts to sing the lyrics of suspicious minds, the same lyrics you’d heard the first time you ever saw him perform. But the way he sways back and forth makes you incredibly nervous.

“I can’t get out…cause Colonel’s got some big debts, baby.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t know whether it’s because of the awkward tension or the fact that he is finally confronting the Colonel after all this time. You stare up at him, clutching hard onto the martini glass.

“This is the last show I am ever playing here,” he says. “I’m gonna get on my jet plane, the Lisa Marie…it’s named after my, uh…”

That’s the last straw for you. You set the glass down and rush around to the side door of the stage, running up the stairs as he babbles on. You stop at the edge of the curtain, not sure whether to rush onto the stage or just watch.

“Hey, you’re that server right? The one who gave him the napkin?”

You whirl around to see Elvis’ producer, Jerry Schilling.

“Yeah, that’s me,” you reply.

A fat lumbering man waddles through the shadows up to you and Jerry.

“Stop the show,” the Colonel says. “Stop the show!”

“Fuck the international,” you hear Elvis say, and you glance back at him up on the stage.

“What the devil is happening here?” the Colonel hisses.

“That’s what he wants to know,” Jerry answers.

“Oh…security,” Elvis slurs, gesturing to where you’re all standing. Your palms begin to sweat. “Securityyyyy…securityyy blah blah blah…”

This is getting embarrassing, and the Colonel begins to walk toward Elvis.

“800 shows?” Elvis shouts as the curtains begin to descend onto the stage. “You don’t have a goddamn passport, you son of a bitch! You are fired! You are fired!”

The Colonel increases his speed, as much as he can. And you would laugh if the whole situation isn’t as bad as it is. You feel an odd sense of relief knowing that what you’ve done has helped.

“You’re fireddddd! Elvis screams into the microphone.

Silence descends on the entire space before Elvis repeats himself in a quiet voice. He drops the microphone and begins to walk off. One of the band members speaks up, pleading to go after Elvis, but you step out of the shadows.

“No, I will,” you say sharply.

As you pass the Colonel, you begin to see realization dawning on his face. You stare him down as you pass, refusing to look away. He knows what you’ve done, and you couldn’t be happier. You chase after Elvis and grasp onto the cape of his blue jumpsuit.

“Elvis, please wait! Let me help. What can I do?” you ask.

He turns with a massive smile on his face. His hands find their way to your cheeks, grasping at your face.

“Baby, you’ve helped me more than you realize,” he says. “You freed me. For the first time in so many goddamn years, I feel free as a bird.”

You smile, feeling your skin grow hot at his touch.

“I’m really glad to hear that. What will you do now?”

“Get the fuck outta here,” he replies, shaking his head.

His eyes search your face for a moment before he clicks his tongue.

“You wouldn’t wanna come with me, would ya? I know we barely know each other, but…I dunno somethin about ya makes me feel safer. And I owe ya for savin my ass, anyways. Maybe I can help pay ya or somethin. Find somethin for you to do.”

You are completely taken aback, and you don’t know what to say. One the one hand, you could really use the cash. And you can keep am eye on him, too. On the other hand, it would be a lot of changes all at once. Your apartment, your job, your family. You’d have to leave it all.

“Could you give me some time…just to think about it? I want to, god do I want to. I just don’t know if its practical.”

He nods, taking your fingers into his hands and pressing a kiss to them.

“Of course, baby. I tell ya what, I’m gonna leave tomorrow cause the sooner I’m outta this dump, the better,” he says. “If you wanna come, you meet me in the parkin garage tomorrow mornin.”

“I will.”

“Aright,” he says, smiling handsomely as he tucks some hair behind his ear. “I hope I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

You clutch onto the strap of your bag as the elevator bings. Taking a deep breath, you step out into the parking garage.

You’d spent the entire night making list after list of pros and cons. Your list of pros continued to grow and grow, while the con side became shorter and shorter. You’d been up until three in the morning before you finally decided to pack what you could and meet him in the morning.

“Where is he?” you ask as you step toward Jerry.

“Went up to get his daddy,” Jerry responds. “But hopefully we’ll be outta here in a minute or two. Hey, thanks for everything you’re doing for him.”

“He’s a very special person,” you reply. “I’m just trying to help.”

“We all appreciate it. After everything that happened with Priscilla, he needs another strong woman in his life. He’s lost all the other ones,” Jerry says quietly.

“Thanks, Jerry.”

Just as you move to sit down in the open car, you see Elvis stalking out of the elevator. He stops in stride, looking to the left.

“You bloodsucking old vampire. You bled me dry, and you still want more?”

You’re too far away to see who he’s talking to and what they’re saying, but you still rise from your seat.

“Don’t you Mr. Presley me, you toad.”

“If you are so determined to get out of our contract-”

“You’re goddamn right I want out!” Elvis is yelling.

“You still got your claws in me! You’ll still have me workin here like some goddamn slave in a salt mine! You phony no good piece uh trash! I should shoot you in your fat goddamn face!”

He turns to walk out, but then his eyes soften when they land on you. He turns back.

“Who are you?”

“I am you and you are me.”

Your feet start moving you forward before you can do anything to stop yourself.

“Cut the horseshit! Everythin I’ve ever known about ya’s been a lie!”

“EP, you good?” Jerry shouts. Elvis holds a hand up, shaking his head, to ward you off.

You ignore his warning sign and stop in your tracks when you see the Colonel walk toward the elevator. You take Elvis’ hands in yours and hold onto them tightly. He looks down at you with hopeless eyes, tears staining his cheeks. You reach up to wipe one way as the Colonel continues to talk.

“...away from all of this,” he’s saying. “But if you choose to leave, I for one would be very lonely. So would your father. But I think you may be lonely, too. For you see, my boy, the truth about the rock of eternity, it is forever just beyond our reach.”

The anger bubbles up inside of you, and your heart slams harshly against your chest.

You rip your hands away from Elvis and slam the door open button as the elevator doors start to close. The open and you slide your palms agains the doors to keep them open. The Colonel’s eyebrows are raised.

“Shut the fuck up,” you say harshly. “You don’t talk to him like that, you sick manipulative little bastard. I don’t know why you’re doing this, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. But you are not gonna ruin his life because you have some kinda gambling addiction, you lying piece of shit. So listen up and listen good, Humpty Dumpty. You can sue Mr. Presley if you want, but it won’t made a damn difference. With all the massive fraud and mismanagement that I’ve witnessed over the past four years, and Dr. What’s-His-Fuck shoving addictive medications up Mr. Presley’s veins? If you think any court in the United States won’t convict your fat ass, you got another thing coming. The Presleys will sue you for every single fucking penny you own, since they all belong to him anyway. Mr. Presley is leaving the Internatoinal Hotel for good. His contract is hereby terminated. Permanently.”

“Strong words from a hotel server,” he shoots back, and you quirk an eyebrow.

“Listen, asshole, I’m not afraid of you or whatever little pathetic power you hold. Mr. Presley is leaving, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do to stop him. Stay away from Elvis. If you even attempt to contact the family again, I will personally fly up here and stick that cane so far up your fucking ass, it will come out of your brain. Do you understand me?”

He says nothing, just stuffs his cigar between his fat lips with a wicked smile on his face. You remove your hand and turn around to leave, but you aren’t satisfied enough. As soon as you make eye contact with Elvis’ glassy eyes, the anger takes you over. You spin around with a flying fist and clock the Colonel straight in the face, between the eyes, as hard as you possibly can. He doubles over immediately, his hands flying onto his nose.

“Rot in hell, you fuckhead,” you spit sharply as the elevator doors close.

You turn to see all of the band members and hotel staff staring at you with wide eyes. You glance at Elvis and shrug.

“What? The bastard had it coming.”

“Maybe I should hire ya as my personal bodyguard,” Elvis says, laughing. “That was sexy as hell.”

You just smile and shrug.

“It was nothing. Let’s get going before he calls security or something.”

You climb into the car, sitting next to Elvis. He takes your hand, intertwining your fingers. You sit together as his thumb rubs circles into your skin.

“You came,” he says quietly. You squeeze his fingers.

“Of course I came,” you smile. “I couldn’t imagine my life without you. Plus, you offered me a job.”

Confusion flashes across his face.

“I would like to officially accept your offer for the personal bodyguard position. I can start immediately.”

He laughs, raising your fingers to his lips to kiss them. You settle into the car. Things are looking up.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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#elvis #elvis 2022 #milasfics #milaselvisfics #milasthings #milaselviscontent #elvis imagines #elvis fics

[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

Haunted House

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes! - anon

Prompt: You’re not a haunted house person, but when Elvis + his friends drag you along, you find more strength than you realize you had. Also, Elvis punches one of the actors lmao

TW: Mentions of basic haunted house stuff (blood, gore, guts, serial killers, clowns)

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 1685

A/N: this prompt is so funny i love it. also this one is a lil short, hope that's ok! i gotta be honest with y'all...i hate haunted houses so much idek if Austin and/or Elvis could convince me to go in one...but maybe. i think i would never stop reeling if austin punched someone for me 😭

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

“EP, come on! We’re gonna do the haunted house!” one of Elvis’ friends yells at you.

Your heart thuds with a moment of panic. Not the haunted house…

You and Elvis are hanging out with some of his friends at the Halloween festival in town. While you technically came in a group, Elvis had picked you up by himself and drove you to the festival in his flashy purple convertible. You’d met up with the rest of the group when you’d arrived but then quickly split off so the two of you could have some time alone together. Neither of you are calling it a date, but you both know very well that’s what this is. You’ve been sweet on each other since you met but neither of you have the guts to ruin the friendship you’ve built.

“Aright we’re comin,” Elvis yells back with a shake of his head.

He smoothly snatches your hand up, intertwining his fingers with yours. And before you have a chance to protest, he’s dragging you along to the haunted house. You slightly pull back on his arm but don’t have the nerve to stop him. As soon as your eyes land on the haunted house before you, you feel all the panic start to rise in your chest. You are not a haunted house person. You try, you really do, but it’s all just too freaky.

You finally find the strength to pull back against Elvis, and your fingers slip out of his hand. He skids to a stop and then turns with a concerned expression. You are staring up at the strips of white cloth doused in fake blood that are hanging down from the roof of the haunted house.

“Somethin wrong, baby?” he asks, coming closer to you.

You look up at him, trying to figure out how to tell him that you’re afraid without actually admitting it.

“No, nothing at all,” you respond, feigning a smile and glancing back up at the creepy gargolic figures on the top of the building. But something in your face must have given you away.

“You ain’t afraid, are ya?” he asks, a knowing smile creeping onto his face. You roll your eyes and shake your head, but refuse to answer him. He takes one more step and snatches up your hands, which you’ve been nervously ringing out. His hands are warm and soothing immediately, and you take a deep breath.

“You ain’t got nothin to worry bout,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You know I’ll protect you from anything in there that tries to hurt ya. I’d die for ya, darlin. But I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. So, if you don’t wanna go in, we’ll just find somethin else to do.”

You look up into his wide blue eyes, shining with the flashing lights of the festival. His eyes are trained on yours, searching deeply into your soul and refusing to move from your attention. You feel a smile creep onto your face and nod, squeezing his fingers.

“Okay, let’s do it. But you’d better stay with me. I don’t like these things,” you reply.

“I’ll protect ya, I promise,” he says, using his pointer finger to draw an X over his heart. “I’ll hold you. It’ll help ya feel stronger.”

“Alright,” you say, clutching onto his hand. “I’m literally holding you to that.”

He pulls you slowly up to the building and squeezes your hand as you enter. It’s pitch black inside the house, and there are creepy, infernal noises coming from everywhere. You wrap your other hand around Elvis’ bicep and pull yourself taut against his side. He pushes his shoulder ever so slightly in front of your face to help shield you from whatever horrors you might encounter as you walk along the dark path. You are so close to him that his smell is the only thing you can process. You momentarily close your eyes and breathe him in, feeling a sense of strange calmness. 

The air is freezing cold and feels wet as it blows ghostily over every part of exposed skin you have. You shuffle along hiding behind Elvis’ tall frame. You pass a part of the haunted house with blood and guts all around, disgustingly accurate and realistic. Someone in a bloodied pig mask jumps out at Elvis, and you feel him tense up and jump a little. But when he laughs, you feel his muscles relax which relaxes you, in turn.

You pass into the next section, with some sort of serial killer theme. This time, several people are stationed on each side, with bloodied faces and chained wrists. They violently shake at the chains, screaming and crying for help. They lean out and grasp toward the visitors. One of their hands almost brushes your shoulder. They're way too close for your comfort. A figure along the path revs a chainsaw and laughs demonically. You grip Elvis tighter and feel his hand sliding over the top of yours. The chainsaw killer jumps out suddenly toward the group of teenage girls in front of you and their screams echo throughout the drafty hallways.

You breathe a sigh of relief, knowing he won’t jump out to scare you since his cover is blown. You avert eye contact but smile as if you’re enjoying yourself, hoping not to provoke him. You’re doing better than you had expected. Elvis had been right, holding onto him did make you feel stronger, safer. You pass into the third and final section of the haunted house; the portion which is supposed to be scarier than anything on earth. Even in the darkness of the room, you can see the outline of Elvis’ features as he turns to check on you.

“You doin okay, darlin?” he shouts over the loud noises of screams, pain, and suffering that ring throughout the building.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“I think this is the clowns,” he shouts. “Which I’m not overly fond of, either.”

You smile.

“But I think-”

He is cut off by a bloodcurdling scream from a clown that jumps out of the pitch-black darkness as if it had just spawned suddenly. It’s on your side of the path but before you can even react, you watch as Elvis’ fist goes flying through the red shadows and crashes square into the face of the actor. The actor stumbles back, trips over a box, and falls onto the ground with a groan.

“Hey, asshole!” the clown yells.

You stare at the actor on the ground and then look up at Elvis with your mouth hanging open. Elvis grabs your hand frantically, and you both sprint toward the exit, running out of the house and back into the lights of the festival outside. Once you get into the fresh air, you hold a hand to your heart, panting. After a few minutes of catching your breaths, you glance sideways at Elvis. He makes eye contact with you.

A moment of silence passes before you burst out laughing. You shut your eyes tightly, grabbing onto your stomach as it starts to ache. You hear Elvis’ laughter join yours. And before you know it, you’re sitting on the ground with your face buried in your hands. Elvis is bent at the waist, his hand resting on your back. You can feel it vibrating with his laughter. A few minutes pass until your bodies can’t take it anymore. Elvis drops onto the ground next to you, bringing his knees up to support his elbows. You wipe some tears from your eyes as he rubs his fingers on his chin.

“That was much better than I was expecting,” you say with a final giggle. “I appreciate the effort, don’t get me wrong, but you didn’t have to slug the guy.”

You start laughing again, and he chuckles with a shrug.

“Well, I didn’t mean to! It was a reaction. It just sorta happened. Hey, I said I’d protect ya, and I did.”

“Yes, you definitely did,” you agree. “Thank you. I never would have tried it if it wasn’t for you.”

“Nah, you’d have been fine,” he replies, turning to look at you. “You’re strong and brave. Sometimes you just need a lil extra help when you’re tryin new things.”

You nod and silence falls. After a few seconds, you shrug and speak up.

“It was kinda hot though, I won’t lie,” you say, playing with a blade of grass by your ankle.

“What?”

“When you punched that guy. For me,” you add the last part on impulsively, liking the way it sounds in your head. "I mean you really punched him."

“Yeah well,” he replies, pushing the sleeve of his black lace shirt over his bicep and flexing it. “If these guns are built for one thing it’s protectin pretty ladies like yourself.”

He winks, and you chuckle.

“Is it…” you stop, unsure whether you want to finish your thought, “for protecting just any pretty lady or…”

“Why you askin?”

You shrug, playing coy. He leans over, brushing some hair from your shoulder and bringing his face close to yours. You turn your head and tilt it sideways, lining up your lips. He smirks ever so slightly, and you gently lean forward to press a kiss to his soft, luscious lips. He accepts you hungrily, placing a hot hand on the inside of your thigh. As you’re about to go in for a second kiss, a cold wind blows. The combination of the chilly sensation in opposition to his touch makes you physically shiver, disconnecting your lips. You release a frustrated breath. Elvis swivels his body around so that his legs are stretched around your body. His arms snake around you like a straightjacket, holding your arms into your chest. He crosses them over each other to rub the goosebumps away from your arms and rests his head on the top of yours. You sigh contentedly.

“You just want me all to yourself, don’t ya?” he asks with a toothy grin. You share the expression and nod.

“Yes please.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

Through Sickness and Health

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: yes - nonnie!

Prompt: Although Elvis resists your pleas to get rehab at first, a call in the middle of the night sets your mind at ease. Basically, the airport scene from the movie, except you're Priscilla and the fic we all deserve.

TW: Mentions of drugs, rehab, general depression, and just angst

Rating: Pg   ||     Word Count: 3446

A/N: i'm so glad I finally got around to this one! this is a fix-it fic which means its kinda hurt/comfort + this is so much longer than i was anticipating but who's complaining more soft elvis. Also Mx. is a gender neutral term for Mr/Mrs it's not a typo lolol

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

You grip tightly onto the strap of the leather handbag in your fingers. Your head drops down and your eyes trace the yellow stitches across the top of the handle. The chilled rain droplets splat and spit all around you, splashing and melting onto your skin. It’s the perfect weather for the day, what the day is and what it brings. You had woken up this morning, looked outside and known that it would be a perfect reflection of how you feel. Your eyes flick up and land on your gorgeous little girl as she runs toward you. You drop to your knees with a big smile, although it’s one that doesn’t reach your eyes. Your arms open wide for her to run into your grasp. You clutch around the little girl with all your strength.

“Hi baby! How was it? Did you have fun with daddy?” you ask, tucking some unwieldy curly blonde hair behind your daughter’s ear. A reminder that your husband, ex-husband, is blonde. “Say bye to daddy.”

You turn her around and point toward the black car with the tinted windows where you can just barely see your ex-husband peering through. Your father-in-law, Vernon, approaches and you stand to give him a quick hug, gently patting his back.

“How are you?” you ask quietly, but he just nods with a solemn expression.

You shoot him a tight-lipped smile. For everything Vernon has put your husband, ex-husband, through, you still feel empathy toward Vernon for what he’s suffered alongside the rest of you. You turn your attention toward the ominous vehicle and gulp hard before taking a deep breath in time with your first step. When you reach the car, a security officer opens it and you carefully climb into the seat next to Elvis. As you sit down, you immediately feel your heart sink. You hate this. How transactional it all is. How business-like your relationship has become. As the door slams, you nervously glance up toward your husband, whose head is tilted down, almost as if he’s asleep.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” you respond, not knowing what else to say.

You’ve been doing this, this exchange, for a while now; almost two years, at this point, but it never gets any easier. And today is more important than any other day because, today, you finally have a plan. Actionable steps that your husband, ex-husband, can take to get better. Moments of silence pass until you speak.

“How are you doing?” you ask, praying for an honest answer.

If nothing else, you know that your relationship still provides room for honesty. You are one of the only people in the world he can be truly honest with. You know you’re gonna get a truthful answer when he just heaves a deep sigh without responding. Your hand flies up out of instinct to touch his face, but it falters in mid air and then falls to rest on his hand instead. He gently curls his fingers around yours, squeezing hard. You bite your lip for a moment, debating whether to continue. As your eyes trace down the sunken posture of his body, his neck, and even his eyes behind a pair of hideous sunglasses, you know it’s now or never. This is your last chance.

“Elvis, honey, listen there’s a place in San Diego…a rehab place. It’s somewhere you can go to rest, to get better, to get help,” you say, although your voice begins to shake from the combination of nerves and grief. “After the show, you can fly directly there and be in a clinic before anyone even knows. I’ve arranged it all.”

“I’m gonna be 40 soon, Y/N…40,” he says incredulously, gently shaking his head. “And nobody’s gonna remember me. I never done anythin lasting. I never made a classic film I can be proud of.”

“What about King Creole? You got great reviews for that. Or A Star is Born?”

“Ehhh,” he responds in a raspy voice and then chuckles. “Barbra a-and the Colonel?”

You can’t help but chuckle along with him this time. But your small fit of laugher quickly triggers the tears that are already threatening to spill out of your eyes. You feel your face screw up in grief and you sniff.

“Please go,” you plead, your voice cracking. “If you dream it, you’ll do it, baby. So dream it for me, please.”

You add the last parts in hopes that it’ll remind him of how things used to be. How happy you both used to be together. How full of life he was.

“I’m all outta dreams,” he responds in a voice drier than sandpaper.

Your free hand flies directly up to your face, pressing into the skin between your eyebrows as you glance out the window. You can’t look at him or you’ll break. You falter for a moment, sucking in a shaky breath and trying to come up with something to say that will convince him.

“Promise me,” you barely choke out. “Lisa needs her daddy back. I need my husband back. I-”

Harsh knocking on the window of the car distracts you, and you turn your head away again as your chest tightens. You sniff hard and wipe some tears before finally gathering the courage to look at him and squeeze his hand. The security person opens the door and you move to get out of the car.

“I’ve never stopped, you know,” you say, glancing back at him. “I’ve never stopped loving you. You are my greatest love and that’s the way it’ll always be.”

He glances up at you lazily, but you can see streams of tears staining his cheeks. You know he wants to say that he loves you. But he doesn’t feel worthy of receiving or giving love. Especially not to you, not after everything he’s put you through.

“Promise me, Elvis Presley,” you say one last time and then pull away.

His grasp on your fingers refuses to release you, but you drag your fingers away anyway. You can’t be around him for another moment. It’ll break you and you’ll never be able to leave. After exiting the car, you turn to watch your husband, ex-husband, board his plane and jet off to wherever the hell it is he’s going now. Seeing him illuminated by the rainy light makes your nostrils flare with the effort of trying not to cry.

I will always love you, he mouths, and your fingers reach up to bunch your coat together. You say nothing but silently beg and plead with him to take up the offer you’d made. You rip your gaze away, shuffling to the car and climbing in next to your daughter. The door slams and you grab her hand, pressing a small kiss to it as the driver begins to roll away. You glance out the window one last time to see Elvis staring back at you. He presses his fingers to his lips and then reaches them out toward you with a wave, blowing you a kiss. You can’t bring yourself to force a smile, just to worry and hope to dear god that he takes the rehab option.

The end.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Just kidding this is a fix-it fic bitch (affectionate) enjoy 💖

You jolt awake and roll over, slamming your fingers onto the hard black plastic of the phone. You pull it away from the receiver and press it to your ear.

“Hello?” you murmur gruffly, sitting up and fumbling to turn the light on. “Who is this?”

“Mx. Y/N Presley?” you hear a woman’s voice on the other line, not familiar but with the state you’re in, it could be your own mother’s voice for all you know.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Mx. Presley, this is Dr. Winters with Goldn Hill House in San Diego. Your husband, Elvis Presley, has checked himself into our rehab center.”

It barely occurs to you to correct the doctor. Your ex-husband…

“He wanted us to notify you and was also wondering if you could bring some of his belongings up to the center so he can get more comfortable here, since he’ll be residing here for about three or so months at least. He gave me a fairly organized list which I would be happy to go over with y-”

“What?” you ask, shaking your head as your fingers finally close around the string to the lamp. You glance up at the clock reading three something in the morning. “I’m sorry. It’s very early in the morning, so I’m afraid I’m a little groggy.”

“It’s not a problem, Mx. Presley. We understand that this can be a lot to digest for family members. Mr. Presley arrived with a Mr. Jerry Schilling around 1:30 this mornin and admitted himself to the center for drug addiction treatment,” the woman continues. “We’ve already discussed any financial requirements and have him set up in a room. He’ll have a few days to settle into his new space and the rehabilitation process will begin on Monday. In the mean time, we’d love to have you come down for a visit. Showing that you care and support his decision would be extremely helpful in this process. Would you have an availability to come up for a visit this weekend?”

“Uh…” you rub your fingers over your eyes, trying to make sense of the information. “Yes, of course. I can be on the next plane out tomorrow.”

Your brain finally starts to catch up, and you feel a strange sense of disbelief mixed with joy. You softly begin to smile, pressing your hand to your chest.

“He really checked in? The actual Elvis Presley, not some impersonator or crazed fan who’s changed their name?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies. “We had to confirm his social security information to admit him, and I can assure you that it’s the real Elvis Aaron Presley. He’s been requesting you since he came in.”

You feel a hot tear slip from your eye and release a shaky breath in relief.

“Well, that’s very good to hear. Give me just a moment to get some paper and a pen, and I’ll get that list of his belongings from you.”

You hop out of bed with more energy than you can remember feeling in a long time. As soon as you hang up with the rehab center, you phone Jerry to have the Lisa Marie sent up to Memphis for you. Then, you phone up a neighbor friend to ask them to watch Lisa while you’re gone. You spend the rest of the early morning hours gathering up the objects Elvis has requested and packing a small overnight bag for yourself.

By the time the sun is rising several hours later, you’re gently waking Lisa for a quick kiss and to explain that you’re going to help daddy with something. You hop into the car, thanking your neighbor on the way out, and speed to the airport tarmac where you meet Jerry outside of the plane. He pulls you in for a hug, and you breathe in his familiar scent. You close your eyes, feeling hopeful for the first time in a while.

“Hi, Jerry,” you say. “I can’t express how grateful I am right now. You’ve always been there for him.”

“Not in the way you have, but thank you,” he responds. “You were the one who convinced him to even consider it in the first place.”

You climb onto the airplane together and take your seats as the plane jets off toward San Diego for your roughly four hour flight.

“How did it happen, Jerry? Please tell me.”

“He’d been real quiet all day after leaving the airport. He didn’t say much before the show, but I didn’t think anything of it. I just figured he was probably tired, but then right after the show, he pulled me aside. He said, ‘Y/N told me about this place I could go to rest and I think it’s about time for a good long nap.’ And he just asked me to drive him there right then. He didn’t even want to change, probably didn’t wanna run into the Colonel. So, of course, I did what he asked. I wasn’t about to argue with that. He fell asleep on the ride over there, he was so exhausted. And by the time we got to the center, he was still pretty out of it, but clearminded enough to be very insistent about being admitted. I’m not sure what you said to him on the tarmac, but whatever it was, it worked.”

You smile to yourself, breathing yet another sigh of relief. You both settle in for the flight. Considering that you didn’t get to sleep from three to nine in the morning, it doesn’t surprise you that you fall asleep, letting your eyes drift closed. Until you hear Jerry’s low voice waking you.

“We’re at the airport,” he says as he gently shakes your shoulder.

It takes you less than a few seconds to awaken completely. You’re so excited and anxious to see Elvis. Once the plane doors open, you and Jerry exit. You clutch hard onto the duffel bag of items Elvis requested as you get into a car to drive to the rehab center. The drive is surprisingly short and the place looks lovely. Well manicured lawns, fountains, and plenty of open space; just what Elvis needs. The car rolls to a stop in front of the building, and you walk into the facility with Jerry behind you. The receptionist’s face lights up when she sees you.

“Mx. Presley!!” she says happily. “Welcome, welcome! We’re so glad you could make it. Mr. Presley hasn’t stopped talking about you since he checked in. Let me get you some information about the process and the facility, and then I’ll take you back to him.”

The receptionist hands you brochure after brochure and then points toward some legal and financial information for the treatments Elvis might need. You try to take it all one step at a time and make mental notes of everything you’re hearing, but your excitement makes it quite hard to do. When she’s finally done with her spiel, she steps out from behind the counter and gestures for you to follow her. You throw a quick smile at Jerry before following the receptionist back into a special wing for celebrities.

“He’s right in there,” she says, gesturing to a room. “He’s completely exhausted, so he might be asleep. I would recommend just making sure that you’re careful so you don’t alarm him.”

With that, she leaves you alone in the quiet hallway. You take a deep breath, or three, and clutch onto the bag before gently knocking on the door. When you get no response, you gently push it open.

“Elvis, honey?” you ask quietly as you step into the room. He looks up from his place in the bed. His hair is mussed and eyes sleepy as he lies propped up against a pillow in his pajamas. Your eyes immediately fall to the book in his hands, and you smile. He’s always loved to read.

“Y/N,” he says and a smile spreads across his sunken features. “I’m so glad ya made it.”

“Of course,” you say with a small chuckle. “I’m glad you made it, too. I brought the stuff you asked for.”

You come closer to hand over the bag so he can go through it. He takes it from you as you sit down in the chair by the side of the bed. He unzips the bag and begins to sort through it, a soft smile resting on his face. He looks like he’s already been sleeping for days, and you feel emotion rising in your throat to choke you. You gulp it away.

“So, how is it here so far?”

He nods.

“Not so bad. They treat me pretty good. If I want anything, all I gotta do is ring this lil button ‘ere and those nurses come a’runnin.”

“Well, I’m sure they do. You’re no less handsome today than you were twenty years ago.”

“Thank you,” he glances up at you, and you can see the tears glistening in his blue eyes. “Ya know the doctor told me that if I’d kept goin like I was, I woulda died in less ‘en a year. Less than one year, Y/N. You saved my life. I don’t know how to thank ya…I don’t know what else I can say...”

He rubs your skin with his fingers, gulping and clenching his jaw. But whatever he does, it’s not enough to stop the tears that start to slowly stream down his cheeks. You reach out to brush them away.

“You don’t need to say anything else. I’m just so happy that you decided to come here. You’ve repayed me by making that decision. That’s all I ever wanted was for you to be happy, Elvis. These people are gonna help you, and…maybe things can go back to the way they were before. One step at a time, but, I’m feeling very optimistic.”

“I just wanna be there for Lisa,” he replies. “I don’t wanna be layin dead on the ground. I wanna be there to see her grow up, ride a horse for the first time, learn how to drive, how to strum the guitar.”

“To protect her from boys” you chime in, and he laughs with a nod.

“I never stopped lovin ya neither, Y/N. I never will, baby. You’re the one for me, you always have been,” he reaches out to cup your cheek, and you lean into that touch that you hadn’t felt in so, so long. “Imma get better. For you and Lisa both.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

~ three months later ~

You anxiously pull at the fabric of Lisa’s blue jean overalls as she sways back and forth next to you, clutching her Barbie doll by the hair. You glance down at her and smile before the glint of the sun’s reflection catches your attention. Your eyes follow the big black Cadillac as it drives slowly up the driveway and rolls to a stop where you and Lisa standing in front of Graceland.

You lean down and whisper to Lisa, “There’s daddy!”

The door opens and out steps the love of your life, the way you want to remember him. Maybe a bit older and ceratinly beefier, but he’s the man you’ve always known again. He looks amazing. So healthy and genuinely happy. He’s lost a ton of weight and looks more physically fit than he’s been for years. His sideburns are gone and hair is cut shorter, back like it used to be in the 50s and 60s. He looks not a shred tired, but tan and sun-kissed. And he’s wearing a flattering white sweater and jeans.

You feel the urge to move right to him, to touch him, kiss him, whatever you can. But you’re too worried to move. You don’t know the protocol for this sort of thing and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. Instead, you just grip Lisa by the shoulders and smile encouragingly at Elvis. Once he makes eye contact with you, he shares your smile, his cheeks curling up into sweet dimples. He takes a step forwrard to kneel in front of Lisa.

“Hi my baby,” he says, holding his arms out for her to run into. She hugs him tightly with her doll, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. He releases her and she runs toward Vernon, who has gotten out of the car as well. Elvis stands tall in front of you.

“Hi darlin,” he winks, and you smile, taking that as an invitation to throw your arms over his shoulders and pull him into you. His hand winds around the back of your head, holding you to him. He smells good, just like his old self.

“How do I look?” he asks with a toothy grin.

“Like my husband,” you say, pulling back and placing your hands on either side of his face. “I’m so proud of you, honey. You’ve done so well.”

His fingers travel to your wrists, stroking your skin with his thumb.

“I could never have done it without ya help. D’ya think maybe, we could try again? And I’ll do better this time. I swear it.”

He gestures between you, and you nod as he wipes a tear from under your eye with the side of his finger. You raise yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him like you had the very first time.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

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[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

DADDY ISSUES - Part Two: Guys My Age

Character/Fandom: Elvis - ELVIS (2022)

Prompt: When Steve and Jerry ask you to try and convince EP to make a statement after Bobby Kennedy's death, you're not sure you're the right person for the job. But life has other plans. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Some mentions of death, but other than that nothing!

Rating: Pg-13   ||     Word Count: 4197

A/N: I wanna take a quick moment to sincerely thank @fangirl-imagines with all of my heart bc this fic would NOT EXIST without her. seriously kenz you have my undying gratitude and love for helping me outline + inspiring me with your gorgeous moodboards 💖

also, i know i promised y'all smut but i hope you'll accept a bit of a slow burn instead jsjsjs

FINALLY, thank you to my bewbies for helping me + this one is for all the polk salad annies out there ❤️‍🔥

Song Rec: guys my age - hey violet

This is Part 2 of Daddy Issues. Find the rest of the series here!

[ masterlist | taglist ]

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

As you hurriedly follow Steve into a small room, you hear nothing but silence and the very quiet sound of the television in the background. The square space is stuffed with about as many people as it could possibly hold, all from the show, as they gather in a circle to huddle around the tv. Steve pushes his way to the front and leans so close to the tv that you wonder if he’ll get sucked into the screen.

You hover at the back of the room, placing a hand over your mouth to still your quivering lips. The voice of a reporter is explaining what’s happened, how Bobby Kennedy got shot and what will happen next. It’s like watching a sports game, except the play-by-play is explaining how someone is dying right in front of your eyes and the eyes of a million Americans alongside you. Your wide eyes track the tiny screen as it flashes with doctors, police officers, and people from the street trying to figure out what to do with themselves.

“We’re ready on set,” one of the crew members shouts from behind you. You glance over your shoulder with an irritated expression, but your attention is jerked back to the front of the room when you hear the sound of a familiar southern drawl.

“Oh my god,” Elvis mutters, and you suck in a nervous breath. You hadn’t even realized he was in the room with everyone else. Your whole body grows stiff, and you begin to feel sweat gathering on your palms.

“Steve, we gotta get back to work,” the crew member repeats, and your eyes readjust to land on your cousin.

“Work…” Steve breathes out quietly. “Listen I, uh, I just wanna say that this nation is hurting. It’s lost, you know, it needs a voice right now to help it. We have to say something. You have to make a statement, EP.”

“Mr. Presley does not make statements.”

You whirl around to see the fat manager from earlier bounding into the room.

“He sings here Here Comes Santa Claus and wishes everyone a Merry Christmas and good night,” the manager says harshly. He jerks the knob on the tv and it flashes to a black screen.

“Now, we will take the rest of the day off but everyone will be back here tomorrow morning and ready to make it snow,” he says gruffly.

After a moment of awkward silence, the room begins to stir. Crew and cast members alike begin to file out of the room, some of them murmuring while others just express a chorus of sighs. You stand to the side and let people leave, waiting for Steve. You know what a big admirer of Bobby Kennedy’s he is, and you share that sentiment. Even though you might not be the closest of cousins, you still want to be there to support Steve. Not just as a family member but as a friend, as well.

You awkwardly cross your arms across your chest as you watch Steve move slowly past Elvis. Your cousin lays his hand on the singer’s shoulder for a quick moment, and Elvis’ wife, Priscilla, stands. You’re taken aback by how beautiful she is in person, with a perfect figure and a gorgeous face. She hugs Steve tightly before dropping her face into a hand. She offers a small curt smile as she passes you, bringing a chilled air of sweet perfume with her. You return the expression, although you can see the tears silently streaming down her cheeks.

Finally, Steve approaches you with glistening eyes. You hold your arms out for him to walk into and squeeze him tightly, biting your lip to keep your own tears at bay. You’re used to this by now, after so many years on your own, being the strong one. Being the one who never cries. The shoulder that everyone else cries onto.

From behind Steve’s back, you make eye contact with the rotund manager who gives you a flick of his hand, signaling that he wants you to leave the room. You sigh deeply and rub Steve’s back as you glance over to another man, the same one you’d seen Elvis speaking with after the show. He glances between you and Elvis and then approaches you.

“Let’s leave Mr. Presley and the Colonel alone,” the man says quietly.

You nod, gently steering Steve toward the door as he presses his fingers into his eyes to dry the tears. You quietly shut the door behind you and guide your cousin to a pair of chairs in the hallway. He crashes down onto the seat without much control, and you sit alongside him to take his hand. The other man stands above you, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry,” you say quietly. “I know how much Bobby Kennedy meant to you. I understand how much this must hurt. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Steve sniffs hard, wiping tears from his cheeks. He shakes his head.

“No but thanks anyway,” he says just as quietly. Silence settles. After a few moments, Steve glances up at the other man, and they share an expression you can’t decipher.

“Actually…no, nevermind.”

“What? Let me help, please. You’re my cousin. It’s part of my familial duty.”

You offer a small smile as your eyes flick between the two men. You hope your joke will help soften the blow of the news and lighten the mood a tad. Plus, you feel awkward because you don’t understand the relationship between your cousin and this random man. But Steve offers you no indication that your joke had any effect.

“Well, like I said in there,��� he responds, “I think EP really needs to make a statement. I mean the whole point of this show is to inspire people and get them talking about him again. With such a big platform as the one he has, I just feel that he should use it to advocate for what we need in the world right now. I think people might listen a little harder if it came from someone like him, you know?”

“Sure, absolutely,” you nod, agreeing wholeheartedly. “But what could I possibly do?”

“I wonder if you might go talk to him? Try to convince him? I know you don’t know each other, but maybe if it came from a fan he’d find it more convincing. He’d be more inspired if he felt like it was wanted. Needed.”

You heave out a deep breath as your heart begins to pound in your chest. You shake your head frantically.

“No, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I, uh…no…”

“I think he’ll take it more seriously if she’s the one to say it,” the man chimes in. You glance up at him in disbelief, offended that he would even speak up when you have literally no idea who he is.

“Why not?” Steve’s voice recaptures your attention. You’re starting to feel a little whiplash from the confusion of the conversation. “Listen, I know I’ve already used up my cousin’s familial duty favor by asking you to star front and center in the special even when you clearly didn’t want to. But this is bigger than us. This is the whole country we’re talking about, Y/N. Would you just consider it?”

“I…I guess, but I’d sort of like some answers first, if that’s reasonable?” you ask, glancing back over at the man. “Because, no offense or anything, but who are you? And how do you two know each other? And why me, specifically? You know, I was sitting next to a girl in the crowd who’s way prettier and a much bigger fan than I am.”

“I’m Jerry Schilling, Elvis’ producer,” the man replies automatically. You nod. Makes sense. “And the reason we’ve chosen you…well, do you want to tell her, Steve, or should I?”

“Tell me what?” you ask and a tense silence grows between all three of you. Your head jerks from one man to the other like you’re watching a tennis match. In actuality, you feel more like the ball itself, being smashed back and forth between opposing players, than a spectator.

“After the show,” Steve starts and then pauses, glancing up at Jerry as if he’s asking permission to continue. You throw up a hand, gesturing for him to explain. “After the show, Elvis asked Jerry if he could track you down. He…he wants to meet you.”

Within a matter of seconds, you officially reach a point beyond any form of physically expressable anxiety. While your heart would normally be thudding against your chest, it now feels like it’s stopped. Actually stopped beating completely. You can’t bring yourself to do anything other than stare at the cringing expression plastered on Steve’s face. You slowly and deeply breathe in.

“What?!” you shout, louder than you mean to. “I…I-I…I…”

Those are pretty much the only words you can choke out, too shocked to even comprehend fully what’s happening. No version of you in any universe could ever have predicted the events of this day.

“Listen, I know this is a lot, but we can tell you exactly what to say,” Steve jumps in.

“I can give you some insider’s advice on how to convince him. I know what he likes, what he responds to,” Jerry adds.

There goes your head again, snapping back and forth like the tennis ball. Steve takes a gentle grasp on your hands.

“Please do this. I promise, no I swear, that it’ll be the last favor I ever ask you to do for me,” Steve pleads.

You heave a sigh and shake your head. There is no way you could do this. Unless…

“Alright, boys,” you start, holding a finger up to each of them, “since doing that little favor for you earlier got me fired from my job at Chadneys, as of now, I am unemployed and broke. I will do this for you if I get paid for it. In money. Real money.”

“That can be arranged,” Jerry responds immediately, much too quickly for your liking. Knowing nothing about show business, you let it go. It seems to make sense that money is the way to get what you want in the business.

“Alright fine. So, what am I supposed to say, exactly?” you ask, shifting uncomfortably on the chair.

You try to take mental notes once again as Steve and Jerry go through advice with you, telling you what points to make and how to phrase certain things to grab his attention and get him to listen to you. By the end of the conversation, your brain is so fuzzy and stuffed full of words that you’re pretty sure the whole conversation was a waste of time anyway.

“Great, thanks. Do I go now, or…?”

“Wait until the Colonel leaves and go right after,” Jerry replies. “It’s probably best if the Colonel doesn’t see you at all, actually. He’ll want Elvis to be isolated after their conversation. It’s sort of a manipulation technique to make EP feel like he’s alone. But that also gives you the perfect time to slip in. Remember, the most important thing you can do is follow his directions. Oh, and tell him Jerry said satnin knows.”

“Okay, whatever,” you reply. “Well, wish me luck, I guess.”

You turn on your heel, ready to go stakeout Elvis’ dressing room, but Steve’s hand catches your wrist. You glance over your shoulder as he takes a step closer and speaks in a low voice.

“Be careful in there, okay?”

You snort. 

“Okay, Steve. He may be a rockstar, but he’s harmless. What’s he gonna do, sing me to death?”

“I’m serious,” Steve replies, and you can tell by his expression that he is, indeed, very serious. “He’s been known to be a little…unfaithful. Just don’t get into a bad situation with him, please.”

“I won’t, Steve, I promise,” you reply shaking your head. You don’t sleep with married men.

With half of the lights turned off for the night, the hallway is darkened as you slink up next to the wall. You hear voices coming from the dressing room and step very slowly and quietly toward the square of light shining onto the floor.

“Poor Mrs. Kennedy,” the Colonel’s voice sounds, and you freeze before pressing yourself back against the shadows. “It is a tragedy, but it has nothing to do with us.”

You carefully peek around the corner, being as subtle as you possibly can. Your fingers curl around the side of the doorframe as you peer into the room to spy.

“It has everything to do with us,” Elvis says.

You watch silently as he wanders into the room from his closet. Your eyes immediately notice the fact that he’s only in a robe, and your eyebrows raise as you sneak a glance at his open chest. You don’t mean to, but your brain concocts a very thorough image of what he must look like underneath the dark red silk fabric.

“I just do not think that we should be making speeches about politics and religion,” the Colonel responds, sounding irritated.

“Dr. King was shot eight miles from Graceland while I was out here singing to turtles,” Elvis responds, picking up the metal dome from a food tray and popping a piece of food into his mouth. “And now this. And all you can think about is how many goddamn sweaters I can sell.”

“I am the promoter. That is what I do.”

“And I’m Elvis Presley. That’s what I do.”

You jump further back into the shadows as Elvis slams down a glass bottle of Pepsi. His force is so strong that the liquid splashes up from the neck of the bottle and onto the mirror he’s staring back at the Colonel through.

“Mr. Bindle has really gotten inside your head with all of his hippie friends. You really think that singing your old songs dressed in black leather, sweating, mumbling incoherently to the audience is a good show?”

“Colonel, I know when I’ve excited an audience.”

You can’t help but bite your lip through a smile as you think about the few times you’ve been able to experience his ability to excite an audience. He definitely has a gift for exciting something.

“That was not a real audience, my boy. There was a sign flashing applaud, telling them when to clap for you. This entire jamboree is an embarrassment. You have embarrassed the sponsors, you have embarrassed yourself, you have embarrassed me. You can sing whatever songs you and Mr. Bindle choose for 55 minutes, but at the end of the show, there will be a Christmas song. Or else we will be sued….no,” the Colonel snaps harshly. “No, you will be sued. Because I will no longer be the promoter of your career. I will have to leave you.”

The Colonel is standing so incredibly close to Elvis now, staring up into his eyes. But Elvis is giving the same energy back, staring down at the penguin-shaped man in front of him with uncaring eyes. He hums his response in such a low tone that you barely even hear it at all.

“Mm….mhm.”

A moment of tension passes as Elvis stares down the Colonel, clicks his tongue, and grabs his Pepsi before turning around to go back to watching tv.

“Now I have convinced our friends at Singer Sewing Machines to come back tomorrow for Here Comes Santa Claus,” he says, beginning to slowly make his way toward you, leaning heavily onto his cane. “I will see you in the morning.”

Your heart begins to pound, realizing that he’s going to see you if he passes through the door. You frantically shuffle backward, running into a bucket and mop behind you in the process. Both objects crash to the floor with a metallic banging noise, and you wince hard as soapy water begins to flood out all over the floor. As you glance up like a deer in headlights with the broom laying in your fingers, you make eye contact with the Colonel. You freeze, not knowing what to do with yourself. He just quirks an eyebrow and then leans back into the room.

“Oh, and as I recall, Dr. King said rock’n’roll music contributed to juvenile delinquency.”

And with that, he stalks out of the room. He briefly pauses by you, on your knees on the floor attempting to gather up as much of the spill as you can with a towel you’d found tied around the handle of the mop.

“Clean this up,” he says dryly as he passes.

You just watch him go, waiting until you’re sure he can’t see to hold up your middle finger as he waddles around the corner. When you swivel your head around to face front again, your breath catches as you gaze up directly into the eyes of Elvis Presley, himself. He’s leaning against the door frame, one arm supporting his weight against the wood. You can barely see him in the shadows of the hallway, but there’s just enough light for you to notice his eyebrow quirked up. You clear your throat and stand, glancing quickly down at your knees to see two round circles of stained fabric by your kneecaps, accented with tiny little soap bubbles. Well, that’s humiliating. He just stares at you, waiting for you to probably explain who you are and why you’re on your hands and knees outside of his dressing room.

“Jerry said uh…that satnin knows?” you blurt out, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, his open chest, his disheveled hair.

You hope you’ve said it right, whatever it means. And you must have because the realization visibly washes over his face almost immediately. He nods, gesturing for you to come into the room. You follow him inside, nervously wringing out your fingers, and stop awkwardly in the doorway with a gulp.

“How are you doing, Mr. Presley?” you ask, starting the conversation out slowly like Jerry had advised. Elvis glances up at you.

“You got soap and water on ya dress, sugar,” he says, gesturing toward your knees.

You just glance down at your work uniform, feeling incredibly embarrassed. You don’t know how to respond, so you just stay quiet. Your mind is blank. You have forgotten what Jerry and Steve told you. Everything, all of it. Gone.

“Yeah, I had a bit of an accident in the hall,” you finally reply with an awkward laugh.

You wince, gripping onto the hem of your uniform. Oh! That was something Jerry had said. Refocus the conversation. But he speaks again before you have a chance to say anything else.

“Ya gonna have to buy a new dress, now,” he says, his eyes slowly tracking up and down your figure. You shrug into yourself, wanting to cover your body up as much as possible. You feel scrutinized by his eyes. Like he’s sizing you up the way he’d size up a car or a suit.

“Yeah,” you mutter quietly. “If I can afford it…”

“What’s that, baby?”

“Oh, I…um…just lost my job today. When I left work to come be in the audience, I got fired, actually. So, I’m sort of broke right now. Everything’s gonna be fine, though. You know, I’ll get another job. I always have in the past.”

He hums quietly, the same way he had when speaking with the Colonel. Again, you catch his eyes dragging down your body, hanging on every piece of skin, as he runs his tongue over his top lip.

“Maybe we could come to some kinda arrangement,” Elvis says, leaning against the table below the mirror and crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes drop down to the tanned skin immediately, desperately latching onto the tufts of dark hair on his chest.

“What…do you mean?” you ask, shaking your head.

“Jus that I could help ya pay your bills and replace that dress. For a price, uh course,” he responds in a voice like velvet, impossibly deep and soft. So smooth that it feels warm when it enters your ears.

You’ve heard of things like this. These kind of arrangements. He raises his hand to his chin, dragging his finger over his lips. Your eyes lock onto his plump, pink lips. They fit him so perfectly and they look delicious. You feel your heart thump in an unsettling mixture of fear and excitement. The hair on your arms starts to stand up and a shiver ricochets through your spine.

“What is the price…exactly?”

He doesn’t reply, but you can’t ignore the left side of his mouth as it curls up into a sinister smirk. His black eyes — aren’t they supposed to be blue? — are trained on yours, refusing to let up. Your heart is slamming so fast in your chest that you can hear its pounding clouding your eardrums. Elvis pushes himself to stand and reaches for the bottle of Pepsi, still resting on top of the table.

“Ya know…at one of my concerts back in, oh it woulda been bout 1956 I think, I remember this lil girl there. She was jus beautiful and she was standin in the front row,” he says, sticking his finger out to point as if he could see this girl standing right in front of him now. He drops his head down as a quiet laugh gently wracks his shoulders and then turns with his back facing you.

“I won’t never forget her cause jus after I wrapped my fingers round her jaw…” he flexes his long slender fingers, curling them the same way he had when they’d wrapped around your face so many years ago. Your fingers tingle as they consider reaching up to touch the skin on your jaw, desperate for that feeling just one more time. “She slid these onto the stage.”

Your eyes travel from the side of his face all the way down his nose and lips and onto his shoulder, traveling along his arm toward his outstretched finger. And hanging off the edge of his pointer finger, dangling dangerously, is a pair of deep red lace panties.

Suddenly, you’re thrown back to the summer of 1956. It’s like it was yesterday, the sounds of the crowd screaming, the buzz of the bass and guitars that vibrated through the stage and into your fingers. You must have buried that memory. Of what you’d done. You feel heat rise to your cheeks in that moment as you think about what your parents would have said if they’d known. For god’s sake, you were only 16 at the time…but you’d been so overtaken with desire and passion that you’d slid your panties onto the stage as he held your face hostage. The crushing weight of the memory settles in your chest. Yes, you remember now, watching him snatch them up. Despite the fact that so many other girls had tossed their panties up there, in a wide array of colors and patterns, he’d taken yours. He’d held them up to his eyes, looked right at you, and then tucked them into his pocket with the same smirk pasted on his face right now.

But now you can’t ignore it, pretend like you hadn’t done it. The evidence is right there in front of you. You’d remember those panties anywhere, they used to be your favorite. You would never have thought, never dreamed that he would have kept them.

Your heart is pulsing a thousand beats per minute, slamming against your chest like a hammer on a nail. You gulp hard, swallowing dry air. He steps toward you with his long legs, running his fingers agonizingly along the fabric of the lace panties. Your eyes track his every movement, somehow all at once. You take in everything. The way his fingers move, the way the robe flaps open on his chest, the way you figure he’s not wearing anything underneath. Within a matter of seconds, he’s right in front of you, staring down at you, so close that you can smell him. Like sweat and something spicy, musky, warm. So close that you could touch him, and your fingers ache to feel the warmth of his skin. You start to notice the tightness building in your heat, the swollen tenderness, the need. You avoid eye contact at all costs, but you can’t resist when his finger curls under your chin, tilting your head up to his.

“You know, darlin, I been lookin for my Cinderella for a long time,” his eyes flick up and capture yours. You stare back at him with wide eyes, like a deer in headlights for the second time that night. A prisoner under his gaze.

“I…” you say quietly, trailing off when you don’t know how to proceed.

“So how bout it, Y/N,” he hums, rubbing your chin with his thumb. His eyes bear into yours, clouded with desperation. His fingers squeeze the bones of your jaw. “Do the shoes, or should I say panties, fit?”

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