beeandheroddobsessions - Tumblr blog

[beeandheroddobsessions]

when are you making another find your way home its so good like its 100/10

On it right now baby! Thank you so much

-bee 💕

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Bloody Sacrifices

Summary: Reader reminisces about how she ended up with Elvis

TW: Cheating, angst, I think that’s it!

A/N: I know I know, where tf has bee been? Under a rock, sorry for leaving so suddenly but that’s just the way things go, I really did try to get back into my groove, with little success. But between school, and getting married and work, I had no time or really the patience to let myself be creative. And then, Eureka! An idea struck and my drafted papers that had been waiting on me finally started to get finished. Again, really sorry for the cliffhangers and such!

-Signed, Bee💕

Mrs. Presley,

What a title. Sometimes, it’s hard to think of life without him. He’s not perfect, no man is, but he’s pretty damn close.

Often time, you find yourself thinking about how you got this far. Married, comfortable, committed, with a beautiful child and very little worries.

The day had been heavy, you hadn’t had the greatest time. The boy you swore your heart to decided that for your third anniversary, he would treat another beauty to the dinner you reserved. Under his name, like some fool.

When the attendants opened the doors, you passed under the threshold, heart swelling. Something made you so certain it would be the day; the day he’d get down on one knee with glassy eyes and a nervous tongue and fumble over those four little words that would change your life forever.

When you asked the hostess about your table, she was quick to inform you that, the table had already been sat. You thought, for a moment, that he had beat you here. This made you excited, thinking he was really taking the initiative. So you thanked the woman and made your way around the restaurant, searching for your dream boat.

It didn’t take you long to spot him, knowing that haircut just about anywhere. Actually, every minute detail, down to how his collar hugged his neck was logged in your brain. Up until this point, you had spent an unhealthy amount of time…studying, perfecting.

So you approached the table, carefully as to not give away how excited you really were. As you got closer, hoping to see him fidgeting with his tie in front of an empty seat, you could feel the butterflies churn in your stomach. As fate would have it, things don’t always go as planned. Not at all actually.

Instead, you found a pretty blonde woman with tears in her eyes adoring an exceptional rock, and that boy with his head held high, with a beaming smile, and chest puffed out. Made you sick.

To this day, you aren’t sure what really drove you to do what you did that night.

Maybe, it was the way you cleaned after him like a mother would a toddler, or the way he expected dinner on the table before he returned at five thirty or all hell broke loose. It might’ve even been having to keep everything spectacularly clean. Down to his damn underwear.

Whatever it was, the camels back was broken and there was no reason for you to hold face now. You kept the tears at bay, gracefully walking over, stopping in front of the lovely couple.

Wouldn’t you know. As soon as the man saw you he did start to fidget with that tie. That same damned tie you bought for his birthday. You’d never seen him wear it but you’d guessed that day was as good a time as any.

And her. When you really looked at her, you picked her apart in less than 20 seconds. Bottle blonde, not natural, lipstick that wasn’t her color, makeup that didn’t compliment her, the dress she wore did nothing for her figure. All the things he swore not to like, sat right in front of you. You couldn’t believe it.

With a painfully fake smile you looked between the two. You had let out a quick breath in preparation for what you were about to say. It was quick, and sweet, no malice detected.

“Engaged?”

That was it. That was all you had asked.

Withought missing a beat she nodded her head

“After two years, I wasn’t even expecting this! At a place this nice, on our anniversary too. He really is so thoughtful. And the ring, ugh—”

She continued to ramble, but all you could hear was “Two years” and “our anniversary”

She had no clue about you. None.

And, for two of the three years, this man had the wool pulled over your eyes. Fresh out of high school, You had been walking blindly behind him and never noticed.

At least that’s what you told yourself in the moment.

But, you did know. You just wanted to deny your ignorance in that moment. You couldn’t deny the late nights, foreign perfume, and lack of affection though. Not even if you wanted to.

Till the very end though, you kept face.

“How lovely, I hope… I—, wish you both the very best.”

The woman gave a quick false smile and said “thank you, but we are trying to celebrate.”

You nodded your head and returned the same smile. You timber spinning on your feet and gearing up to make a beeline for the door. You really couldn’t help yourself though. You threw your head over your shoulder,

“Just remember, he doesn’t like it when you leave the stains in his underwear. You’ll never get them out though, just burn them and buy a new pair!”

And with that, you were through the door. Though it was a small power move, the tears still flooded your vision. It hurt bad. There was a slight downpour, mimicking the feelings you harbored. With no car you had no choice but to keep walking.

The back of your feet were rubbed raw, skin broken and bleeding. The hairstyle you had chosen for that night and no doubt frizzy beyond repair through slight adjustments.

In your emotional haze, the grate on the sidewalk went unnoticed, the back of your heel payed the price. You stopped and removed the shoe, assessing the damage. This small inconvenience on any other day would’ve made you roll your eyes and let out a curse or two. This wasn’t a normal day.

You had broken character. An almost primal shriek left your chest. Something akin to that of a hurt animal. It wasn’t pretty, or poised. It was raw and unfiltered. The scream felt good, exhilarating.

Even with that nice release of emotion, you wanted to go home. You removed both shoes and chucked them as far as you could, sacrificing their beauty, and continuing on your journey back to your very warm and dry house.

A few minutes passed, you were about five minutes away when those headlights creeped up behind you.

You looked back, part of you hoping it was the fool you’d banked on. What he did was unforgivable, yes, but you had nothing else. As the car started to progress a little was past you, you tossed that hope through the window.

“Scuse’ me honey. Why’d ya throw your heels at me?”

You stopped, glaring over at the unidentified stranger,

A simple, “I didn’t,” was all he got out of you.

The car stopped all together. The sound of the door opening put you on edge. A man stopping at this time of night, to return a broken pair of heels? Yea, right. When he rounded his car with your shoes in hand and a smug look on his pretty…face. He looked you up and down and you did the same, wondering who-

Holy shit. Was all you could think. You had thrown your heels, your very broken heels at Elvis Presley.

“Now honey, I’m no shoe salesman, but I’d bet my bottom dollar, that these here fit those pretty little puppies just right. Save for your ankles of course—”

Your shoulders dropped and you held your hand out.

“Please, just give em’ here. Night’s been bad enough, Mr. Presley. I don’t need to be humiliated any further.”

The brunet let out a light chuckle,

“Wanna tell me your name?”

You let out a sigh,

“Y/n.”

“Call me Elvis. And I can see that it’s been a little rough. What happened, honey, date stood ya up?”

You shook your head and decided to humor him,

“No, I found my beau with a different beauty,”

His smile faltered and he parted his lips, no doubt to issue an apology. You continued before he got the chance,

“Which he proposed to…”

His mouth closed, face showing pity. The last part of your confessional came out barley above a whisper,

“On our anniversary.”

Elvis was too stunned to speak, he looked around as if to see if anyone else had heard what you just said. He was in utter disbelief, that someone could wilt a beautiful flower such as yourself.

“I’m sorry honey, I didn’t meant to poke fun at you, just wanted a chance to ask you on a date.”

You could’ve sworn your ears were malfunctioning.

“I’m flattered, but no less than twenty minutes ago, I thought I was getting married. I don’t think it’s a good time—”

Elvis was quick to shake his head,

“No , no I meant to say it wasn’t appropriate. But at least let me drive you home.”

With nothing but tears to lose, you nodded your head and shuffled to the passenger side door, which he kindly opened for you.

The two-minute ride i was silent but not uncomfortable, the radio was at a low volume and the only time you spoke was to give directions.

When you arrived at your small home, you thanked Elvis for the ride. Before you could part, he handed you a slip with his number on it,

“Call when you’re ready for that date, honey.”

Hesitantly, you took the slip and made your way inside.

It was stuffed in a drawer somewhere as you fell into your stupor. For two weeks, you wallowed in self-pity. Fourteen days before you grew a pair. You rummaged though all your kitchen drawers looking for that slip.

It might have been foolish to assume Elvis would still be thinking about you after two weeks, but you still gave it a try.

Your hands trembled as you spun the rotary dial, carefully choosing every number that was on the paper. Receiver against your ear, chewing on your lip.

It rang three times before you’d slammed the phone back on its hook. It was a fruitless idea, there was just no way—

A ring stopped your negative thoughts, it rang twice before you picked it back up. Saying hello and waiting for a response.

“Y/n?” There was a pause. You didn’t know he’d given you his personal number.

“Uh, hello? Honey?…ya there?”

You shook of the surprise,

“Y—yes, uh, yes m’here”

Elvis wouldn’t be Elvis without pointing out the obvious

“So, you’re finally callin’ bout that date?”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice, and with a roll of your eyes, you said yes.

That date turned into ten years of love and a little bit of stress. He got you the prettiest ring, proposed at the prettiest dinner, and gave you the gift of your son.

For once, tears felt good on your face. When you look for reasons to stay with this perfectly imperfect man, you remember,

Those bloody sacrifices.

Taglist: @powerofelvis @rjmartin11 @re3kin

[beeandheroddobsessions]

PLEASEE. UPDATE ANYTHING!!! I’ve been reading the same works over and over again 😩 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

Ugh I genuinely missed writing, but life gets in the way sometimes. I am coming back thought!! Stay tuned

-Yonka 🤍

[beeandheroddobsessions]

i love your writing so much! i also love the dynamic with an obsessive lover.

could i request something with 60s!elvis who is an obsessive lover with a naive hippie who is his makeup artist?

lmk if that is confusing or anything

thank you so much!! I’ve been so backed up trying to organize everything, and I was scared that the work I’ve put out wasn’t appealing to anyone. But Not confusing at all, It’s on the list!! 🦦

[beeandheroddobsessions]

OH MAN, YOUR SUPERNATURAL SERIES WITH GHOST ELVIS ARE TO DIE FOR THE STORIES ARE SOOOO GOOD😭😭😭💖💖💖

AHHH thank you!!! I’m glad you like it💕

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Don’t Go Away.

Warnings: Supernatural elements, dead!Elvis, Reader is trapped, psychological torture?, manipulation, Elvis is really unstable.

Summary: Reader has plans made and considering the state of house, can’t stay in it. Elvis isn’t having it.

A/N: It took me so long to decide what direction I wanted to take this in. I love love love wholesome stories but I just had to go with difficult reader/obsessive lover. Anywho, happy reading! -Bee💕

The sun peeking through the curtains and the slight breeze across your face welcomes you into a new day. As your eyes adjust and you regain consciousness, the events that took place only hours ago flood your mind. 

Maybe it was an odd dream; there's no possible way you could've met postmortem-

"Rise n' Shine, sleepin' beauty!" 

A shriek fills the room yet again, and it's apparent that last night did, in fact, happen as you remember it. You're gripping the covers for dear life, chest heaving as your heart nearly beats out of your chest.

 Elvis has always found himself funny. Making you jump sky high has him cackling so hard every few seconds it comes out as a whistle.

"Very funny." You grumble. You toss the blankets to the side and swing your legs over the bed, ignoring Elvis and his incessant laughter, to get ready for the day.

The amused booms dwindle to light chuckles as you rummage through your suitcase. Is it warm? You should dress lightly. 

"Are ya busy today, honey?" Elvis questions while catching his breath.

"With the house? Yeah, I ain't got much of a choice but to be." You reply lazily, inspecting a lavender sundress. Not for housework, you think. 

Elvis kisses his teeth, unsatisfied with what he deems a 'snarky remark,'

"No, I mean are ya leavin'?" 

The only reply you offer is a shake of the head. Something else he didn't like. The faux brunet shifts his position, standing directly in front of you. His expression falls flat, and he folds his arms.

"Now y/n, I may be dead but m'still a person. I know your mama taught you better than to ignore someone when they're speakin' to-"

Seeing where this is going has you arching a brow. Who knew he'd feel so entitled to your attention.

"I didn't ignore-"

You can't even get through the sentence before a chair comes rushing from the other side of the room and under your rump. You grip the arms of it, unsure of what just happened. The shocked, more so scared, expression painting your features phases Elvis none.

The man leering down at you breathes in through his nose before placing his hand over yours and squeezing tight.

None of this makes sense to you. Yesterday when you tried to touch him, you went right through, leaving a trail of smoke. Now you're faced with something you can feel. It's unnerving. 

When Elvis begins to speak, a real chill is sent down your spine."  

"Honey, I understand it's early and I gave ya a bit of a fright. That don't mean you get ta be rude to me in my own damn house,” He pauses to take in a breath, eyes stilled trained on you.

“I don't give a damn how much money you spent to get your hands on it. I am trapped here, not you. I'm the one stuck in these walls forever. Not. You."

You're shaking like a leaf. Figuring he's finished, you open your mouth. Elvis holds up a finger, wanting to be sure you understand what he is saying. 

"I know the ins n' outs of this place like the back of my goddamned hand. Don't you cross me twice, sugarplum, wouldn't want you to get lost."

With those striking blues locked with your own eyes, all you can do is nod as you begin to sputter.

"I—M'sorry, Elvis I-" 

As if a switch was flipped, the man before you flashes one of his infamous crooked smiles and clasps his hands together, returning to the drapes.

"No harm done! What'd ya have planned for today?"

The sudden change in demeanor leaves you feeling uneasy. On top of that, you're still reeling at the fact that he could, no…can touch you.

In truth, you didn't know if you could stay here. Aside from the fact that there is a dead musician constantly traversing what was supposed to be your home, it's too dangerous to be in this house right now.

And your mama really was right about the loose beams. Every now and again, the house settles, and you nearly shit yourself at the idea of it collapsing. 

You texted her about it before falling asleep and she all but demanded you crash at hers until the house was stable.

With your eyes laser focused on the floor, you stammer out your plans before you can be reprimanded again.

"W-well, m'gonna head to the hardware store n' see about pricing to get the floors redone. Come back here, fix what I can until dinner, then get some clothes ready and-"

Elvis can't help how his ears perk up at the word' clothes.' Why would you come back for clothes? Were you going somewhere else? A girl like you shouldn't be out after dark. But his curiosity won't leave him be.

"Clothes for what sugar?" 

The question seems genuine to you like he really is just curious. Elvis knows that's only half of it. You are the only one in years that's come to Graceland and treated it like what it was, someone's home.

Maybe it's the lack of interaction or how you care so much for his home; either way, Elvis isn't all that pleased with the idea of you leaving. Even so, he awaits your answer.

"Oh, m'stayin' with mama for a while. Least till the house is structurally sound. She and I both think it's a little…hazardous." You explain.

When you don't hear a response back, a chuckle escapes you. How ironic. You stand from the chair and realize Elvis isn't even in the room. You shrug and head to the bathroom, a shower calling your name.

When you make your way out and begin to get ready, the lights flicker. Ha-ha, you think.

Once dressed for the day, you leave the room and descend the stairs, keys in hand, headed straight for the door. You turn to call out a quick goodbye to your impromptu roommate, but still no response.

You huff and turn back. When you do, the door isn't in front of you anymore. Instead, you're in the kitchen. Weird. You know for a fact that you walked straight to the door. You spin on your feet, itching to leave now.

This place makes you feel crazy. As you step forward, the scene in front of you rotates; the whole house just shifts before your eyes. Now, you stand in the front room. 

If you could, you'd pick your jaw up off the floor. After standing for a moment, the dash you make for the door should be a record. And yet, the door is pulled out of reach. What would typically be a ten-foot walk stretches into a hallway about a mile long.

 Were you on something? Not enough sleep? You don't remember taking anything. Instead of wasting your time getting to the end of this… new tunnel, you try the back door. As you shuffle through the house. 

You're meters away and think for just a second that you were just trippin'. When you pull it open, what you see makes your stomach somersault. It was just eleven-thirty, and your day had barely started, so why was it pitch-black outside? 

"What the fuck?" You say to no one in particular. Stepping out, you look around, absolutely baffled. You take a few steps backward, placing your hand behind you on the knob or where it should've been. Quizzically, you look behind you. The house was fucking gone. 

Nothing lies in front of you except the porch and what seems to be a perfect circle of trees. You're closed in, trapped, and you can do nothing about it.

"No—no, fucking way." Your breathing becomes rapid, and you can't help but wonder if your ghoulish friend has anything to do with this. You conclude that a regular ghost couldn't do something this extreme. 

At this point, you didn't know what to do. You felt defeated. Plopping down on the porch was the only option you had left. There is no way in hell you're taking your black ass into the surrounding woods. 

Your head finds a home in your hands, and frustration gets the best of you. Tears sting in your eyes, and a soft whimper leaves your lips. 

"I j-jus wanted to go see ab-bout the fucking carpet," you hiccup. 

"I told you how I felt about ladies swearin'." A deep, butter-smooth voice chimes.

You lift your head so quickly it could've flown off your shoulders. The front door is just past the man before you.

Sun is shining through the windows, and you aren't on the porch; you're on the stairs. Confusion doesn't begin to scratch the surface of what you're experiencing. 

Your mind couldn't have played a trick this bad on you. Something like that only happens in movies.

"Elvis? Where the—" You clear your throat and correct yourself when you notice the stern look on his face.

"Did you see any of what just happened?" 

The singer chuckles and squats down to eye level, "Course honey, gave me quite a laugh watchin' ya try and figure out this maze."

You tilt your head. Maze?

"What're you talkin' about El-"

He shakes his head, "Honey, don't you think if I coulda walked out that door I would've?" 

When he says this, you nearly vomit. You walk straight through his chest, prepared to rerun the same routine, but you pause for a moment.

"Elvis, you stay where I can see ya." You command. 

He shrugs his shoulders and does as you ask, "Didn't know ya liked lookin' at me. M'flattered."

You roll your eyes and move toward the door. Again, you end up in the kitchen. When you approach the entrance, the house does what it did before and spins on itself.

Elvis doesn't understand why you'd do this twice when once is enough to make someone nauseous. Tenacity has always been one of your best qualities though. 

When you head for the back door, Elvis rests a hand on your shoulder, spinning you around to face him.

"Baby, ya can't leave. Don't waste your time."

You scoff; he can't be serious. 

"Mama left, the movers left, so why can't I?"

Elvis purses his lips, irritated because you won't just drop it. 

"Honey, seriously. Just have a seat, we can-"

"No, I need to go. There's gotta be someway out, Elvis. I ain't stay-"

Elvis's hand meets the wall near your head, mood shifting. The anger ever-present in his eyes lets you know he means business. You fail to realize the sourer he gets, the worse the house's condition.

It's a peculiar thing to watch. The paint on the walls peels in time with the rise and fall of his chest; the lights flicker as his eyes dart across your face. As his face reddens, it gets a bit dimmer. 

“Y/n, last warnin’. Don't interrupt when m'speakin', darlin'."

His darkened orbs bore into yours, searching for defiance. When he is confident you'll keep quiet, his breathing begins to regulate, and he takes a step back, adjusting his shirt a bit.

"This house is structurally sound, and you will stay here tonight. For now, just relax."

The air is thick, making it hard to breathe, even harder to speak.

 "I can't do that Elvis. Look at what just happened…" You whisper, hoping the soft tone won't set him off again.

He almost deflates when he realizes shaking you up didn't do as much as he thought it would. Who gets put through something like that and decides to be difficult?

Y/n L/n, that's who.

 It was starting to bother him; you were clueless about his trickery and capabilities. You should be weeping at the fact that everything is back to normal, and yet here you are, still trying to leave.

He could always make it harder for you to get off the grounds. Keep the illusions going. It's never worked in his favor, though. Everyone dies running from him. Usually, Elvis couldn't give two shits. 

But he already met your daddy; your mama is sweet and kind. And you, well, in Elvis's eyes, the only woman besides his mama to love him without question.

It was the house you fell for, and you could preach it all day long up and down the streets if it made you happy. Elvis wouldn't buy it for half a second, though.

 Why else would you go through the trouble of ensuring everything was untouched? Why would you keep everything he liked? Why buy a dying house you can't afford, if not to save him? 

Elvis saw through your coverup, and in his mind, you love him, and you're staying.

"Honey, you're the first person to…" He sighs, thinking of a way to make you understand that you belong here with him. 

"Don't go away, y/n. I ain't seen anybody worth seein' in years. Jus' spend some time with me? Hm? It don't seem too likely you'll leave soon anyway."

You ponder for a moment. If Elvis is right, there is no leaving anytime soon. In which case, it couldn't hurt to have company.

"Altight. But, ya promise to help me figure this mess out later on?" You ask

Elvis chuckles, not because what you said was funny, but because you have no clue what you've gotten yourself into.

"Of course, Sugarpie.”

Taglist: @powerofelvis @prayerstopresley @re3kin

[beeandheroddobsessions]

I’m flattered, baby thank you!!🫂💕

IM TWEAKING BITS AND PIECES OF CHAPTER 2 RN

Drop It!

Warnings: Supernatural elements. Dead!Elvis. Reader’s father is dead. Reader denotes elvis to his face. Dilapidated Graceland.

Summary: It’s move-in day! Reader spends the day fixing up the house. By the end of the night, she just wants to relax but something, or someone, needs to talk to her.

A/N: I am fully aware that graceland is cared for and not at all in ruin but the story calls for it. I put a lot of thought into this series and i really want everyone to enjoy it! The story is inspired by my house and what it’s like living here. though i’ve never come face to face with my goulish friends, i do respect them. A small bit, while comical, is something i actually did experience. Granted, i never spoke to anyone, or at least, never got an audible response. Most of this series includes odd happenings that i’ve dealt with. Isn’t that fun? Non-beliver or not, i hope you enjoy it. Happy reading- Bee💕

September 2023

The keys resting in your palms bring nothing but joy, even after dealing with a snippy mother and grumbling movers on an overcast Thursday afternoon. It should've been alarming, the way that realtor hightailed it off the property, but you were just glad to get your hands on what once was a beautiful home.

Graceland had nearly fallen to ruin; once the previous owner's legacy began to deteriorate, so did respect for the house. Squatters, Drug dealers, vandals, this house has seen it all. Yet, under all that muck and destruction, you saw a chance to restore its beauty.

Your mother was a bit...perturbed by the decision, wondering what she had done in your childhood that could've led to this point. When the idea was first pitched, she laughed it off, assuming it was another one of your odd bouts, like it was some fairytale. So imagine her surprise when you tossed the paperwork onto the breakfast table.

Your mother's concerns only doubled when she actually saw the house. Move-in day is supposed to be exciting, and for you, it is. Pushing past the doors into your new home is something magical. You don't know where to start. The kitchen? The front room? Upstairs? It's all so tempting.

"Mama, this place, it's so beautiful. Doesn't it jus' make you wanna cry?" You exclaim, unable to contain the excitement rushing through your body.

"...That's...well, that's one way to put it." your mother says, watching for possible loose beams as you traverse through the house.

You kiss your teeth at her tone and begin rattling on about your ideas for the space.

"I can fix her up in no time. We can start with the walls; they only need a few patches and a fresh coat a' paint. Oh! And then we can work on the floors. And I'm sure we can find some replicas or have 'em made. I think-"

"Y/n!" your mother interrupts, "Rome wasn't built in a day, baby. Don't get too ahead of yourself. You already broke the bank buyin' this...place and-"

You shake your head "Mama, don't you know who used to live here? Daddy woulda-"

The older woman before you holds up her hand, face dropping into an unamused expression. "Don't compare me to your daddy; we never did have the same tastes. And of course, I know; Elvis was my crush before you were even thought of."

You tilt your head, shifting to move a box. "But you just said you n' daddy didn’t have the same-"

She cuts you off before you can finish your thought. "Hush up and listen to your mama." A chuckle leaves your mouth as she scolds you.

"After all this time, daddy still can't catch a break?"

Your mother lets out a saddened sigh, "Well, he may not be here physically, but pokin' fun at him is the only way I know he's still around."

Your shoulders drop, and you set the box down. Your father passed away six years ago; he didn't want his family knowing he was sick. You thought it was a cruel joke, some twisted prank set to traumatize you forever. The wails your mother let out that night on the kitchen floor told you otherwise. She tries to pretend but hasn't been the same since—the idea of remarrying tossed to the wind like a dandelion's pappi.

"Mama, don't you think daddy would've wanted you to let him go?" you lament, hoping your mother would consider it this time. But, alas, the notion is shot down once again.

"You may not believe in ghosts or the afterlife, y/n, but I do. Your daddy is always with me. It wouldn't be right to get hitched in his face."

You shrug and continue unpacking, "If you say so mama, I jus couldn't imagine stickin' it out till the very end." That statement seems to tickle your mama pink. "You ain't never been in love, sugar pie. When you meet your mister right, you'll know what I mean."

You purse your lips. Even while talking about her dead husband, she hints at your sad love life. To you, love is just a feeling, and the dead are just that, dead. So your mother's musings about 'ghosts' and 'true loves' are nothing short of fantasy in your world.

"O...kay. Well, we've got a lot to do, and we've been talkin' bout nothin' for ten whole minutes. Let's hop to it!"

Your mother rolls her eyes, "This ain't my dream house, honey. I ain't GOT to do nothin' but stay black and die."

"Oh, here you go with that mess. You agreed to help your only baby move in so that I wouldn't 'die in my sleep cause some spider decided to munch on me,' so don't give me none of that." You mock.

Your mother pops your arm and grabs a broom. "You yo' daddy's daughter, alright. Couldn't have got that mouth from me." She mutters.

For the next four hours, the two of you dispose of odd findings, scrub, wash, disinfect, and grumble through the house. By the time you finish, the home is as clean as clean gets. The sun has set, and all you want to do is eat and sleep. The last thing to set up is the bedroom.

You feel a little strange sleeping in a room that once belonged to such a legend, but he isn't here, and the house belongs to you. The wall of TVs would be dealt with later. For now, a flatscreen was simply placed in front of them; aside from that, you pre-ordered replicas of the bedroom furniture, not wanting to personalize too much.

After kissing your mother goodbye, you trudge up the stairs, stopping halfway to crack your back. Once you return to the master suite, flopping on the bed only seems fitting. A groan escapes you as you realize you still need to shower. Rolling over, you grab a towel from your suitcase, lay out some pajamas on the center of the bed, and head for the bathroom.

While waiting for the water to warm, perched on the porcelain throne, the lights flicker. You'll need to replace the bulbs later; simple fix.

When the water reaches hell, you waste no time jumping in. It soothes your aching body, and all of the tension from today washes down the drain. You hum a nonsensical tune to keep you entertained while you clean away the dirt and grime. In the middle of the improvised song, a crash steals your attention.

You finish rinsing and shut off the water, quickly making your way to the bedroom door. You aren't going to investigate; too bright (or too experienced in the horror genre) to even give that a thought. No, you lock the door and mind your business; that is a morning problem.

When you turn back to retrieve your nightwear, you find them on a chair in the corner of the room. Odd. You could've sworn you left them in the middle of the bed. Whatever, you think as you throw them on.

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, you grab the remote and turn the TV on—finally, a moment of peace. You flick through Netflix, desperate to find good background noise. Landing on your favorite show, 'The Good Place,' is enough for you. It's ironic, don't believe in anything after death, or love, and here you are, watching two dead people fall in love.

Halfway through Episode six, the source of entertainment shuts off. You huff; it was getting good too. The remote is behind you, out of reach, so you aren't exactly sure what could've caused this.

"Probably just a glitch," you mumble, turning the TV back on and resuming your minor addiction. This time, you place the remote on the dresser, ensuring no interruptions.

Despite your effort, it happens again; A guttural noise leaves your body. You're broke in a house that's falling apart with no man, pets, and no energy. TV is the one pleasure you have left, and even that is beginning to frustrate you.

Repeating the process, you hold the remote in your hands, eyebrows raised, daring your peace to try and leave again. After a few moments, you sigh in relief as the halfway point passes and set the remote down. As soon as it comes in contact with the plush, black comforter, the TV again fails you.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." You exclaim.

"Ladies shouldn't swear; ain't attractive." A voice bellows from behind you. A shrill shriek is all that is heard as you scramble off the bed. Your eyes search for the source but find nothing. Slowly, you creep toward the bed and snatch up the remote. "Can't go downstairs till morning, and I'm losin' it in here. What a night." You whisper.

A shiver rolls through your body, and you decide it's better to sit on the floor. Again you try with your tv (which you will be returning in the morning), and of course, that doesn't last long.

"Sugarpie, I don't wanna see that junk. If you're gon' watch somethin' in my bed, I suggest it be somethin' good. Not some trash show that don't know the first thing bout bein' dead." The strange voice booms again.

This time when you jump out of your skin and turn to face the intruder, you see what you can only assume to be the world's most accurate Elvis impersonator.

"What the hell are you doin' in my house?!" You screech, "Get out! Get the hell out."

The man before you is nowhere near ready for the projectiles flying his way. Clothes, shoes, books, and a stuffed bear. You name it; it's flying at his head.

"Hey! I—I said—, goddamn! You got an arm on ya! Put the—,"

Elvis can't even finish his sentence as you continue to fling whatever you can at him.

"Get. Out. Of. My. House!" You grunt, each word punctuated with the throw of an object. The tall, blue-eyed stranger ducks and dodges with precision, but when he sees you getting ready to toss a picture frame, one you no doubt failed to realize the importance of in your defensive state, the fun and games stop.

"Drop it! Drop that damn picture right now! Your mama would tan your hide for days if she saw that you broke that frame." Elvis booms.

Your chest is heaving, and you blink, glancing over at the photo.

"S'your daddy, right? Y'all were talkin' in the kitchen bout how it's the last thing he gave ya. You promised ta take care of it. So drop it."

You nod and gently place the photo on the bed, reaching for a good substitute.

"Jus—Just how long have you been here?" you question, ready to launch the lamp in your hand. Elvis ponders for a moment. "What year is it?" He asks, seeming genuine. You quirk an eyebrow, unamused with the game he's playing. "You can't be serious."

He looks at you expectantly, waiting for an actual answer. Your phone is across the room, and the chances of getting past this psycho-wannabe Elvis are slim to none. So, you entertain him. "It's twenty-twenty-three, you should know that." You say, face stoic.

Elvis's eyes widen, "Twenty- Good lord!" He chuckles in disbelief.

"Well, to answer your question lil' mama, if that's true, I've been here for sixty-six years if you're countin' when I bought the house."

You shake your head; there's no way the idiot in front of you is this dedicated. "Yeah, sure, I reckon you want me to believe you're Elvis Presley himself. Is that what this is? Some attempt to scare me?"

Elvis chuckles and shakes his head, "No, ma'am. Ain't no pretendin' round here. I'm the real deal."

You can't help the cackle that slips past your lips.

"My ass!"

Elvis's smirk fades, "I told ya that shit isn't cute. And if ya don't believe me, try to shake my hand." He says, extending the appendage forward.

You scrunch your nose, "Now, why would I do that?"

He shrugs, hand still held out.

"Well, I ain't goin' nowhere for a long time n' you're the first person to see or hear me in ages. Whether ya do or don't, it really ain't too concernin' for me."

You sigh, knowing this is how dumb girls in movies usually meet their end. Can't believe m'doin' this. Shakily, you extend your hand, and when it meets his, it goes right through. You gasp as the limb turns to smoke before materializing again.

"Sweet jesus," you sputter.

"I wouldn't know if he was sweet, I ain't met him yet." Elvis jokes. You back away, very spooked.

"T-This, this isn't possible. Ghosts they—they aren't-"

"Real?" Elvis cuts you off, "Yeah, I heard that part too, jus didn't wanna scare your mama, so I waited till it was jus you n' me."

You scoff, offended, "My mama gets a pass, and I don't?"

He chuckles and sits on the bed, "She believed, you didn't. For someone with a gift this great, ya sure do love ta act like ya don't know what she's talkin' about."

You fold your arms, looking down, "I don't have-"

"Oh, yes ya do. Don't give me none of that. I spent the whole afternoon chit-chattin' with your old man. "

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his. "You spoke to my daddy? How is he? Did he ask bout mama? Because she'd be thrilled. I gave up. I knew I shouldn't have. I'd been tryin' to reach him since he died, but he never-" The smug look on Elvis's face shuts you up.

"Well, first off. Why would ya need to call a man who's in the same house as ya? Second, you'd been tryin' so hard to find happiness for a woman who don't need it, that ya pushed your daddy away anytime he tried. A ghost can only do so much without scarin' someone half to death, baby."

This is all too much; Ghosts exist, Elvis Presley is in front of you, and your daddy hasn't moved on. Mama was right. You lift the covers and shimmy under them.

"I need to sleep on this. Jus—I...I don't know where you go, but scram for the night please."

Elvis chuckles, nodding. In a flash, he evaporates, fumes left behind as he finds another room to settle in.

You breathe through your nose as you think. What a night indeed, miss y/n.

Taglist: @prayerstopresley @powerofelvis @re3kin

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Drop It!

Warnings: Supernatural elements. Dead!Elvis. Reader’s father is dead. Reader denotes elvis to his face. Dilapidated Graceland.

Summary: It’s move-in day! Reader spends the day fixing up the house. By the end of the night, she just wants to relax but something, or someone, needs to talk to her.

A/N: I am fully aware that graceland is cared for and not at all in ruin but the story calls for it. I put a lot of thought into this series and i really want everyone to enjoy it! The story is inspired by my house and what it’s like living here. though i’ve never come face to face with my goulish friends, i do respect them. A small bit, while comical, is something i actually did experience. Granted, i never spoke to anyone, or at least, never got an audible response. Most of this series includes odd happenings that i’ve dealt with. Isn’t that fun? Non-beliver or not, i hope you enjoy it. Happy reading- Bee💕

September 2023

The keys resting in your palms bring nothing but joy, even after dealing with a snippy mother and grumbling movers on an overcast Thursday afternoon. It should've been alarming, the way that realtor hightailed it off the property, but you were just glad to get your hands on what once was a beautiful home.

Graceland had nearly fallen to ruin; once the previous owner's legacy began to deteriorate, so did respect for the house. Squatters, Drug dealers, vandals, this house has seen it all. Yet, under all that muck and destruction, you saw a chance to restore its beauty.

Your mother was a bit...perturbed by the decision, wondering what she had done in your childhood that could've led to this point. When the idea was first pitched, she laughed it off, assuming it was another one of your odd bouts, like it was some fairytale. So imagine her surprise when you tossed the paperwork onto the breakfast table.

Your mother's concerns only doubled when she actually saw the house. Move-in day is supposed to be exciting, and for you, it is. Pushing past the doors into your new home is something magical. You don't know where to start. The kitchen? The front room? Upstairs? It's all so tempting.

"Mama, this place, it's so beautiful. Doesn't it jus' make you wanna cry?" You exclaim, unable to contain the excitement rushing through your body.

"...That's...well, that's one way to put it." your mother says, watching for possible loose beams as you traverse through the house.

You kiss your teeth at her tone and begin rattling on about your ideas for the space.

"I can fix her up in no time. We can start with the walls; they only need a few patches and a fresh coat a' paint. Oh! And then we can work on the floors. And I'm sure we can find some replicas or have 'em made. I think-"

"Y/n!" your mother interrupts, "Rome wasn't built in a day, baby. Don't get too ahead of yourself. You already broke the bank buyin' this...place and-"

You shake your head "Mama, don't you know who used to live here? Daddy woulda-"

The older woman before you holds up her hand, face dropping into an unamused expression. "Don't compare me to your daddy; we never did have the same tastes. And of course, I know; Elvis was my crush before you were even thought of."

You tilt your head, shifting to move a box. "But you just said you n' daddy didn’t have the same-"

She cuts you off before you can finish your thought. "Hush up and listen to your mama." A chuckle leaves your mouth as she scolds you.

"After all this time, daddy still can't catch a break?"

Your mother lets out a saddened sigh, "Well, he may not be here physically, but pokin' fun at him is the only way I know he's still around."

Your shoulders drop, and you set the box down. Your father passed away six years ago; he didn't want his family knowing he was sick. You thought it was a cruel joke, some twisted prank set to traumatize you forever. The wails your mother let out that night on the kitchen floor told you otherwise. She tries to pretend but hasn't been the same since—the idea of remarrying tossed to the wind like a dandelion's pappi.

"Mama, don't you think daddy would've wanted you to let him go?" you lament, hoping your mother would consider it this time. But, alas, the notion is shot down once again.

"You may not believe in ghosts or the afterlife, y/n, but I do. Your daddy is always with me. It wouldn't be right to get hitched in his face."

You shrug and continue unpacking, "If you say so mama, I jus couldn't imagine stickin' it out till the very end." That statement seems to tickle your mama pink. "You ain't never been in love, sugar pie. When you meet your mister right, you'll know what I mean."

You purse your lips. Even while talking about her dead husband, she hints at your sad love life. To you, love is just a feeling, and the dead are just that, dead. So your mother's musings about 'ghosts' and 'true loves' are nothing short of fantasy in your world.

"O...kay. Well, we've got a lot to do, and we've been talkin' bout nothin' for ten whole minutes. Let's hop to it!"

Your mother rolls her eyes, "This ain't my dream house, honey. I ain't GOT to do nothin' but stay black and die."

"Oh, here you go with that mess. You agreed to help your only baby move in so that I wouldn't 'die in my sleep cause some spider decided to munch on me,' so don't give me none of that." You mock.

Your mother pops your arm and grabs a broom. "You yo' daddy's daughter, alright. Couldn't have got that mouth from me." She mutters.

For the next four hours, the two of you dispose of odd findings, scrub, wash, disinfect, and grumble through the house. By the time you finish, the home is as clean as clean gets. The sun has set, and all you want to do is eat and sleep. The last thing to set up is the bedroom.

You feel a little strange sleeping in a room that once belonged to such a legend, but he isn't here, and the house belongs to you. The wall of TVs would be dealt with later. For now, a flatscreen was simply placed in front of them; aside from that, you pre-ordered replicas of the bedroom furniture, not wanting to personalize too much.

After kissing your mother goodbye, you trudge up the stairs, stopping halfway to crack your back. Once you return to the master suite, flopping on the bed only seems fitting. A groan escapes you as you realize you still need to shower. Rolling over, you grab a towel from your suitcase, lay out some pajamas on the center of the bed, and head for the bathroom.

While waiting for the water to warm, perched on the porcelain throne, the lights flicker. You'll need to replace the bulbs later; simple fix.

When the water reaches hell, you waste no time jumping in. It soothes your aching body, and all of the tension from today washes down the drain. You hum a nonsensical tune to keep you entertained while you clean away the dirt and grime. In the middle of the improvised song, a crash steals your attention.

You finish rinsing and shut off the water, quickly making your way to the bedroom door. You aren't going to investigate; too bright (or too experienced in the horror genre) to even give that a thought. No, you lock the door and mind your business; that is a morning problem.

When you turn back to retrieve your nightwear, you find them on a chair in the corner of the room. Odd. You could've sworn you left them in the middle of the bed. Whatever, you think as you throw them on.

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, you grab the remote and turn the TV on—finally, a moment of peace. You flick through Netflix, desperate to find good background noise. Landing on your favorite show, 'The Good Place,' is enough for you. It's ironic, don't believe in anything after death, or love, and here you are, watching two dead people fall in love.

Halfway through Episode six, the source of entertainment shuts off. You huff; it was getting good too. The remote is behind you, out of reach, so you aren't exactly sure what could've caused this.

"Probably just a glitch," you mumble, turning the TV back on and resuming your minor addiction. This time, you place the remote on the dresser, ensuring no interruptions.

Despite your effort, it happens again; A guttural noise leaves your body. You're broke in a house that's falling apart with no man, pets, and no energy. TV is the one pleasure you have left, and even that is beginning to frustrate you.

Repeating the process, you hold the remote in your hands, eyebrows raised, daring your peace to try and leave again. After a few moments, you sigh in relief as the halfway point passes and set the remote down. As soon as it comes in contact with the plush, black comforter, the TV again fails you.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." You exclaim.

"Ladies shouldn't swear; ain't attractive." A voice bellows from behind you. A shrill shriek is all that is heard as you scramble off the bed. Your eyes search for the source but find nothing. Slowly, you creep toward the bed and snatch up the remote. "Can't go downstairs till morning, and I'm losin' it in here. What a night." You whisper.

A shiver rolls through your body, and you decide it's better to sit on the floor. Again you try with your tv (which you will be returning in the morning), and of course, that doesn't last long.

"Sugarpie, I don't wanna see that junk. If you're gon' watch somethin' in my bed, I suggest it be somethin' good. Not some trash show that don't know the first thing bout bein' dead." The strange voice booms again.

This time when you jump out of your skin and turn to face the intruder, you see what you can only assume to be the world's most accurate Elvis impersonator.

"What the hell are you doin' in my house?!" You screech, "Get out! Get the hell out."

The man before you is nowhere near ready for the projectiles flying his way. Clothes, shoes, books, and a stuffed bear. You name it; it's flying at his head.

"Hey! I—I said—, goddamn! You got an arm on ya! Put the—,"

Elvis can't even finish his sentence as you continue to fling whatever you can at him.

"Get. Out. Of. My. House!" You grunt, each word punctuated with the throw of an object. The tall, blue-eyed stranger ducks and dodges with precision, but when he sees you getting ready to toss a picture frame, one you no doubt failed to realize the importance of in your defensive state, the fun and games stop.

"Drop it! Drop that damn picture right now! Your mama would tan your hide for days if she saw that you broke that frame." Elvis booms.

Your chest is heaving, and you blink, glancing over at the photo.

"S'your daddy, right? Y'all were talkin' in the kitchen bout how it's the last thing he gave ya. You promised ta take care of it. So drop it."

You nod and gently place the photo on the bed, reaching for a good substitute.

"Jus—Just how long have you been here?" you question, ready to launch the lamp in your hand. Elvis ponders for a moment. "What year is it?" He asks, seeming genuine. You quirk an eyebrow, unamused with the game he's playing. "You can't be serious."

He looks at you expectantly, waiting for an actual answer. Your phone is across the room, and the chances of getting past this psycho-wannabe Elvis are slim to none. So, you entertain him. "It's twenty-twenty-three, you should know that." You say, face stoic.

Elvis's eyes widen, "Twenty- Good lord!" He chuckles in disbelief.

"Well, to answer your question lil' mama, if that's true, I've been here for sixty-six years if you're countin' when I bought the house."

You shake your head; there's no way the idiot in front of you is this dedicated. "Yeah, sure, I reckon you want me to believe you're Elvis Presley himself. Is that what this is? Some attempt to scare me?"

Elvis chuckles and shakes his head, "No, ma'am. Ain't no pretendin' round here. I'm the real deal."

You can't help the cackle that slips past your lips.

"My ass!"

Elvis's smirk fades, "I told ya that shit isn't cute. And if ya don't believe me, try to shake my hand." He says, extending the appendage forward.

You scrunch your nose, "Now, why would I do that?"

He shrugs, hand still held out.

"Well, I ain't goin' nowhere for a long time n' you're the first person to see or hear me in ages. Whether ya do or don't, it really ain't too concernin' for me."

You sigh, knowing this is how dumb girls in movies usually meet their end. Can't believe m'doin' this. Shakily, you extend your hand, and when it meets his, it goes right through. You gasp as the limb turns to smoke before materializing again.

"Sweet jesus," you sputter.

"I wouldn't know if he was sweet, I ain't met him yet." Elvis jokes. You back away, very spooked.

"T-This, this isn't possible. Ghosts they—they aren't-"

"Real?" Elvis cuts you off, "Yeah, I heard that part too, jus didn't wanna scare your mama, so I waited till it was jus you n' me."

You scoff, offended, "My mama gets a pass, and I don't?"

He chuckles and sits on the bed, "She believed, you didn't. For someone with a gift this great, ya sure do love ta act like ya don't know what she's talkin' about."

You fold your arms, looking down, "I don't have-"

"Oh, yes ya do. Don't give me none of that. I spent the whole afternoon chit-chattin' with your old man. "

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his. "You spoke to my daddy? How is he? Did he ask bout mama? Because she'd be thrilled. I gave up. I knew I shouldn't have. I'd been tryin' to reach him since he died, but he never-" The smug look on Elvis's face shuts you up.

"Well, first off. Why would ya need to call a man who's in the same house as ya? Second, you'd been tryin' so hard to find happiness for a woman who don't need it, that ya pushed your daddy away anytime he tried. A ghost can only do so much without scarin' someone half to death, baby."

This is all too much; Ghosts exist, Elvis Presley is in front of you, and your daddy hasn't moved on. Mama was right. You lift the covers and shimmy under them.

"I need to sleep on this. Jus—I...I don't know where you go, but scram for the night please."

Elvis chuckles, nodding. In a flash, he evaporates, fumes left behind as he finds another room to settle in.

You breathe through your nose as you think. What a night indeed, miss y/n.

Taglist: @prayerstopresley @powerofelvis @re3kin

[beeandheroddobsessions]

I SAID I WAS BUSY AND I MEANT IT!! (This Weeks Lineup)

Pairing: Elvis x Black!OC

Summary:

No one knows where she came from or what she was doing in Memphis, to begin with. When Dionne Clark arrived, it was clear to see she was nothing like her peers. The clothes she wore, the way she spoke out of turn, her vulgarity, was something the teens of Memphis weren’t used to. Rumor has it she won’t be around long.

Warnings: This Story is 18+!! There will be smut, drug use, racial themes, who would I be without angst! Character death(minor, but still), Kidnapping? Reader is so dense I feel like it should be a warning. Cheating. Heavy on the cheating. The colonel. Violence.

Pairing: Ghost!Elvis x F!Reader

Summary:

Y/n spent the better half of the year scraping up money to buy a dilapidated old house. Nobody in their right mind would’ve done it. Most would’ve let the city tear it down as they intended. It wouldn’t be anyone’s ideal starter home, with the exception of y/n, of course. She sees something in it, something special, something no one else could, So It’s rather unfortunate that she won’t make it out.

Warnings: Major character death!! SMUT!! (don’t doubt me, I can def make it happen) ANGST, ghost life sucks fr, murder(?). Deaths of the innocent. Paranormal happenings(?)

You Stop My Heart ch.3

I guess it's time I stop playing and release it. 😪

HOPE YOU’RE READY LOVELIES

- Bee 💕

[beeandheroddobsessions]

I’m writing as fast as my hands will let me 😭

Hi Bee, I hope this message finds you well! Got a request for ya 🙈

Was watching Elvis Presley: The Searcher (it’s on HBO Max if you have it) and the first part mentions how heavily involved Elvis and (his family) were in black churches, gospel, and black Southern culture in general. So I got to thinking, what if earlyfame!Elvis met the lovely daughter (aka the reader) of a preacher of a black church he came about one night and visited frequently. The congregation is extremely welcoming and he almost spends as much time in church as he does on Beale Street! I’m thinking lighthearted romance, fluff, all the things. 🥰

It’s up to you whether or not you’d like to turn it into a series, I just know that I’m super excited to see what you can come up with! From one black Elvis fan to another, thank you very much. 🫶🏽

AH!! All my projects are taking a backseat bc YES, oml thank you so much for this request! 🫶🏽

[beeandheroddobsessions]

whippin up something strange

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Hi Bee, I hope this message finds you well! Got a request for ya 🙈

Was watching Elvis Presley: The Searcher (it’s on HBO Max if you have it) and the first part mentions how heavily involved Elvis and (his family) were in black churches, gospel, and black Southern culture in general. So I got to thinking, what if earlyfame!Elvis met the lovely daughter (aka the reader) of a preacher of a black church he came about one night and visited frequently. The congregation is extremely welcoming and he almost spends as much time in church as he does on Beale Street! I’m thinking lighthearted romance, fluff, all the things. 🥰

It’s up to you whether or not you’d like to turn it into a series, I just know that I’m super excited to see what you can come up with! From one black Elvis fan to another, thank you very much. 🫶🏽

AH!! All my projects are taking a backseat bc YES, oml thank you so much for this request! 🫶🏽

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Higher

Pairing: Elvis x f!reader

Summary: The reader makes a mistake and has to make up for it

Warnings: Alcohol consumption. Drug use (just marry jane fr). Reader is an ASS with her whole chest. Mmm hurt/comfort.

A/N: Now how does a 2k word one-shot get lost in the sauce? i dont know either but that’s why i hand write everything. i would’ve cried if it was gone forever because this is by far, my favorite piece. Of course, the song doesn’t need to be played, buuut you definitley should listen to it! Anywho, happy reading!- Bee 💕

This was stupid. You and Elvis were supposed to be enjoying dinner together, but every little thing bothered you. The wait time, the room's temperature, the space's volume. All of it. One flirtatious remark from a waitress toward your husband was what really set you off.

Realistically, you would never fly off the handle with Elvis. He meant everything and more. Never, on any other day, would you disrespect him to such a degree.

Both of you had been run ragged. With the stress of release dates, concerts, fans, and both of your (shitty) managers, You and Elvis were at your wit's end.

You knew Elvis wouldn't look twice at a girl like that. In your eyes, though, the kind smile and short 'thank you' may as well have been him getting down on one knee and begging for her hand in marriage.

Elvis didn't see your outburst coming. Usually, he could read you like a book, but he was distracted, busy sorting through dates and show times. Honest to god, he hadn't even registered that girl's hand grazing his shoulder.

It was so sudden Elvis had to blink to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Your hand came down on the tabletop so hard the poor man practically jumped out of his skin.

"You can't keep from flirtin' for one goddamn night, Elvis? Every time I look, you're chattin' up some new, two-bit whore."

You know that wasn't true; Elvis was friendly, sure, but he was hopelessly devoted to you. His jaw hung open, eyes widened with an expression reading, 'are you fucking serious?'. He was almost too stunned to speak, almost. Elvis clears his throat, knuckles going white as he clenches his fork.

"Little girl, I know full well-"

You huff and open your mouth, prepared to continue your tirade. But before you can, Elvis holds up a finger.

"Don't you sit up here n' disrespect me. Ya ain't gon talk to me like you've lost your mind," he asserts.

You see red. He didn't deny it and practically told you to shut up. Or at least those were the dots you connected. Any chance at a rational step forward has flown out of the window. You can feel yourself getting warm as anger pumps through your veins.

"Don't talk like I—What the fuck is wrong with you? Ya prance around with whoever in my damn face, but I'm the one who belongs in the loony bin?"

You're digging a deeper hole than you care to realize. Again, Elvis tries to get you under control.

"Y/n. I'm warnin' ya." He seethes.

Boy, does that get you hot.

"What? Don't wanna admit it? Don't want everyone to know how often you forget about your wife, chasin' skirts? Shoulda stayed in fuckin' Memphis."

You mumbled that last part, but Elvis still caught it. He'd had enough. The fork clatters onto the plate, and he clasps his hands together. His face is stern, but those beautiful blue eyes were glasses over. You had gone too far.

"S'That what ya want?" He muses. You're quiet now. It sinks in; how ridiculous you had been. Elvis lifts his brows, waiting for an answer. When the silence looms over the both of you, he rises to his feet, taking that as his answer.

"Fine then, call Lamar. Wouldn't want ya stuck with me any longer than ya have to be, since your jus' dyin' to get away." He griped.

Before leaving, Elvis tosses some money on the table to cover both meals. Then, he spins on his feet and storms out of the restaurant. You were left to sit in your shame with stares come from each direction. What did you just do? Tears burn in your eyes as you scramble to collect your things.

You fly out the door, scanning the lot for any sign of Elvis. He left. Left you stranded. What else was he to do, though? You sigh and go back inside, head hung low, shame surrounding you. Safe to say, you felt like an idiot calling Lamar in front of everyone.

The ride home was depressing. Elvis wasn't there to tickle your sides and tell you bad jokes. No one to kiss you and tell you they love you. It was just you and your thoughts.

When you arrive at the hotel, you're scared to walk through the doors. Would Elvis yell? Send you packing? Put you out? God, you had no clue. You fidget with yourself the whole way up to the room's floor. Standing before the door, you contemplate booking a different suite altogether.

Elvis is your husband; he wouldn't want that. Right? Pushing the nerves down, you unlock the door and step in.

He isn't in the front room, so he must be in the back. You take a deep breath and head that way. You find Elvis sitting on the bed, facing away from the entrance. You lean against the frame and keep your sights trained on his back.

"...Hey," you try, voice soft as ever—a clear contrast to your earlier performance. Elvis doesn't even look your way, preferring to focus on his feet.

"Thought you'd be on your way to Memphis by now." He croaked.

Your heart sinks; you truly did hurt his feelings.

"Elvie—no, I was just-"

A disheartened chuckle cuts your explanation short,

"I know, you were just so angry that ya got stuck with me. Don't need ya to tell me twice, y/n."

You shake your head, feeling a lump forming in your throat.

"El, please. I didn't—didn't mean-"

"So then what is it, y/n? Huh? I ain't never stepped out on you, and ya know it. So why the theatrics? Why talk to me like that?" Elvis booms, voice breaking as he searches desperately for an answer.

You're taken aback by the volume of his voice; how ironic. Your silence again serves as his answer. He takes a sharp breath and throws his hands up.

"Yknow what? I don't even wanna know. M'goin' to bed. Got a lotta shit to do in the mornin'."

You whimper as he buries himself under the covers. There isn't a sadder sight than watching your husband cry silently. You feel like the shittiest wife on the planet. Not bothering to change, you climb in next to him, wrapping your arms around his torso.

"I really am sorry, El. I didn't mean anythin' I said." You whisper, placing a kiss on the shell of his ear. Elvis hums, pushing you off and sliding away as far as he can.

"M'sure you didn't, y/n."

Defeated, you turn over, crying yourself to sleep just the same as him.

For the next two weeks, Elvis is cold toward you. Drowning himself in his work, barely speaking to you, only kissing you goodnight. It was torture, but it wasn't for nothing. You said Elvis forgot about you? He could show you what that was really like. Said he was nothing but a flirt? He could show you that too.

For those two long weeks, Elvis flirted with every woman he encountered. He never cheated; Elvis wasn't a dog. But he intended to make it hurt, and that he did. He'd wave you off to finish a conversation it was with a girl, and act uninterested when you spoke, only to perk up whenever a young filly caught his attention.

You had learned your lesson and wanted Elvis to understand how sorry you were. No apology you crafted was good enough; none felt right. You'd write, scratch it, cry, rinse, and repeat. Drink after drink, and two joints later, you find yourself at the piano in the corner of the room. In your stupor, you decide to sing what you're feeling, hoping to find the words you'd been looking for.

You rest your fingers atop the ivories and begin a simple melody. You clear your throat and shakily start the song.

"This whisky got me feelin' pretty... so pardon if m'impolite..."

Your words are slurred, your focus is off, and your thoughts are jumbled, so it's no surprise the door opening goes unnoticed.

"...I jus' really need your ass with me—m'sorry bout the other night..."

Elvis creeps in slowly, careful not to let you know he's home.

"...And i know i could be more creative n' come up with poetic lines..."

Your husband leans against the wall, watching his inebriated wife pour her heart out as best she can. He fights the smile tugging at his lips as you continue.

"...But m'fucked up upstairs, and 'i love you' is the only thing that's in my mind..."

Tears prick in your eyes, and as you think about how you treated Elvis, they fall down your face. You carry on, though, not wanting to lose focus.

"...You take me higher...higher than I've ever been, babe. Just come over; let's pour a drink, babe..."

Elvis's chest hurts when he hears your plea. He wants so badly to still be upset, but he can't after seeing you like this. Elvis wants to hold you and wipe away your tears; your sonata isn't finished, though.

"...I hope I ain't callin' you too late, too late..."

You take a breath; the thought of Elvis leaving you is overwhelming

"...You light my fire; let's stay up late and smoke a J..."

The crack in your voice and the way you're virtually sobbing through every line hurts Elvis something terrible.

"...I wanna go back to the old way, but m'drunk instead with a full ashtray, with a little bit too much to say."

When the last line leaves your lips, Elvis rushes to your side.

"I want that too, little." He whispers.

A loud cry escapes your chest as you throw your arms around him. Elvis does the same, squeezing you tight.

"Oh, El," you hiccup, "M'so fuckin' sorry. I never meant to hurt ya. You know that right? Pleas tell me ya know I didn't-"

Elvis nods his head frantically, smiling through his tears as you babble

"I know you were stressed. Jus' hurt to hear that ya thought i didn't care nothin' bout ya. Hurt to hear ya say you wanna leave me."

You shake your head again, feeling like a fool.

"El I— I just said all that cause it hurt seein' that girl flirt with ya, and you didn't do anything about it. Thought you mighta liked her or somethin'."

Elvis laughs from his belly upon hearing this.

"Liked her? Honey, did ya see her hair?"

"Did I?" You giggle back, "It was a mess!"

Your husband nods in agreement, "Yeah, and she had on the tackiest earrings."

After two weeks of agony, you're finally on track, gossiping about people with Elvis like you were used to. His hands cup your face, and he looks directly into your eyes.

"You're the only one for me. No woman could beat your perfection, darlin'. You could stick me in a room with a hundred of 'em, and I'd find something wrong with 'em all cause they ain't you. I love you, y/n."

You nod your head in understanding, bringing your hand to his cheek. "I love you too, Elvie."

"Good." He gushed. Elvis admires you for a moment before he decides to wrap up the night

"Now, we've got to get some sleep. We're recordin'. that song first thing tomorrow. Oh, and ya ain't never to late baby. I'll never leave your side." Elvis promises.

You sniff and give him a kiss, sloppy but still a kiss. He helps you to bed, snaking his arms around your form. Elvis was your everything; you couldn't dream of letting him go.

"Missed this," you murmur.

"Me too. Goodnight, mama."

Taglist: @prayerstopresley

[beeandheroddobsessions]

We shifting gears. I wanna hurt feelings 😩🫂

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Inappropriate

Pairing: Elvis x f!reader

Summary: Elvis teaches you a thing or two

Warings: MDNI!! SMUT!! Not a plot in sight fr. Oral (m.recieving). Spanking. Mean!Elvis. Manipulation. Coercion(?) Iressponsible parents fr Elvis is kind of a creep. Innocence kink?

A/N: The shit, in-fact, did not fit. I’m not as upset because i had a good stopping point. Anywho, I’m testing the waters with my smut writings but real talk, i kinda like this one. Let me hush though, Happy reading! - Bee 💕

Trembling. You were trembling.

Sex was a taboo in your world, even at eighteen. Asking about such “an egregious thing for a young lady” would garner harsh looks and curt responses. But you're a growing girl; curiosity couldn’t stay at bay forever. You’d pester about the things you’d hear around the schoolyard in an attempt to ‘keep up’ with your peers, yet those burning questions would garner the same response, “That’s not an appropriate question for you to be askin’.”

After no luck at home and barley any innvitation into a conversation at school, you let the question die off in the cold. Being left in the dark about the act led to you forgetting about it all together.

So how you ended up underneath this handsome devil is a mystery. Well, not entirely; He found you in a tailor shop, picking up a dress that needed hemming. His eyes raked over your form, deciding he’d have you before even knowing your name. You kept your head down while walking, meek and quiet. He liked how you stumbled over your words and apologized for every move you made. He liked that you were timid.

What he really liked was the way your face flustered when the clerk threw a less than tasteful remark your way. Innocence was practically oozing out of the pores on your pretty face, and he intended to drain it dry. The man couldn’t help himself, his conviction didn’t concern him. Shamelessly, he stepped in line with the door as you made your way to the exit. The thud of your body into his made him shiver.

The profuse apologies escaping those soft lips of yours made his pants tighten. He thought of how you’d sound in his bed, wondering if you’d whimper and plead with him. Elvis let you rattle on for a bit, busy studying, looking for something to draw you in. Your hair, or rather the tiny pin holding the style together gave it away.

A music note? Oh, he had it in the bag for sure. The brunett stopped you and introduced himself As if he hadn’t had eyes on you from the start. When you spoke your name, fate was sealed. He gave you a smirk, asking what type of music you liked. Blues was your answer. Hearing this had Elvis wondering what he did to get so lucky. He could work with the blues. An invite for a private performance was all it took.

One thing led to another, and you find yourself wedged between the soft bed and a charming adonis. Though his body hovers over yours, clothes have yet to be shared, a kiss yet to be shed. The intimacy of this scenario would be awkward had it been with anyone else. You’re nervous, and he knows it. How his eyes wander over your features with a knowing look makes you hot—burning with desire. Elvis hasn’t made a move past this; even so, you feel a warmth pool in your belly.

Is this normal? Is this a good thing? Why can’t you look away? The questions you have, accompanied by the position, are overwhelming.

Elvis can see the panic in those big doe eyes and decides to have a little fun.“what’s the matter, honey? Never been up close n’ personal with a man before?”

You can’t lie to save your life, so the shame of inexperience looms over your head. Retreating into yourself and avoiding the inquiry all together seems like the saftest option. Brining your hands to your face as if they’d save you makes Elvis chuckle.

“Oh now, none of that. I asked you a question, little one. I expect an answer.” He says, while removing the makeshift barrier. You open your mouth to speak, hoping that if you oblige, he’ll let up. Before a sound is made, Elvis lowers his head to the crook of your neck. Breath fanning against your skin, raising goosebumps over your body. A small gasp is all you can manage.

The handsome devil squeezes your waist, grip firm as he peppers kisses down your neck and chest, lanidng just above your clevage.

“What’d I say? Hm, sweet baby? Give me an answer.” He demands, peering up to find your gaze.

Ohh this…this was intense. Should there be a pulse down there? You have no clue. What you do know is that you aren’t about to look this man in the eye if you don't have to. His effect on your body is something you can’t explain, even if you wanted to. The hand on your waist travels to your thigh. Dangerously close to the hem of your dangerously short dress. His expression is calm, but the words that leave his mouth are serious.

“Honeybee, m’not gon ask ya again. Ya ignore me one more time, m’gon bend you over my knee.”

Though curious to discover what he means, the fear of being unprepared for something like that has you scrambling for an answer. You don’t even remember the question? ‘Have you ever’…what the hell was it? Panic sets in as you realize he’d distracted you on purpose.

The silence is enough for Elvis to start moving. You blink and are suddenly hoisted off of the bed that offered you some sense of security. Elvis is amused, eager to see how you’d handle this. He slides to the edge of the bed, planting his feet and, just as promised, bends you over his knee. He feels your breasts flush against his lap and shudders. This was going to be fun.

“you can count can’t ya?” He asks, eyebrow raised.

You can’t do much but nod, hoping he isn’t serious about this. The sting against your ass proves you wrong; a yelp escapes your throat. Remembering his initial demand, you sputter out the number as best you can.

“O-one”

Elvis tsks at you, taunting further. His hand soothes the burn as he shakes his head. “No, no, baby. That one don’t count. I told ya when I ask a question, ya answer it. Startin to think there ain’t much up in that pretty little head of yours.”

You can practically feel the smug look on his face. “M’sorry Elvis-” THWACK.

That one hurt worse than the first. He’s got you right where he wants you. Unsure of what to do, looking to him for guidence. It shakes him up real good, seeing you plead for help with your eyes; truly a thrilling experience for him. he likes playing with your psyche. Should you count to two? Or was that the new number oned? You were helpless.

His cool rings matched with the breeze rolling over your now warm backside leaves you in a spiral, adding to the already intese wave of desire. He is the escense of perfection right now. Something primal has you dripping, wanting more.

Much like any other time you feel this way, mother’s words float through your head. Inappropriate. To crave more of whatever this was, to feel this way. It was a sin. Urges were a temtation, same as the man who has you hunched over.

If your mother could see you now, “Unladylike,” she’d say. “Whorish,” your father would sneer. the guilt was beginning set in. You couldn’t do this. what would everyone think? If she found out, mama wuld surley tell the entire congregation of your sin. Daddy would surley disown you for even looking at a man like this. little by little, the lust you’re feeling starts to disapate.

Another delicious sting pulls you from the confines of your mind. Slick begins to leak through the white lace adorning your lower half. “Ya like this. Dontcha, baby? Like havin’ me discipline ya? Teachin’ ya some manners?”

You try to resist his accusation, shaking your head as if you hadn’t already been caught.

“No? Ya don’t like it?” He presses further, smirk everlasting as he continues to caress your ass. “No, I—um, I d-dont.” You sputter, attempting to sound as convincing as possible. Elvis nods but doesn’t say much “Mm, mhm.”

Without warning, he runs two fingers over your panties, stopping right above that little bundle of nerves, doing nothing more than adding a little pressure.

The moan that escapes you teeters on pornographic. Never in your eighteen years on this earth have you made a sound like that. You have one thought bouncing around. Inappropriate, my ass; this is magic.

Just as quickly as he gave you a taste of bliss, he rips it away. You keen and wiggle your hips, needing a sliver of friction. Elvis is tickled pink; his laughs do nothing to quell the fire he’s lit.

“See honey, ya do like it. S’okay, mama, I’ll break ya in real nice.” With that, he sits you up and admires his work. Pride swells in his chest as he takes it all in. Your begging eyes, reddened face, slick thighs, twiddling thumbs, it’s got him hot, real hot. you feel small under his stare. He flashes a crooked smile and spreads his legs a bit. “Ya wanna meet little Elvis, honey? Ya might wanna get to know him before we start havin’ fun.”

Your response flies out of your mouth before you can even think “Like…Like sex?”

Elvis nods his head, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And it might’ve been, for any other soul, but not for y/n.

Still, you take this as an opportunity to find out what you’re working with; your eyes shift to his pants. Again, fear washes over your body, ‘little,’ he says.

“Elvis, I don’t think-” you choke on your words, feeling like the room is spinning. Guilt nips at you again, but you're a big girl now. He looks at you expectantly, waiting for the second half of that sentence.

“i—yes, I do. I’m—M’jus scared. Ain’t never seen a man before.”

When he hears ‘scared,’ Elvis’s features soften, and he sits up, fumbling over his words, same as you, “Honey, I ain’t gon hurt ya if that’s what your thinkin’, I know—I k-know I jus’ t-tanned ya up bu-but I wasn’t a-actually hurtin’ ya was I? If I d-did m’sor-”

You giggle at his change in demeanour and shake your head. “No, Elvis it ain’t that. Jus.. well my mama says that what we’re fixin’ to do ain’t appropriate. says it ain’t ladylike. This is what whores-”

Elvis is quick to shut you up with a hungry kiss. It’s far from graceful, teeth clashing, tounges fumbling, but it’s enough to shoo away the last bit of doubt. When you pull back for air, he begins to reassure you.

“You ain’t gon be a whore for nobody but me. Alright? Put that pile of horseshit outta your mind.” You nod your head, and he mimics you.

With that out of the way, Elvis starts to undo his belt. You’re on the edge of your seat; this would be the first time you’d ever seen a man in his most natural state. It’s riveting. He shimmies out of his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles before kicking them off completely. You’re shocked to find he isn’t wearing underwear.

His cock slaps against his stomach, earning a mewl from you. There was no doubt that Elvis was blessed; the print in those pants left little to the imaginatiou, but the display before you is mouthwatering. He’s Uncut, thick, veins that run along the lenght, an angry red tip, with balls heavy, and ready to spill. There’s hair, but it’s neatly kept.

Elvis lazily strokes himself, watching you burn the image into your memory. You didn’t think this is what it would be like. Schoolyard talk had you stuck with the image of a worm between every mans legs.

“Can…can I touch it?” you ask, wanting to explore this new territory. Elvis gives you a cheeky grin and nods, taking your hand in his, replacing it with his own. He lets out a groan when your fingers wrap around him. He’s heavy in your hands, never mind how he’d feel inside you. Elvis begins to guide you, growing more impatient by the second. “Move your hand jus like that, baby.”

You do as told, afraid of making any moves without help. Elvis’s hands glide down your spine as he watches you, concentration never breaking. “Go on and wrap your pretty lips round the tip, like ya would a sucker. No teeth though, darlin’.”

Hesitantly, you lean down. Uncertain of what to expect, your tongue swipes over the small hole, testing the waters. Elvis takes a sharp breath; scared to have done something wrong, you quickly pull away.

“I—m’sorry, I jus-”

Elvis pulls you into him, giving you a gentle kiss. “Felt good, mama. Real good. Keep goin’,” he reassures, wanting nothing more than your mouth on his aching cock. With a nod, you resume your ministrations. You swirl your tongue around his tip before wrapping around him entirely. The taste of pre-cum sends your eyes to the back of your head.

“That’s a good girl, I knew ya knew how to listen.”

Too focused on the task at hand, the teasing goes unnoticed. How much of him could you take? Elvis is taken by surprise when you attempt to find out. His head lulls back. Hands tangle in your tresses as you gag around him. “Fuck, honey. Ya learn quick.”

On your way back up, Elvis tightens his grip on your hair, sending you back down. “Stay right there, babydoll. G-Goddamnit, that’s a good girl!”

Looking up through your lashes, you find him with lips parted, eyes closed, and chest beginning to rise and fall a little faster. The sight makes you shift to create a bit of friction. As he holds you in that same spot, air becomes scarce. Tears well in your eyes; you tap his thigh, hoping he’ll give you a breather. Elvis’s eyes open, and his features set in a pout.

“Ya need air, baby?” He asks, seeming genuine.

Nodding frantically, you move to pull off, but he keeps you locked in place. “Then breath through your nose. Gotta be able to suck me good n’ proper. Can’t do that if youre runnin’ for air all the time.”

Realizing he’s serious, you have no choice but to redirect your breathing. When you finally get the hang of it, Elvis wastes no time moving. Your head bobbing just wasn’t enough, his hips buck up, speed increasing as he focuses on his release. The sound of you choking only spurs the musician on further. Obsceneites leave his mouth with little shame.

“Come on honey, shit, I know ya got it in ya.”

“Feels so damn good, princess.”

“Gonna taste me for days, sweetheart.”

You whine around his cock, sending a pleasant shock through his body. Pants and grunts escape the star above you, leaving your underwear far past the point of no return. Elvis can’t help but use you to chase his high. Having someone so innocent, so malleable, so willing, sends him careening toward that ledge much quicker than he had intended.

His core tightens, and his thrusts lose their rhythmic pace. Elvis is more than vocal as he abuses your poor throat. His thighs clench, and his toes curl; he’s so close. Bliss brings him to the moon, the only word leaving his mouth is your name. Wondering what the effect would be, you graze your fingertips over his balls. That does it. With a yelp, Elvis stills and spills down your throat, the option to spit taken away.

He pulls you off with a ‘pop.’ He sees a fucking mess. Your hair’s disheveled, drool is everywhere, mascara cascading down your cheeks. You do indeed look like a whore, and Elvis loves every second of it. He pulls you onto his lap, arms snaking around your waist.

“Your mama’s a goddamn liar. That was the most ladylike thing I’ve ever seen. Now, s’time for me to show ya how a man takes care of his lady.”

Taglist: @powerofelvis @prayerstopresley

[beeandheroddobsessions]

If this shit don’t fit I’m gonna cry.

[beeandheroddobsessions]

Thank you for taggin me! @powerofelvis

This is from Inappropriate

“Don’t you go hidin’ what’s mine, you’ve got awfully bad manners, sugar.”

Tagging: @elvis-bucket-hat

I don’t know who else to tag 🥲

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote and tag as many people as there are words.

I was tagged by the lovely @bookshelf-dust , thank you, babe! 💋 Funnily enough, it's from your Corinthian request. 😏

Up until now, it's just been flirty remarks and sarcasm that rivaled your own.

Tagging: @writethrough @headfullofpresley @powerofelvis @sassy-ahsoka-tano @bluebeardtheblasphemous @blurredcolour @ab4eva @bi-bard @crash-and-cure @devils-dares @emmymaehereeeeee @elvisabutler @elvisfatass @girlnairb @lindszeppelin