elvisbdoll

[elvisbdoll]

Guys I just turned nineteen..

Appreciate how cute he is… i love him so much

[elvisbdoll]

Since some of yall are interested in shifting, here’s my shifting blog!

✧ WELCOME TO MY DR SERIES ✧

Hi, loves. 🖤

If you’re here, welcome to the chaos, the magic, and the velvety madness that is my Desired Reality. This series is where I’ll be sharing pieces of my shifting journey—the love, the laughter, the drama, the Memphis Mafia antics, and above all… my life with him.

Yes, I shift.

Yes, it’s real to me.

No, I don’t need you to understand it—just respect it.

🪞✨ In my DR, I am Novalie Hadid—a Dominican-American actress with a bold career, a sharp tongue (especially when I say coño or diablo), and a life filled with deep love, chaos, and soul-bonding moments with Elvis Presley and other people.

But let me make this crystal clear:

This is my reality.

The Elvis or other people I write about is not a historical figure—he’s the version of Elvis and the people who lives in my DR, who I love, who I laugh with, and who I sometimes argue with while barefoot in the Graceland kitchen at 2am.

I am not claiming these are facts. I’m not rewriting history. I’m just writing my story.

⸻

🛑 DNI:

If you are anti-shifting, if you plan to mock, disrespect, or dismiss the shifting community—do not interact.

Go read something else. This space is sacred to me and others who shift. Any negative comments will be deleted, blocked, and saged with spiritual sass. 💅🏽

⸻

This is a space for romantics, dreamers, shifters, and those of us who live between timelines. I’ll be sharing stories—funny, spicy, heartbreaking, and absurd. From jealousy tantrums in Graceland to almost burning the house down with the Mafia boys—you’re gonna get it all.

So buckle up, baby. Light a candle. Pour a cafecito.

It’s gonna get real.

✧ TAGLIST ✧

💌 Want to be tagged in every post from my DR series? Just reply, reblog with “✨tag me✨”, or send me an ask/message!

🕯️ If your name isn’t showing up, make sure your Tumblr settings allow mentions.

✘ Anti-shifters, trolls, and bad vibes will be blocked faster than Elvis can throw a guitar at me for messing with his nose.

[elvisbdoll]

shifting propaganda i will be falling for bcuz why the hell not

being the main character in my drs.

shifting for different people just for fun.

scripting unnecessary things just because.

shifting for mundane / 'trivial' reasons (food, getting laid, etc.)

having multiple s/os in the SAME reality (polyamory final boss.)

lazy shifting / not putting in effort to shift (bcuz it's litch never that serious.)

contradictory scripting (yes, i am very emotionally intelligent and aware but i will also cry if you yell at me.)

being a major overconsumer in my drs (i will have a ginormous wardrobe and a million different perfumes bcuz i can. but dw, i scripted that doing this doesn't cause any issues.)

[elvisbdoll]

Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait

EPISODE V: Sanctified and Searching.

Before you read: here’s the DISCLAIMER

Before the lights. Before the jumpsuits. Before Graceland.

There were two twin boys—Elvis and Jesse.

Only one of them survived.

And from the very beginning, Elvis Presley believed he had been spared for a reason.

He didn’t just carry guilt for Jesse’s death—he carried purpose. As if God had handpicked him to live, to rise, to move people. And no matter how famous he became, how many fans screamed his name, it was that early belief that grounded him: “I’m here for something bigger.”

⸻

A Bond With God, Not Religion

To understand Elvis, you must understand that his faith was not a public performance. It wasn’t shaped by church pews or dogma—it was personal. Private. Sacred. He didn’t talk about God for attention. He talked to God like He was a friend, a protector, a lifeline.

He read the Bible constantly, not to preach—but to understand. To feel connected. To figure out why he had been chosen. And when he found something that moved him, he’d share it—not to convert you, but because he believed it might help you too.

Elvis didn’t separate his fame from his faith. In his mind, his voice, his gift, his charisma—it was all God-given. He was simply the vessel. He often told those closest to him, “God gave me this talent. He gave me this life. I have to use it for something good.”

⸻

The Shadow of Jesse

Elvis never forgot Jesse. The idea that he had lived while his twin had not—that was the center of his spiritual longing. According to Billy Stanley, Elvis used to wonder out loud what Jesse’s mission might have been, and why he was the one still walking the Earth.

That loss, buried so deep, became a guiding force. He wasn’t just looking for comfort. He was looking for clarity. He believed he was living two lives in one—his and Jesse’s. And the weight of that doubled sense of destiny pushed him to dig into every form of spiritual teaching he could find.

⸻

The Search for Truth

From Christianity to numerology, from the Bible to The Impersonal Life, Elvis chased knowledge like a man starved. Not because he was confused—but because he was hungry for truth.

He believed there was a reason for everything. That everything was connected. He studied the number 8. He learned about chakras and energy, about the afterlife and angels. He wasn’t just curious—he was devoted. His room in Graceland became a quiet sanctuary of books, prayer, and reflection.

And always, at the center of it all, was God.

Not just a God. His God. Loving. Listening. Leading.

⸻

Faith as Compass

To his stepbrother and inner circle, Elvis often spoke of how the presence of God gave him direction when nothing else made sense. Fame was chaotic. Relationships were fragile. His body was failing. But God—God was steady.

He told Billy that sometimes when he prayed, he could feel a peace wash over him. Like he was being reminded that he wasn’t alone, that he was doing what he was meant to do—even if it was hard. Even if he didn’t understand it all.

He didn’t always follow the straightest path. But the compass was there. The desire was real.

⸻

Not a Saint, But a Seeker

Elvis was no saint. He was human—flawed, overwhelmed, at times lost in the shadows of his own contradictions. But that never made his faith less real. In fact, it made it more powerful.

Because even when he was hurting, even when he felt farthest from grace—he kept reaching for God.

Even when he stumbled, he tried to get back up.

Even when he didn’t have the answers, he never stopped asking.

⸻

He was Sanctified and Searching.

Not because he was broken beyond repair—

But because deep down, he believed he was part of something divine.

That he was spared for a reason.

And that reason was still unfolding.

The King Who Bowed His Head

To the world, he was The King of Rock and Roll. But behind closed doors, Elvis often felt more like a servant. A man kneeling before something much greater than fame. He didn’t crave worship—he feared it. Because he didn’t believe the crown belonged to him. It belonged to God.

There were nights when, instead of partying, he’d gather the guys and read Scripture aloud. Or sing gospel songs until dawn. His most authentic joy wasn’t found in the spotlight—it was in those quiet moments, harmonizing hymns with the ones who loved him, eyes closed, voice trembling, lost in something eternal.

His stage presence may have electrified crowds, but gospel? That’s where he felt the most alive. He said it over and over again: “That music comes from my soul.” It was more than art. It was prayer.

⸻

Misunderstood Devotion

People around Elvis didn’t always understand the depth of his spirituality. To some, it seemed like another celebrity quirk—the endless books, the late-night talks about life after death, the obsession with ancient symbols and Eastern mysticism. But to Elvis, this wasn’t indulgence. It was survival.

He wasn’t looking for power. He was looking for peace.

He wanted answers about why he felt so deeply, why his heart ached when others were hurting, why he couldn’t seem to fill the emptiness inside—even with the whole world at his feet. And he thought maybe, just maybe, the answer was hidden somewhere between the pages of a spiritual book or in the quiet whisper of a prayer.

He was trying to make sense of the burden of being chosen. Of being spared. Of being Elvis.

⸻

Jesse, Again

In private, he spoke to Jesse like he was still there. Not in a delusional way, but in a spiritual one. Like Jesse was still watching, still listening, still connected. Elvis believed their bond couldn’t be severed by death.

It gave him comfort. But it also reminded him of the pressure. That he had to do enough for the both of them. That he had to live a life worthy of being the one who survived.

He didn’t say this often—but those who knew him well said you could see it in his eyes. That constant tension between gratitude and guilt. Between praise and pain.

⸻

His Own Kind of Ministry

In many ways, Elvis’s life became a kind of ministry. He didn’t stand at a pulpit—but he carried light into dark places. Whether through a song, a gesture, or the simple act of seeing someone who felt invisible, Elvis made people feel closer to something sacred. Not because he tried to—but because it was in him.

He gave away more than money. He gave people hope. A reason to believe that beauty could come from poverty, that broken hearts could still shine, that even the most unlikely soul could be chosen.

It’s no wonder he kept searching for spiritual answers until his last breath. Because deep down, he believed that when his time came, he wouldn’t just meet his Maker—he’d meet Jesse again.

And he wanted to be ready.

⸻

Sanctified and Searching (Refrain)

Elvis never stopped searching. Not because he lacked faith—but because his faith was so alive, so urgent, it couldn’t sit still. It had to move. It had to reach. It had to know.

He was sanctified—not in the sense of perfection, but in the sense of purpose.

And he was always searching—not out of doubt, but out of devotion.

In a world that crowned him king, he never stopped asking who the real King was.

And maybe that’s why the world loved him.

Because beneath the rhinestones and applause—was a man with a prayer in his heart,

and eternity in his eyes.

[elvisbdoll]

📌 DISCLAIMER:

Hi everyone,

I’m writing this post just to clarify a few things regarding the ongoing series I’ve been sharing, which explores the psychological depth and emotional complexity of Elvis Presley.

First and foremost, I am not a psychologist, nor am I claiming to be one. This series is not an attempt to diagnose Elvis Presley or present any psychological perspective as absolute truth. What I am is someone deeply passionate about understanding the emotional and human side of one of the most iconic figures in music history. This project is a labor of love—rooted in empathy, curiosity, and respect.

The goal of “Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait” is to dive into what might have shaped Elvis emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually. It’s a way to reflect on his inner world, not to distort or degrade him. I’m not trying to portray him as a saint or a villain—just as a man, one who carried immense pressure, loss, beauty, contradictions, and depth.

This is my personal interpretation, based on research, personal reflections, and an interest in psychology—not a definitive biography or clinical analysis. If you disagree, that’s completely okay. I welcome respectful discussion, differing opinions, and thoughtful critique. I’m not here to silence anyone or avoid accountability.

However, if this kind of content is not for you, that’s okay too. You can simply scroll past. I won’t take it personally. And if this project truly upsets or offends people, I’m more than willing to shift my focus back to writing fanfiction or other content. My goal was never to stir controversy—it was to open a meaningful conversation.

Lastly, I want to make it clear that I deeply respect Elvis Presley. I am one of the first people to defend him. This series does not come from a place of mockery or exploitation—it comes from admiration and a desire to understand the real human being behind the legend.

Thank you to everyone who’s read, engaged, shared kind words, or even offered constructive criticism. Your interest and support means the world. 💙

[elvisbdoll]

Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait

EPISODE IV:ATLAS IN RHINESTONES

Before you read: here’s the DISCLAIMER

He was 22 years old and already supporting half of Memphis.

After returning from Germany in 1960, Elvis Presley stepped back into a country he no longer fully recognized—and a fame that had grown even larger in his absence. But he didn’t just return to music, or to Hollywood sets. He returned to the full weight of an identity he had been building, quietly and unconsciously, since childhood:

He was the provider. The savior. The man who made sure no one else ever had to suffer.

That role began long before the rhinestones.

When Vernon went to jail, Elvis was just a little boy. But in that moment—without ceremony or recognition—he became the man of the house. Gladys didn’t ask for it. But grief has a way of hollowing a space, and Elvis filled it the only way he knew how: by being everything. Her comfort. Her emotional stability. Her protector.

He carried that same instinct into adulthood.

When Gladys died, the pain didn’t just wound him. It reinforced something that had already begun to take root:

“If I’m not strong, everything falls apart.”

So he made sure everything stayed together—by being everything to everyone.

⸻

Atlas in Rhinestones.

That’s what he became.

Not just a man. Not just a star. But a symbol. A myth. A lifeline.

He wore Vegas jumpsuits stitched with diamonds and capes like a superhero, but it wasn’t just performance—it was armor.

Because behind the sequins and spotlights stood someone who genuinely believed that it was his duty to hold the world together.

And not just his world—everyone’s.

The Presley family. The Memphis Mafia. The Colonel. The fans. The hangers-on. The people who cried when they saw him, who asked for favors, who called him “Boss” and “King” and “EP.”

They needed him.

And he needed to be needed.

Because somewhere deep inside, Elvis still carried the shame of being that poor kid from Tupelo who couldn’t afford a proper pair of shoes. The boy who watched his mother cry over bills. The child who felt small in a world that didn’t offer much kindness.

So he made it his mission to give others what he never had—security. Protection. Magic.

He gave out Cadillacs like candy. Bought houses for people who’d once bought him lunch. Handed out money to strangers with a kind word and a nervous smile.

Not because he wanted praise.

Because he wanted relief.

And maybe—on the deepest level—because he hoped that if he made enough people feel loved, he’d finally feel it, too.

⸻

But there was a cost.

You can’t hold the world on your shoulders without it crushing something inside you.

And Elvis? He never said no.

He didn’t believe he had the right to.

That’s what made him different. He wasn’t arrogant—he was obligated.

“I have everything. I don’t get to complain.”

That was the belief that governed him.

So when the pressure got too high, when the requests piled up, when the loneliness crept in—he didn’t talk about it.

He retreated.

Into silence. Into spiritualism.

Into pills.

Into the stage, where for two hours a night, he could disappear into a version of himself the world already understood.

But when the lights went down, Atlas was still standing there.

Not on a mountain—but in a hotel suite, in Graceland, in a limousine at 3 a.m.—wearing rhinestones and holding up the weight of a thousand expectations.

And no one ever thought to ask him:

“Do you want to put it down?”

⸻

Because kings aren’t supposed to cry.

And providers aren’t supposed to fall apart.

And if you give everyone everything, no one asks what you need.

He wasn’t just carrying the Presley family.

He was carrying the myth of Elvis Presley.

And in the end, that myth became heavier than anyone could have imagined.

For years, he kept the illusion alive.

The fans still screamed. The diamond suits still shimmered under the spotlight. The boys still circled him like a protective orbit, ready to say yes before he even finished the question.

But inside, he was starting to break.

Carrying everyone was no longer noble. It was exhausting.

And Elvis didn’t know how to stop.

Because to stop meant to let go.

And letting go meant something might fall apart—someone might fall apart.

And that was his deepest fear: that without him, it would all collapse. That if he ever let down his guard, everyone would see he wasn’t a god—just a man with too many ghosts.

So he built a castle around himself.

Not made of stone, but of control.

He decided who stayed. Who left. Who got access.

He gave love on his terms—lavishly, but conditionally.

Because if he could control the giving, he wouldn’t have to fear the taking.

⸻

But even the strongest myth has pressure points.

Elvis began to unravel in silence, behind closed doors.

He became unpredictable—one moment generous and glowing, the next distant, paranoid, furious.

He’d blow up over small things. Or retreat into hours of brooding quiet.

Some called it fame.

Some blamed the pills.

But those were symptoms—not causes.

The cause was the unbearable weight of never being allowed to be human.

He couldn’t grieve.

He couldn’t rest.

He couldn’t be unsure, or afraid, or tired.

He was Atlas. In rhinestones.

And no one ever told Atlas he could sit down.

⸻

The people around him saw the changes, but they didn’t always understand them.

To them, he was moody. Hard to please. Reckless.

But really, he was screaming without making a sound.

He tried to anchor himself in things that felt safe:

The Bible. Old friends. His daughter. Familiar rituals.

But the more he gave away, the emptier he felt.

Because here’s the truth that no one ever taught him:

If you spend your whole life making sure no one else feels poor, lonely, unloved—you’ll forget what it’s like to be taken care of.

And Elvis forgot.

He forgot how to ask.

He forgot how to receive.

He didn’t believe he deserved to receive.

⸻

So he spiraled—quietly at first.

A little more withdrawn.

A little more erratic.

Then came the cycles: spiritual highs, violent lows, intense generosity, isolation, collapse.

Repeat.

The people around him kept taking. And he kept giving.

Because if he ever stopped—what would be left of him?

⸻

By the mid-70s, the myth had consumed the man.

He was still performing. Still gifting. Still providing.

But you could see it in his eyes:

The weight had grown too heavy.

He was still Atlas.

But now, the rhinestones looked like armor he couldn’t take off.

The smile was more forced. The voice a little more weary.

He didn’t ask for help.

Because kings don’t beg.

And gods don’t get to rest.

And deep down, Elvis Presley—the poor boy from Tupelo—still didn’t believe he had earned the right to be taken care of.

@jhoneybees

[elvisbdoll]

Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait

EPISODE III: THE ARCHITECTURE OF NEED

Before you read: here’s the DISCLAIMER

“You look like a lonely little boy,” she once said to him. And she wasn’t wrong.

1962. Elvis Presley came home from Germany not just as a soldier, but as a son without a mother. Gladys was gone. And so was the last piece of emotional safety he’d ever really known.

He returned to a mansion, not a home. The world was watching, waiting for him to pick up where he left off. Movies. Records. Headlines. But inside, Elvis was stuck—half grieving, half surviving.

And in the fog of that in-between, he thought of her—the quiet, blue-eyed girl he met in Bad Nauheim. Priscilla Beaulieu. She had been just 14 when they met—young, soft-spoken, and attentive. He was drawn to her, not because of who she was, but because of what she offered: a sense of stillness. Safety. Innocence.

The world around Elvis was demanding, complicated. Priscilla, in contrast, didn’t ask much. She listened. She admired him. She made him feel strong. And in her presence, he felt something rare—not judged.

He didn’t force her into anything. But over time, she shifted herself to fit the outline of what she believed he wanted. The hair, the makeup, the style—it wasn’t about control. It was about approval. She wanted to be the woman he would never leave. And in that silent agreement, a dynamic formed. Elvis didn’t need to ask. Priscilla chose to become who he needed.

Bringing her to Graceland wasn’t just about romance—it was about filling a void. He had lost the one woman who truly understood him, and now he was trying to build something similar out of memory and need.

But Priscilla was not just a passive figure in his life. She may have been young, but she learned how to exist within his orbit. She knew when to be quiet, when to offer comfort, when to back away. She adapted. And with time, she carved out her place—not just as a girlfriend, but as a constant. A pillar.

For Elvis, stability was everything. Fame had spun his world off its axis. He didn’t want to be challenged; he wanted to be held together. And Priscilla became part of that scaffolding.

But what began as emotional refuge slowly turned into routine. And routine turned into distance.

By the time they married in 1967, Elvis was already becoming emotionally unavailable. The version of Priscilla he had idealized was changing—growing. She was no longer a teenage girl shaped by his shadow, but a woman with thoughts, needs, and boundaries of her own. And that unnerved him.

He began to detach. He sought affection elsewhere. Not necessarily out of malice, but out of a need to avoid vulnerability. The closeness that once felt comforting began to feel risky. And Elvis—ever protective of his emotional core—started to shut down.

The tragedy wasn’t that he stopped loving her. The tragedy was that he didn’t know how to love without fear. Fear of being abandoned. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being seen too closely.

So instead, he leaned into what he did know: performance. Charm. Distraction.

He smiled in public, laughed with the boys, posed for photos.

And when the lights dimmed, he slipped back into silence.

Their marriage didn’t fail overnight. It faded. Quietly.

Two people who once clung to each other for safety now stood in opposite corners of a house that had once promised peace.

Elvis never stopped needing connection.

He just didn’t know how to hold it once he had it.

Elvis longed for closeness, but closeness terrified him. He could be warm, affectionate, and magnetic—but when things started to feel too close, too vulnerable, he pulled away.

After Gladys died, the part of him that could fully attach to another person dimmed. That loss had cut too deep. She had been everything—his mother, his mirror, his emotional lifeline. Losing her wasn’t just about grief; it was about losing safety itself.

So Elvis began to love in fragments. He kept people at arm’s length—not always physically, but emotionally.

He surrounded himself with a crowd but built emotional escape routes into every relationship. Friendships, romances, even marriage—all held at just enough distance to avoid the pain of another loss like hers.

That distance wasn’t cruelty. It was protection.

Elvis didn’t want to feel that kind of devastation ever again. So he coped the only way he knew how:

Don’t get too close. Don’t let anyone in too deep. That way, when they leave—and they always do—you won’t fall apart.

[elvisbdoll]

Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait

EPISODE II: MOTHER’S SHADOW

Before you read: here’s the DISCLAIMER

Elvis loved his mother. That part has never been up for debate. But what’s often overlooked is just how much that love defined him—how it shaped not only who he was, but who he felt responsible to be.

When Elvis was just a toddler, his father, Vernon Presley, was arrested and sent to prison for altering a check. He was gone for eight months. At that time, Elvis was too young to fully understand why, but old enough to absorb the shift in atmosphere. The man of the house was gone, and in that absence, something changed.

Gladys Presley was left alone—with no husband, no real income, and a baby to raise in East Tupelo, a poor, rural neighborhood where reputation traveled fast and options ran thin. She had always been protective, but now she was anxious, burdened, emotionally stretched. And Elvis, even as a little boy, felt that weight.

Children don’t need words to understand when something’s wrong. They respond to tone, energy, silence. Elvis began clinging to her more. Watching her face more. Trying to make her laugh when she looked tired. Being quiet when she looked overwhelmed. That’s when the pattern began—not of being taken care of, but of taking care.

He stepped into that role unconsciously: the little boy who didn’t cry too loud, who didn’t ask for too much, who tried to keep the sadness out of the room. He wasn’t “the man of the house” in any literal sense, but emotionally, that’s what he became. Gladys’s stability rested on him. And he felt it—even if he couldn’t name it.

When Vernon came back, things didn’t reset. Trust was broken, and the dynamic between husband and wife had shifted. Gladys leaned even more into her bond with Elvis. He was her everything—not just her child, but her protector, her comforter, her emotional anchor. And she became his world.

They were physically close—sharing a bed well into childhood. Emotionally fused. Gladys didn’t want him out of her sight. She took him to school. She feared other children would hurt him. She didn’t trust the world to protect him. And that made Elvis fearful too—of strangers, of change, of anything that might take him away from her.

As he grew, he started to absorb her emotional state as his own. If she was upset, he was upset. If she worried, he’d do whatever he could to calm her. That bond taught him that love meant sacrifice. Love meant being responsible for someone else’s feelings.

And it followed him into adulthood.

When he began to sing in school and church, it wasn’t just about music—it was about giving something to her. Making her proud. Making her smile. She didn’t always show it—Gladys had a hard time with praise—but he chased that reaction like his life depended on it. Because emotionally, it did.

She didn’t celebrate his early success. She feared it. The clothes, the crowds, the attention—it meant other people would want him. That he might drift away. He felt that resistance, but he also felt the need to provide. To buy her a home. To give her everything she never had. And when that didn’t make her feel better, he blamed himself.

Once Elvis found success, he didn’t stop giving. He couldn’t. He became the main provider for the entire Presley family—his parents, cousins, extended relatives. That weight landed on him early, and he wore it like a second skin. The boy who once had nothing now gave away cars, homes, jewelry, stacks of cash—often to people who barely knew him. Not to show off, not even to buy loyalty. But because he remembered.

He remembered what it was like to have no car. No money. No power. To watch your mother cry quietly because there wasn’t enough food. Deep down, giving made him feel safe. It made him feel loved. It gave him control over a world that had once denied him everything. And more than that—it let him make people feel the way he wished someone had made him feel.

Taken care of. Chosen. Special.

He wanted to be a savior, because nobody had saved him.

And that drive never stopped. Even when it drained him. Even when it left him surrounded by people who took and took without ever really seeing him. He was constantly trying to recreate what he never had: security, love, and peace. But you can’t buy the past back. And no gift—no Cadillac, no mansion—ever filled the hole left by a childhood shaped by lack.

When Gladys died in 1958, Elvis lost the person he had built his world around. He was 23, stationed in Germany with the Army, when she fell ill. The grief was immediate, raw, and consuming. He screamed at doctors. He sobbed in public. He held her body for hours. He was inconsolable.

People say he never recovered. And maybe that’s because her death wasn’t just the loss of his mother. It was the loss of the person he had been living for. The person he had tried to protect, save, and please since he was a little boy.

From that point on, Elvis’s giving became even more desperate. More frequent. But also more hollow. Because no matter what he gave, or how many people called him “The King,” he was still that poor kid in East Tupelo who thought love meant keeping everybody happy. Who thought being wanted meant being useful.

And so, even at the height of his fame, Elvis Presley carried the weight of a child who once had nothing—and took it upon himself to give everything.

[elvisbdoll]

Inside the Mind of Elvis Presley: A Psychological Portrait

EPISODE I: TWINLESS

Before you read: here’s the DISCLAIMER

One came into the world silent.

The other came screaming.

That was the beginning of everything and the end of something no one ever saw. Tupelo, Mississippi, 1935—cold, poor, and already grieving.

Elvis Aaron Presley was born with a ghost. His twin, Jesse Garon, never took a breath. And yet he never truly left. For the rest of Elvis’s life, the presence of that missing half echoed in everything—the music, the hunger, the ache in his eyes when no one was watching.

From the start, he wasn’t just a boy. He was a survivor. And he carried it like a secret cross.

Gladys clung to him like he was made of glass. Overprotective didn’t begin to cover it. She didn’t just love him—she needed him. And in that household of sighs and scripture, a boy learned early that love could mean fear. That safety could feel suffocating. That silence had weight.

Elvis Presley was born into absence.

On January 8, 1935, in a tiny shotgun house in Tupelo, Mississippi, Gladys Presley gave birth to twin boys. The first, Jesse Garon, was stillborn. The second, Elvis Aaron, came into the world alone—alive, but missing something that would follow him quietly for the rest of his life.

That early loss was never spoken about in much detail, but it shaped him. There are theories in psychology about “vanishing twins”—how surviving twins can carry the weight of the one who didn’t make it, even without realizing it. Elvis never had to be told he was different. He just was. From the beginning, something in him seemed divided, pulled between life and something heavier.

Gladys worshipped him. That’s not an exaggeration—her grief over Jesse turned into an obsessive love for Elvis. He was her miracle. Her reason. Her second chance. But being someone’s entire world isn’t a gift; it’s a pressure. From the time he was a toddler, Elvis had to carry her expectations, her fears, and her constant need to keep him close.

She wouldn’t let him play outside too far. She’d walk him to school. She worried over everything. And because of that, he grew up emotionally enmeshed with her—tied to her in a way that would affect every relationship he’d have for the rest of his life. Elvis loved women, but he never really learned how to be separate from them. It always came back to that first bond: intense, protective, and impossible to fully return.

They were poor. Very poor. Food stamps. Government aid. A two-room house where dreams were small because survival came first. Elvis wasn’t one of the kids who stood out in a good way. He wore hand-me-downs. He was quiet. Awkward. Emotional. Teachers remembered him as polite but sensitive. He cried easily. He hated being laughed at. He wanted to fit in but didn’t quite know how.

Then came music.

It wasn’t just something he liked. It was a coping mechanism. Gospel music in church gave him a way to express emotions that were too big to say out loud. Blues and rhythm music gave him edge and attitude he didn’t have in real life. When he sang, he became someone else. More confident. More whole. The boy who lost his brother stepped into a voice that belonged to both of them.

It’s important to understand this about Elvis: he was always split. Always trying to live for two.

He didn’t talk about Jesse much. But the weight was there—in his grief when Gladys died, in his need to be adored, in his fear of being alone, in the way he clung to people, and in the way he destroyed himself when he couldn’t meet the expectations the world had for him.

The loss of his twin didn’t just happen on the day he was born. It kept happening, over and over again—every time he looked in the mirror and didn’t quite see the person he thought he should be.

[elvisbdoll]

🫦🫦🫦🫦

Lord 😩💕

[elvisbdoll]

Hillary’s Masterlist

✴︎ Fluff ⭒Angst ✧ Smutty 𐙚 Little Space

⛧ 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶 𝗰𝗿𝘆... ⛧

✴︎ 1950s༄

Blue moon | ⭒

A night in Tupelo | ✴︎

Sweet little love | ✴︎

The night we grew up | ✧ ✴︎

Mistery in Memphis | Series | ✴︎

✴︎ 1960s༄

The One in the Polka-Dot Dress | ✴︎

Emotions | ⭒ ✴︎

Tea party | 𐙚 ✴︎

Bridge over troubled water | ⭒ ✴︎

Until the morning comes | ✧

Money power and glory |

For daddy | ✴︎

✴︎ 1970s༄

Honey, Honey |

Sharp shooter |

Ebb and flow | ✴︎

Wrapping gifts | ✴︎

Happy birthday, daddy! | ✴︎

One last dance | ⭒

Be mine, always |

The other woman | ⭒

Velvet chains | ✧

Ultraviolence | ⭒

Presley’s Girl | ✧

Only mine to touch | ✧

When daddy forgets | ✴︎ ⭒ 𐙚

Naive | ✧

Car ride | ✧

I ain’t gentle | ⭒

Tags 🏷️: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11 @atleastpleasetelephone

[elvisbdoll]

I can’t, I can’t I can’t i can’t OH MY GOD

Lord have mercy 🔥🔥🔥

[elvisbdoll]

Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton was a blues singer and songwriter whose recordings of “Hound Dog” and “Ball ‘n’ Chain” later were transformed into huge hits by Elvis Presley and Janis Joplin.

She was born on December 11, 1926 outside of Montgomery in rural Ariton, Alabama. Her father was a Baptist minister and her mother was a church singer in his congregation. Thornton’s mother died when the singer was 14, and she left home to pursue a career as an entertainer. She joined the Georgia-based Hot Harlem Revue as an accomplished singer, drummer, and harmonica player and spent seven years as a regular performer throughout the South. Following her years as a traveling blues singer, Thornton moved to Houston in 1948 to begin her recording career.

In Houston, Thornton joined Don Robey’s Peacock Records in 1951, often working closely with fellow label artist Johnny Otis.

One of Thornton’s earliest and most popular recorded tracks was “Hound Dog,” initially released by Peacock in 1953. Thornton’s version of “Hound Dog” topped the R&B charts for seven weeks and sold over two million copies nationwide. Though the song brought acclaim to Thornton, it only yielded her about $500. The song became even more popular as Elvis Presley’s first hit record in 1956.

•••

Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton fue una cantante y compositora de blues cuyas grabaciones “Hound Dog” y “Ball ‘n’ Chain” luego fueron transformadas en grandes éxitos por Elvis Presley y Janis Joplin.

Nació el 11 de diciembre de 1926 en las afueras de Montgomery, en la zona rural de Ariton, Alabama. Su padre era pastor bautista y su madre, cantante en su congregación. La madre de Thornton falleció cuando la cantante tenía 14 años, y ella abandonó el hogar para dedicarse al arte. Se unió a la Hot Harlem Revue, con sede en Georgia, como una cantante, baterista y armonicista, y pasó siete años presentándose con regularidad por todo el sur. Tras sus años como cantante de blues, Thornton se mudó a Houston en 1948 para comenzar su carrera discográfica.

En Houston, Thornton se unió a Peacock Records de Don Robey en 1951, trabajando a menudo en estrecha colaboración con su colega y artista de sello, Johnny Otis.

Una de las primeras y más populares canciones grabadas por Thornton fue "Hound Dog", publicada inicialmente por Peacock en 1953. Su versión de "Hound Dog" encabezó las listas de R&B durante siete semanas y vendió más de dos millones de copias en todo el país. Aunque la canción le trajo gran éxito a Thornton, solo le ganó unos 500 dólares. La canción se hizo aún más popular al convertirse en el primer éxito de Elvis Presley en 1956.

[elvisbdoll]

“Presley’s Girl”

While lounging in nothing but his shirt, you catch Elvis’s eye — and his desire. He watches you, silent and intense, until the tension snaps. What follows is a slow, dominant, and deeply intimate encounter where he takes his time claiming you, whispering filthy things as he pulls every moan from your lips.

TWs: Explicit sexual content, dom/sub dynamic, power play, light choking (breath play), rough sex, possessive language, voyeuristic undertones, praise/degradation mix, mild consensual non-consent (CNC) themes — all acts are fully consensual within the story.

Word count: 2,050

Graceland, 1971.

The room is quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of pages as you sit on the couch, reading a book that doesn’t seem to hold your full attention. You’re sprawled out in one of Elvis’s old shirts, its edges hanging off your shoulders, the fabric stretched across your curves. The sunlight streaming through the windows is warm, casting a golden glow over the room and making the air feel thick and heavy. It’s late afternoon, and the house is quieter than usual, almost as if it’s holding its breath.

You can feel his eyes before you see him. They’re there, watching, just behind you. You don’t turn to look at him, but you know he’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his gaze locked on the way your legs stretch out on the couch. The way the shirt drapes over your skin.

He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence is undeniable, thickening the air between you. Slowly, you lower the book, letting it fall onto the coffee table, and you sit up just enough to adjust your position — an unconscious movement, designed to show off the curve of your back, the way your hips gently roll when you shift.

His footsteps are soft as he moves closer, the sound of his boots barely making a sound on the floorboards. He’s standing right behind you now, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of him — leather, smoke, and something distinctly Elvis. His breath is warm on the back of your neck, just barely there, but enough to make the hairs on your skin prickle. You don’t turn around. You just stay still, letting the tension build between you.

“You’re readin’, huh?” His voice is low, rasping, carrying that deep, teasing drawl. “Got lost in that book, didn’t ya?”

You stay silent, but the pulse in your neck quickens, betraying the way his proximity makes your heart race. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, tracing the fabric of his shirt, teasing, just skimming your skin. The touch is light, almost lazy, but the heat in the room suddenly feels suffocating.

His lips graze your ear, just a whisper, and you shiver. “You know I’ve been watchin’ you, don’t ya?” he murmurs, his breath sending a wave of warmth across your skin. His hands land on your shoulders, gently, but possessively, as if marking his territory.

You want to turn, to face him, but something about the way he’s standing there, just behind you, keeps you still. Your pulse is a steady drumbeat in your ears, and your body feels tight with anticipation.

“Elvis,” you murmur, but the word feels like a plea, like you’re asking for something you know he’s already decided.

“Don’t turn around yet,” he says, his tone almost tender, like he’s savoring the moment. “Let me see you. Let me enjoy watchin’ you like this.”

You feel him lean in, just enough for his chest to brush against your back, his lips barely touching the side of your neck. He inhales deeply, as if taking you in — the soft scent of your skin, the way your body moves, how you shift in response to him. His hands tighten on your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin just a little, enough to remind you he’s in control.

“You look so damn good, baby,” he breathes, his voice laced with something darker, more primal. “But I need to see more. Need to watch you… beg for it.”

A shiver runs through you, and your lips part as you let out a soft, shaky breath. You don’t answer, but your body reacts in ways that betray you. The heat between your legs, the way your back arches just a little — it’s all him, all his presence making you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t control.

He chuckles softly, the sound rich with dark amusement. “I know you want me, darlin’. You don’t have to pretend.”

And with that, he finally lets his hands roam lower, pulling you closer until you feel the full weight of him behind you, pressing against your back, every inch of him burning into you. He leans in, whispering against your ear, “Now… what are you gonna do about it?”

You feel his fingers trail down your spine, light as smoke, and every nerve in your body tightens. He’s still behind you, looming like a shadow, but you don’t dare move. Not yet.

He sinks to his knees behind the couch, face level with your back now. You can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over the strip of skin exposed where the shirt gapes open. One slow inhale, then another — like he’s savoring you before even laying hands on you.

“I watch you like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing just below your shoulder blade, “and I think about how easy it’d be to bend you over this couch. Just lift this pretty shirt up and see if you’re as wet as I know you are.”

Your throat tightens. You shift your legs slightly, enough for the tension between them to make you gasp softly. That’s when his hand moves — sliding up your thigh so slowly it’s like torture, until he reaches the edge of your panties.

He pauses there.

“Were you waitin’ on me, baby?” he asks, voice like velvet-draped sin. “Readin’ your little book, wearin’ nothin’ but this shirt and that sweet little ache between your thighs?”

You nod. He tugs at your panties — not rough, but firm, like he owns the right to remove them — and you lift your hips just enough to help him, to show him you’re his. When the lace slips down your legs and pools on the floor, he makes a low sound in his throat.

“Christ.”

He palms your ass, spreading you gently, his breath stuttering as he looks at you — exposed and still pretending to read, the book trembling in your hands.

“You’re drippin’, baby. Soaked. And I ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

You hear the sound of his belt — the metallic clink, the leather whispering through loops. He’s slow with it, taking his time. You hear the zipper next. Then nothing. Just the sound of both of you breathing like you’re starved.

Then he leans in close, mouth right at your ear.

“Put the book down, darlin’,” he whispers, voice thick and low. “You’re gonna need both hands.”

You obey without hesitation, the book falling open on the rug with a soft thud. Then you brace yourself against the couch cushions, hips high, back arched, giving him everything.

Elvis slides one hand around your throat, not tight — just enough to remind you who’s in control — while the other wraps around himself. He teases you, nudging against your slick entrance, but doesn’t push in yet.

“You want me to fuck you slow, baby?” he growls, voice right against your skin. “Make you feel every inch of it?”

“Please, Daddy,” you whimper, thighs already shaking. “I need it.”

He groans at that, then finally, finally slides into you. Inch by inch, filling you so deep you can’t breathe. You let out a cry, and he shushes you gently, biting at your shoulder as he bottoms out.

“There she is,” he breathes, rocking into you, slow and steady. “That’s my good girl.”

Each thrust is deliberate, dragging against your walls, building that fire deep inside your belly. He watches the way you move, the way your body reacts to his — how you moan, how you shiver, how you fall apart just from being seen.

And when he grabs your hair and pulls you up so your back is flush against his chest, you hear him growl it low and dark:

“You were made for me, baby. Just like this. Now let Daddy show you how good it feels to be watched.”

You’re gasping now, lips parted, eyes barely able to focus as he keeps moving behind you — hips slamming into yours in a rhythm that’s filthy and relentless. The soft slap of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the ragged sounds of your moans and his growls.

“Listen to that,” he pants against your neck, voice dripping heat. “That sound when I fuck you — that wet little slap every time I bury myself in you. That’s mine, baby. You belong to me.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you whine — the loss of him feels like fire. But before you can even protest, he’s grabbing you by the hips and flipping you over with a grunt, dragging you to the edge of the couch so your legs dangle, wide open and trembling.

Now you see him — all of him — shirt undone, chest glistening, belt still hanging loose. His cock is slick, glistening from you, thick and flushed and angry looking. His eyes are dark, nearly black with lust, locked on the mess he’s made between your thighs.

“Look at you,” he growls, curling his fingers around the back of your knees and pushing your legs up, spreading you wider. “Pretty little pussy’s so swollen, so needy… beggin’ me to ruin it.”

He leans in, dragging the head of his cock slowly through your folds, watching how your hips jerk at the contact.

“Say it,” he demands, voice tight with control. “Say you want Daddy to ruin you.”

Your voice breaks. “I want it… I want you to ruin me, Daddy.”

That’s all it takes.

With a grunt, he thrusts back into you, harder this time — rough, deep, punishing. His hand wraps around your throat again, and his other pins your wrist to the couch cushion. You arch into him, body trembling as he pounds into you like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones.

The couch creaks beneath you, the room filled with nothing but the raw, wet sounds of need. You’re crying out now — little gasping moans that tumble out without shame, without restraint.

“Such a good girl,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his brow. “Takin’ all of me like you were made for it.”

Your nails dig into his arm. Your eyes roll back.

He leans in close, lips brushing yours.

“You gonna come for me, baby? Let Daddy feel that pretty little pussy clench all around me?”

You nod desperately, words gone, everything unraveling — until you shatter.

It hits like a wave — your orgasm crashing through you so hard your legs shake violently. You scream his name, clinging to him like you’ll fall apart without his touch. And through it all, he keeps going, driving you through the high, chasing his own.

Then with a growl that sounds like it rips straight from his chest, he buries himself one last time, spilling deep inside you, hips twitching, muscles locked.

You both stay there — trembling, breathless, skin on fire.

He leans in and kisses you, soft now, tender, his voice barely a whisper.

“Next time, you read somethin’ in that shirt… I’ll be behind you again.”

Tags 🏷️: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11 @atleastpleasetelephone

[elvisbdoll]

[elvisbdoll]

“Once upon a dream”

Part 2

Once Upon a Dream is a bittersweet love story set in Graceland in 1977, told from the reader’s point of view. Already deeply involved in Elvis’s life, the reader tries to hold him together as he slowly unravels under the weight of his own self-destruction. Despite the pain, she never stops loving him—even if it means losing herself in the process.

Tw: Substance abuse (prescription pills), emotional codependency, mental and physical decline, caregiver fatigue, self-neglect, depression, and emotional distress, Elvis health.

Previous Part Next Part

The days blurred together, one melting into the next, but the nights—God, the nights—felt endless.

It was getting worse.

You could see it in the way he moved, slower than before, his body betraying him with every step. You could hear it in his voice, the way it cracked and wavered even when he tried to hide it. But mostly, you could feel it in the way he held you, tighter than before, as if he knew he was slipping away but couldn’t bear to let you go just yet.

The world still saw him as Elvis Presley, larger than life, untouchable. But behind closed doors, he was just a man fighting battles he refused to name, drowning in the weight of it all. And you—God help you—you were still trying to save him.

You sat on the floor of his bathroom, knees drawn up to your chest, watching him through the mirror as he leaned over the sink.

He looked exhausted.

The dim glow of the vanity lights cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the hollowness beneath his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. He gripped the porcelain edge of the sink, knuckles white, breathing slow and measured like he was trying to steady himself.

“Elvis,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours in the mirror.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, he turned on the faucet, splashing cold water over his face, as if that would wash away the exhaustion, the pain, the things he wouldn’t say out loud. You watched as droplets clung to his lashes, sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“You should go to bed,” he murmured.

“So should you.”

A dry, humorless chuckle left his lips. He reached for the bottle of pills on the counter.

You moved before you could stop yourself, pushing up from the floor, wrapping your fingers around his wrist before he could twist off the cap. “Not tonight,” you whispered.

His body tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. His gaze flickered to yours, something unreadable in his eyes—something between frustration and desperation. “Baby, don’t.”

“Elvis, please,” you begged. “Just for tonight. Please.”

His throat bobbed. For a second, you thought—hoped—he would listen. That maybe, just maybe, he would let you win this time.

But then his expression hardened, and he gently pried your fingers from his wrist. “I need ‘em,” he muttered.

“You don’t.”

His jaw clenched. “I do.”

You inhaled sharply, stepping back as he twisted off the cap and dry-swallowed two pills. He barely reacted as they went down, like it was second nature by now. Maybe it was.

Your chest ached.

“Elvis,” you tried again, quieter this time, hoping he would hear the desperation in your voice. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before finally turning to face you. His expression softened just a little, but the exhaustion was still there, heavy in his gaze. “You won’t, honey.”

But you already were.

Every night, a little more of him slipped through your fingers.

And the worst part? He was letting it happen.

“Elvis,” you whispered, voice breaking.

He exhaled, then reached for you, pulling you into his arms. His embrace was warm, familiar, but there was something desperate in the way he held you, like he needed you to believe him.

Like he needed to believe it himself.

You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in, memorizing the way he felt against you. Because deep down, you knew—

You couldn’t save him.

But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t keep trying.

Tags 🏷️: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11 @atleastpleasetelephone

[elvisbdoll]

“Once upon a dream”

Part one

Once Upon a Dream is a bittersweet love story set in Graceland in 1977, told from the reader’s point of view. Already deeply involved in Elvis’s life, the reader tries to hold him together as he slowly unravels under the weight of his own self-destruction. Despite the pain, she never stops loving him—even if it means losing herself in the process.

Tw: Substance abuse (prescription pills), emotional codependency, mental and physical decline, caregiver fatigue, self-neglect, depression, and emotional distress, Elvis health.

Next part

Graceland was quiet at this hour, except for the soft hum of the cicadas outside and the faint echo of a song drifting from upstairs. You knew that song. You knew every note of every record he played, every lyric he mumbled under his breath when he thought no one was listening.

Elvis was awake again.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, sitting up in bed. It was late—past three, maybe four—but time didn’t mean much in this house. The nights stretched on endlessly, blurring into the next day, and the next, until sleep became just another thing sacrificed to keep up with him.

For a moment, you considered staying where you were, letting exhaustion win. But the pull was stronger than the tiredness in your bones. You slid out of bed, wrapped his robe around you—soft, worn, still carrying his scent—and stepped out into the dim hallway.

Graceland felt different at night. It wasn’t the grand, dazzling home that visitors saw in the daytime. In the dark, it was something else entirely—quieter, heavier, like a place caught between dreams and reality.

You followed the music up the stairs, past the familiar shadows on the walls, past the silent rooms filled with pieces of him. The door to his bedroom was open just a crack, golden lamplight spilling into the hall.

You hesitated.

You already knew what you’d find.

Still, you pushed the door open.

Elvis was sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg bouncing restlessly. A record spun on the turntable across the room, something slow, something sad. His hair was a little messy, the dark strands falling over his forehead, and his robe hung loose over the silk pajama pants he never actually slept in. A glass sat on the nightstand. Pills, too.

You swallowed hard.

There had been a time when nights like these weren’t so heavy. When he’d pull you into his arms and whisper about dreams and forever, when his laughter was real and his eyes weren’t so clouded. But that time felt so far away now, slipping through your fingers like sand.

“Elvis,” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, like he was carrying something too heavy to put into words.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

A small, tired smile flickered across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Nah,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. “Ain’t much sleep left in me these days.”

You stepped closer, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The room smelled like him—faint traces of cologne, sweat, and the lingering sharpness of the pills he thought you didn’t notice. The record kept playing, crackling slightly as it turned, a song you used to dance to together.

“You remember this?” you asked, glancing toward the turntable.

Elvis followed your gaze. For a second, something softer crossed his face. “Yeah… We played it that night in Palm Springs, didn’t we?”

You nodded. That night had been warm, the air filled with the scent of orange blossoms, his arms wrapped around you as the music swayed through the open windows. He had kissed you slow, whispered things that felt like forever. But forever had started slipping away the moment he let the darkness creep in.

Now, he barely touched you some nights. He drifted in and out of your grasp, lost in something you couldn’t pull him from.

You reached for his hand, fingers curling around his. He was warm—too warm, like his body was burning up from the inside out.

“Elvis,” you whispered, kneeling in front of him so you could see his face, see the way his lashes flickered when he closed his eyes. “Come back to bed.”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Can’t.”

“You need rest.”

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice wasn’t sharp, but there was something frayed in it, something unraveling. His free hand moved to his temple, rubbing slow circles there. “My mind don’t shut off, baby. Every time I close my eyes, it just—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Hell, I dunno.”

You did know. You knew how the nights haunted him, how the ghosts of everything he tried to forget came rushing in the second he was alone. The past. The loneliness. The expectations. The weight of it all was killing him, and he was letting it.

You shifted closer, resting your forehead against his knee. “Let me help,” you murmured.

His fingers brushed through your hair, slow and gentle, but when you lifted your head, his eyes were distant again.

“You do help, honey.” A pause. “I just don’t think it’s enough.”

The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. Not enough. You felt it every day—the helplessness, the ache of watching him slip further away no matter how tightly you held on.

But you wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t.

So, you did the only thing you could. You reached up, cradled his face in your hands, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He tasted like peppermint and something bitter underneath, something you didn’t want to name.

“Come lay down,” you whispered against his mouth. “Please.”

Elvis let out a tired sigh, but after a long moment, he nodded. He let you pull him to bed, let you settle against him like you could keep him from slipping through your fingers.

As you rested your head on his chest, listening to the slow, uneven rhythm of his breathing, you wondered how much longer you could fight for him before you lost yourself, too.

And yet, as his arm tightened around you, as he pressed a tired kiss to your hair, you knew—no matter how much it hurt, no matter how deep you had to sink with him—leaving was never an option.

Not when you still dreamed of the man he used to be.

Not when you still saw glimpses of him in the quiet moments, in the way he held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

You closed your eyes.

Maybe, for tonight, that would be enough.

Tags 🏷️: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11 @atleastpleasetelephone