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elvissfav · 27 days ago

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Daddy Needs His Baby

A/N: Didn't even mean to write this. But uh, it just came to me (pun intended) and I had to do it. This one goes with Daddy Likes His Coat, Daddy Likes His Football, and Daddy Loves His Baby. Turns out I made this some kind of vignette series? Anyway, hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, a gratuitous public blowjob and Elvis being moody about getting older.

Word count: 1.3k

For his 38th birthday, Elvis fills the house in Los Angeles to the brim with people. He's leaving for Hawaii the next day, but he really doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts tonight. Even with you there, he's afraid of the silence.

So instead he fills the house with his mafia guys, their women, and just about anyone else he can find. You're there too in a scandalously short dress, flitting around the room socializing. You love it when Elvis throws parties. It feeds a part of you that goes ignored when he's in one of his hermit phases. He watches the way you work the room and sighs from his place on the couch. Even with the house full, the thoughts creep up and swirl around his brain.

38.

Almost 40. And what has he done that anyone might remember? Not any of those stupid movies. Maybe a few things in the ‘50s. But what does he have to look forward to? This satellite concert might be a big deal, but he'd much rather do a world tour. Just about the only thing he has going for him is you. But as the thought crosses his mind, he looks up and catches you flirting with a group of three men. You're so young and pretty. He should let you go be young and leave him in the dust where he belongs. That thought is the one that pushes him to get up off the couch and walk over to the bar.

You're flirting with these guys for a reason, hoping that Elvis will get all possessive and punish you tonight. But when you look for him, you see him behind the bar pouring whiskey in a glass and know something is wrong.

Elvis doesn't drink.

“Excuse me, fellas. I'll be right back.” You leave the guys mid-sentence and walk up to the u-shaped bar that he's standing behind. “Pour me a drink, cowboy?”

He looks up at you and gives you a sad smile. You're sweet to try to come talk to him, but there's nothing you can do to change this mood. “S’okay, baby. Go have fun.”

“Daddy, this is your birthday party. What kind of baby would I be if I left you all alone?” You push your bottom lip out and give him your best wide-eyed pout. He throws back the whiskey and starts to pour a second one, refusing to make eye contact.

“Please, honey.”

“Please, honey what?” You ask, your voice low and honey-smooth. He finally looks up at you and purses his lips.

“I'm no good for you. Too old.” You blink once and then let a slow, seductive smile spread across your face.

“Good thing I like old men.” You're trying to keep him playful, it usually works when he's in one of these moods, but the second you say it you know it was the wrong move. He looks down at his glass and swallows hard. “Elvis, I'm kidding. You're not old.”

He looks up at you, his eyes wet. You never call him Elvis. Your hand instinctively reaches for him and he takes it and kisses it softly.

“Sure feel like I am, baby.” This is the lowest you've ever seen him and your heart skips with concern. You wrack your brain for what you can do to cheer him up. As you think, he throws back the second glass of whiskey and cringes, coughing. He starts to pour another one.

“Elvis, you don't drink. What are you doing?”

“Why not? Fuck it.” That's it. Enough. You stand up and walk around the bar to be with him behind it. You grab the glass of whiskey and throw it back yourself. Then, you take his face in your hands and make him look at you.

“Listen to me. You are not old. You are Elvis fucking Presley. My daddy. And I'll be damned if I let you think you're gonna fade away on my watch.”

“Baby, I–”

“Hush.” You kiss him deeply and then sink down to your knees under the bar. Because of the shape of it, you're hidden from view. Your hands immediately go to his belt and he hisses.

“Baby! What’re you doin’?!” You look up at him as you pull his soft cock out of his pants and it twitches against his will, starting to harden in your hand.

“I'm reminding you who the fuck you are.” You pump him slowly and he gets harder and harder. He looks around the party to see if anyone can tell, but it looks like no one has noticed. When you wrap your mouth around him, he growls deep in his throat and looks down at you.

“You're a fuckin’ menace, baby.” You pull off and lick the sensitive head of his now-rock-hard cock.

“You want me to stop, daddy?” You bat your eyelashes as he leaks precum on your tongue and he groans. “Didn't think so.”

Just as you start to really work him, Joe walks up to the bar and starts up a conversation. You hear Elvis answer, his voice strained.

“You okay, EP?” Joe asks and you suppress a giggle. The vibration makes him damn-near double over.

“Yep. I'm fine. You want a drink?” You can tell he's trying to distract Joe. His hands shake, but he manages to pour a glass of whiskey and hand it over. He grips the edge of the bar so hard his knuckles are white. Joe looks at him curiously, but decides not to press it any further when Elvis gives him a pained, obviously-fake smile. He turns to walk away just as you reach in and take Elvis's balls in your hand, squeezing gently.

“Jesus– fuck– baby…” His hand tangles in your hair as you lick up his shaft and bob your mouth on him.

Some girl walks up and starts to flirt with him and you pull him deep into your throat, pressing your nose into the patch of hair at the base of him. His hand tightens in your hair until it almost hurts and you feel his legs start to shake. He responds to the girl with short, protracted grunts and single words. His hands tremble as he pours her a screwdriver and you run your hands back to squeeze his ass while you bounce your hot, wet little mouth on his dick. The girl walks away awkwardly and he looks down at you. The sight of you with your pretty lips wrapped around him, eyes closed like it's the most pleasurable thing you've ever experienced, pushes him so close to the edge he moans audibly. You pull back, his cock sloppy with spit, and whisper up at him.

“Cum for baby, daddy.” He slams his fist on the bar and you take him in fully, letting him hit the back of your throat. You feel his dick pulse and he leans his head back, groaning as he lets go and cums hard in your mouth. Once you've swallowed everything he gives you, you giggle up at him, kissing his sensitive tip gently. He looks around the party and realizes a good number of people are looking at him, but he no longer cares.

He's Elvis fucking Presley.

As soon as you get him put away, he drags you up from under the bar and throws you over his shoulder, panties on full display under your short skirt. The gasps and whispers start when people figure out where you were, but he just carries you across the room. In the doorway, he turns back to the crowd who are mostly standing with their mouths hanging open.

“I'm about to make this little girl scream. If you don't wanna hear it, ya better clear out.” You laugh loudly as he turns and carries you into the bedroom.

Needless to say, the house is empty in less than 2 minutes flat.

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

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elvissfav · 27 days ago

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𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀

credits for the gifs to @hooked-on-elvis ! they were too cute and the inspo for this little one shot. 🤍

✦︎ summary: domestic boredom turns into headline gold when you and elvis spy a paparazzo in the bushes of your hillcrest home and decide to put on a little show.

✦︎ word count: 2,3k

✦︎ warnings: au, not historically accurate—that's it.

✦︎ authors note: i missed writing about el so much and this popped in my head when watching the fan footage from the hillcrest residence... so there ya go. please do not copy, translate and/or use for ai purposes u lil weirdo !!!

with the memphis mafia being out to run errands for your husband, it was a quiet afternoon in the hills—quiet except for the sound of someone definitely not being sneaky in the bushes.

you were by the pool, lying on a beach towel two sizes too large, flipping lazily through a paperback while elvis paced nearby, shirtless, barefoot, and chewing a piece of ice like it owed him money.

“darlin’,” he said, squinting up the hill, “you see what i see?”

you lowered your book and looked past the lemon tree. sure enough—half-hidden in the hillside brush, crouched like a war photographer behind enemy lines, was a guy with a telephoto lens the size of a baseball bat.

“paparazzo,” you said flatly. nothing foreign for the two of you, but definitely annoying.

elvis nodded. “i swear, one of these days i’m gonna put a cardboard cutout of myself out here just to mess with ‘em.”

you stretched your legs and gave him a slow, wicked grin. “or… we could give him a show.”

elvis turned to you, eyebrows up. “oh, you wanna play dirty.”

“let’s fake a fight. something big. something tabloid-worthy.”

he rubbed his chin like he was deep in thought. “like... money? jealousy?”

“no,” you said, sitting up. “something juicier. what if you told me you bought another house in palm springs... and didn’t tell me?”

elvis gasped softly, lip quivering with a smirk that threatened to break through on his features. “oh that’s cold. that’s ice cold.”

you nodded. “exactly. i find out right now, by accident. you try to lie. it gets messy. someone ends up in the pool.”

knowing elvis, it was probably going to be you.

he laughed, then got into position, shaking his limbs out like he was about to go onstage. “alright, baby. let’s make some headlines.”

you stood, sucking in a deep breath and trying to suppress the giggles in your throat. you and elvis talked quietly at first, but animatedly, so the fool with the camera in the bushes knew something was up. then your voice raised louder, loud enough for the paparazzo to hear clearly, voice sharp. “palm springs, elvis? you bought another damn house without telling me?”

elvis turned slowly, squinting at you, getting in his role. “now hold on, i was gonna tell you—”

“really?” you stepped closer, pointing a finger in his chest. “when, exactly? after you furnished it? or maybe once the maid called here by mistake?”

“i didn’t think it was a big deal!” he shouted. “it’s just a lil' hideaway, nothin’ fancy!”

“oh just a little hideaway?” you shot back. “jesus, you collect homes like they’re stamps!”

he threw his arms up. “well, excuse me for wantin’ a little privacy!”

you got in close, nose to nose, voice low but harsh—because you knew the paparazzi was trying to get closer, hearing his shoes shuffle through the bushes. “is that what it’s about? privacy? or someone you don’t want me to know about?”

elvis blinked. “you better watch your mouth.”

“or what?”

he grinned, too fast.

“oh no.”

and with that, elvis grabbed you around the waist, hauled you up over his shoulder, and—with perfect comedic timing—tossed you into the deep end of the pool as you were inhaling a deep breath of air before you went under.

the splash was glorious. you came up sputtering, hair in your face, water in your ears, shouting, “you lunatic!”

he stood at the edge, hands on hips, grinning like a man who knew he just nailed it. “you started it, honey!”

then, behind him—crack! snap! crash.

the paparazzo—poor bastard—had tried to get closer during the argument and lost his footing. with a rustle and a yelp, he tumbled out of the hillside and right into the backyard, landing flat on his back in the grass.

elvis turned, not startled—just smug.

“well, look who dropped in.”

the guy scrambled upright, camera miraculously still in one piece, red-faced and panting. “i—uh—mr. presley—i wasn’t—”

“you weren’t snoopin’? you just fell outta the sky, huh?” elvis drawled, arms crossed.

you pulled yourself out of the pool, dripping and laughing, water pooling around your feet. “hope you got the part where i accused him of cheating with a maid. that was good stuff.”

the paparazzo blinked, confused. “wait… it wasn’t real?”

elvis clapped a hand on his shoulder. “course it wasn’t real, son. you think i’d be dumb enough to buy another house without tellin’ her? i like sleepin’ indoors.”

the man looked between you, baffled, then gave a small, sheepish laugh.

“you thirsty?” you asked, wringing out your hair. “you fell hard. you want a coke or somethin’?”

“uh… sure?”

elvis motioned him toward the patio like he was inviting over an old neighbor. “come on, you might as well get a couple planned shots for once. we’ll pose. you tell your editor it was all exclusive.”

“and next time,” you added with a grin planted on your face, “wear quieter shoes.”

the man sat down, clearly still trying to figure out what just happened, while elvis tossed him a towel.

“you ain’t the first one to get played in this backyard,” elvis said. “but you might be the first we let stay for a drink.”

the next afternoon, you were in the kitchen, barefoot, sipping coffee from your favorite mug. elvis was at the breakfast table in a robe, reading glasses he only wore in private sliding down his nose, pouring over a spread of tabloids like he was reading one of your bedside novels.

he held one up between two fingers.

“listen to this: ‘elvis presley’s private poolside blowout: love nest lies and betrayal in beverly hills!’”

you snorted. “is that the national tattler or the daily screamer?”

chuckling at the names you made up, he flipped it toward you. “confidential star weekly—real classy joint. i like the sound of national tattler, we should suggest that one to ‘em.”

you walked over and glanced down at the front page. there it was: a grainy, high-drama photo of you pointing angrily at elvis, face twisted in mock rage, and him mid-gesture like he was defending himself in court. below that was your favorite one—the shot of you mid-air, half-flipped, just before splashdown.

“oh my god,” you said, laughing. “i need to frame that one.”

elvis flipped the page, reading aloud in his exaggerated southern radio voice. “an anonymous source—likely the photographer who risked life and limb to document the encounter—claims the couple was arguing about an alleged secret home in palm springs. could presley be hiding more than real estate?”

you raised an eyebrow. “alleged source? it’s literally him. he was in our lawn.”

elvis leaned back, holding the paper up like it was holy scripture. “they say we’re on the verge of a split. you’ve ‘stormed out before’ and i’ve ‘been seen dining with a mysterious blonde’ who, by the way, is your mother.”

laughing, you poured yourself and him more coffee. “well, it’s official. we’re scandalous.”

he held up a second magazine. “oh, no no, it gets better. ‘presley love triangle: betrayed by a maid?’ apparently, i’m having affairs left and right.”

you nearly spit your drink. “our sixty-eight-year-old maid who only talks about the way knitting is art and her arthritis?”

“the very one.” elvis chuckled and then looked up at you as you stood beside his chair, throwing the magazine down and pulling you on his lap. “this is your fault, y’know that? ya couldn’t have said the name of some starry eyed actress out here in hollyweird?”

you let out a small shriek and laughed as he pulled you down on his lap, your arms snaking around his neck, manicured nails playing with his hair. “no, that would’ve made it too believable,” you teased, grinning as he shot you a glare before laughing again. “you think the fans believe this stuff?”

“some,” he said, wrapping his arm around your waist firmer. “but most of ‘em’ll just laugh. hell, they know i can’t even sneak pie into the kitchen without you findin’ out. you think i could hide a second house?”

“well, that’s what you get for trying to eat pie without me,” you say matter-of-factly, smiling. “so what now? do we clear it up?”

elvis shook his head, eyes twinkling. “nah. let ‘em wonder. at least somethin’s happenin’ around here now.”

you sat back against his chest, watching the afternoon sun come through the kitchen sliding doors, lighting up the glossy mess of headlines on the table. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“you know,” you said, “some people pay pr firms a fortune for this kind of publicity.”

elvis raised his mug in a toast. “and all we needed was a fake fight, a pool toss, and one clumsy man in camo.”

“you think the colonel’s gonna be losing his mind over this?”

elvis laughed, shrugging and then putting his chin on your shoulder, kissing your cheek. “he probably would’ve come up with this foolery himself, but if he does, let ‘im.”

nodding in agreement, you clinked mugs. “to backyard chaos.”

“to free press,” he corrected, grinning.

and somewhere up in the hills, probably sweating in a new bush with a fresh camera roll, the paparazzo waited—just in case the next scandal broke poolside again.

it started with the sound of voices—heated, passionate, and oddly organized.

you stood by the upstairs window in a way nobody saw you there, watching the growing cluster of fans gathering at the front gate. elvis wandered up behind you, fully dressed and ready to start the day, just like you.

“what’s the ruckus?” he mumbled.

you tilted your head. “looks like we’ve got... factions.”

he squinted out the window. sure enough, there were two distinct groups forming outside the black iron gate. one side held signs that read “elvis deserves peace” and “marry me instead, elvis.” the other had a giant banner that said “y/n deserved better.”

“oh lord,” he said, laughing loudly and nearly making you nearly go deaf as his face was right next to yours. “we’ve been turned into a damn soap opera.”

one girl on the “y/n deserved better” side yelled, “he didn’t even bring her a towel!”

another, on the elvis side, shouted back, “she overreacted! it’s not like he sold the house to someone else!”

“oh my god,” you said. “they're quoting the fake argument.”

elvis turned to you with a grin. “well. you wanna go clear our good names or let ‘em keep throwin’ tomatoes?”

you smirked. “let’s go have some fun.”

a few minutes later, the two of you walked down the driveway arm in arm, shit eating grins on both your faces. the second the fans saw you, the shouting kicked up again.

“there she is!”

“elvis, you better apologize!”

“he’s lucky he didn’t throw me in the pool!”

you held up your hand. “alright! okay! calm down—everyone breathe!”

elvis stopped in front of the gate with you, hand lingering at your lower back. “now what exactly do y’all think happened?”

“she caught you cheating!” someone yelled.

“with a maid!” another added.

a woman near the front pointed at you. “she should’ve pushed you in the pool!”

you cracked a smile and raised an eyebrow at elvis. “wow. tough crowd.”

elvis shrugged. “guess i’m the villain this week.”

a teen girl on your side yelled, “you deserve someone who tells you about all the houses!”

“oh my god,” you laughed. “okay, okay—time out.”

elvis slipped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer. “y’all wanna know the truth?”

everyone leaned in, as if the two of you were going to tell them some scandalous secret. which, maybe, in some way you were.

“it was fake,” you said, holding up both hands. “all of it. we saw a paparazzo in the bushes and decided to mess with him.”

elvis nodded. “i threw her in the pool on purpose. she told me to.”

gasps. someone dropped their sign.

“you mean—none of it was real?” a woman said, deflated.

“no secret house?” another added.

“no cheating?” someone from “team elvis” whispered hopefully.

“nope,” you said, giving that side a raised eyebrow before laughing softly. “just a bored couple with too much imagination and a very bad habit of messing with nosy photographers.”

elvis pointed at one of the magazines someone was holding. “y’all really think i’d get into a screaming match over palm springs? i can barely argue over where to order lunch.”

one fan, who had been clutching her “she deserved better” sign like a weapon, lowered it slowly. “i made a t-shirt,” she mumbled.

you smiled kindly. “wear it anyway. it’s still kinda true—i washed my hair that morning.”

elvis rolled his eyes and laughed, squeezing your hip as some girls giggled like they understood exactly how annoying that was, and they most likely did. more laughter broke out, someone shouting, “you two are evil!” and another followed with, “i love it!”

the inevitable “can we get a picture?!” came and you wholeheartedly agreed, elvis throwing an arm around your shoulder instead and playfully putting his hand around your throat. “only if i get to look like the villain again.”

you both posed for the fans, giving them exaggerated angry faces, fake sobs, and mock dramatics. this time, it wasn’t about headlines, but about having fun with the fans and letting them create new memories they’ll most likely never forget.

after taking more pictures with the fans, elvis signing anything from records to teddy bears and personal photo albums, you and your husband waved goodbye and made your back to the house, still giggling about the whole thing.

“you think they’ll believe it was fake?” you asked.

he tilted his head. “some will.”

“and the rest?”

elvis smirked. “they’ll be back next week—wonderin’ if i’ve got a third house and a new maid.”

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